River Rules

by Stevie Fischer

  “Pleased to meet you. I kind of like being Pops, but my real name is Peter.”

  “What your kids call you?” Paco asked.

  “Divorced, no kids. At least none that I know of.”

  “Coach, ‘member that sweet time I hit the winning inside-the-park homerun against West Hadley?”

  “Marco—wow. That’s a blast from the past. Of course, I remember, but do you remember that I bought the team Dairy Queen after every game?” Peter asked, recalling just how excited the boys got when they piled into coaches’ cars, win or lose, and they got to order ice cream at the walk-up window.

  “Man—you went broke on us! Blizzards were the bomb.”

  “You asked for every kind of candy in the world to be mixed into yours. You still have teeth?” Peter pretended to count as Marco laughed, flashing a smile that a beaver would love.

  “So, like serious now, Coach. What you get arrested for?”

  “Long story, guys.”

  “You see us goin’ anywhere?” Paco said, his voice filled with frustration. Peter knew better than to ask what they had been arrested for. It would probably depress the hell out of him and they would tell him if they felt like it. “We got nothin’ but time, Pops.”

  Peter sighed. “They arrested me for trespassing, vandalism and aggravated assault.”

  “What the what?” Marco yelled. “No way.”

  “Aggravated assault ain’t you, Pops,” Paco said solemnly.

  “Thank you. At least somebody aside from my family and lawyer gets that. But I definitely was trespassing.” Peter thought for a minute. “Vandalism could go either way.”

  “Hey, Coach,” Marco said after a pause, employing the regretful tone a surgeon might use for a terminally ill patient who has weeks to live. “That aggro assault charge could be some real shit. You gotta get a good attorney.”

  “Chow time,” Officer Kenny Johnson came in and announced. “Peter, I see you’ve made friends.”

  “I’m a friendly guy, Officer.”

  “He coached me in Little League,” Marco said proudly.

  “No shit,” Kenny raised an eyebrow. “Me, too.”

  “Wait a minute, Kenny,” Peter said. “When you go home, can you get ahold of a team picture from about ten years ago? You played at least one season on the mixed team for Bridgeville and Hatfield, right?”

  “Yeah, I did.” Kenny, twenty-four, looked exactly the same as he did at thirteen, with curious eyes and plain features. He still wore his brown hair high and tight, and his tall muscular build made his babyface even more noticeable.

  “Damn,” Marco said. “Are you that KJ kid who could hit like anything?”

  “You gotta be kidding me,” Paco said loudly. “What is this a fucking reunion? I never got no Little League. I was in the Dominican trying to play street ball with a stick and some raggedy ass kids.”

  Kenny walked over to Marco and they slapped hands. “Marco, I’m not gonna talk about what you’re doing here. But, you were Derek Jeter at shortstop. Man, you had his hands and wheels.”

  “Yeah, back in the day. Get that picture, Officer KJ. Aight?”

  Peter shook his head in wonder. Cosmic coincidences like this one didn’t just happen. Once he got out of jail, he’d have to ask Ian Edwards, his karma-obsessed friend and occasional personal trainer, how to explain the force that pulled off this phenomenon. It wasn’t random, that’s for sure. Suddenly, Peter wanted nothing more than to go for a pre-dawn walk down by the river, dogs off-leash, birds singing, water flowing, cool wind in his face, and not a soul in sight.

  CHAPTER 7

  PETER GOT TO SEE IAN MUCH SOONER THAN HE EXPECTED.

  Ian Edwards and his business partner, Andre Jackson, were very serious about trying to salvage their fitness clients from the scrap heap. Ian’s clients tended to be spiritual and broken somehow or else highly entertained by his idiosyncrasies, while Andre’s wanted to get ripped and lose weight. Yet, Be It Gym aka BIG worked. In fact, they were turning away clients. They created their business partnership after their mutual employer, Ladies in Fitness Together (LiFT), went bankrupt during the Great Recession. Never particularly close, they still felt a kinship and the urgent need for both a paycheck and a gym facility. So, they looked at each other and shrugged, why not?

  At first, business was so slow that Andre auctioned off personal training sessions at fundraisers for PeeWee football and Little League, which is how Peter entered the BIG orbit. Ian ended up offering cheap Pilates classes through the Adult Education program in two towns. They grew the business and kept the hype to a minimum, personalizing the experience for each client.

