He said, “She’s fine!”
I said, “I wasn’t talking to you.”
He said, “She’s my wife,” meaning, I guess, My punching bag.
I said, “Ma’am, are you okay?”
He said, “Fuck off, ass monkey!”
The dog howled and ran in circles around the pole, his leash getting shorter and shorter.
She said, “I’m fine, really.”
He said, “You heard her.”
I said, “I’m calling the cops.”
He said, “You do and she’ll regret it.”
She said, “Please, please, don’t call the police. Ever.”
And then the light went out and they vanished. I went back into the house.
In the morning I called Carlos and told him about the threatening message I’d received. I lied so he wouldn’t know I’d gone home and told him I used my new cell phone to retrieve messages, which I didn’t even know for sure was possible, but he bought it. He told me they’d located Red’s family in Texas and that one of the brothers was already on his way to claim the body and collect Red’s possessions. But he wouldn’t be able to get the body until after the autopsy, which wouldn’t take place today because the medical examiner was going to be tied up in court all day. His son, Dr. Junior, had been busted on racketeering charges and for trafficking in Oxycodone and conspiring to traffic. He made $150,000 a day off his seven pain clinics. I hoped they’d put him away for the duration plus one, but I already knew he’d get a slap on the wrist.
Bill Aubuchon and Ellen Hillistrom told me that they were head over heels in love. In seventh heaven, Bill said. Tickled pink, Ellen said. Euphoric. But they were also still married to others. I said, Why are you here if you’re so happy? They both agreed that things on the home fronts were not going very smoothly. Can you imagine why? I said. You only have so much time and emotional capital, Bill explained. I’m tapped out. He took Ellen’s hand. Of course we understand, Ellen said. We’re not children. Life is complicated. They told me that they both intended to continue couple’s counseling with their respective spouses. You’re asking me to lie, I said. They seemed taken aback. I told them I would not collude with them in their fraud. It’s time to choose, I said. They were downcast. Wow, Ellen said, we didn’t expect this from you, Mr. Talking-Will-Make-It-All-Better. They stood. Bill said, We don’t expect to be charged for this. You will be, I said.
There was a brief article about Red’s murder in the Journal-Gazette, which mentioned, incorrectly, that he was homeless. I read that Sable and five other dancers had been busted in a raid at the Taste. Seventeen cops were in on the operation. I picked up Dad at Venise and Oliver’s. Venise told me Dad wouldn’t eat his soup. He loves soup. Back home the crime scene tape was down. I put Dad to bed. Bay came by with Django and a new toy, a little stuffed Olivia the Pig. Only Bay told me Django called her YaYa. You’re as bad as I am, I said. Patience came by with Chinese. Django walked around with YaYa in his mouth, put her down, sat, and waited for her to flee, and when she didn’t, he swatted her and pounced. The phlegmatic YaYa remained composed.
Patience told us that she believed you could judge a Chinese restaurant by the quality of the typos on its menu. And she had ordered accordingly tonight from Five Chinese Brothers. We were dining on steamed dumpings, wanton soup, and spicy Human beef. I also noticed an admission on the menu that the fried scallops were imitation. I shuddered to think …
Bay wondered if maybe it was Kevin Shanks who shot Red.
I said, “Shanks might be dead, for all we know.”
“What better alibi?”
And then we were talking about cops in general and the EPD in particular. “The job attracts the best if not always the brightest,” Bay said. “And it also attracts the scum of the earth.” He cited the arrest yesterday of three cops in three separate cases, one for meth trafficking, one for coercing a woman to have sex with him while on duty, and one for kneeing a handcuffed and handicapped woman in the face and breaking her nose and then not listing her injuries on his arrest report. This guy was last year’s “Officer of the Year” in the state of Florida. And the official spin was that the department was getting rid of the few bad apples. The cops were all on administrative leave and the one busted on meth charges was already living in his mother’s house with an ankle bracelet pending an earlier arrest. He had the PBA fighting to see that his lost wages were restored and the officer was suing the county for a pension, claiming to be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. Bay, obviously, did not subscribe to the bad apple theory. “Even the best of men, exposed to the culture of corruption in the police departments and witness to the considerable spoils of crime, will inevitably succumb to temptation, knowing that no one will rat them out because a rat is toast in law enforcement.”
