The Second Girl

by David Swinson

  I turn to her briefly, then back to the road ahead.

  “C’mon, Leslie, you know I don’t work missing persons, certainly not a case like the one that involved that little girl.”

  “I’m just asking you to come and talk to them. You put me in this situation, remember?”

  “Why do you have to go there? Am I gonna owe you the rest of my life because of one stupid incident?”

  “Incident? Don’t belittle what you’ve done. Frankie, they have nowhere else to go. The police have nothing.”

  “And what makes you think it’ll be any different with me? I don’t work that kind of shit. In fact, I hate working that kind of shit.”

  “I felt bad for them. I told them I’d set it up. Just come and talk to them. For me, please.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yes, I know. It’s all ‘shit’ with you.”

  That sounded funny coming out of her mouth ’cause she rarely cusses, except when she’s mad, and that’s rare, too.

  “Just hear their story. If it’s something you can’t do, then you tell them.”

  “So you make me the bad guy?”

  “Just do this for me, Frankie.”

  And here I thought the eight grand I’m about to dish out was gonna give me good karma. I should’ve known better; I know there’s no such thing as karma.

  “Do the two girls know each other or something?”

  “The same school is all, I think.”

  “What about Detective Davidson? He’s the one you should be talking to, not me.”

  “I gave them his number, but they insisted on hiring someone like you.”

  “What time?”

  “I set it for one p.m.”

  “That’s good. I gotta run an errand in Maryland in the morning,” I say, referring to taking care of the truck for Claypole. “And I’ll talk to them for you, but that’s it. I’ll give Davidson a call beforehand, though.”

  “Thank you. And I don’t even know why I have to say thank you.”

  “Well, you already fucked up the thank you by having to add that.”

  She smiles and turns the radio back up. Fucking Pearl Jam this time.

  I can’t find parking anywhere near Shelly’s. I circle the block, then decide on an illegal space at the corner of 13th and F.

  I grab my police patch outta the center console box and toss it on the dashboard.

  “You’re not a cop anymore. You can’t use that,” she says.

  I shoot her a brief but hard glare. “Really,” is all I say, and then I step out of the car.

  Twenty

  Little whirlwinds of smoke are carried up to the ceiling and through the ventilation system. What’s left of the smoke diffuses the light to a warm glow. If you haven’t been here in a while, like Costello, your lungs might have a hard time with all this lingering smoke. She doesn’t complain.

  Groups of people are scrunched together on large couches, in overstuffed seats, and around tables.

  I spot McGuire first and then Luna sitting across from him, at a good table near the bar, under the mural. The mural depicts what I’ve always imagined a restful, cigar-loving Cuban village would have looked like way back when, before I was born.

  Luna sees me, waves us over.

  “What’s up, Frankie?” he calls as we approach, then reaches across the table to knock knuckles, in the time-honored tradition. He turns to Costello. “Leslie Costello. This is a surprise. Have you finally come to your senses and decided to come back to our side?”

  “Social visits only,” she says.

  McGuire’s smoking a fat one. He nods at me, then turns to Costello.

  “Good to see you, Leslie,” he says.

  “Good to see you, too, Stan.”

  We pull out the stools and sit.

  Luna’s drinking something “neat,” a light golden color, like vitamin-enriched urine. More than likely bourbon. I enjoy good bourbon on occasion, but for social occasions I prefer a pick-me-up drink, such as rum or vodka.

  They both look like they came here straight from work. McGuire’s wearing a long-sleeve mock turtleneck pullover with a zipper at the neck. Looks like he hasn’t shaved in a few days, but that’s the look most of the narcotics guys have. Looks like he needs a haircut, too—probably sooner than later or the back will start looking more and more like a mullet. I can see a few gray hairs starting to come in along his sideburns. Luna’s the opposite—squared away, clean shaven, wearing a casual button-down shirt under a tan sport coat.

  “I saved one for you,” Luna says as he hands me a Churchill-style cigar. I examine the label.

