by Joe Clifford
The medication designed to calm the crazy was not working its magic, leaving me high strung, on edge, crawling out of my skin. When I got like this, I knew my head and reasoning couldn’t be trusted. I had to take a break, get a good night’s sleep. See how this looked in the morning light. But too much was going on to take a break now.
I couldn’t wait for suspicions to be confirmed; I needed to call Alison, give her a heads-up about Joanne, let her know Ethan was coming for them. I doubted this news would force her to divulge Phillip’s whereabouts, but she’d do a better job breaking the news to the boy than the police would. With enough warning, she might be able to find a safer haven. Sleep was a luxury I did not have.
Before Fisher and I ended our call, he said he’d talked to Charlie, and that he sounded good. Better than good, in fact. He sounded hopeful. Charlie had already gotten his hands on a copy of Alcoholics Anonymous, and was writing down all the meetings in the area, vouching to never touch another drop, done with the drink forever. Fisher said he thought this acute pancreatic attack might be the kick in the ass our friend needed to get his act together. I said I hoped he was right. Charlie needed a wake-up call. Sometimes those calls come in our darkest hour. Sometimes they come when we need them most. And sometimes those two are the same thing.
When I pulled onto my street, something felt off. An eerie premonition, the white streets too still, too silent, too white. I sensed I was being watched. Or rather my place was. Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.
I killed the lights, eased up slow, stopping a good half block short. Nothing rustled beneath the dark sky. But I felt it. Fuckers had been getting the jump on me too much lately. Time to sniff out the attack before it happened. I wasn’t walking into another ambush. I stared up at my cold, unlit apartment.
I dug out my smartphone, clicking the icon for that high-tech lighting system Fisher installed. Hadn’t used it yet, had no idea if it even worked. But we were about to find out. I opened the app. Turned out it wasn’t a whole lot of guesswork. Press the big button marked “on.” Just had to hope I was close enough to my router and in a pocket of cellular service for the instructions to register. I saw the lights switch on. In my upstairs window. From my truck, a hundred feet away. Like living in the future. Kicked on the heater too. Might as well make it nice and toasty for the bastards. Able to control the dimness for each room, I started in the kitchen, as if I were walking through my front door after a long day of work, adjusting the rest of the house, room by room, lingering in the can while I took a leak.
Sitting in my truck, in awe of progress—if not for mankind then at least for me—maybe I was evolving—I’d forgotten the purpose of the exercise.
Until I saw the two shadows slinking through Hank Miller’s parking lot, opening the door to my well, creeping up the backstairs to my apartment.
I watched the thieves enter my home and made the call. Then I got out of my Chevy, walked around my bed, and wrenched free my tire iron from the undercarriage. Crossing the snowy road, I peered up to my second-floor window, observing stealth silhouettes canvassing my home.
The door to my apartment was ajar. There was no way out except through me. Probably not the smartest move, heading in on my own. Wait for the cops, Jay. There wasn’t much worth stealing in my dumpy one-bedroom above the filling station. But it was my dumpy one-bedroom above the filling station, and my shit not worth stealing, this was where my kid slept when he visited, and I’d be damned if I was going to get pushed around in my own home. When you have so little left, you get protective of the scraps. Everyone knows you don’t take bones from a junkyard dog.
Easing open my front door, I could hear them in the rear, sniffing, rooting around. Back when my brother was alive I’d caught him doing the same thing more than once. Skeezy junkie shit, pocketing trinkets to pawn. Except these two, whoever they were, had come in after the lights and heat switched on, which meant they hadn’t been canvassing the place for a robbery; they were waiting for me to show up.
I had no way of knowing if the men were armed, and if so, with what; all I had was the element of surprise. And a tire iron. They’d already had time to go through my apartment—it wasn’t big and there were only so many places to hide. I heard a muffled voice. Sounded like it came from the porch at the far end. I backtracked into the kitchen, slipping inside my bathroom, crouched behind the door. When they realized I wasn’t out there on the porch hiding like a coward, they’d have to leave the way they’d come, and then I was going to bust some kneecaps.
The voices got louder as the men drew closer. When they passed, I saw neither was holding a gun, and I knew right away where they were from. A little older than the thugs at Prasch Sugarbush, these two were also graduates of the program. Same bodies forged from lifting steel in the juvie yard. One was taller, and the other, well, not as black. I had a good idea who’d sent them, too. I waited until they both passed, and then I hopped out, tire iron wrapped above my head.
“Hey, fuckos!”
They both practically jumped out of their kicks. When they saw the tire iron, they shot up their hands in surrender.
“Whoa! Calm down!”
They both outweighed me, and each looked like they’d been in more fights than I had. But their hands were in the air and empty; I was holding steel. If they lowered and charged, I was getting in one good crack.
“What the fuck are you doing in my apartment?”
“Relax, man. We just want to talk.”
Alison had warned me Richard would be sending more leg-breakers if I didn’t back off. When I’d been accosted at the sugarbush, I felt menace oozing out of their pores, the purport of malice. Those guys would just as soon have tossed me from the mountaintop as they would look at me. The vibe I was getting from these two was off. Where was the hate? The desire to do me harm? I couldn’t find it. Then again it’s hard to gauge emotions or intentions when your heart is jammed up in your throat.
“How did you get in?” I said.
“Door was open.”
“Bullshit.”
“I swear. It was unlocked.”
I’d been so scatterbrained and stressed of late—had I forgotten to lock up?
“You just walk into people’s houses uninvited? Start rifling through their shit?”
“Saw the lights flick on. Thought you was home.”
