Glory Days

by Irene Peterson

  It had to be hard forsaking women and drinking and smoking and . . . women.

  Mike led him into the old kitchen, the one room in which John felt less oppressed. Clear glass windows, high, yellowed-white cabinets, old appliances and an ancient sink. At least it didn’t have holy pictures all over the place. Here air was redolent with cooking smells, not incense.

  Mike gestured to the cracked red vinyl chair with the chrome trim that probably dated back to the fifties. “Take a load off.”

  John eased into the chair, aware of the tug of the duct tape when he moved his arms to turn the seat backwards.

  “Something to drink?” Mike quirked his eyebrow in question.

  John looked at the teapot-shaped clock over the sink. “Nah, I’m still feeling last night.” No lie, that. Every time he moved and the tape pulled a hair from his chest, he was reminded that he’d conked out in bed with some woman . . . slept in her bed and now he couldn’t remember what she even looked like. She just hadn’t mattered to him. He realized he could visualize the redhead downstairs vividly—the way her lower lip stuck out just begging to be tugged and teased, the nice curve of her hip—but the woman last night was pretty much a blank.

  The priest grabbed a bottle of water then slammed the refrigerator door shut. John winced. “Damn thing keeps popping open. Probably needs new stripping around the edge. I’m afraid to touch it for fear it will disintegrate in my hand.”

  John moved back and held up his hand in mock horror. “Don’t ask me to do it. You know I’m no good at that kind of stuff.”

  “Oh, yeah, I know. What I don’t know is what brings you to St. Boniface’s today. You have something on your mind? Need to confess something?”

  John snorted. “Yeah, like I’d confess to you.”

  With a wicked twist, Mike took off the top of the water bottle. “Just thought I’d offer.”

  John shook his head. “If and when I ever need to confess anything, Mike, I’ll go to another town, another church. I still can’t quite adjust to you being a religious and all. Not after all we’ve been through together. He . . . heck no.”

  The priest laughed. “Is it so hard for you to believe I’m a priest?”

  Looking at him, pinning him with his eyes, John answered, “Yeah. I guess it’s something I just can’t get used to. Not after some of the stuff we’ve done.”

  Mike shrugged. “That’s in the past.” He took another slug of water.

  But John thought he saw a look of longing or sorrow in the priest’s blue eyes. Maybe he wouldn’t tell him about the kid just now.

  “So, tell me, is this gig really permanent?”

  The bottle slipped through Mike’s fingers. He caught it deftly and replaced the cap. “Yeah, John. I’m a priest. I like being a priest. It’s rewarding in so many ways. I think I really help my parishioners. Maybe all those years I was so wild lets me understand the things they’re going through, especially the teenagers. I can say, ‘I know where you’re coming from’ and I really do. I think they know it, too, despite this”—he touched his collar—“and seeing me at mass on Sunday.”

  John nodded slowly, picturing Mike smashing a beer can on his forehead. “So, do you ever think about some of the crazy things you did? Do you ever miss being able to . . . you know, do what you did before you signed up?”

  The response took some time. Mike didn’t speak right away.

  “Sometimes, I look back at some of the crazy things I did and regret having done them. I don’t think I’d care to relive those days. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying I’m sorry for being a screw-up. I never hurt anybody, that’s for sure. When I think about those days at college, the frat parties and the drinking . . . I’m just glad they’re over.

  “I know I should have studied harder, gotten better grades, tried to please my parents more. But we were young. We were rebellious. Hell, I wasn’t the one who always got into fights—that was DeAngelo and Georgie. The only person I really hurt, and I see that now, was me.”

  John spent the next few minutes in silence, remembering things he’d put out of his mind ages ago. Evidently Mike did too, because he remained silent, a thoughtful, disturbed expression on his broad Irish features.

  Breaking the reverie, John asked, “You ever see any of the other guys?”

  Mike paused as if collecting his thoughts. “I see Dutch every couple of months, but the others, no. You?”

