by Ros Baxter
“Mmm-mmmm,” Billy drooled, yanking open the container and shoving his nose right onto the nearest, still-warm brownie. “Your Ma is out of this world, Rania,” he sighed, ecstatic.
“Oh man,” I confirmed. “You don’t know the half of it.” Truer than he’d ever know.
He offered me a cup of coffee.
“Thanks,” I accepted gratefully. I hated to admit it, but Mom had used not-so-subtle brownie bribery this morning to convince me not to cave in and buy a new packet of smokes. I’d been awake for about ninety minutes and my already-mashed brain was yelling obscenities at me, wondering why it was being deprived of one of its few small pleasures. Coffee might help.
Billy poured the thick black stuff into one of the mugs he keeps at the morgue. I picked it up and notice the barely dressed woman stenciled on the side of it.
“Nice, Billy. Now, shall we begin?”
“Guess so,” he moaned half-heartedly.
“Lead the way.”
I realized I needed to get busy as we entered the little cool room. No matter how hard I tried, I wasn’t gonna be able to feign total surprise when I saw that empty drawer. So I pulled out my little spiral book and started jotting some stuff in it.
“Holy shit!”
At his cry, I looked over at Billy’s face, which had gone equal shades green and white.
“What’s up, pal?” I was going for casual, and not doing such a bad job.
“The blonde,” Billy wheezed. “She’s gone.”
I faked stern. “What do you mean gone?” Yeah, this was good. Stern was the key to getting away with this. Turn the tables. “Are you sure you put her there? Maybe you took her to Peaceful Skies by mistake?”
Billy scratched his head. “Nah, definitely not. I put the broad in here, I swear.”
I wandered over to the drawer and pulled it in and out a few times, like I was waiting for Blondie to materialize. “Man,” I whistled. “Too weird. Where do you think she could be?”
Billy was still scratching his head. “I have not got the faintest idea,” he stammered. “Who’d steal a stiff?”
I was keeping busy with my notebook, muttering about getting down the details, and I felt rather than see Billy start to look over at me with something approaching suspicion.
When I looked up, his piggy little eyes were searching my face, so I turned the wheel one revolution. “Billy,” I started sweetly. “Did you have these drawers locked?”
“Ah…” He was hopping from foot to foot, and I could almost see his mind ticking over.
I helped him along. “‘Cause, y’know, Billy, morgue personnel have some pretty serious obligations under federal law. Y’know, for how they deal with dead bodies.” I had absolutely no idea whether or not that was true, but the words sound robust and plausible as they formed in my mouth. I pressed home my advantage. “These are people’s loved ones, man.”
“Yeah,” he confirmed finally. “Yeah I definitely did. Some a-hole’s picked the lock.”
It seemed self-preservation had made him forget his momentary suspicion toward me, so I relaxed. “Okay then,” I started, all business. “In that case, we gotta treat this place as a crime scene. I’m gonna have to advise Aldus. And get him down here to dust for prints.”
Billy frowned. “Can’t you do that?”
“Normally I would, Billy,” I said, “but I’ve gotta get to the jail asap. Dad’s birthday.”
Aldus was still at the aged-care home when I reached him on my cell. I told him the bare facts and explained that I needed him to come and dust. Aldus was annoyed. Not so much because there’d been a crime, but because for the second time in twenty-four hours his recreation was being interrupted by criminal activity. Sunday’s game day and the criminals of Dirtwater are usually good-mannered enough to respect it. Not today.
I was glad when I pulled away from the morgue, waving cheerfully to Billy in the rearview, ’cause I could stop the facade. And get away from a place that’s forever gonna feel haunted to me now.
Most of all, ’cause I was going to see my Dad. And that always felt good.
Twenty minutes later I was being shown into Dad’s facility.
When they locked Dad up and liberated him from the confining shackles of running a small town organized crime outfit, he poured his considerable energies into studying law. Since then, he’d used his time to petition for various allowances. Never for freedom, mind you. No Innocence Project for him. He knew he was guilty for all they’d got him for, and a whole shedload else as well, so he said he wasn’t going to perjure himself by lying about it to get out early. But he’d managed to convince the authorities that as a long-term inmate they’d be violating his Geneva rights if they didn’t knock out the wall between his cell and the next to expand his living space. Unlimited access to the recreation room had followed.
