A Fistful of Rain

by Greg Rucka

  “It doesn’t really excuse the behavior.”

  “Well, if it matters, I forgave you long ago. I know my parents did, too.”

  “How about your brothers?”

  Sheila grinned. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about them.”

  “No? They’re well?”

  She laughed. “They’re crazy, that’s what they are! Moved up to Alaska about two years ago, the lot of them. Donny’s teaching Eskimo boys and girls out in the bush, I think that’s the word for it, and William, Ben, and Bobby, they’re entrepreneurs. They’ve got a couple planes, they all learned how to fly, you see, and they sell tours.”

  Scratch the Larkin boys, I thought, and she saw disappointment on my face and misread it as something else.

  “Oh, I know,” Sheila said. “I think it’s crazy, too, but they love it. Only problem they’re having, according to what Mom says, is that they can’t find any women. Not enough single girls in Alaska, I guess.”

  I made a sympathetic noise, and asked her a few more questions, mostly to round out the conversation. She told me that she’d been married for six years, now, and that she had three kids of her own, only one of them part of the quorum in the next room. Her husband was an investor-broker for Prudential here in town, and they were very happy. Before she’d had her first child, she didn’t know what it was she wanted to do with her life. But when the first baby was born, she had discovered that she had a knack for child care, and she’d gone to school to get certified, and opened the business on her own. She said the work fulfilled her.

  “That must be what making music is like for you,” Sheila said.

  I started feeling the foreboding as soon as I was back behind the wheel of the Jeep. The Larkins had been a long shot in the sea of long shots, and if I’d been honest with myself, I wouldn’t have gone with them first.

  The Quicks should have been number one.

  My dashboard clock said it was coming up on noon, and it adjusted my priorities.

  I had to get over to Graham’s before he left town, to pick up the cash.

  The guard in the lobby was the same one from the day before, and he grinned at me when I came in, saying, “Hey there, Miss Bracca.”

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name yesterday.”

  He looked almost embarrassed. “Oh, yeah. I’m Lee.”

  “Nice to meet you, Lee. I’m Mim.” I shook his hand.

  He laughed. “You can go on up, Mim.”

  Graham answered his door within seconds of my knocking. He was dressed in his travel suit, which was one of the nicest he owned. I’d asked him once why he always wore a three-piece for an airplane, and he’d hemmed and hawed, then admitted that he was scared to death of flying. When I’d said that wasn’t really an answer, he’d gone into a lengthy explanation about how many rock stars die in plane crashes, and the reason for that being that musicians travel a lot, always going from gig to gig, and with odds like that, he figured he should be ready.

  “It’s my good-luck charm,” he’d said. “I figure the one day I don’t bother to get dressed up, that’ll be the day the plane goes down.”

  He had all but one of the three pieces in place, the jacket draped over the arm of the couch, and he ushered me in and then presented me with the bag of cash as if he was introducing a deb at a ball. The duffel was bright yellow, with black trim, and had a Nike swoosh on the side. He pulled open the top flap, and revealed a mass of bills, hundreds, strapped together in bunches with paper bands.

  “Got Van’s donation to the fund this morning. You want to count it?” Graham asked, leaning over my shoulder and nudging me. “Make sure it’s all there, huh?”

  “That is a fucking lot of money,” I said.

  “That is, indeed, a fucking lot of money. It has its own smell; you smell that?” He took a deep and audible inhale through his nose. “Paper and ink and something else, you know what I mean? You got to get it out of here, it’s making me horny as hell, and I’ve got a strict hands-off policy with the talent.”

  I zipped the duffel shut and hoisted it onto my shoulder, and was surprised at how much it weighed. Not as much as my Tele, but close, and I wondered what another six hundred thousand dollars would do to the weight.

  “Off to Glasgow?” I asked.

  “Yeah, flight’s in just over three hours. I’ve got to hustle. I’ll walk down with you.”