  “Cuban.”

  “I still have a nice little stash in my humidor,” he adds maybe too proudly.

  I roll it between my thumb and index finger and smell it. I set it on the large cigar ashtray in the center of the table.

  “Appreciate that, Albino. I’ll fire it up with my drink.”

  “If I had known you were coming too, Les—”

  “No worries, Albino,” she stops him. “I prefer something smaller.”

  “So you’re admitting that smaller is better,” McGuire jumps in.

  “Don’t go there, old boy,” I say, as if I need to defend her.

  “Sounds like you just admitted to something, McGuire,” she says.

  Luna barks and coughs his bourbon.

  “No worries there, counselor. I can prove it if you want.”

  “Okay, stand and show us,” she says.

  McGuire puffs out a laugh.

  “What the fuck, McGuire, you should be proud of it,” I say.

  “Just give me a warning so I can look the other way,” Luna says.

  “You afraid to see your wife naked, Luna?” I ask.

  “Fuck you,” McGuire says. “He’s the bitch in this marriage, not me.”

  “See what I have to put up with,” Luna says.

  The waitress works her way to our table.

  “What’ll it be?” She smiles.

  I worry about what McGuire might say to that. Luckily, his lips are wrapped around his cigar; no doubt he’s thinking about his dick.

  “Belvedere martini, two olives, please.”

  “Zacapa 23, neat, and a Corona on the side,” I say.

  “Be right back,” she advises, with another smile.

  “So you got a good hit outta that house on Kenyon?” I ask them.

  Luna glances at Costello, like we shouldn’t be talking shop in front of her. Might not be a good thing with any other defense attorney, or even with Costello if there were a chance she’d be picking up one of the defendants as a client. But there ain’t no chance in hell of that happening. She’d have to recuse herself because she took in the little girl. Besides, I’d like to think she wouldn’t defend animals like them. Costello senses Luna and McGuire’s reluctance, but it doesn’t piss her off.

  “I’m going to the ladies’ room,” she says with a mild grin.

  She scoots the chair back, stands, and walks back along the length of the bar.

  I notice both McGuire and Luna watching her backside.

  “That is some fine-looking ass. You tapping that?” McGuire asks.

  “Shut the fuck up,” I say.

  “No, seriously, because if you’re not—”

  “I said shut the fuck up.”

  Costello’s my weak spot, always has been. Boys like these, once they find that weak spot, love nothin’ more than to push your buttons, hoping you’ll break. It’s a game that started in the academy. I sure as hell won’t break, but that doesn’t mean they won’t piss me off.

  “You’re getting pretty defensive there, Frankie. What’s up with that?” McGuire asks.

  “Just overworked, brother, and looking forward to a few drinks here with you guys, or at the end of the bar with Costello if you keep up with this shit.”

  “But seriously, you two an item?” McGuire asks.

  “Move on with that, or I will. Shit,” I say. “So how’d the search warrant g
o?”

  “It was a good hit,” Luna says, just as the waitress returns.

  She sets down our drinks.

  Luna downs his bourbon, hands her the glass. “I’ll have another. Thanks, hon,” he tells her.

  “I’m good for now,” McGuire says.

  The waitress returns to the bar.

  “Yeah, it was a damn good hit,” Luna continues.

  “Just found out there’s another missing teenager,” I say.

  “You get that from Davidson?” Luna asks.

  “No. Costello got a call from another family whose daughter went missing. Anything you can tell me about those boys you arrested?”

  “Davidson and his Fed partners took them right away. We didn’t have a chance to talk to them. Heard they lawyered up right away, too,” Luna says.

  “I’ll get you the info on this other girl next week. You get them to debrief in the future, maybe you can work this girl into the deal.”

  “Of course, brother. Keep us informed. And why are you working something like this?”

  “I’m not working it. Just trying to help out, that’s all.”

  “I could never work that kind of shit,” Luna says.