He was behind the pool table shooting eight ball with one of the guards when I arrived.
“Hi Dad,” I said, settling myself down in one of the comfortable sofas under the window and helping myself to a soda from the massive two-door fridge. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Not much, bellissima, not much,” he answered distractedly, lining up to pocket the black. I watched his broad, chunky back as he lined it up, silver curls teasing the collar of his black linen shirt and swanky black chinos pulling tight over his muscly butt. He had the body of the fishermen from whom he had descended - stocky, square, strong – and the savoir faire of the Milanese tourists he’d admired as a kid. “There’s Twinkies there too,” he called over his shoulder as he leaned down and eyed his target.
I’ve never been able to resist anything with a warning label, and I was gonna need my Twinkies intravenously to get me through saying sayonara for real to my beloved Marlboros.
Let alone all the other crazy shit that was going down.
“Bad luck, Clay,” Dad commiserated with the guard, as he expertly pocketed the black and ten bucks from Clay’s hand, slapping him on the shoulder. “Better luck next time, ay?”
Clay nodded glumly. “Hi Rania,” he said, with a quick gape of astonishment that I’d managed to scarf three Twinkies in the time since Dad made their presence known to me.
“Hi Clay,” I returned. “How much you lost to the old shark this week?”
“Seventy bucks,” he bit out grimly.
“Stop playing,” I suggested.
“I should.” Clay nodded in agreement. “I’ll leave you two alone. Be just outside.”
There are only half a dozen inmates in the county jail at any time. Dad says the only thing he really misses is women, but I suspect the guards turn a blind eye to lots of the goings-on in cell 9/10. Not that I want to think about it. It’s not some emotional baggage thing either, not some romantic hope that Mom and Dad might reconcile someday. I’ve never known them as a couple and quite frankly I find it hard to. But I know one thing: Mom and Dad were no Little Mermaid deal. Mom did not leave her ocean paradise and come live in Shitsville because she fell in love with some earth Prince. So I don’t care who he’s with, I just don’t want to know. I might be a mermaid. He might be a con. But he’s still my Dad and if there’s one universal truth in earth and sea it’s this: no kids want to know about their parents’ sex lives. Ick.
“So, Dad,” I started now we were alone. “Happy birthday.” I walked over and gave him a hug, handing him the gift I’d toted along with me. He smelled like soap and hair oil.
The gift was wrapped in brown paper and curly red ribbon, and as Dad tore it open he grinned widely at the framed picture of him and Aldus on a community service trip (hunting and fishing). “Ah, perfecto,” he intoned, caressing it. “How is the old cretino? Driving you mad?”
“You have no idea,” I moaned.
Something in my face made him look at me quickly and I saw shrewd old Arty Aqualina, King of the Swift Move, the guy who got thirty years for the biggest scam the county ever saw.
I shook my head, trying to see him as Mom had, thirty year
s before. One thing was for sure. My stocky, gangster Dad had never seen a girl like Mom. And he sure hadn’t been Robinson Crusoe there. But he’d managed to make made her laugh and the rest is history. For her part, my brainiac Mom had been pretty dense when it came to protection. Aegirans used to believe it impossible for mermaids and land-dwellers to reproduce. Before me. I came along almost nine months to the day after my Dad made my Mom laugh, so I guess Dr Phil might say my crappy track record with men is just me repeating some kinda pattern. Of course, he’d also ask: is this workin’ for ya? And assure me that today could be a changin’ day.
“Let’s shoot before we talk,” I said.
Dad’s good, but I’m pretty good too, and he only beat me by a whisker. It doesn’t matter that I never lived with Dad. He was the one who taught me to shoot, fish, and throw a ball. We finished the game without much conversation. It felt good to just pocket balls, and be together.
“Okay now, so what is it, bambina?”
