by M. D. Thomas
Jesus, I tied it on last night…
She spotted the cellophane wrapper of the smokes under a paper plate, extricated it, and found the pack empty.
Sighing, she picked up the bottle of bourbon and finished it off. Hopefully it wouldn’t make her throw up again.
Elle went to the bedroom and dressed in ripped jeans and a black tank top. Hair of the dog or no, the headache wouldn’t give until she had a smoke.
She plucked her keys and money clip from the ceramic bowl by the front door, tucked the money clip in the back pocket of her pants. She stomped on black boots, and stepped outside into a warm bright day that made her want to go back inside, close the blinds, and watch shitty game shows.
Except its gotta be after noon already, she thought after squinting at the bright sky. Nothing but shitty talk shows on now…
Elle took the stairs to the ground floor slowly and walked to her car, where she opened the door long enough to lean in and grab a pair of sunglasses. Then she followed the sidewalk out to the street and turned left. The convenience store wasn’t far and gas wasn’t cheap.
Not far from the entrance to her apartment complex, she crossed the bridge that spanned one of the small creeks that were all over the hilly area so close to the Potomac. She glanced at the water below, saw instead the Accotink sliding by in the moonlight on the other side of that goddamn car, and looked away.
After smokes, I’ll have to go by the liquor store…
Head still throbbing, she walked faster, passing a rundown community park on the other side of the creek. A group of boys were playing a game of baseball in the overgrown grass that bordered the road.
Is it the weekend already?
She supposed they might be out of school for the year, but she didn’t know. She knew she worked that night and compared to that knowledge what did it matter what day it was?
A breeze came down the street and swept across her, chilling her despite the temperature, her stomach still nauseous. She was cursing herself for deciding to walk when a baseball rolled across the sidewalk in front of her and caused her to stumble and nearly fall.
She found her balance and turned in time to see a dark-eyed boy wearing a blue baseball hat run across the sidewalk after the ball, which he scooped up with his glove before it could get to the street. He glanced at her as he ran back toward the ball field but said nothing as he crossed the sidewalk once more, flipping the ball from his glove up over his head and down into the waiting palm of his free hand as he ran.
“Goddamn kid, you could fucking apologize!” Her heart wasn’t in it though, and when he ignored her, she turned back toward the convenience store, the smoke still calling her.
She glanced back once but couldn’t pick the boy out of the crowd of brats on the ball field. That bothered her, but she wasn’t sure why. Shaking her head, she walked faster.
Eleven
HARVEY
Fast Freddie Franklin sweated like a pig when he was nervous. “I can’t do this, man.”
“You can,” Harvey said as he taped the wire in place on Freddie’s chest. “You’ve got no leverage to cop a plea, Freddie. Blow this and you go to jail.”
They were in Freddie’s house, a dump sandwiched between the I-395 HOV corridor and Crystal City. Harvey sat on an ashtray-littered coffee table in front of Freddie, who was sunk into an old couch, his legs splayed, his shirt off. He was tall and thin and pale, his hair buzzed short, his face clean-shaven. Slick was the word that came to mind, and it was a good description for Freddie’s appearance and personality.
“You sure this shitbox ain’t gonna start buzzin’ or cracklin’ while I’m wearing it?” Freddie asked as he eyed the wire on his chest.
“Not unless your sweat short circuits it,” Harvey said, checking the tape one final time.
The shitbox was the simple audio transmitter Harvey always used on informants. The Narcotics department had nicer equipment—even a specialized version of Google Glass the search giant made specifically for undercover governmental agencies—but Harvey used the basic transmitter because it was less prone to glitches. More than that though, Harvey had noticed informants were more nervous when they were wearing a camera. For some reason they couldn’t forget the camera like they could an audio transmitter, always certain it stuck out like a fifty-dollar hooker at a black-tie dinner.
Harvey leaned back, satisfied. “Go over it again.”
Freddie used the t-shirt in his hands to wipe sweat off his forehead. “I drive to Mack’s place but stop a block away and turn on the wire. At Mack’s—”
“How do you know it’s on?” Harvey interrupted.
Freddie rolled his head. “Shit, man. Come on… ”
“How do you know?” Harvey pressed. He had a knack for running informants, but he hated using them. They were about as reliable as a ten-day weather forecast. But Mack was too skittish to risk using an undercover agent so there’d been no choice. Costillo had volunteered to try going undercover anyway, but he was crazy, one of those guys who got off on risking his balls.
“The fuckin’ green light flashes twice.”
“Good. Go on.”
“I park in the same spot I always do, then go up to the house. When I get to Mack, I tell him I need more than last time because I’m sellin’ the shit so fast.”
“How much more?”
“Double.”
Harvey nodded. It was the right amount. Enough to put Mack in jail for a while, but not so much he’d get nervous about it. Mack was dumb enough to trust people like Freddie but he had good instincts.
“And if he balks?”
“If he what?”
“If he doesn’t want to give you that much.”
“Tell him fine, but I’ll be back in a couple days. Show him the money. If he won’t do it, I take the regular and leave.”
