Nevermore

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  They had just come over after helping Manfred lug in his stuff from the four-by-four.

  “Why don’tcha grab us a table, Sam?” Dean asked without looking at his brother.

  Sam smiled. “Plenty of tables, Dean, I wouldn’t worry. Besides, I figured I’d help you carry the drinks.”

  Now Dean did look at Sam. “I think I can handle carrying two beers—not to mention dumping one of them on your head if you don’t get us a table.”

  Without another word—but with a particularly annoying smile—Sam went off to find a table in the raised section on the side.

  Jennifer raised an eyebrow. “What, Dean, you don’t like hittin’ on older women in fronta witnesses?”

  “First of all, I don’t buy that you’re an older woman. Sure, you pulled that ‘food in the freezer’ remark last night, but I think that’s a load of crap, and you’re really twenty-four. I’m thinkin’ you get hit on by so many losers in here that you pretend to be a single mom to drive them off and that you’re really a hot babe in her twenties who’s just fussy.”

  By this time Jennifer had started pouring his Brooklyn lager without him even specifying what he wanted. “Y’know, Dean, you gave this a lotta thought.”

  “Yeah, I did.” In fact, he had only just thought of it, as he’d been too busy breaking into houses, meeting cops, sleeping, psychoanalyzing Dad, and trying to find information on Arthur Gordon Pym. Unfortunately, they couldn’t find anybody by that name in any city records. His website admitted to his name change, but it looked like he hadn’t done it legally, and there was no indication of what name he was born with.

  Placing Dean’s drink on a napkin on the bar, Jennifer said, “Sorry to disappoint you, but it’s all true. Took Billy to soccer practice this afternoon and everything. They’re makin’ him a forward.”

  “Good for him.” Dean had no idea what that meant, really, but he assumed it not to be a bad thing.

  “So what’s Sam getting?”

  “Uh, Bud Light for Mr. Wuss.”

  “Hey,” Jennifer said, “whatcha got against Bud Light?”

  “Nothing,” Dean said, “I just prefer beer.”

  That finally got a smile out of her. She poured another pint full of Bud Light from the tap. “So I’m surprised to see you back. I figured you’d run screaming from another night of Scottso.”

  “What would you say if I said I came back to see you?”

  “I’d say you’re lyin’ through your teeth.”

  Dean grinned. “And you’d be right. I need to talk to Aldo about somethin’. Getting to see you again was just a nice side benefit.”

  “What do you need to talk to Aldo about?”

  “An old girlfriend of his.”

  Jennifer snorted. “Which one?”

  “Blond girl named Roxy.”

  Another snort. “Roxy Carmichael? She ain’t no girl. Hell, she was older than me.”

  That got Dean’s attention. “Was?”

  “Well, I guess she still is. She broke up with Aldo a couple years back, and I ain’t seen her since. Too bad, they were a good couple—neither of ’em drank or smoked or nothin’. No, wait, I remember she and I used to go outside to smoke right after they made it illegal to smoke in bars.”

  Knowing that those laws varied from state to state, Dean asked, “When was this?”

  Jennifer shrugged. “Couple years ago. Right before they broke up. Anyhow, she always drank ginger ale.”

  Before Dean could say anything else, the other bartender—not Harry, but another guy half his age and twice his height—said, “Hey, Jenny, move your ass, willya, I’m dyin’ over here.”

  “Sorry,” Dean said. “How much?”

  “Catch me later.” Again Jennifer smiled, but it wasn’t the snarky one she usually used. This one was nicer.

  A warm, pleasant feeling in his chest, Dean walked over to the table with the two beers.

  That feeling got cold and clammy by the time Scottso reached the second verse of their opener, “Smoke on the Water.” Dean swore right then and there he was changing his ringtone as soon as he figured out a way to ask Sam how to do it so Sam wouldn’t tease him about it.

  That may take a while, he thought forlornly.

  By the time the set was over, he had gone back to the bar three times, the third time again talking with Jennifer until the other bartender screamed for help. He definitely had a good feeling about this.

  Now, however, there was business to take care of. He made a beeline for Aldo, who was making a beeline of his own for the restroom. This worked out nicely, as Dean’s own bladder was pretty loaded with Brooklyn lager at that point.

