by Thomas Scott
“Is there anything you could tell me about Mr. Pope that would help me find his killer, Mrs. Ibarra? Anything at all?”
Ibarra waved her hands in front of herself. “No, there is nothing. Nicky, he is a nice young man who helped me out sometimes. He said I reminded him of his mother. He had a good job and he worked for the lottery people. He used to tease me and say he knew the secret to winning and that one day he would tell me how to pick the numbers and I would become wealthy.”
Miles handed her his business card. “If there’s anything else you can think of, call me right away. Keep your doors locked. We don’t know why Mr. Pope was killed, only that he was.”
“Yes. I will lock my door. There is only the one.”
“Windows too, Mrs. Ibarra.”
“Yes. Just the one window too, but I will lock it.”
Miles thanked her and began to leave, but Ibarra had one more thing. “Señor Detective?”
“Yes?”
“Nicky, he such a nice boy like I said…”
“But?”
“He had some bad friends, I think.”
“Bad how?”
“They like their checkers. I smell the stink right through the window.”
“Checkers?”
Ibarra laughed. “It is a Mexican term for low-grade marijuana. What you would call ditch weed.”
“Checkers?”
“Si, Checkers.”
“Huh. I’ve never heard of that. What do you call high-grade marijuana?”
“Chess.” Then she lowered her voice and leaned in closer to Miles. “Is also sometimes just called ‘good shit.’” Crossed herself again when she said it.
__________
Miles walked outside and found Mimi and Rosencrantz standing together next to the stairs that led to Pope’s apartment. He nodded at Mimi and then looked at Rosencrantz. “What do you know about Checkers and Chess?”
Rosie didn’t hesitate. “Always go with Chess. Checkers will destroy your lungs. Taste like shit too. Now Chess, true Chess if you can find it, that’s some really good shit. Why do you ask?”
“Never mind,” Miles said. “I think I’m just getting old.”
__________
“Might want to take a look at this picture,” Mimi said, and at the sound of her voice, Miles forgot all about his age. “It’s just a Polaroid. We’ll have other pictures with better resolution later today when we get the digital prints, but you should see this.” She handed the photo to Miles.
Ron looked at the photo but he couldn’t tell what it was. “I don’t get it. What am I looking at here?”
Mimi positioned herself next to Miles and that gave him a little thrum. “It’s what we in the business of crime scene investigations often refer to as a clue.” She made little air quotes with her fingers when she said ‘clue.’ “Specifically, it’s the floor underneath the front of Pope’s sofa, just behind the dust ruffle. Is that what they’re called? Dust ruffles? You know, the flap part that hangs down at the bottom? If you lift it up you can see under the couch? Anyway, my guys found this when they moved the sofa. It’s some sort of code.”
Once Mimi explained it, Miles could see it right away. It was a long series of numbers. The sequence read: 102120103157123 “Is it written in blood?”
“It sure is,” Mimi said. “Looks like your victim was trying to tell you something.”
Rosencrantz stepped closer and took another look at the photo. “Trying to tell us what?”
Mimi let her eyes do a little half roll before they landed on Rosencrantz. “Me and my crew? We just process the scene. You guys are supposed to be the crack investigators. My guess is your victim was trying to tell you who let him bleed out all over the floor. It’d take some balls to write a message in your own blood.”
When Mimi said the word ‘balls’ Rosencrantz and Miles made a point not to look at each other. “I’ll want a copy of that as soon as you can get it to me,” Miles said.
Mimi handed him the photo. “You can have this one now. I’ll email the digital ones to you when they’re ready.”
Miles took the Polaroid from Mimi. “Do that,” he said. “I’ve got to figure out what to do about my car.” He stuck the photo in his pocket and walked away.
Rosencrantz and Mimi stood there and watched him go. “What was that bit about Checkers and Chess?”
“Apparently, it’s Mexican slang for pot.” Rosie said. “I’d never heard of it until I spoke with Mrs. Ibarra.”
