A Smudge of Gray: A Novel

by Jonathan Sturak

  Almost twenty minutes later, the same rhythmic clinking bounced from the chilly sidewalk near the cross streets of Fifth and Mason. The shoes were the same color gray because the same handsome businessman wore them. This time, however, they reflected not the artificial lights from the underground parking garage, but the stark light that had traveled nearly 300 million meters per second from the moon.

  Trevor moved through the brisk night air as creatures lurked in the darkness; however, they were not the focus of his green eyes. His sight was set on a phone booth at the approaching street corner. It was a traditional payphone, the type that was becoming extinct, but this particular phone had regular use, use that kept it alive. Trevor peeked at his Rolex watch. Its hands crept toward eight o’clock. He timed his preparation at the office, and his drive to his appointment, flawlessly. He opened the payphone’s door. Then he set down his briefcase and placed his right hand on the receiver of the phone. As Trevor glanced at his watch, the second hand swept past the triangle representing the number 12. Immediately, the phone rang. Trevor thrust the communication device toward his ear completing the perfectly orchestrated maneuver.

  “Beneath the moon lies darkness,” the all-too-familiar voice muttered.

  “A perfect place for an artist to work,” Trevor responded, equally as enigmatic.

  The businessman looked down at his shoes and narrowed his eyes, devoting his complete focus to the man on the other end.

  “The contract is for Max Cleaver. Three Twenty Four Broad Street. Apartment Nine B. The usual amount upon completion.”

  “My fee has gone up twenty percent since the last contract.”

  “Aww, a negotiator,” the mysterious man muttered with a chuckle. “Well, that can be arranged.”

  Trevor rested the phone back into its cradle and took a deep breath—a breath that he had taken before. He grabbed his briefcase and slid from the payphone, looking around at the busy street. Cars zipped; humans marched. While Trevor blended with the business professionals coasting down the street, he was gravely different from any other living being filling the downtown. He was a man on a mission, a mission into the darkness.

  Chapter 6

  A 40-watt bulb illuminated the living room of the Boise apartment home. The space was tight, just enough room for an outdated 26” television, a bookshelf filled with romance novels, and a green couch. Dark brown carpet stretched across the room, freshly shampooed when Brian had signed the lease renewal two months ago. Even though the walls were thin, letting in the neighbors’ arguments, Latin music from the nightclub across the street, and the clatter of outside garbage disposal, at this hour, all was still.

  But just as silence laughed, keys entered the deadbolt and the sound of a metal click entered the living room. The door squeaked open as the man of the house, the breadwinner, and the striving family man, tiptoed inside. He carried an abused briefcase with papers protruding from its seams. Brian locked the door as quietly as he could, and then looked around the deserted space. A video game controller strewn on the carpet caught his attention. He wrapped it neatly and placed it under the TV. Brian set his briefcase down on the couch and crept into the kitchen.

  He turned on the lights. The table was clear, the counter spotless, and the sink dish-less. It was always this way when he had entered late. Brian moved toward the refrigerator. This was the place where the life memories of the family were displayed, magnetized and stuck on the appliance that provided them with the fuel of life. It was also a message center. A marker and whiteboard offered half-duplex communication. Brian looked at his favorite picture near the handle of the freezer. It showed him and his family sitting on the beach under the Florida sun. He sat on the sand shirtless in blue swimming trunks as Jonathan kneeled in front of him showcasing a sandcastle. The picture was from two summers ago, their last vacation as a family. It was a five-day trip to the white sand on Clearwater Beach overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. Anne Marie wore a green one-piece nestled against Brian’s side. He loved the way she looked in the picture, the open mouth smile induced by his own instruction to say “Stinky Cheese.” A breeze had fluffed her hair, which was captured perfectly on film as a fellow beachgoer snapped the picture. Brian could see the fingers of his right hand wrapped around his wife’s waist. Even though he stared at his own image in front of him, he couldn’t recall the feeling the picture showed, the feeling of his own wife, now clouded by dead bodies, confidential informants, and paperwork.

  As he caressed the picture with his finger, he shifted his eyes to the whiteboard that was plastered on the center of the freezer—“Couldn’t wait up for you, went to bed…” Brian used his fingers to erase the words, and then left the kitchen, destined to regain the sensation of holding the one he loved.

  The full moon shined through the vertical blinds of the apartment’s master bedroom. A full-size bed filled the room, leaving only enough space for a small dresser and a chair. Anne Marie slept in the bed with the filtered moonlight touching her face. The door opened as Brian lurked toward the closet at the end of the room trying to keep his actions from waking his wife. But as he made it past the bed, Anne Marie moved her legs, and then turned toward the new visitor with her eyes wide open.

  “Go back to sleep, honey. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Brian whispered.

  “No, it’s okay. What time is it?” Anne Marie mumbled as she sat up.

  Brian moved to his wife and kissed her lightly. On the nightstand next to them, a clock blared “11:57.”

  “It’s late. I’m sorry I wasn’t home sooner. I was trying to close out some paperwork. I don’t know what happened to the time.”

  “How was your case?” Anne Marie asked as Brian shifted to the side of the room and undressed.