  The men’s room only had two urinals, and with the set just ended, there was actually a line. He got in behind Aldo and said, “Damn, I thought it was only women’s rooms had lines.”

  “Haw haw haw!” Aldo said. “That’s a good one there, Sam.”

  “I’m Dean.”

  “S’what I said, Dean. Good t’see you guys back.”

  “Thanks. You really kicked some ass tonight. Loved the way you nailed ‘Sunshine of Your Love.’”

  “They didn’t call Eric Clapton God for nothin’, my friend,” Aldo said.

  “Hey, listen, Aldo, Manfred was telling me you used to date someone named Roxy.”

  Aldo frowned. “Uh, yeah.”

  “Said she was a major ’rÿcher. I used to know a blond chick named Roxy who was a major ’rÿcher, and I was wonderin’ if she was the same one.”

  “Coulda been, I guess,” Aldo said with a shrug. “Name was Roxanne Carmichael.” The two people at the urinals both flushed and left, and Dean and Aldo took their places.

  Dean unzippered his jeans, and moments later it was as if a great weight had been lifted off his—well, not shoulders, exactly, but damn if he didn’t feel ten pounds lighter after just peeing for two seconds.

  “You know what they say about beer—the better it is, the sooner you have to give it back.”

  “I guess,” Aldo said. “I just got my three-year cake from AA. Fact, that’s where Roxy ’n’ I met.”

  “Hey, I’m sorry,” Dean said quickly.

  “Nah, s’no biggie, Sam.”

  “I’m Dean.”

  “Right, s’what I said, Dean. Wouldn’t last two seconds playin’ tunes if I had a problem with booze and dope, y’know what I’m sayin’? Anyhow, ’bout Roxy—she was just some chick I dated. She up and disappeared one day, no forwardin’ address, an’ it was right after we had this big-ass fight, so I didn’t really give a damn, y’know what I’m sayin’?”

  Dean managed not to smile. “This fight wasn’t at Manfred’s house, was it?”

  “No.” Aldo zipped up. “Look, why you askin’?”

  Realizing he had pushed it too far, Dean backed off. “No biggie, I just thought it mighta been the same girl.” He finished off and zipped up himself, elbowing the handle to flush it. “In fact, she was big-time into the whole temperance thing, y’know?”

  Aldo smiled, as if remembering something. “Yeah…” He shook it off. “Anyhow, I ain’t seen her in, like, two years.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  With that, Aldo walked over to the sink to wash his hands. Dean made for the exit, thinking, Yahtzee.

  Someone else—the bass player, Dean realized, whose name he suddenly couldn’t remember—said, “What, you don’t wash your hands?”

  “My dad was a Marine,” Dean said. The bass player’s blank expression indicated that he didn’t get the connection—though with this guy, it was hard to tell, as that seemed to be his default look. So Dean explained: “Dad had this story. A Marine and a Navy guy walk into a bathroom together. They both take a piss, and then the sailor goes to the sink. The Marine heads for the door, and the sailor says, ‘Hey—in the Navy they teach us to wash up after we take a leak.’ And the Marine turns around and says, ‘Yeah? Well, in the Marines they teach us not to piss on our hands.’”

  The bass player actually cracked a
half smile at that. “That’s funny.” And then he walked toward the stage.

  Dean headed back to the table, where Sam was chatting with Manfred and the drummer, whose name Dean also couldn’t remember. Sam still had the remains of a light beer—he hadn’t even tried ordering a gin and tonic again in his presence—while Manfred and the drummer had thick-bottomed glasses with clear liquids that Dean assumed to be ordinary vodka or good tequila.

  The drummer was shaking his head and whistling. “Man, she was a bitch—but a hot bitch, I’m tellin’ you that right now.”

  “What’re we talkin’ about?” Dean asked as he took a seat on the stool next to Sam, which was the only free one at the table.

  Manfred said, “We was just wonderin’ ’bout this old lady’a Aldo’s, Roxy, the one I mentioned to you.”

  “Yeah,” Sam said. “Tommy was just talking about her.”