Patience said, “They do put their lives on the line every day doing what we’re unwilling or unable to do. That means something.”
Bay said, “But it doesn’t mean they’ve earned the right to do whatever the hell they want—because who’s going to stop them?”
Dad walked out of the bedroom naked and told us he couldn’t find his diapers. His skin seemed to be glowing like a radium face on an old clock. I led him to the bathroom, opened the cabinet, and showed him again where we kept the Depends. When I got back to the table, Patience was telling Bay that as bad as things could get with cops, she wouldn’t want to live here without them. Bay agreed, but said we might try raising the qualifying bar a little. “If cops had to graduate from college, we might all be a little safer.” And then he told us to open our fortune cookies.
Mine said: You will be taking a long journey.
Bay’s: Presto! Change-o!
And Patience’s: With love and patience, nothing is impossible.
Patience, Dad, and I were having breakfast at Mother’s on the beach when Cerise called and asked me when I had bought the gun, and did I think it was a good idea to stash it in the linen closet where she would find it between bath towels and have a heart attack. I told her I didn’t own a gun. She said, I’m looking at it. It’s got a snub nose, a silver barrel, and a black butt. She didn’t blame me one bit for getting one after what happened to Mr. Red, but didn’t my father have some issues with firearms? I told Cerise to put the gun in my desk drawer. She told me she wasn’t touching it. Patience tried coaxing Dad into eating his grits, at least. He was having none of it. I’m getting out of the eating business, he said.
I dropped Dad at Venise and Oliver’s. I called Bay and told him about the gun. He was sitting at a poker table. Someone beside him went all in. He told me, “Get rid of it now. Get it out of your possession. Put gloves on, drop it in a Ziploc bag, and get rid of it.”
“Where do I lose it?”
“Not anywhere near your house.”
I did as Bay instructed and then got lucky in that it was bulk pickup day, so I put some of Red’s outdoor stuff in a pile by the street, the flamingo, the hibachi, and whatnot. I stuffed the gun into a torn pillow, put the pillow under the camp chair, and watched the pile get tossed into the rubbish truck and crushed. Bay had told me not to say a word to Carlos. When I asked why, he said no one but the cops could have planted the gun in the house.
When I arrived at Venise’s, Oliver and Dad were playing checkers at the coffee table in the living room, and Oliver was cheating so that Dad could win. The TV was on and a hammerhead shark was circling a diver in a shark cage. The diver was teasing the shark with bloody meat. Venise finished washing her hair at the kitchen sink and wrapped her head in a Miami Heat beach towel.
I said, “Did you shave your eyebrows?”
“How do they look? Or not look?”
This was a beauty option that would take some time to get used to. “Good,” I said.
She was wearing a black V-neck tank top and black stretch Capri pants, which she called performance wear. She said, “Dad says you’re taking him to see the northern lights.”
“I plan to take him
as soon as he’s feeling better.”
“He’s never going to feel better.”
Dad yelled, “King me!”
The phone rang. Venise said, “It’s for you.”
“How do you know?”
“And anyway you are too taking him.”
I answered when I saw Patience’s work number on caller ID. “Hi,” she said. “I’m glad you’re there. I got the tickets for Fairbanks leaving Friday, nonrefundable, return next Friday. I think it’s great you’re taking your dad.”
“What’s going on?”
“Bay didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“He bought you and Myles first-class round-trip tickets to Alaska.”
“He had no right.”
“I’ll work on the lodging and get back to you.”
“I can’t go.”
“It’s a done deal. Someone’s trying to kill you, remember.”
Good point. “I’ll have to clear my calendar.”
“You’re a big boy. You can handle it. You’ve got two and a half days.”
And so on Friday, Patience drove Dad and me to the airport. And off we flew. But before we did, I got two surprise visits at the house.
Wednesday afternoon: Dad was at Venise and Oliver’s. Carlos arrived at the house in the company of two uniformed ESO deputies and a warrant to search the place for the weapon used in Red’s murder. I said, “What the fuck, Carlos?”
“They gave me a courtesy call on this one. I’m here to see they follow the letter of the law.”
“I don’t own a gun.”
“Didn’t say it was yours.”
He sounded like a robot and looked like shit and I told him so. He thanked me. I said I hadn’t seen Inez in a while and I had a book for her, William Trevor’s Love and Summer.