  “Don’t sit on furniture, don’t lift weights, don’t eat meat, and avoid sex,” Ian counseled. The white ex-cop from the UK preached the virtues of vegetarianism, tee-totaling, discomfort, and celibacy. He claimed to have bedded more women than he cared to remember, including the one he trailed to the States like a lovesick puppy in his earlier unenlightened days.

  “There’s always a gutting betrayal in love,” he said to an incredulous Andre. “That’s why country music grabs people’s hearts. You know, somebody done someone wrong. It’s the human condition.” Now, enlightened and evolved, Ian’s dedication to asceticism simmered steadily but never too explosively; Lao Tzu’s warning that the brightest flame burns half as long adorned an elaborate tattoo down the inside of Ian’s left arm.

  “That’s bullshit,” Andre said, whenever one of his clients seemed swayed by Ian’s list of don’ts. “You gotta lift weights, eat more protein and boogie on. But really, don’t sit so much.”

  Andre, a handsome African American in his mid-thirties, was a devoted dad with three kids and deep roots in the community. No longer together with the kids’ mother, he lived for the time he got to spend with them. Andre’s high school sports feats were still legend, but he had moved on to a few careers since those days. Many people remembered him as the best phlebotomist who ever took their blood or inserted an IV when he worked at the local hospital.

  Ian’s yoga devotions and British accent made him unusual in Bridgeville, but aside from that he blended in easily. A frequent patron of the Alewife Java Hut, Bridgeville’s most popular coffee shop, he looked like every other hipster wannabe late-thirties dad, with his shaved head, tattoos and lean build. Except he wasn’t a dad or a hipster.

  “Children are to be pitied,” he said. “Look at the condition of the world that they’ve been born into! They’re fucked.”

  “You need to get a life, dude, you know—take your mind off all the negative shit,” Andre said. “I’m not even talking about a new woman. Maybe some kind of plant to begin with; you’d probably forget to feed a pet, so start with a cactus.”

  “I include you in my prayers for mankind, Andre. I have a special one for you,” Ian said, extending his middle finger with a flourish.

  “Right back at you.”

  But Ian could be surprising, with an abiding love for technology and a nest-egg. Although this at times conflicted with attaining nirvana, it ensured that he kept up his private investigator license, hard-earned when he toiled for Discreet Review, a marital infidelity powerhouse.

  Lori had enjoyed some weird yet deep chats with Ian, including the revelation about his PI license. She filed that nugget in the back of her steel-trap mind in case she ever needed some outside-the-box work done. Now was that time.

  CHAPTER 8

  AROUND 5:45 A.M. ON THE FRIDAY OF PETER’S ARREST, Andre propped open the gym’s front door to enjoy the sunrise and the sweet-smelling fresh air.

  Ian, on his way over, greeted the day, too. “Here comes the sun,” he sang happily, unwilling to shield his eyes from the mesmerizing yellow light.

  Andre bopped to the beat of the radio, vacuuming every inch of the gym, his usual routine. Ian wandered in after parking his car, grabbed an oil can to adjust an annoying squeaky spring on the Pilates Reformer, and suddenly started screaming once he saw the unholy mess.

  “
Andre! Oh, no—What the fuck?”

  Andre couldn’t hear him over the vacuum, so Ian ran over and yanked the plug out of the wall.

  “What have you done?” Ian yelled in a very un-Zen manner.

  “What is your damn problem this time, man?” Andre followed Ian over to the Pilates corner and there, stuck in a previously gleaming Reformer machine, lay a big mangled bird.

  Ian and Andre glared at each other as they beheld the Canada goose lying bloody and quite dead in the Pilates Reformer.

  “Fuck me, this is really bad,” Ian sputtered, pacing between foam rollers, yoga mats and clean fluffy white towels.

  “Fuck you is right.” Andre owned up to being a total neat-freak and germaphobe. In fact, this had led to a serious conflict in his phlebotomy career. He was not about to let this colossal dead goose, which looked like it could feed twenty-five hearty eaters at Thanksgiving, besmirch his gym. Blood needed to be where it belonged: in veins, arteries and test tubes.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Ian commanded, keeping his distance and ignoring the latex gloves Andre threw in his direction.