  This was definitely not the time to talk about the kid. A sharp pain passed through his shoulder. “I haven’t seen any of them since the hospital.”

  John stood. Mike hung back, lost in thoughts, perhaps. “I’ll let myself out, then. See ya, Father.”

  The priest gave an offhanded, distracted wave.

  John suddenly wished he’d stayed on the boardwalk. This little chat disturbed him, but it seemed as if he wasn’t the only one it disturbed.

  How would Mike react to Carly?

  Eventually, they’d both find out.

  Dutch Van Horne lay in the hospital bed with the sides up. John scanned the room before entering. No sign of any other visitor or nurse. He slowly stepped inside.

  “Hey, Dutch.”

  The man on the bed opened his eyes, blinked them and a trace of a smile shadowed his lips.

  John moved closer, pulled up a chair and sat.

  “No tubes today?”

  Dutch gave a sigh. His head moved almost imperceptibly side to side.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  Again, the slight negative movement.

  Leaning forward, John asked, “Do you remember that summer in Belmar?”

  Dutch’s lips curved upward. A distressful gurgle erupted from him. John smiled back at him. It had been a long time since he’d heard his friend laugh.

  “Well, I was thinking about it this morning. I don’t remember too much, except some of the poker games, and the afternoons on the beach, ya know? But I seem to remember there were some babes hanging around all the time. I don’t remember who they were particular friends with or where they came from. Pretty, long legs—that’s about all I remember. And . . . I remember them being there in the morning, so they both must have stayed the night lots of times.”

  He paused now, adding this to his memories. Seeing Dutch had keyed something in his brain. Blond hair, long tan legs. Their faces disappeared in a beery blur, though. And as for names, he’d probably never known them.

  “Those were some times, eh, Dutch? I had that bartending job . . .”

  “John Preshin, you sonovabitch, leave my husband alone!”

  Shit. Dutch’s wife stood in the doorway, tearing at the buttons on her raincoat, her face an unbecoming shade of purple.

  “Get the hell away from him or I’ll call security.” Barbara Van Horne’s voice rose to a screech, like fingernails on a blackboard that made the hair on the back of John’s neck stand on end.

  “Barbara, I just stopped by—”

  She went to the bed, hovering over her husband’s still form. “You were talking to him, getting him all worked up. I know you, John, you’ve upset him. I know by the look on his face. He’s distressed, and it’s because of you. Go away. Can’t you see? He doesn’t want you here. Leave him alone. Leave both of us alone!”

  Dutch made a sound deep in his throat and his eyes were wild, all right, but John had a deep suspicion that it was his reaction to his wife’s attitude rather than John’s presence. Not wanting to upset either of them, he backed away from the bed.

  “Look, Barbara, you know I’d never do anything—” he began, but she shut him up with a murderous look.

  “You’ve done enough, John Preshin. You’ve ruined my life and you nearly killed Dutch. Leave us alone, for God’s sake.” Tears poured from her eyes as she hugged her husband’s inert form. “Leave us alone.”

  He looked back, unable to see his former partner’s eyes, to leave him with some kind of sign that he’d be back soon. He would be back when Barbara was at work, on his usual day. The
subterfuge stunk, but he owed Dutch his time.

  He owed Dutch his life.

  Chapter 4

  Liz placed the framed photos of Jesse carefully on the top of the worn dresser. The long flight from California and the cab from the airport in Newark were behind her and she thought this was a good thing.

  She didn’t feel like going over the past two years of pain and humiliation with her grandmother. Her divorce had shaken the old lady almost as much as the baby’s death, probably as much as the accident that had taken her parents, but deep in her heart, Liz knew her grandmother was the one person in the world who loved her completely. Now that her parents were dead, Flo was the only relative left in Liz’s pathetic family tree close enough to tickle her branch.

  Maybe some day she’d tell her grandmother the whole awful story. But not today. She’d left California and all those fruitcakes and phonies behind. Let ’em stay there.