  “Me either,” McGuire adds. “Makes me both mad as hell and sick as hell at the same time. Can’t even think about it. Something like that ever happened to my daughter, you’d have to take my gun from me or I’d be wearing an orange jumpsuit.”

  Costello returns. She has a little cigarillo. Must have bought it at the other end of the bar. After she sits, she grabs a box of wooden matches near the ashtray and lights it. She’s a social smoker, something I’ve never been able to understand. I fire up the cigar.

  “So you guys need me to find a seat at the bar, or can I join you now? God forbid having to sit with the enemy.”

  The waitress returns with Luna’s drink, sets it before him.

  “Thanks, babe,” he says. After she walks away he adds, “It’s not personal. You know that.”

  “No, just ignorance,” I say, and take another sip of rum. “You two think about it—I do most of my work for her. Maybe you shouldn’t trust me ’cause I’m on the dark side, too.”

  “Hell no,” Luna returns. “You’ll always be one of us.”

  If only that were so, I think to myself. That honor’s long gone.

  Twenty-one

  I’ve had to go to the men’s room only two times since I’ve been here. For some reason self-control has always been easier in a social environment. It’s when I’m home alone that I need more practice. That’s a whole different monster. It’s like chain-smoking when you’re sitting alone with too much on your mind.

  They ordered food for the table. I return to several plates of appetizers spread out along the round tabletop, leaving barely enough room for our drinks.

  Costello’s nursing her second martini. She’s a lightweight. She does one more and I’ll probably have to hold her up while we walk to the car. Which might not be such a bad thing. I miss her scent, especially the area at the nape of her neck where her hair falls.

  I’m on my third rum and fourth beer. Don’t even know how much McGuire and Luna have had, but I’m sure the food they’re stuffing down their pieholes will absorb most of the alcohol. The hardest part of what I do is when I have to force myself to eat, like now. The stuffed poppers are tasty enough, but the food fucks up the high. I’ve gotta eat, though, or I’ll be a mess in the morning. There is a certain benefit to potentially heart-attack-inducing comfort foods like poppers and fries. Consuming them, and downing four ibuprofen and a full glass of water at bedtime, will seriously reduce the risk of waking up to a bad hangover.

  I can’t remember the last time I had a hangover. A bit of a headache, maybe, but that’s about it. I ain’t so stupid that I think it’s something that’s gonna last. I think about that sometimes, mostly in bed when I’m having a hard time falling asleep, or when I’m depressed because I’m running low on my supply. My body will start falling apart at some point, no matter how much grapefruit I consume. The worrying has a way of disappearing soon after I wake up, and the body starts craving what has become part of its essence.

  After I take my seat, I light a cigarette.

  “You still have that bladder problem?” McGuire asks.

  “Beer does that to me,” I say with a straight face.

  His head is dropping down closer to the table. He’s holding himself up with his elbows. He sips the drink that’s already been made into water by too much melting ice.

  “Why’d you retire so early, Marr?” he asks, barely able to turn to me.

  I can’t count the number of times I’ve been asked that question, even by Luna and Costello, but that was during a time shortly after I left, when it would’ve been a reasonable question. McGuire himself has asked me the question before, but he’s silly drunk and probably starting to feel nostalgic. We did have some fun. I had a tighter relationship with Luna, though.

  I give him the standard answer. “Simple, really. I wanted my life back.”

  But the honest answer would be, “I was given the opportunity to own my life by taking a onetime offer. I didn’t have a choice.”

  “I’m a lifer, bro,” McGuire says.

  “Hate to admit it, but so am I,” Luna says.

  “Brother, you came in so young, you’re going to have to do thirty,” I tell him.

  “Thanks for reminding me.”

  “Quit being such pussies,” McGuire says, then turns with a downward look toward Costello and says, “Nothing personal.”

  “Why would I take that personally, unless you think I’m a pussy?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that, just that you’re female,” he says seriously. “The bad condensation with the word, is all. Know what I mean?”