  “It’s just paperwork now. The captain says I can take some time off. Maybe a week or so. We should all do something.” Brian unbuttoned his shirt.

  “Oh, really? I can’t believe that,” Anne Marie replied as she watched him sit on the side of the bed to unlace his shoes.

  “I know I haven’t been around much lately. But I’m close to Chief Detective.”

  “Are you sure that you’re not just trying to block it out? It’ll be ten years soon.”

  Brian froze. “Ten years… Wow… Ten years… I know that the anniversary is coming. My subconscious knows every minute of my life.”

  “Why don’t you quit that job? You have a degree in math. There are so many nine-to-five jobs you can get with that.”

  “You know about my—”

  “—dad and grandfather. I’ve heard it a million times, Brian,” Anne Marie finished.

  “I know. But it’s in my blood. I’m good at this job,” he replied as he kicked off his shoes.

  “Well I miss you. Jonathan misses you. I hate to see him grow up without a father,” she lamented as she stared at the plaid comforter.

  Brian didn’t respond right away. He glanced at an old picture on the wall, a picture he saw every time he dressed and undressed. It showed a Brian that was barely five-years-old sitting on the lap of his father, who was dressed in a sleek police uniform. Brian craved to see his father again, today, every day. He would even give back his badge.

  “How was his game today?” Brian asked, now in his briefs and T-shirt.

  “They won again. The coach kept him in the whole fourth quarter.”

  “That’s great. I’m so proud of him. I’ll do my best to go to his next one.” Brian sat down and put his arm around his wife’s waist rejuvenating his brain. “So what do you want to do on my time off? Take a trip?”

  “How about we just stay here, the three of us, and just sleep in and order take-out all week?” Anne Marie moved closer to her husband.

  “Anything for you. I love you.” Brian kissed her warmly.

  “I miss you,” she whispered into his ear.

  Anne Marie gave him a hug as his smell of sweat stung her nostrils. Normally, she didn’t care how he smelled, but something about the odor was
different. It seemed more intense, more bitter, more unlike the scent from the man she had married.

  “You need a shower.”

  “I need more than a shower. I’m going to check on Jonathan first,” Brian said as he helped her back under the covers.

  The overworked detective watched the comforter conform to his wife’s body. He smiled, and then exited the room. Brian sneaked down the hallway, careful not to agitate the venerable floorboards. The closed door to his son’s room was in front of him. As he moved closer, he saw several drawings on the door. One in particular arrested him. It depicted a tall man labeled “Dad” with two smaller individuals labeled “Mom” and “Me.” The group stood at a beach as the artist took great care to draw a sandcastle and a seagull with his colored pencils. Brian beamed from his son’s accomplishment, but he noticed one thing about the picture that made him feel uneasy. Both “Mom” and “Me” were holding hands, as the figure labeled “Dad” was isolated.

  Brian grabbed the drawing and pushed open the door with his pointer finger. Jonathan’s playful room greeted his sore eyes. Small figures of basketball players lined the top of the desk as a basket for a foam ball was suspended from the closet door. Brian glided inside and watched his son sleep under basketball sheets. Warmness flowed over the family’s breadwinner as he sat on the bed and watched his son’s slow, deep breaths. Brian glanced at the picture in his hand, a picture showing a memory that his son had cherished so much so that it prompted him to externalize it. But it also showed something from Jonathan’s subconscious, something subtle yet undeniably present. Brian removed the hair from his son’s forehead and leaned in, kissing him softly. What happened during his day was now hindsight and all that Brian cared about was that he was home with his family, even if they were off in some distant land dreaming about a different life.

  Chapter 7

  It was nearly one a.m. as the city streets died out, but certain parts of the downtown flourished when darkness was at its peak. Various bars and lounges were hopping. And one particular Irish pub was excessively busy at this late hour packed with drunken laughs and misguided clanks. Billy Joel’s “Only the Good Die Young” electrified the carefree crowd as smoke and jokes swirled in the air. A man at the long mahogany bar grabbed his buddy as both sang out-of-tune with the music.

  Past the main commotion, a cramped dining area gave the pub’s patrons some room to carry on a conversation. Four thirty-something yuppies sat in the back at a table just large enough for them and their half-empty beer glasses. Jason, an overconfident James Dean look-alike wearing a turtleneck, sat with a fire in his eyes. To his right sat Jane, a full-figured businesswoman with a simple dimple that toyed with the men in her life, including those at her office. Susan, a slim yet naturally buxom woman in a business suit, sat in front of Jason with her cleavage keeping him occupied. Then there was Max. He wore a dapper black suit with his tie loosened after a long day and night’s work. Stylish glasses reminiscent of Clark Kent rested on his nose and kept him looking young even though he had crossed the thirty year mark.

  “Wait! Watch this! Clock it, now! Clock it!” Jason yelled at his friends while holding a quarter. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes!” Max replied.

  Jason spun the quarter on the table. It rotated for five seconds, and then plopped over.

  “Five seconds. That’s weak! Let me try,” Max joked.

  “This really is entertaining both of you, isn’t it?” Susan said as she sipped her beer.