He told me Inez was staying with her sister Igdalia in Orlando. “Igdalia has Lou Gehrig’s.”
“Yikes. I’m sorry.”
They didn’t find a gun, not even in the linen closet. I said, “Did you expect to?” The uniforms assumed wide stances and folded their thick hands at their crotches.
“I hope you put everything back where you found it.” I told Carlos we should get a drink soon.
He said, “This weekend. You don’t have any plans, do you?”
“No plans.”
Thursday morning: Red’s brother Blaise and Blaise’s wife, Euliss, showed up unannounced with a rented minivan, which Blaise backed up onto the lawn. I had a feeling folks back in Texas called him Tiny. He was armoire-sized, with wispy gray hair tied back in a ponytail and a scraggly gray beard. He wore the uniform of the geriatric biker: jeans and a black T-shirt, leather bifold chain wallet, garrison belt with a Harley-Davidson buckle. Dad, who was sitting on the couch talking to his imaginary friend Pudgie Gage, told Blaise he was a big galoot.
If Euliss was sixteen, I’d be surprised. She was short and slight. Her blond hair was banged and bobbed and may have been a wig. I couldn’t quite tell. She was blue-eyed, freckled, and gap-toothed. She wouldn’t sit down, didn’t want coffee or water or juice, and didn’t like Django in particular or cats in general. They’re satanic, she told me without a hint of irony. Calico cats are the worst. And, of course, the impetuously sociable Django kept pursuing the child bride as she backed away from him. Dad said, “He’s a biter, that Alejandro.” I asked Euliss how she was enjoying her visit to Florida so far. She asked me to take Django away, please. I explained that this was his house and that if she had a problem, perhaps she’d prefer to wait outside where there were no cats. She closed her eyes, mouthed a prayer, and tried to levitate. Dad said, “Come sit by me and Pudgie, little darlin’.”
Blaise didn’t want help, didn’t want me touching his brother’s stuff, any of it. I told him how sorry I was about Red’s death.
Blaise said, “He fell in with the wrong folks.”
“When?”
“I’d say recently.”
I asked him to tell me about his brother. He declined. When finally he had carried everything to the minivan, he looked around the Florida room and noticed a framed watercolor over the bookcase. “What’s this?”
“He gave it to me.”
Blaise took the painting and said, “What else are you stealing?”
I didn’t mention the bulk trash or the painting of the house in my bedroom. I walked them to the car. Blaise said, “God bless.”
I said, “It was a pleasure to have you stop by.”
21
The van from the Aurora Lodge was there to meet us at the airport. We had stayed the night in Anchorage and caught a quick flight to Fairbanks on Saturday morning. We landed at eleven; the sun was low in the sky, our shadows long on the sidewalk, and the temperature a brisk seven below. We were wearing the thermal vests I’d bought at Bass Pro Shop in Melancholy before we left. Bay had come with me and spent most of his time at the electronics department. He tried on my vest for size, said this was something you’d want to keep on 24/7 up there. Gayla Wise Beesting, our driver, helped us into our hooded down jackets. I’d ordered them from a local Fairbanks outfitter, the Prospector, online and had them delivered to the lodge. Gayla got our bulky selves belted into our seats and then covered us with quilted comforters. Dad was quiet, drowsy, but smiling. Gayla told us she hailed from Rockford, Illinois, had studied medical coding and billing at Rockford Career College, followed a boyfriend to Alaska so he could work on the pipeline, but the boyfriend then followed an Inuit woman home, and the two of them, Ty and Paj, married and had three kids, 1-2-3, just like that—cutest paipiiraqs you’ve ever seen. Gayla and the ex are still pals. She’s like part of the family, Auntie Gee. After the breakup, she dated casually and took a class in Web design at the university, which was where she met the widower Clement Beesting. That was thirteen years ago. They married and now owned the lodge. She said, Once you come north, you never go back. She stopped at Guvara’s Liquors and Fine Wines so I could stock up for our week in town.