  Tommy, the drummer, threw back some of his drink. “Wish I knew what happened to ’er, man. ’Cause if she wasn’t Aldo’s old lady, I woulda done ’er in a heartbeat, I’m tellin’ you that right now.”

  Even more curious as to the answer to the question, Dean asked, “So what happened to her?”

  “Nobody knows,” Manfred said. “Aldo told us they broke up, and we never saw ’er again.”

  Tommy started pounding the table and laughing. “God, Manfred, ’member how she used t’get when we went t’your place?”

  “How’d she get?” Sam asked.

  Raising the pitch of his voice to sound girlish, Tommy said, “‘Oh, wow, Manny, I wish I could marry somebody with a house like this.’ Surprised you didn’t propose, ‘Manny.’”

  Manfred shuddered. “I couldn’t marry nobody that called me ‘Manny.’”

  They chatted awhile longer, and then Manfred and Tommy went back to the stage to set up for the second set.

  Once they were gone, Dean filled Sam in on what he’d gotten from Aldo.

  Sam had his fist on his chin. “So you’re thinking maybe Aldo killed Roxy?”

  “What, and you’re not? C’mon, Sammy, it’s the same old story. And things only become same old stories ’cause they happen all the time. They have a fight, he kills her, and he buries her somewhere.”

  Sam nodded. “And she comes back to haunt—Manfred? See, that’s the part I don’t get.”

  Dean shrugged. “Maybe Manfred’s the one who killed her.”

  Shaking his head, Sam said, “Manfred didn’t even remember her until this morning.”

  “He said it himself: He doesn’t remember last week.” He got up. “I’m gonna get another beer. Let’s see if Roxy comes back tonight. Maybe if we call her by name, she might respond.”

  It was a long shot, but some spirits were communicative, at least to some extent. Unfortunately, her only words to date—“Love me!”—weren’t very helpful, though they supported his working theory of death-by-spurned-lover, which kept Aldo as prime suspect number one.

  He went over to the bar, muscling his way between two older guys who looked like they went to grammar school with Manfred, and signaled Jennifer.

  She mouthed the words one sec at him as she prepared several drinks at once. Conveniently, Aldo had just started the solo to “Born to Be Wild,” so Dean occupied himself by enjoying the music by the person he considered most likely to be a murderer.

  My life is seriously screwed up, he thought with amusement.

  Jennifer gave the drinks to the old guys, who cleared out for their own table, each holding two drinks.

  “Another Brooklyn?” Jennifer asked.

  “Uh, yeah.” Something seemed off in Jennifer’s tone.

  She poured the drink in silence, then said as she put it on the napkin, “Dean, listen—I really appreciate what you been doin’, but I gotta ask you somethin’, okay?”

  Shrugging, Dean said, “Shoot.”

  “Where you goin’ with this?”

  Dean frowned. “Whaddaya mean?”

  “I mean, where you goin’ with this? You said you’re from outta town. I assume you’re goin’ back outta town soon, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess, I just—”

  “So, basically, the only place this can go is a one-nighter? Or maybe a two-nighter if you’re in town long enough.”

  Dean found he had nothing to say to such brazen honesty. For starters, honesty wasn’t usually a big component of his flirtation methods (or a lot of the rest of his life), so its use was unfamiliar to him.

  “Look, Dean, you’re sweet, you’re bright, you’re incredibly good-looking—”

  At that, Dean couldn’t help but beam.

  “—and you’re totally aware of it, but not in a vain way.”

  “Uh, thanks—I think.”

  “Oh, it’s a compliment, believe me. But—” Jennifer let out a long breath. “Ten years ago I’da been right there with you, but now? I’m too old for one-nighters, Dean. I’ve been there and I’ve done that, and if I’m gonna be with a man, I wanna be with a man, y’know what I’m sayin’?” Then she broke into a huge smile. “Dean, you look like I ran over your cat.”

  Blinking furiously, Dean tried to wipe that look off his face, though he had no idea how it had gotten there. “Look, Jennifer, I’m—I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

  “Christ, Dean, do not apologize! Hell, you’ve made my week. Trust me, I’m gonna dine out on this with my girlfriends for a year. You know how long it’s been since someone even half as hot as you hit on my fat ass?”