Harvey stood. “Good, Freddie. You might get that plea deal yet.”
“I better,” Freddie said. “No way I’m doin’ two fuckin’ years for slingin’ buds.” He picked up the bag and rifled through the cash. “This don’t look like five grand. You sure there’s five in here?”
“There is. And you know what’ll happen if that money doesn’t go to Mack.”
“Yeah, fuck, I know,” Freddie said as he dropped the bag on the table. He peered at his phone, slid it in one baggy pants pocket, then went and checked his appearance in the cracked mirror by the front door. “Now get the hell outta my house.”
Harvey headed for the back door without another word. Freddie had his mojo back, which meant there was a chance he might actually pull off the buy.
He’ll do it. And if Mack is sitting on the kind of cash Freddie claims, I might be able to skim enough to hold the bank off another month…
Harvey speed-dialed the second number on his favorites list before he was a block from Freddie’s.
Dave picked up after the first ring. “How’d it go? Our boy ready?”
“Ready as he’ll ever be.”
“He leave yet?”
“Soon. I left him wound pretty tight.”
“Good,” Dave said. “It’s hot as hell in this house and Costillo is starting to chap my ass. Plus, I think there’s a goddamn raccoon sleeping in one of the closets. It smells funny in here.”
Dave and Costillo were in a vacant house three lots from Mack’s that probably hadn’t been lived in for five years. They didn’t need to be that close, but the nearer they were the better the audio quality would be.
“Everything set?” Harvey asked.
“Yep.”
“Good. Let me know when you confirm everything’s working.”
“You know it.”
The weather guy on the radio was barking about the low-pressure system that would collide with a dome of high-pressure from Canada over the next couple of days when Harvey parked at the rendezvous point.
The call from Dave came a couple of minutes later. “He’s here and hot, Harvey. We’re a go.”
Dave hung
up, leaving Harvey to wait. He sat in the idling car and tried to plan the bust-out on Mack’s house but he couldn’t focus.
He pulled the clipping from the Fairfax Times out of his coat pocket, unfolded it and smoothed the soft white creases as he read yet again about Lee Young and his parents, about the coma. The first time he’d read the article, he didn’t believe it. No one else had been in the car. But when he’d closed his eyes and relived the scene—the man, strapped in and bleeding; the woman, strapped in and unconscious—the back of the car had been unoccupied but not empty. There’d been a baseball cap on the seat.
So he’d known and blocked it out, either because he was drunk or because he would’ve had to search for the boy and that would’ve been the end of his career. And after that? Well, things would’ve been bad. So he’d ignored the hat and fled the scene.
He’d had no other option. He knew that, and he knew if it happened again, he’d make the same decision. That didn’t make it any easier.
The phone buzzed in his hand and Harvey swiped to answer. “Well?”
“We got it. Your boy came through like a champ.”
After he followed up with Freddie, Dave, and Costillo, Harvey went to the station and completed the paperwork necessary to request a search warrant for Mack’s house. Once that was done, he drove to the small green house on Haywood Street.
The neighborhood was mostly blue-collar and the houses reflected that demographic, most of them one-story, older, faded, a bit worn around the edges. But the sidewalks were free of weeds and litter, the yards neatly mowed, the houses maintained as well as the owners could afford. Most of the inhabitants didn’t have much, but they were proud of what they had.
Harvey knocked and waited. When the door opened a moment later, the wrinkled face on the other side of the screen broke into a wide, beautiful smile that took off twenty years.
Harvey’s grandmother pushed open the screen door and said, “You were worrying me! Come here.”
“Hi, Nonna,” Harvey said as he stepped inside. She kissed him on each cheek, the worn skin of her face cool and dry. “How are you?”
“Right as a rainbow,” she said, the smile never leaving her face.
“Where’s Nonno?”
“Your grandfather’s taking a nap,” she said as she took his coat without asking. “Come sit down and I’ll get you something to eat.”
Harvey hadn’t lived with his grandparents in the house on Haywood Street for fifteen years, but going inside always felt like coming home. The interior of the house was a time capsule from Nonna and Nonno’s younger days. The same faded pictures from Harvey’s youth occupied the same spots on the walls, the same Madonna and child figurines were on display in the same places throughout the living room, the same pieces of furniture rested where they’d sat for decades. The only thing that’d really changed was how clean the house was—since Nonno got sick, the dust had taken hold.
Nonna walked swiftly down the hallway, her gray hair held in place by the green and gold barrette Nonno gave her on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. She’d be seventy-six in a couple of months, but you wouldn’t know it from the way she moved, her body slim, straight, and strong beneath her plain floral dress.
“Sit and I’ll fix you a plate,” she said as she led him into the small kitchen.
Harvey took his usual spot at the table next to the window and watched as Nonna bustled about the stove. She didn’t have to cook anything of course—the meal was already made. The woman only had two or three people to feed every day, but there was always a meal on the stove or in the oven.
“How was your day?” she asked.