  He pulled on his jacket and got his travel bag from where it was waiting by the door, and we rode the elevator together. Lee wished us both a safe and good trip, and I didn’t challenge his assumption that I was back to gigging. I suppose it was the duffel on my shoulder that did it, made him think that I was hitting the road again.

  “Can I drop you anywhere?” I asked Graham.

  “You can put me on the MAX line, if you would, that’d be nice,” he told me.

  “No cab?”

  “Hey, I can get out to the airport hassle free for a buck fifty, why should I pay for a cab?”

  “Because Van hires a limo.”

  “Van’s the star. I’m management.”

  We climbed into the Jeep, and I dropped him at one of the many MAX stops on Yamhill, so he could catch the train. I wished him a safe trip.

  “What happened to your hand?” he asked as he was climbing out.

  “Nothing.”

  “Mim, your knuckles are all bashed up. That’s not good, that’ll screw your playing.”

  “I’ll get it checked out.”

  “You had damn well better. I never did take out that policy from Lloyds.”

  “Did Van get her shrine?”

  “Still working on that, too.”

  I grinned and kept it in place until he’d slammed the door and turned away, and then I popped into gear, and headed for the main branch of the Multnomah County Library.

  He’d never been anyone but “Mr. Quick” to me, so the first thing I looked for was his Christian name. The government employee listings did the trick, though I had to search back three years before finding Gareth Quick, in the Office of the State Treasurer. Either he’d retired or been laid off or quit, but he hadn’t appeared to have died, because there was a listing in the Salem White Pages for a Gareth and Anne Quick, and the address given rang true in my memory, and I figured it was the same place, the same house. There were no listings for either Chris or Brian Quick, though, so I’d have to talk to the parents to find them.

  It was late afternoon when I was finished, and I was getting anxious to get back to my house and get the money out of my car. Lugging it around in the library had made me feel odd, and I’d kept expecting someone to ask me to open the bag. Even though the money itself wasn’t illegally acquired, the thought of having to explain it made me nervous.

  Trick-or-treaters were already out and moving along the sidewalks, jack-o’-lanterns on every residential block glowing a warm orange. I didn’t have anything to give any visitors who might stop by, so I stopped at the Safeway near my house on the way home and dumped forty dollars on bags of assorted sweets.

  Inside, I made sure the porch and all of my front lights were off, then took the duffel bag down to the basement. I supposed there were safer places to store the money, but I hadn’t been able to think of anything. In the end, I folded the bag up as small as I could get it, and then stuck it in the hollow back of my Fender blues amp, then pushed the amp so its back was against the wall. As long as I didn’t switch the thing on, it shouldn’t be a problem.

  I filled a big bowl with candy, positioned it and a chair just inside my front door, then turned on the lights, trying to make the house as welcoming as possible. It was probably silly, but Halloween was the way I remembered my mother, because she always loved it. No matter what else was going on in my life right now, if I was going to have to wait until morning before I went to see the Quicks, I’d damn well honor her memory tonight.

  While I was waiting for the first trick-or-treater to arrive, I checked my messages. There were five of th
em, and only four from people I didn’t want to talk to. A guy calling himself Peter Bergman who said he was from Rolling Stone had called, wanting to talk about my brother for the story he was writing, and he left a callback number; two of the local television outlets and one radio had called, asking if I’d be willing to do an interview; and Click, who chastised me for ditching him the night before, and wished me well, and said that he’d call to check in from the road.

  The doorbell rang just after I’d finished, and I went to answer it, ready with the bowl of candy.

  It was Joan, bundled in the same old coat she’d worn every winter for the last decade, carrying a pizza box.

  She saw the look on my face and said, “You didn’t think I’d forget?”

  “I almost forgot myself,” I admitted. I let her get the box on the kitchen counter and herself out of her coat before giving her a hug. “You are too nice to me.”

  “If it’s true, then you shouldn’t be pointing it out.”

  I got down plates and cans of soda, and we pulled slices of pizza and sat in the front hall, making small talk and eating. She told me about her day, about the trouble with the music program, the ever-present budget cuts.