7
__________
Shortly after his father passed, Virgil’s family attorney called and informed him his father’s will stipulated that if his mother preceded him in death—which she did—most all of his possessions were to be bequeathed solely to Virgil, save two. He left the majority of his half of the bar in certain percentages to three people. Of them, two were employees; Delroy, their bar manager, and Robert, their chef. Delroy and Robert were Jamaicans who had been working for Virgil and Mason almost as long as they had been in business. Virgil met them both by chance a number of years ago while on vacation in their hometown of Lucea, a small town about halfway between the tourist destinations of Montego Bay and Negril. They ran a roadside stand that served Red Stripe beer and homemade Jerk chicken to tourists just like Virgil. He’d picked up a nail in the road and the tire went flat almost immediately. When he pulled into their lot to change it out for the spare, Delroy and Robert fixed it for him while he ate their chicken and drank their beer. A friendship developed and when they came to the states to work for Virgil and Mason they transformed what would have been just another downtown bar into a one-of-a-kind Jamaican experience for anyone who walked through the door. Mason’s will stipulated that Delroy and Robert were to each receive fifteen percent ownership in the bar, while nineteen percent went to Murton, who had been a part of Virgil’s family since childhood. The remaining one percent went to Virgil.
When Virgil walked through the back door of the bar and into the kitchen, Robert handed him a plate of chicken pulled from the bone and covered with his homemade Jerk sauce. “Hey, look who here. It part-time. Good to see you, you. Eat dat chicken. Heal you right up, mon.”
Virgil carried his plate from the kitchen and sat down at the end of the bar. Delroy was doing what had become known as the Jamaican shuffle. He was mixing two different types of drinks in separate blenders, pulling a pitcher of Red Stripe from the tap as he washed dirty glasses in the sink, all as he flirted with two female customers who hung on his every word.
Delroy finished the blended drinks for the women then insisted he receive a kiss on the cheek from them both before he would allow them to return to their table. The ladies obliged him as if the idea were their own. Then he reached into the cooler, opened a bottle of Mountain Dew—the kind in the glass bottles you don’t see much anymore—and slid it across the length of the bar where it stopped right next to Virgil’s plate. When he walked over, they bumped fists. “Good to see you,” he said. “How dat leg, mon?”
Before Virgil could answer, a man walked over and began tapping his empty pitcher on the bar top. “Little service be nice.” He was overweight, dressed like a biker wannabe and spoke louder than necessary. “When you’re ready, that is. I wouldn’t want to interrupt a management meeting or anything like that.”
Delroy turned, the smile never leaving his face and said, “Be right there. Just two Jamaican minutes, mon.” The man grumbled something unintelligible and leaned on his elbows, his back against the bar. Delroy turned his attention back to Virgil and raised his eyebrows into a question.
“I’m doing okay. Still hurts quite a bit. The pills knock it down though.”
“Yeah, mon, I bet day do,” he said. Virgil felt the probe of Delroy’s eyes into his own. “When you coming back?
“Pretty soon, I hope. Have you seen Murton?”
“Yeah, mon, he upstairs on the phone.”
Murton had converted the upstairs storage room of the bar into a workspace for his private inve
stigations office. Virgil was getting ready to tell Delroy he’d be right back when the biker wannabe got tired of waiting for their conversation to conclude. He slid his pitcher down the bar and Delroy reached out and grabbed it without ever turning his head. He picked it off the bar and set it underneath the counter.
“Just how long is two Jamaican minutes anyway,” the man said.
Delroy turned and smiled at him. “A week from next Tuesday. Maybe we see you then, mon.”
The man turned and faced the bar, his cheeks and neck flush with color. “Now wait just a fucking minute,” he said, his finger pointed at Delroy. “Where’s that respect you’re always talking about?”
“Ha. You get what you give, mon. See you next time. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
The man pushed himself off the bar and started to approach, but Murton caught him from behind and clamped his hand on top of the man’s shoulder. “Time to boogie on down the avenue, bub.”
“Who the fuck are you, dickweed?” the man said.