  “Connotation,” I correct him.

  “Whatever, dude. You know what I mean, right, Leslie?”

  “Yes, Stan, and I appreciate your delicacy.”

  “And you know I’ve always liked you, even if you did turn and go to the other side?” He smiles.

  “That makes me feel better, Stan,” she says.

  “Never could understand why, though. I can understand becoming a prosecutor, maybe working for the U.S. Attorney’s Office, but not from cop to defense attorney.”

  I stay out of this one. I know how McGuire can get, especially with too much alcohol. Costello can take care of herself. Hell, McGuire puts me through the same shit almost every time we get together. I’m sure I’d be his target if Leslie weren’t here.

  “Is it about the money? Because that, I can understand.”

  “No, most of you guys with all your OT make more than me. There are certain clients I won’t take. I’d like to think that most of them deserve a chance.”

  “The old ‘revolving door.’ If you succeed, the only thing you’re doing is giving them a second chance to commit more crimes,” Luna says.

  Luna’s a good man, but a better cop. He can’t handle his liquor. It’ll either turn him angry or just sloppy and sentimental. I get the feeling it’s gonna start moving toward the latter.

  The evening is getting close to an end for me, and I sense Costello feels the same way. It takes a few minutes to get the check and then a couple more to extricate ourselves from the table, but we manage to make a break for it.

  It feels cooler outside. I don’t have to hold Costello up for the walk back to the car.

  I double-park in front of her house.

  “I can find a parking spot if you want?”

  “Not tonight, Frankie. I don’t like it when I’ve had too much to drink.”

  She leans over and kisses me on the corner of my mouth. She pulls away before I can turn all the way toward her.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say.

  “Good night, Frankie.” And before she closes the door she says, “And thanks. For tomorrow, I mean.”

  “Don’t thank me yet.”

  She smiles and shuts the door.

>   I watch her as she walks up the steps to her porch, opens the security gate, unlocks the front door, enters, and closes the door behind her. I wait a few seconds, notice the living room light turn on. I wait a couple more minutes and then I drive home.

  When I get home, I strip down to my boxers, down four ibuprofen, a couple of Klonopins, and a full glass of water, then pour myself a bit of Jameson to finish the night off. I will have to go to bed soon or I’ll have a hard time waking up. I love sleep when I can find it.

  I sit on the sofa to sip my Jameson.

  Costello sneaks into my head. I usually like when that happens, but I was hoping for a little more than a slight peck on the lips from her tonight, so I’m feeling a bit discouraged. I just need to give it a few minutes to let the Klonopins do their thing. It always begins with a feeling like little waves moving through the frontal lobe. A good feeling, and one that should help ease the pain in my loins.

  I don’t know what’s in store for us. If we have a future together, I mean. Probably nothing more than the occasional fucking around like we do, and only when she makes the move. Thus far, all my moves have failed. What does that tell you? I’m not in control.

  It isn’t long before I hit the sack and sink my head into the pillow. I watch the clock for about two hours and the last thing I remember is 3:30 a.m.

  Part Two

  Twenty-two

  Lenny Claypole and his wife, Theresa, rent a small, two-story older brick home in Suitland, Maryland. It has an unattached garage and a tiny square patch of a front yard that’s nothin’ but weeds and dirt. His Ford F-250 truck—already dusty from his weeks away—is parked in front. I pull behind it. I notice an older-model light blue Ford Fiesta parked in the driveway.

  I met Lenny Claypole’s wife a couple of times a few months back, when I was working his case for Costello. She answers the door when I ring the bell. She looks about the same—simple, attractive, even without makeup. Her hair is dark. She wears it just below her ears in a bob cut. There’s some darkness under her eyes, as if she’s got too much stress or puts in long hours at work. Probably both. I can understand why Claypole doesn’t want to fuck it up. She’s a sweet, unpretentious woman. The two of them are an odd couple, though.