  Max flicked his fingers. The quarter spun.

  “Go! Go! Go!” Max yelled. “Just a little longer!”

  The quarter finally fell off the table and rolled in circles.

  “Seven seconds,” Jason replied.

  “I won! I won! You’re buying the next round!” Max said.

  “Who said we were betting drinks?” Jason tried to grab the rolling quarter, but he kicked it into the crowd.

  “Throwing away money, huh, Jason?” Jane chimed in.

  “That’s what he’s good at,” Susan joked.

  “Well. You did it again, Max. Another case under your belt,” Jason roared through the energy.

  “I couldn’t have done it without my old college study group,” Max returned as he opened his arms.

  As the whole bar now sang with Billy Joel, the waitress sneaked through the crowd and delivered four shot glasses filled with a potent potion. The four friends widened their eyes with Jason’s showing the most white.

  “Finally,” Susan expelled.

  “Put this round on Jason’s tab,” Max said.

  “Ah… What the hell? I’ll buy this round. Especially for this guy. He’s the next Matlock. He’s the best criminal prosecutor in the city,” Jason boasted to the waitress as she sat the glasses down.

  “How long were you on the case?” Jane asked.

  “Eight months. Eight looong months.”

  “That’s nothing compared to how long Louie the Loudmouth will be spending behind bars,” Jason said.

  The four yuppies raised their glasses high. They looked at each other just as they did ten years ago as grad students. Then, they clanked glasses and took their shots.

  The four old college friends finished their beers and prepared to call it a night. As Jason and Max argued over who should put their wallet away, a cold breeze blew in from the outside. The four working professionals did not feel it, but they did feel the need for sleep. Susan looked at the overflowing crowd and tried to find a path through the chaos to the front door. She grabbed Jane who held onto Jason, leading the way through the mob. Max followed as he tried to dodge the crowd tottering to Elton John’s “I’m Still Standing.” As they neared the bar, the hopping gang provided the biggest obstacle. It seemed as if everyone were gyrating to the song with one hand on his beer mug and the other on his neighbor. As Max saw Susan near the door, a woman stepped in his path. The young attorney shifted his steps and inadvertently bumped into a man in a trench coat at the bar.

  “Sorry,” Max offered, but the man didn’t respond.

  The figure seemed to be the only one not engaged in the collective stupor. He sat as if he were not even there, but Max proved his presence. As the four yuppies reached the door, the man in the black trench coat turned his head and watched them with his green eyes.

  The street outside the bar contrasted the movement with stillness. Only a few cabs waited near the curb, just as they did every night. Jason poured from the door with Susan and Jane on his arms. The night was brisk as the fresh air engulfed the four friends.

  “I feel great! Thanks for meeting me for drinks,” Max exclaimed as he took a deep breath.

  “No problem, man,” Jason replied.

  “You guys okay to drive?” Max asked.

  “Hey, I got two hot bitches by my side. I’ll be okay,” Jason boasted.

  “You’re drunk,” Susan replied, tapping his chest.

  “Someone needs a cold shower,” his other female companion offered. The four laughed.

  “Well, I have a short walk home. I’ll call you guys again to go out,” Max proposed.

  “This time don’t wait until you’re finished with your next case!” Jane said.

  “Are you sure you’re okay by yourself?” Susan, with a concerned look, asked Max.

  “I’ll be fine, walking drunk isn’t a crime.”

  “Unless you have a cutthroat attorney!” Jane added bringing more laughter to the group.

  They said their goodbyes one more time as the James Dean look-alike disarmed his awaiting Cadillac Escalade. He opened the door for his two princesses. They stumbled, giving the comatose cabbies a jolt. As Max set off down the sidewalk, his friend rolled into the driver’s seat and took off. Luckily, for Jason, he was not driving a Porsche.

  The moonlight glimmered off Max’s scratch-resistant lenses as he embraced the night. He enjoyed the city—working, living, and playing in the downtown. Although he normally strolled through the streets during rush hour, his path home wa
s still the same even if shadows had replaced the suits. Max hummed to amuse himself. Without even realizing it, Billy Joel’s “Only the Good Die Young” flowed from his mouth into the streets. He watched a pair of headlights approaching on the distant cross street, but then the vehicle turned leaving an empty road. The emptiness surprised Max as the four-lane downtown looked as if it were a communist state past curfew. As his whistle intensified, the sudden sound of an aluminum can skipping across the concrete startled him. He stopped and analyzed the path behind him, but all he saw was smoke billowing from a drain.

  Max crossed the street, and then stepped on a grate. His Rockport leather shoes clanked on the metal. Max continued his stroll and bopped his head to his hums as a way to remove himself from the blankness around him. He thought about his friends and their get-togethers. But then, a noise filled the night air and removed his focus from his memories. It was a clank, the same clank from the metal grate now a half block behind him. Max stopped cold and turned. The silhouette of an inert figure holding a briefcase stared at him. Both stood like the sheriff and the outlaw, the only problem for Max was he hadn’t seen a western movie in years. Then he recognized it was probably Jason, playing one of his twisted pranks.

  “Very funny, guys!” Max yelled, but the figure remained motionless.