Murton had a merry look on his face. “I, along with these two gentlemen here, are three of the four owners of this fine establishment. And if you were paying attention, any attention at all really, you might notice about half the people in here are off-duty cops.” Murton spun the man around. “See, you can tell who they are because they’re the ones watching us right now. I can spot them a mile away, but maybe that’s because I used to be one. So what’s it going to be bubba? You want to walk out of here on your own, or do you want us to carry you out?”
The wannabe tried to pull free from Murton’s grasp, but when he was unable to do so Virgil finally saw his body relax. “That’s what I thought,” Murton said. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.” Murton let go and walked with him to the door.
Delroy looked at Virgil and said, “Eat dat chicken, you. Heal you right up, mon.” Then he laughed his big Jamaican laugh and went back to work.
__________
Murton wore a pair of desert army fatigues cut off at the knees, a multi-colored Hawaiian shirt and a battered Panama Jack hat set jauntily to one side. He pulled out a chair, winked at Delroy and waved Virgil over. “What’s shakin’ bacon? Sandy give you the old heave ho?”
“Not yet,” Virgil said. “But it’s early. You never know.”
“You never really do. Hey, love your shirt, man.” Virgil was wearing one of his classics, a cream colored, short sleeved Underdog T-shirt from the old Saturday morning cartoons.
“Simpler times, huh?”
Murton picked up a piece of chicken from Virgil’s plate and popped it into his mouth. “You think?”
The question gave Virgil pause. His childhood had been one of normalcy. There was food to eat, clean clothes to wear, a solid roof over his head, parents who loved him and a grandfather who was the center of his young life. Murton, on the other hand, had not been quite as fortunate. His mother died when he was a young boy and his father—a binge drinking alcoholic brakeman for the railroad—would show his love for his son in ways that would now have Child Protective Services knocking on the door with a court order. “We all play the hand we’re dealt, Murt. I think you’ve done a fine job of it all.” When he didn’t respond Virgil asked him a question. “How are you and Delroy hitting it off?” Murton grinned and took a swig of Virgil’s pop. “Would you like me to order you something?”
“No, thanks. I’m good. Delroy’s great. We’re doing well. He misses your old man. I do too. So, are you going to tell me what’s going on with you or do I have to guess?”
Virgil took a bite of chicken and chewed as slow as possible. When he spoke, he thought his own voice sounded foreign. “I sort of wanted to talk to you about my dad.”
“What about him?”
“Remember what Delroy told me the day you guys showed up at my place with that willow tree? After my dad died? You had his bloodied shirt and when we put it at the bottom of the hole he said something like, ‘the ground water will soak through the paper and into that shirt. Your father’s blood will flow through that tree, just like it does your own heart.’ Do you remember that?”
“Of course I remember. We just wanted you to feel better man, that’s all.”
“I do…or at least I did.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I saw him this morning. I actually…sort of spoke with him.”
“Who?”
“My dad, Murt. He was standing under the willow tree.” But Virgil couldn’t look at him when he said the words, his gaze drifting around the room as he spoke. “He was dressed exactly the same way as he was on the day he got shot behind the bar. I’ll tell you something else, Murt, he wasn’t wearing a shirt. I think he wasn’t wearing his shirt because it was at the bottom of that hole where we put it when we planted that tree.”
Murton turned his attention to the bar as well and a long time passed before he spoke, but when he did, his eyes were focused directly on Virgil. “You talked to him?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Did he talk back?”
Virgil let his eyelids droop a fraction. “Yeah, Murt, he did.”
“What did he say?”
“He said I was hitting the pills a little too hard.”
“Are you?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“I’m not, Jonesy. Are you? Hitting the pills too hard?”