“Good,” Harvey said, running a hand over the worn wood of the table. His fingernail snagged in a long scratch he remembered making with a butter knife when he was a teenager, the result of an argument during one of the infrequent visits from his mother. She’d left him with his grandparents when he was four, not long after his father died in a construction accident. “How’s Nonno? He say anything today?”
“No,” Nonna said, her shoulders slumping a bit. She brought his plate to the table, then went and got him a glass of water. She sat across from him, her forearms resting on the table.
“What did the two of you do?” Harvey asked to distract her.
“Eat and I’ll tell you,” Nonna said, and the smile returned to her lips.
“I knew he’d stop talking eventually, but—” Nonna’s voice broke and she reached out, grabbed hold of his hand and squeezed hard as tears began to well up in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Harvey. I don’t mean to cry. I knew losing your grandfather this way would be hard, especially once he started to forget. But, to not even hear his voice anymore… it’s like watching the life leak out of him one slow day at a time and now he’s finally almost gone.”
Harvey squeezed back. “It’s okay, Nonna.”
Nonna gave his hand a final squeeze and let go, dried her cheeks.
A year after Nonno’s diagnosis with Alzheimer’s, Harvey suggested they look for a care facility that might take him. Nonna’s response had been immediate and sharp, sharper than she’d ever spoken to him before. No, Harvey. Even if we had the money I wouldn’t send him to one of those places to die. I took a vow. Forever. For better or worse. I was there for him in the good times and I won’t abandon him just because it’s getting hard. Do you understand me? If you love me don’t you ever, ever suggest that to me again, do you understand? He’d understood. Mary, a home help aid, was the one concession Nonna had made, and not until just a couple of months ago. “So Mary is over her cold?”
“She is,” Nonna said after a deep breath. “You know she’d never risk getting Nonno sick.” She shook her head. “Are you sure she isn’t too much money, Harvey? I’d be okay if she didn’t come.”
“It’s fine, Nonna. I got a nice bonus at the end of the year so it’s not a problem.” He hated lying to her, but there was no way he could tell her she was nearly broke because Nonno had been secretly sending their deadbeat daughter money for years. Those checks and an earlier bout with cancer had left them nearly bankrupt, their savings gone and the house mortgaged to the hilt.
“Are you sure?” Nonna asked. “You shouldn’t have to work like a slave just so that I have some help.”
“It’s not a problem, Nonna. I’m not working any more than I was before.” He pushed back his chair and stood, took his dirty dishes to the sink and rinsed them. “Can I say hi to Nonno before I go?”
Ten minutes later, Harvey left Nonna holding Nonno’s hand and let himself out.
He went around to the street side of the Cherokee and leaned against it while he lit a cigarette. Nonna hated the habit, but she’d be in the bedroom for a few more minutes and wouldn’t see. He needed the calm that followed the nicotine.
This thing with Mack has got to work out…
There were only a few people visible in the neighborhood, either sitting on their porches or taking a walk, but when the wind gusted out of the south a kid ran down the street toward him in hot pursuit of a baseball. He wore a blue hat with a red P on it.
The kid caught up to the ball a few feet away from Harvey and pinned it to the ground with his right foot. Instead of picking it up, he pulled back on his foot then kicked underneath the ball, flipped it into the air and caught it in his glove.
“Nice trick, kid,” Harvey said, impressed. Harvey didn’t follow many sports, but baseball held a special place in his heart that went all the way back to watching minor league games with Nonno when he was a kid, the two of them parked in left field with hot dogs, popcorn, and gloves to catch any homers. “The Nats gonna win the pennant this season?”
The kid looked at him but said nothing as he tossed the ball between the glove and his bare hand, back and forth, back and forth. He had dark hair and dark eyes and as the silence stretched thin Harvey began to feel uneasy.
“Go on then if you don’t wanna talk, kid. Get out of here.”
The kid gazed at him for
a moment longer, then tossed the ball backwards over his head in a high arc that went dead center down the street. The kid spun on his heels and fled, held out his glove without even looking up or breaking stride and the ball fell right into it as he ran away. He turned at the next intersection and disappeared.
“Damn,” Harvey said, squinting through the smoke that puddled around his head, the air abruptly still. He’d played ball growing up and knew how hard it was to do what the kid had just pulled off so casually. But his amazement was tempered, dulled by the sensation that he knew the kid.
Not from the neighborhood…
Harvey dropped the cigarette and stamped it out. There was no use worrying the familiarity—his subconscious would figure it out eventually.
It didn’t take long—he was pulling away from the curb when it came to him. He’d never seen the kid before. But he’d seen that hat.
Twelve
JON
The dark clouds moving across the sky were lit by the setting sun and a stiff breeze ruffled the greening June leaves on the trees when Jon walked out of Rainbow Pines.
Leaving the facility was the worst part of the day. As much as he hated her decision, he understood why Sarah chose not to do it. But staying wasn’t an option. He had to work and to do that, he had to sleep. So he left and she stayed. But leaving his family behind wasn’t what made it the worst part of the day. No, what made it so terrible was that he couldn’t wait to leave, that walking away filled him with a sense of relief.