  She waited until I was done eating and had taken our plates to the kitchen before she asked me what happened to my forehead.

  “It’s nothing,” I said. “Accident-prone.”

  “It looks painful.”

  “It’s not too bad. Only hurts when I think.” I furrowed my brow, to prove the point.

  There was a brief, but very awkward pause, and her eyes seemed to get a little dimmer. She tried to hide it, but I knew what she’d concluded, that she had gone to my lie without needing any direction, because it was the logical place to go. I wanted to tell her she was wrong, that I hadn’t been drunk, that I hadn’t been drunk since before the funeral, but I knew she wouldn’t believe me.

  We were spared by the doorbell, a group of two Harry Potters, a Hermione, and a very traditional bedsheet ghost. One of the Harrys was actually a girl, and after they’d stated their demands, I went after her.

  “So what’s the trick?” I asked.

  She didn’t miss a beat. “Turn you into a newt.”

  “That’s a good one; think I better pay up.” To Harry Number Two, I asked, “And you?”

  “Newt?”

  “Taken.”

  He adjusted his plastic glasses. “I’ll give you warts. Warts all over your face, they’ll be totally gross and stuff.”

  “Ew. All right, a handful, that’ll keep my skin clear?”

  “For now.”

  “Oh, a tough guy. Okay. Next?”

  The ghost told me he’d haunt me until I was so scared I’d wet my pants. Both of the Harrys and the Hermione thought that was funny, and giggled. Joan, listening in the hall behind me, nearly bust a gut. The ghost got a really big handful.

  Hermione told me that she’d make me rich.

  “I am rich,” I told her.

  “I’ll make you richer.”

  “Not sure I want that.”

  She frowned, gnawed on her lip, adjusted her pillowcase full of swag. “Nobody else does this, everyone else just gives us candy.”

  “Hey, you want candy, you got to do it right.”

  Hermione smiled with an idea, said, “Okay, see, I know who you are, and if you give me candy, I’ll bring your brother back from the dead.”

  It threw me for a second.

  “You can do that?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” she admitted.

  I dumped two handfuls into her bag. “Let me know when you’ve worked that out, okay?”

  Joan pulled another chair from the kitchen and joined me, and we had fun with it, and for a while again, I forgot to be afraid. It had been Joan who made Halloween a pleasure for me again, she who had explained that it was trick or treat, and that you had to play along with the extortion.

  Given where I was, this kind of blackmail was a hell of a lot more enjoyable.

  It was when I was dumping candy into the bags of unidentifiable monsters, soldiers, and two teenagers too old for it, but in good costumes—both were Star Wars Jedi Knights—that I registered what I’d been seeing on the street the whole time.

  A car, parked just inside the view from my door, across the street. That alone wasn’t alarming, but there was someone inside of it, and that gave me pause.

  I told myself it wasn’t the Parka Man, that even if my porch light was on, he had to know it was for Halloween. Since there’d been no return visit after the two cops had descended that morning, I had to assume he had faith that the terror he’d put in me would stay, that I’d pay up on time, without causing him trouble.

  Couldn’t be him.

  It wasn’t something I could concentrate on, either, with Joan beside me and kids parading to and from my doorstep. Each time I looked out, I tried to keep it subtle, and, once, I saw whoever was in the car move, but I didn’t see any features.

  The last trick-or-treater came by just before nine, and that was good, because I’d almost run out of candy. I’m very generous on Halloween, I give handfuls, not just one or two pieces, and some years I’ve been reduced to giving away whatever is suitable in the kitchen, bags of pretzels or chips. I never give fruit or vegetables or things like that. What kid in their right mind wants an apple when they can have a Snickers bar?

  Joan left around nine-thirty, giving me a kiss and saying that she had to get to bed. I told her I’d call that weekend, and that we could finally go out to the dinner I’d promised her.

  She liked that.