  “Jennifer,” Dean said, “of all the words I would use to describe your ass, ‘fat’ is the absolute last one.”

  “Thank you.”

  Then, deciding he had nothing to lose, he added, “And one other thing—you’re right, with me it’d only be one night, maybe two.” He grinned. “But it’d be a helluva night.”

  He ran back to the table before she could reply.

  Of course, she was right—there was no chance of anything beyond a good romp in the hay or two. He had learned the hard way with Cassie that his life wasn’t built for a relationship. And that was why he’d mostly focused his sexual energy on young women who were only interested in hooking up for one night. He was sure that half of them didn’t believe the crap he spun to start talking to them, but just liked playing the game.

  As soon as he sat down, Sam got all worried looking at him. “Dude, what happened? You look like someone ran over your cat.”

  Dean just drank his beer.

  THIRTEEN

  The Afiri house

  The Bronx, New York

  Sunday 19 November 2006

  It needs to stop. Why won’t he love me?

  It had all started with the strange-looking man who looked a lot like Uncle Cal. Said he was a Reaper and his job was to prepare her for the afterlife.

  But that was wrong. If she was going to the after-life, it meant she was done with her before-life, and that meant she was dead, and that was something she just couldn’t just accept, that was crazy, after everything she went through, she just couldn’t just be dead!

  She refused. No way, no how, she was not going with him, even if he did look like Uncle Cal, who was always so sweet to her, and the only one who’d still talk to her when she went into rehab, everyone else just abandoned her, the bastards, but Cal was always there for her and she trusted him completely.

  She wouldn’t go with him. That was where she drew the line. After that happened, she couldn’t let go. She wouldn’t let go. Couldn’t couldn’t wouldn’t wouldn’t.

  The Reaper who looked like Uncle Cal tried to convince her that she was being foolish, that there was nothing left for her, that she couldn’t do anything to change what happened, but she refused to believe that, refused to accept it, refused to even listen to it. She wasn’t dead, she wasn’t dead, she wasn’t dead, she wasn’t dead.

  It needs to stop. Why won’t he love me?

  Throughout life, she hadn’t asked for much. When things had gone wrong, she had owned up to them and fixed them. She was c
ured, as much as anybody could really be cured. She hadn’t drunk anything since she got out of rehab, so that should’ve been that and that was all there was to it, period, full stop, end of sentence.

  So there was just no way, no way, no way, no way, no way, she should die like that.

  Something had to be done.

  At first she just waited, figuring that everything would play out.

  But no.

  Manfred went out every morning to work. He went to the Park in Rear every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday to play with the damn band, and then he just came home.

  Every time he came home, she hoped.

  Every time he came home, those hopes were dashed.

  After a while she couldn’t take it anymore. How could she? How could she expect to just sit there and take it, just sitting there, just being there, just existing, not alive, not really dead, either, just floating around while life went on without her and nobody cared!

  Eventually, she snapped.

  Now, when the Scottso gigs were done, she was there. Over and over, every time he came back from the goddamn Park in Rear, she hoped, she prayed, she begged, she pleaded, but nothing, nothing, nothing!

  It was terrible. It was awful. It was the worst thing in the world, worse even than dying, and she didn’t think anything could possibly be worse than dying, but somehow this was.

  She wondered if maybe she should have listened to the Reaper the way she’d always listened to Uncle Cal, who looked just like the Reaper—or was it the other way around? She didn’t know anymore, didn’t care anymore, she just wanted it to stop stop stop stop stop stop!

  And then it got worse.

  Yesterday, someone else came in who wasn’t anyone from Scottso. It was two new people, and they shot her!

  It was the worst feeling ever in the whole world, worse than dying, worse than rehab, worse than knowing nothing changed, worse than when she discovered her shellfish allergy, worse than anything ever.

  And she would make them pay. Oh yes, she was not going to take this any longer, nosireebob, she would have what she wanted and that’d show all of them the truth!

  As soon as she pulled herself together.

  It had been really weird, actually. She saw the two guys, and they shot her, and then—