  “C’mon, already. Let’s just throw it in the trash and be done with it.” Andre stuffed feathers and assorted body parts into the bag.

  “Why you think this was an accident is beyond me. This could be a message.” The ex-cop couldn’t stop spinning investigatory habits drilled into his head. “Who had access? Motive? Opportunity? Is anything missing?” Ian recoiled as one of the goose’s bloody legs fell on the floor near him.

  “This never happened,” Andre snapped and threw a big towel at Ian, motioning him to start cleaning. “We got to be careful about people poking their nose into our business. You tell just anybody and they tell somebody and pretty soon we’re gonna get closed down. Probably blamed, too, for animal cruelty or some shit. Unbelievable.”

  “Shut up, Andre. This is seriously unlucky back where I come from.”

  “Seems to me finding a dead bird in your gym isn’t lucky anywhere.”

  “No, you don’t get it. There’s serious religious omens and superstitions at play here. All is not well.” Ian kept wringing the towel and taking deep breaths.

  “Man, you need to get a grip. It’s just a damn stupid dead bird.” Andre headed off to the dumpster with a disgusted look.

  Ian was still looking up dead bird omens on his smartphone when Andre came back in. “Hey, enough of this crap,” Andre said. “I’m going to the Alewife for coffee. You want anything?’

  “What? Did you know in Scotland finding a dead bird is a bad omen for supper? You might be served the corpse if you don’t spit on it immediately. Do you still have the bag?”

  “Get a hold of yourself, man. Get the big-boy underpants on.” Andre tried unsuccessfully not to laugh. He knew from experience Ian could be very touchy and might sulk for days, confusing clients into thinking they had angered him somehow. That was bad for business, and Andre prided himself on providing a quality product.

  Ian stalked off outside and soon returned, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

  “Oh, no—you didn’t,” Andre said. “This is no way for a dude in touch with his third eye to behave.”

  “Go on, ignore the obvious, Andre. You don’t have an enlightened bone in your body.”

  “I’m ignoring your crazy, asshole.”

  “This goose omen is too much; it’s a warning from the universe.” Ian grabbed his water bottle and baseball cap. “I’ll be back for my eight o’clock.”

  “Later, man.” Andre left soon after to go the Alewife for his beloved morning java.

  When he got back twenty minutes later, the dead goose and the overwhelming smell of disinfectant annoyed him so much that he felt his blood pressure rising.

  Andre found some pine-scented candles and lit them near the Reformer. Checking his phone for new messages, he found three urgent texts from Lori starting at seven A.M.

  Lori picked up right away. “Peter Russo’s in jail on a crazy-ass assault charge. Can you talk Ian into getting over to Vic Baldini’s office for a quick meet-and-greet and doing some PI stuff? I had to get Vic in on this because I’m up to my eyeballs in work. I swear to God, Peter needs Ian. And tell him to act like a human being—not like some space cadet.”

  He’s on it,” Andre said. “I’ll get him back here and then over to this Vic guy’s office ASAP.”

  “Don’t you have to ask him?”

  “Hell, no. He’ll do it. Call you back soon.”

  Andre drummed his fingers impatiently as he waited for Ian to answer his phone. “C’mon, pick up, man.”

  “What, Andre. I’m up a tree so this better be important.”

  “Dude, get the fuck down. Peter Russo’s in trouble, and Lori says he needs your help.”

  “Is this some kind of joke? Don’t mess with my tree time.”

  “No, this is real. Get back here,” Andre yelled.

  “OK.” Ian started to chant loudly, and Andre’s blood pressure climbed even higher. “Ian, you OK?”

  “No. None of us are. It’s the goose, don’t you get it? The goose is only the beginning.”

  CHAPTER 9

  “YEAH,” LORI SAID AS VIC SHOT DOWN THE IDEA ON the phone. “I know you think he’s a village idiot, but first of all, you don’t really know him. Second of all, he’s got a unique way of cutting to the chase. Peter’s got a huge problem, and the sooner we uncover what the hell went down, the sooner he’s home. You know what Memorial Day weekend is like around here; nothing gets done. I want Ian on the case.”

  “Lori, he’s too psycho. Once I was behind him in line for coffee at the Alewife, and I’m talking on my phone, he turns around and stares at me without blinking with those spooky blue eyes for like five minutes. If I hadn’t wanted a latte so bad, I would’ve split.”