We had a suite with a north-facing picture window. I put Dad in for a nap. He’d sleep in the double bed in the bedroom, and I’d be sleeping on the pull-out sofa in the living room. We had a gas fireplace, two comfy chairs matching the sofa, a desk with a swivel chair, a small fridge, a two-burner stove, a microwave with complimentary popcorn, and a counter with three bar stools. The walls were exposed logs. Such a cozy place to just settle in, kick back, and read like crazy. We had a TV and a Wi-Fi hookup. I turned on my laptop and read an e-mail from Patience assuring me that Django was his old young self. She attached a photo of him curled asleep in a salad bowl. I looked up the Fairbanks phone numbers I thought I might need if anything happened to Dad—nearest hospital, doctor, pharmacy.
I made myself a drink and unpacked the rest of the arctic wear I’d ordered from the Prospector: the Polarmax thermal tights and tops, the cold-weather socks, the watch caps, the down bib overalls, the lace-up boots, the balaclavas, and the wool scarves. I checked in on Dad and asked him if he wanted lunch or anything. He said he wanted to sleep. I took my drink and went down to the lobby, where a fire was blazing in the stone fireplace and music was playing on the Bose: a CD of the Alaska Orphan Band playing the songs of John Denver. Gayla had set out a plate of oatmeal cookies and a decanter of brandy, bless her heart. I found a copy of John Straley’s The Curious Eat Themselves and sat down in a leather chair by the fire to read. I hadn’t read long when I fell asleep, sedated by the warmth of the fire and the spirits. I dreamed that my neighbor Larry Marinelli, who doesn’t read much because he works all the time—he’s a painting contractor—had an essay he wrote, “What We Talk about When I’m at a Party with My Friends,” in Enzyme, a slick literary journal out of Vancouver. I woke myself up with my own snoring and wiped the drool from my chin. I went up to the room and found Dad rummaging through the cabinets for a can of navy beans. “I know I put them away,” he said. We had pizza delivered from College Town Pizza. We sat on the sofa and waited for the light show to begin.
I saw a figure in the parking lot, a man, I presumed, wearing a bright yellow and black jacket, overalls, and hat to match, and a scarf pulled up to his eyes. He was looking up into our window. I waved. He turned and walked to the stand of spruce trees.
Dad said, “The end is near,” and he smiled.
“Don’t be melodramatic.”
“I didn’t want to go out this way, but it’s okay. It’ll have to be.”
“How did you want to go?”
“With everyone else.” He stared at the slice of reindeer sausage pizza in his hand.
In a while I saw, or thought I saw, a faint greenish and shimmering light at the horizon. I put out the lights. I shook Dad, who had dozed off. “Dad, look, this is it.” But he was having none of it. He pushed my hand away and said, “Here comes Bruce Lee, coming over the top.”
In the morning Gayla drove the two of us out to Paws for Adventure, where we took a one-hour ride in a dogsled. The cold was murderous, the windchill factor at thirty below, and the ride bumpier than I’d expected. Dad kept his scarf wrapped around his eyes, the only exposed part of him, for most of the trip. Was I insane, subjecting a sick man to this idiotic excursion? Back at the lodge, I ordered us lunch and had it delivered to our suite. Dad ate a bite of his halibut sandwich and took a few sips of his cream of mushroom soup. After his nap, Dad vomited the lunch into the bathtub and asked for a martini. After I cleaned the tub, I made us two. We sat on the sofa, Dad with an afghan around his shoulders. He wiggled his toes, sipped his drink, and said, “This is the life,” and we raised our glasses and drank. I got out my laptop and opened to a family slide show and clicked through the scanned photos for Dad. He couldn’t tell the difference between Cam and me, but then most people could not. He did say this about Cam: “There are many ways to lose a child, and death isn’t the worst one.” He told me that the fellow in the New Year’s party photo, the guy on all fours being ridden by my aunt Louise, the guy I didn’t recognize, was his cousin Hercules. “His real name was Howard, but we always called him Herc. Herc Fontaine.” Herc was a motorcycle cop back in Massachusetts, retired now. And he was quite the lounge singer, Dad said. Sang all the standards, all your greats: Sinatra, Bennett, Dino, Billy Eckstine, Mel Tormé. Billed himself as “Herc Fontaine, the Cop with a Beat” or sometimes as “The Blue Velvet Fog.” I showed Dad a picture of Archie Lambert and me at a family Fourth of July picnic. Archie’s making horns on my head and squeezing his dick.
No Regrets, Coyote Page 21