Virgil took a drink of his soda, which gave him a few seconds before he had to answer. “I don’t know, okay? I know my leg hurts like hell unless I take the medication.” Then he said something else, something that surprised him, as if the words were not his own even as they spilled across his lips. “I like the way they make me feel, Murt. They make me feel alive. They make me feel well and normal and happy and able to do just about anything I want. They make me feel like I have no regrets about anyone I’ve ever had or known or lost in my life, even though deep down I know that I do. Have regrets, I mean. I don’t know if this makes any sense to you or not, but when I feel the meds starting to wear off, I tell myself I know they’re wearing off because I can feel my leg start to hurt again. But I think that’s backwards. I think my leg starts to hurt so I’ll go ahead and take the fucking pills. I think the pills are making my leg hurt. Does that make any sense to you? I’m not in control of it anymore.”
“You have them with you?”
“What?”
“The pills.”
“Yeah…why?”
“Let me see the bottle.”
“Why?”
“Just show me the fucking bottle, will you? I’m not going to take them from you.”
Virgil reached into his pocket and pulled the bottle out and set it on the table. Murton picked it up and studied the label, counted the number of pills, did the math in his head and replaced the lid before he handed it back. “Looks like you’re only taking what’s been prescribed.”
“Yeah, I’m mostly staying on schedule. But it’s getting harder and harder. I’ve called the doc twice in the last two weeks alone and had them up the dosage. They’ve gone along so far, but that ship is getting ready to sail, if you know what I mean.”
“One day at a time, brother. One day at a time. When it’s time to quit, you won’t question it. You’ll know for sure. You might not want to admit it to anyone, maybe not even yourself, but you’ll know. Somewhere deep down inside in that part of you that’s safe from everything and everyone else in the entire world, that part of you will tell you to stop. All you have to do is listen.”
“It’s that easy, huh?”
“Hell no. It’s a bitch with a capital B. But it’s a ride you’ve got to take or we’ll be planting a tree for you on the other side of that pond sooner than you’d like.”
“We?”
“Yeah, asshole. Me and Sandy.” Then he smiled, wiggled his eyebrows and said, “I think she’s sort of hot for me lately.”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah, fuck me,” Murton said, and they both laughed like they we
re young boys again.
After a few minutes of silence Murton looked at Virgil and said, “So…heard you got sacked this morning. Who get’s fired on a Saturday, anyway?” Then before Virgil could answer, he said, “Sit tight, Jonesy. I’ve got to get a cup of Blue.” Virgil watched him walk behind the bar and pour a cup of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee. A minute or so later he sat back down, cocked his head slightly and let his face form a question.
The more he thought about it, the more Virgil realized that most of the cops in the department probably knew about his termination before he ever walked through the back door of his own bar. “I guess some news travels faster than others.”
“Every badge in this room has got your back, brother,” Murton said. “I guarantee it. Hell, probably every badge in the city.”
Virgil wasn’t up for anyone’s shame or pity. “I appreciate it, Murt, I really do, but could we talk about it some other time?”
Murton had his hands wrapped around the sides of his coffee cup, pushing it around the table in small circles. “You’re gonna dick around and burn yourself,” Virgil said.
He smiled. “You sound like your mom.”
“My mom didn’t swear.”
“Sure she did,” Murton said. “Just not in front of us.”
Virgil let a few seconds tick by, then looked across the table at his friend. He was someone who had almost gotten Virgil killed during their time together in Iraq, but had also managed to save his life…more than once. The thought clicked in the back of Virgil’s mind if maybe he wasn’t somehow asking Murton to save him yet again, only this time from himself. “Ever wish you could go back?”
Murton thought about the question for a minute before he answered. When he did, what he said reminded Virgil why they consider themselves not just friends, but brothers. “Go back to what, Jonesy? Back to sand-land to kill more innocent Iraqis? Back to my old man beating the shit out of me when he was drunk? Back to watch your mom suffer and die all over again? Or how about this? Back to your first day riding solo? What would you do? Shoot Pope in the leg this time? Get out of your own head, Virg. We might be shaped by our past, but the future is wide open and we get to define it. The choices we make? The ones we think about right here, in the moment? A year from now they’ll be gone and good or bad, we can’t go back. No one ever gets to turn the lights back on and replay the last inning. Is that what you’re looking for?”