  She looked at her reflection in the crackled mirror above the dresser and patted the wild curls that refused to be tamed now that her hair had grown so long. First chance she got, she’d do something about them. But for now, ah, what the heck. She plopped down on the bed and closed her eyes.

  The laughing face of that man upstairs slid behind her eyelids. Instead of banishing him to the depths of nowhere, she allowed her thoughts to linger on what she’d seen, and despite everything she currently disliked about men in general and one arrogant, self-assured, grinning, gorgeous guy with a great bod who had duct tape plastered on his chest, she had to admit there was something about him that had attracted her instantly. Something animal. Something so primitive her body reacted before her brain had figured out just what it was that made her warm.

  There was a touch of George Clooney about him, a bit of her favorite James Bond, Pierce Brosnan, and plenty of Hugh Jackman. Lots of Hugh. Lots and lots. All good guys, at least in the movies.

  Her grandmother had said he was one of the good guys.

  That remained to be seen.

  But as her mind drifted, she realized she might not mind sticking around long enough to find out just how good he actually was.

  Carly woke up hungry. Faint light came into the room from the one window on the side. She’d had her little chat with #1, John Preshin, and thought she’d convinced him to take her case. Where was he now? He’d left her sleeping once more on the lumpy couch.

  Yawning, she got up and searched the room for a clock.

  This office of his had three doors besides the frosted glass one she’d first come in. Time to explore.

  She checked the bathroom, opened another door that revealed an unmade king sized bed and dresser. TV and DVD player on a junky stand in one corner. Clothes on the floor, overflowing from the hamper near a closet—yes—door. Peeking in there, she found things a bit neater. Hangers with plastic cleaner’s bags full of shirts and sports jackets. One good suit, she discovered as she went through everything quickly.

  John Preshin didn’t appear to be doing all that well on the outside. That duct tape made her wonder about him, but he had nice clothes. Expensive ones. Maybe he needed them for work. In this case, they’d be an excellent disguise. No one seeing him the way she had would guess he had any class whatsoever.

  “What other clues did you leave, Mr. Discreet Investigator ?”

  After making the bed, thinking it would be a nice surprise for him, she found the kitchenette with the small stove, definitely ancient refrigerator like something out of an old fifties’ sitcom and sink. There were some cabinets with a few dishes and stuff and a drawer with cutlery and some knives and a wire cheese slicer. Very dull.

  Junk food she recognized. The potato chips were slightly stale, but the cheesy puffs were reasonably fresh. Helping herself to a can of soda from the fridge, she sat at the small wooden table and munched on the puffs.

  So, this was where guy #1 lived. So much for the mansion she’d envisioned. She’d wondered about him since reading his name on that stupid list a week ago. He was first. Naturally, he was most likely her father.

  Well, he was tall enough. Way over six foot because he towered over her in his bare feet. Nice dark hair with a small wave to it—not geeky—just enough to not be flat and lifeless. Good teeth. Nice blue eyes . . . like hers.

  Hairy. She’d never really seen a man without a shirt. Never had the opportunity, except at the city pool, and that had been a long time ago before the sisters found out where she’d been and forbidden her to go there again. The memory bothered her. She’d always tried to be good for them, not to disappoint them or earn their disapproval. Without them, she knew she’d have been on the street.

  But that was before. She was free of them now, free of their restrictions. Ready or not, she was on her own until she found her father.

  This Preshin guy, maybe he just looked fuzzy and out of sorts because of the way she’d been dumped on him. That cop . . . she’d seen the sparks between the two men. They didn’t like each other much.

  But she gave John Preshin credit for not turning her over to the police. He didn’t exactly say she was his kid, but he didn’t deny it, either. Just sort of slickly glossed over it so the cop didn’t take her away.

  That was pretty nice.

  She cleaned up the little kitchen area, put the clip on the puff bag after tossing the stale potato chips into the garbage, and put the soda can in the recycling container by the stove. The blue bucket had three empty old green glass Coke bottles crowding the bottom. He recycled. He cared about the environment. Cool.