  Lori smiled. Ian did that to people when he thought they had just uttered something spectacularly stupid. “Vic, you don’t talk on the phone; you yell. Look, just because you’re opposites doesn’t mean that he’s not the guy to break this bullshit down.”

  Vic exhaled loudly. “I got my own PI, and I don’t like flakes.”

  “Listen, someone had to have a beef with the guard that got violent the same night Peter was gardening up there like a moron. Ian’s on his way—make nice.”

  About an hour later at Vic’s wood-paneled office decorated in haute Ralph Lauren, replete with antlered deer heads on the walls, Ian and Vic sized each other up unblinkingly.

  “I can’t believe you’re a PI,” Vic said. He glanced up and down, curling his lip in palpable dismay. “Hey, Bob Marley,” he nodded at Ian’s T-shirt, “you carry a gun?”

  “Absolutely not. Guns kill, and I’m not a killer. But I do have this,” Ian said, taking the high road by not pulling the deer heads off the wall and beating Vic with them. “You can find out more about someone with the ultimate tool.” He held out his iPhone.

  “Hey, that’s actually true.” Vic, chubby and sporting a shiny golf shirt at least a size too small, stroked his comb-over like it was a beloved pet.

  “Social media tells all. And, I have these,” Ian pointed to his eyes, ears, skull, and heart.

  “Yeah, me too. And a ten-foot shlong. My regular guy is on a cruise, and this is a rush job. Add Lori on my ass, and you’re hired. I gotta know your rates.”

  “$125 an hour and twenty-six cents per mile.”

  “What? Those are for top-notch PI’s.”

  “Of whom I am one,” Ian said primly. “Besides, Vic—I have to eat and pay rent.”

  “Alright, fine—it’s not my dime, anyway. On the down-low, an anonymous someone’s paying the bills, and she wants her identity to remain secret. So, shhh.” Vic put his finger to his lips.

  “Oh, I bet it’s Carmen Fiori. That wasn’t very hard to figure out. But I won’t tell.” Ian chuckled before saying, “I’ll need an advance.”

  “You’re not as dumb as you look. Now we’re gonna do this my way. Find out who the guard is
shtupping. Who, what, when, where, how. Why, I don’t give a shit—oldest story in the book. Stay away from him. You don’t want to get hit with a tampering charge.”

  “Anything else?” Ian asked, already thinking of ten million modifications, his mouth puckered like he just ate a lemon.

  “You got a problem? Tough shit. I started out with a slip-and-fall law firm. You know, personal injury. People who take a tumble at Home Depot and get money. I already forgot what you never knew about greed and the itsy-bitsy line between opportunity and extortion.”

  “Vic, I’m not critiquing.” Ian held up his hands in supplication. “Don’t forget that I was a beat cop back in the day.”

  “England,” Vic snorted derisively.

  “What, you think everybody spends all day bowing and curtseying? Like I said, I’m not judging.”

  “Bullshit. Everybody judges. But you know what? Out on my own, I play both sides of the ball, and every client gets a thousand percent of me. Defendant, plaintiff, whatever. I return every phone call; every lonely little old lady hears back from me. I climb into the foxhole with my clients. Give me conflict any day. I eat it for breakfast on a spoon. You want tactics? I got tactics. I could get you a settlement for a hangnail. I go to war for my clients, and you want me on your side. Just ask Lori and Carm.” Vic panted after his long monologue and reached into his pocket for his ever-present Chapstick. “Cherry’s the best.”

  “You’re actually foaming at the mouth,” Ian marveled. “Calm down. I’ll do it your way.”

  “I’m only getting warmed up; this is first gear. You don’t want to see third gear.”

  “Definitely not. But you need a meditation intervention to detach from your anger. Negative energy is a killer.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Vic rested his sockless loafer-clad foot on a leather stool. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

  Ian quickly gulped some room-temperature water from his ever-present thermos. “Tell me what you need for Peter’s defense.”

  “It’s fricking Memorial Day weekend. The cops got the parade, beer-soaked picnics; they’re not ultra-motivated to investigate until Tuesday, I’m betting. So you do the legwork. Get all the dirt, everything, because that leads us to who wants him dead. Then find a loose link and exploit the hell out of it. Get it done like yesterday.”