  Once she was gone, I checked the street again, and again there was motion from the car, and I suddenly knew who it was. There were a couple candy bars left in the bowl, and some Shock Tarts. I picked it up and went down the walk and across the street. The car was a Ford, blue, one of the newer ones. As I was crossing the street, the driver’s window purred down, and I could see both of the occupants.

  Marcus was behind the wheel, on my side.

  “Trick or treat,” I told him.

  He grinned. “That for us?”

  “Sure.”

  He reached into the bowl, picking out both the remaining pieces of chocolate, then handed one to Hoffman. Neither of them looked particularly upset that I’d seen them.

  “Have a good Halloween?” Marcus asked me.

  “Pretty good. I like the holiday.”

  “You seemed to enjoy talking to the kids.”

  “Why are you guys watching my house?”

  Marcus looked over at Hoffman. Without looking up from the chocolate bar she was unwrapping, she said, “Why don’t you stop hiding behind Chapel and just answer our questions, Miss Bracca?”

  “Because I don’t like the questions. Because I don’t have any idea where my father is, and I don’t know what’s happened to him.”

  “That’s why we’re watching your house,” Marcus explained.

  “Isn’t this harassment?”

  “No, actually,” Hoffman said, and she finally looked at me. “It’s called investigating. Harassment would mean we didn’t have a reason to watch you. But you’ve given us that. This is what we call keeping a suspect under surveillance. You could help yourself and us if you just stepped out from behind your lawyer for a little while.”

  “I like it behind my lawyer,” I said. “He blocks the wind. Why am I a suspect?”

  “We figure you were at your brother’s place yesterday,” Hoffman said.

  “I told you I wasn’t.”

  “We figure you’re lying to us.”

  “If I call Mr. Chapel and tell him you’re out here—”

  “There’s not a damn thing he can do about it,” Marcus said.

  “And exactly what am I suspected of doing this time?”

  “Murdering Tommy Bracca,” Hoffman said.

  It was cold on the street, and I hadn’t bothered to put my jacket on before I came out. It made me want to shiver, and I had to fight it.

&nbs
p; “Still don’t want to talk to us?” Hoffman asked.

  I went back into my house without answering her.

  CHAPTER 31

  It all looked worse for the fourteen years since I’d last seen it. The lawn, once perfectly mown grass, was now marked with bare spots of mud, dotted with tangled weeds. The house needed a paint job. Even the station wagon in the driveway looked the same, just older, more beat-up.

  I got out of the Jeep and checked down the street, and the Ford was there, a couple houses down at the curb. It was sunny, bright autumn, and painful to my eyes. The sunglasses I wore today were on out of necessity, not anonymity. Marcus and Hoffman were wearing sunglasses, too. I wondered if they’d gotten any sleep, or at least, any more than I had. They’d still been parked outside when I’d gone to bed.

  It was ten past nine, Thursday morning, when I walked up to the door of the home of Gareth and Anne Quick.

  Wrapped in precisely the same heavy dread that had surrounded me the last time I’d reached this door.

  Anne answered, and she, too, looked like the years hadn’t been easy on her. The last time I’d seen her was when she’d handed me over to the Children’s Services woman, to take me to the Beckermans. We’d spent two nights in a Best Western prior to that, and Anne Quick hadn’t talked a lot. It had been hard for her to accept what her sons had tried to do, what they had been trying to do for so long. I’m sure it was only because her husband had seen it that Anne even believed the boys had done something wrong.

  The whole time we were at the motel, I got the feeling that she believed what happened had been, somehow, my fault.

  Fourteen years later she looked smaller and harder, with wrinkles that wouldn’t stay concealed with Oil of Olay. Her hair was still black, but dyed; there was gray creeping in at the roots, like a tide that had come just a little farther than anticipated onto a shore. She was dressed for garden work.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Mrs. Quick,” I said, and I took off my sunglasses and dropped them in a pocket, sheepish. “I’m Miriam Bracca, I don’t know if you remember me.”