  Dusting off her hands, she returned to the office area. She straightened out the cushions on the sofa, looked around for anything else to do and noticed the blinking light on the sleeping computer.

  “You’d better not, Carly. That’s private stuff.” She went over to the desk, thought about sitting down, but didn’t. Her fingers, itching to touch the keyboard, walked slowly around the mouse pad.

  Closing her eyes, Carly thought she’d just extend one finger. If it touched something, well, so be it. The computer chimed to life immediately. She checked out the menu, found the icon for internet access and got online.

  Fifteen minutes later, she got off, her conscience overriding her need to connect with someone, anyone out there who might care where she was. The Daily Diary had accepted her password and she’d written down her thoughts about her journey. No one on her friends list had checked her entries in the last three days.

  If her latest entry didn’t garner any responses, she would keep on writing until someone noticed her.

  She started when a knock sounded on the glass pane of the door.

  “Mr. Preshin, it’s me, Strap.”

  Cold knotted in her stomach. She hadn’t counted on anybody showing up.

  “Let me in, Bourbon. I got that info you wanted.”

  Carly held her breath.

  The door handle rattled and Carly’s mouth went dry.

  She heard some muffled curses outside followed by some scratching sounds, then watched as a paper appeared under the door. Waiting until she heard footsteps going down the stairs, she exhaled and quietly got up to retrieve the note.

  “John, I was here but you wasn’t. Got that stuff you needed. I’ll be all over today, but you can get me on the phone. Very Truly Yours, Strap.”

  The guy had really bad handwriting.

  Not long after the guy slid the note under the door, Carly heard footsteps coming up the stairs again. They were light, not masculine. She held her breath anyway.

  After several taps on the glass, she heard steps away from the door, then a pause, and once again steps leading to the door.

  “Mr. Preshin, it’s Liz Atwater from downstairs. Are you in there?”

  Carly breathed again. “Wait a minute, I’m coming,” she called.

  “Oh,” a woman with red hair gasped as the door opened. “I didn’t think anyone was really here. I’m Mrs. Zanetti’s granddaughter. I’ve come to ask for help with my grandmother. She’d like to change where’
s she’s sitting and I can’t seem to lift her out of the chair.”

  Her brows lifted in question. Carly realized she might need to do some explaining. “I . . . he’s not here. Maybe I can help you.” Mother Superior always told her to smile, that it put people at ease. She smiled.

  The woman clasped her hands in front of her. “I don’t know . . . miss.”

  Carly figured she’d better say something. “It’s okay. I’d be glad to help.”

  With a small shrug, Liz seemed to resign herself. “Maybe between the two of us.”

  Carly stepped out into the hallway and pulled the door, not letting the lock latch in case she had to get back inside. “Let’s go, okay?”

  This woman really needed help, Carly figured, or else she wouldn’t have come upstairs for it. She sensed that the woman had had to force herself to come up the stairs, although she couldn’t say why. Something about the stiff set of her shoulders, her unsmiling face, her surprise at seeing Carly, not John Preshin, said a great deal without saying a word.

  They entered Flo’s apartment behind the luncheonette. The old woman looked at Carly and moved her shoulders with pain showing on her face.

  “Grandma, he’s not upstairs. This young lady was, though, and she offered to help get you out of there.” Liz turned to Carly, her expression prompting.

  “Hi, I—I’m Carly. I’m just visiting.” She hesitated over the untruth.

  Flo smiled brightly. “Oh, my. This is something. Isn’t this something, Liz?”

  The granddaughter looked Carly up and down, disbelief in her eyes. “Interesting,” was all she said.

  Carly thought fast. “He left early this morning on a case. I guess he didn’t tell you about me coming, but it was a surprise and all.”

  This settled on the women slightly better.

  She bent over the old woman. “Here, you want to move? Let me get on this side. We’ll have you comfortable in no time.” She motioned to Liz to take Flo’s other arm and the two of them helped Flo make the painful trek into the bathroom and into the living room again.