I’d been thinking about what I wanted to ask all the way here, weighing the words in my mouth. I needed to find a way to manage the sick undercurrent that churned my stomach, lurked at the back of my consciousness. “Dad,” I started. He just watched me with brown almond eyes that I knew from experience didn’t shock easy. “D’you think someone can learn to be brave?”
Dad burst out laughing, this great throaty chuckle. “Madre de Dio,” he roared when he finally caught his breath, wiping away tears. “I’ve been headstrong, stupid and stubborn, but never brave.” He stopped smiling and studied me closely. “Want to tell me whatcha ’fraid of?”
I wouldn’t have said it like that. But once he did, it settled into my pulse and picked up its rhythm. Something had lodged itself, deep and silent in my blood. The pain, the terrible pain from last night. Then realizing I’m really not at all cool with dying. In three weeks time. Or ever. And realizing that, according to the Seer at least, that means I got some work to do.
Y’know, to change the course of destiny and save the world entire.
I shook my head once. No, I definitely don’t want to tell this man what I’m afraid of.
Dad nodded. “Okay, then,” he tried again. “All I can tell ya’s this. Courage is for fools and heroes. And heroes end up deader than dead. It’s fear that keeps you thinkin’. Making the right decisions. Livin’ to tell the tale.” He paused for effect. He loves a touch of the theatrical. “Fear is your amico, your pal.” It sounded kinda corny, like maybe he’d heard in the Godfather, he loves that movie. But it made sense too, like something clicking into place inside me. I didn’t have to fight the fear. Maybe it was there for a good reason. I just had no idea what it is.
I was about to talk some more when his next visitor arrived.
It was always like this at Dad’s. Grand Central Station.
“Hey, Aldus,” I sighed. “You were sure quick at Larry’s. Any leads?”
“Nah,” Aldus sighed right back at me, plonking his ass down on the sofa near Dad and handing him what looked like a hastily wrapped gift and a six pack of beer. “Just kids I bet. I’m sure our dead blonde’ll show up.”
Aldus blames everything on kids. I think he watches too much cable news.
Dad raised his eyebrows at me as if to say dead blonde? But he said nothing.
I’d had enough Aldus for one day, so I made to leave.
“Great seeing ya Dad,” I said as I kissed him good-bye.
Then I remembered. “Uh, Dad. Mom and I have to go away. Coupla days…”
“Huh?” Aldus’ head snapped up. “First I’ve hearda it. What’s going on?”
“Family wedding.”
I knew Aldus wouldn’t want me to go, especially with the Case of the Missing Dead Blonde to deal with. He can usually rely on me to do more than my share of the work.
“Short notice. Sorry Aldus, I know it’s bad timing, but do you think you can spare me?” I was doing the obedient underling thing, but I’d made up my mind. I was going no matter what he said. And he was going to say sure, fine. But we had to get through this charade first.
He whooshed spit out through his teeth like he was thinking. “Don’t worry sweetheart,” he winked at me. “I got it covered.”
Dad winked at me too as I pushed out into the wall of heat, on a mild sugar high from the Twinkie I demolished on the way out. I ran quickly through what I had to do. Water Mom’s plants (she’d be working like crazy all day.) Visit Mrs Tripe. So she didn’t think I’d deserted but also to ask her a few things. Oh, and check in on Larry.
Last things first, I supposed, gunning up Ariel and making for The End of Days.
12:50pm: The End of Days
Larry was washing glasses when I arrived, like he really did work there.
“Hi honey,” Larry called. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Thought you’d be rolling around in sweet brownie heaven right about now.”
“No such luck,” I sighed, on a nicotine withdrawal low. “Got any Cheetos?”
“Sure,” he offered, throwing a little packet across the bar at me, even though they weren’t his Cheetos. And it wasn’t his bar. He looked at me properly for the first time. “What’s happened now?”
“I need to take off. Wanted to make sure your guys got that parcel.”
I knew from Doug’s message that he’d made the drop, but I wanted to make sure everything was okay the other end. Larry looked at me, he could see I had things to do. Places to go. And he was just the about the only one who knew where those places might be.
Clear green eyes looked right into me, and I was sure those little lines at the edges of his eyes hadn’t been there the night before. Then he smiled, and threw another pack of Cheetos at me. “No problemo, honey. And hey. I want a song each night when you’re back. Deal?”
“Deal.” I was so grateful to this man I’d give him my firstborn.
Next stop, Mrs Tripe.
Visiting Aldus’ Ma has been a Sunday ritual of mine ever since grade school. I was maybe only eight or nine when I had to do a project on senior citizens. Mrs Tripe’d just retired at the time, after being a school teacher for fifty years, and Mom knew she was at a loose end. We’d bonded over plum cake and stories, and I’d been in love with her from that moment on.
If I’m in town, Sunday afternoon belongs to Mrs Tripe.
Lots of people think Mrs Tripe’s crazy, ’cause she claims to see things. I’m ashamed to say maybe I’d always thought she was a little crazy too. I guess life sends you lessons to teach you not to be so closed-minded. ’Cause now that I was an official member of the Seers’ Club, I wasn’t thinking she was crazy at all. And I needed to talk to her about it.
During our history together, Mrs Tripe has gone from active seventy-year-old to frail ninety-year-old, and moved from her cozy little three bed duplex to the Dirtwater Aged Care Home. Aldus wanted her to come and live with him, but his place just wasn’t set up for it, and his job meant he often had to be out and about at strange hours. Mrs Tripe needs round-the-clock care. Not that you’d know it. She was waiting in the parking lot when I pulled up in Ariel, hardly looking a day over sixty-five in a yellow dress covered with sunflowers.
“Afternoon, Rania,” she called cheerfully. “I hear you’re heading out of town.”
This damn town.
“Yeah,” I muttered as I unfolded myself from the Corvette and folded her up into a hug. She was a neat package in my heavily muscled arms, only a shade over five foot, but her eyes were sparkly and her tongue was scalpel sharp. Or maybe I just had scalpels on the brain.
“Yes, not yeah. Really, Rania, for such a bright girl you speak terribly.” But she smiled at me and returned my hug, holding me so close I could smell lavender and berries and feel the cottony softness of her cheek.
“Ah well,” I consoled her. “At least I can sing.”
Her eyes misted over at the thought. She always attends the recitals I organize with the local choir. “Below the belt, darling,” she agreed. “But true.” Never one
not to have the final word, she felt obliged to add: “No reason you couldn’t do both, of course.”
With that, she looped her tiny sparrow arm in mine and steered me ever so gracefully to a little bench resting sweetly under a nearby oak. “Let’s chat outside this time, darling. The old people are acting up terribly inside today.”
I love how she says “the old people” like she’s not one. And I love how she holds my hand when we chat. She’s the closest I ever came to a Grandma.
We covered the usual things – the weather, the old people. Then I started to steer her ever so slightly onto something different, and she knew it, but allowed herself to be led anyway.
“She was quite amazing when she first came to town. I mean, truly amazing. As in, a thing which amazes. Not in the casual way the word is thrown about by young people these days to describe any vaguely interesting thing.” She sighed, remembering. “Yes, she was amazing, your ma. Not just the uncommon beauty. But the poise, the lack of artifice. And the mystery.”
Aha, there’s where I wanted to go.
“Anyone wonder what it was all about? The mystery?”
Mrs Tripe thought, stroking the soft, bubbly skin of her neck, eyes focused upwards and slightly to the right. “Most folks did, I guess. When she wasn’t there. When she was around, we just liked that she was there. Dirtwater just seemed less… dirty… with her in it. Woman like that…” Mrs Tripe clucked her tongue. “All those brains, that beauty. Coulda been Mayor of anyplace. Paris even. Why Dirtwater?”
We both sat, musing, Mrs Tripe stroking one soft finger along the top of my hand, like petting a kitten. Unconscious, affectionate. “I did ask her once. You know, in the early days.”
“What did she say?” Like picking at a scab, my mind often came back to worrying at the frayed gaps in my knowledge of my Mom and her mystery.
“A funny thing.” Mrs Tripe looked far away again.
“I remember it so clearly, word for word, because it was so strange. She said that sometimes you have to leave the things you love to make sure they stay safe. Sometimes you can be the most dangerous thing for them, even though you’d happily die for them.”