“We was looking for a lighter, man.” One of the boys held up a crushed pack of Newports. “Can smell the cigarette smoke in here, figured it was cool.”
“Well, it’s not ‘cool.’”
“My name’s Mal,” the first one said. “That’s Leone.” He gestured for me to lower the tire iron.
“Mal . . . and Leone,” I repeated.
“Short for Malcolm.”
“Leone’s my last name.”
I didn’t answer, keeping my distance. I wasn’t putting down my tire iron.
“Hey, man, just want to talk,” Mal repeated.
“Make it quick.”
“We’re friends of Phillip.”
“Really? You two?” With their prison ink, gold teeth, and baggy jeans, these were the guys who sold the drugs to boys like Phillip Crowder; they didn’t hang out with him.
“Addiction doesn’t discriminate,” Leone said.
“I’ve seen that bumper sticker, too. Let me guess. You want me to stop looking for Phillip?”
“Yeah,” Mal said. “But it’s not like you think, man.”
“I don’t scare easy.”
“That’s not what we’re saying. Phillip wants you to stop looking for him.”
“Phillip knows I’m looking for him?”
“You were at the Prasch Sugarbush this afternoon.”
“Maybe. Why? Was Phillip there?”
Mal shook his head no.
“Then what? Rewrite has farms spread all over the place. How did Phillip even find out?” I set the tire iron on the stovetop and turned on a burner. I lit up and passed along
my Marlboro. “I don’t have a lighter.”
“You were at the same sugarhouse as us,” Mal said. “There’s an AA meeting every night. Vans take busloads. We all meet up. We talked to Phillip. He asked us to relay the information. Can you respect that?”
“You guys can come and go as you please?”
“We’re Level Three,” Leone said.
“What level is Phillip?”
“A level that can’t come and go like we can.”
“Phillip wants me to stop looking for him? Why? He likes working on a farm that much? Rich kid like him, with his soft, ivory hands? Sure. Did Richard Rodgers send you?”
“Man, you’re not listening. This ain’t about Mr. Rodgers. And this ain’t about you, yo. Phillip doesn’t want his father to know where he is.”
“Why?”
“Because the man is a monster.”
“Why don’t you tell me where Phillip is, and we can have this conversation in person. I hear it from his mouth, I’ll leave him be, won’t say a word. Scout’s honor.”
Malcolm seemed to be considering my offer, when fists pounded my door. “Police!”
I stepped around Mal and Leone, whose eyes widened in surprise—or maybe it was terror.
Two of Ashton’s finest entered, guns drawn.
“Got a call about a break-in?”
I didn’t know his name. I knew his partner’s name was Ramone. He was Puerto Rican and seldom spoke.
“Dispatch reported you saw a couple men breaking into your apartment?”
I squinted to read his name tag. Miller.
Officer Miller looked over Mal and Leone, the obvious answer to his question. I did, too, weighing what I should do. Did I believe them? Maybe. Maybe not. But if this visit was supposed to be a threat, it was a pretty mild one. These guys seemed cool. Even if they did bust in my place, I wasn’t jamming them up over walking in uninvited.
“Let’s see some ID.”
“I’m sorry, Officer Miller,” I said. “I made a mistake. I didn’t recognize them at first. It’s been a while. These guys are old friends of my brother.”
Miller glanced from me to the intruders, taking in their hiphop attire, gold chains, and ass hanging out their pants, panning back to me. “You know these two?”
“Yes. Through my brother. Chris. Startled me is all. It was dark. I saw a couple dudes hanging outside my place. I panicked.” I caught their eyes. “They were in the neighborhood. Stopped by to say hi.”
“Yeah,” Mal said. “We stopped by to say hi.”
“They were just leaving, right, guys?”
Mal nodded. “About to head out, yup. Nice seeing you again, Jay.”
I shook their hands with needless formality. “Don’t be such strangers, okay?”
Ramone considered the stiff exchange. He knew something was up but couldn’t say what. The new guy wasn’t going to call me a liar. I had no idea about Malcolm or Leone’s pasts, if they had a criminal record like my brother. But the last thing a guy like that needs is to get jacked up over some penny-ante bullshit. Cops run names, an old failure to appear pops up, and like that, he’s back down in the hole, right when he was getting on his feet again, putting his life in order.
The two cops stood on my stoop, watching the boys leave, still not convinced, Miller poking his head back in to double-check with me, as if I were a battered housewife scared to speak in my abuser’s presence.
“Sorry to call you out here on a false alarm.”
“Those boys looked pretty tough. Not sure I should’ve just let them waltz—”
“I told you. We’re all good. Call Turley.”
Miller sent Ramone after Mal and Leone to make sure they stayed gone. Miller stepped to the stoop out of earshot. I didn’t know if he was taking me up on my offer, but if he relayed my story, Turley would back me up. My brother Chris ran with a rough-and-tumble crowd. Plus police hated unnecessary paperwork. I didn’t want any knuckleheaded boosting charge from five years ago biting them on the ass. Everyone deserves a second chance.
The two officers returned. Not wanting to be rude, I small-talked about random shit. The recent snowstorms. Whether the Ashton Redcoats fielded a quality squad this year—like I gave a flying fuck about high school football. Must be boring as hell working law enforcement in a town like Ashton, especially after they shut down the truck stop, which was where 90 percent of the crime took place. Then again in the last week we’d seen a murder attempt, suffered a slew of break-ins, robberies, assaults, and a possible kidnapping. So maybe our little town was getting as progressive as the big city.
Once they left, I slid the dead bolt, grabbed my landline, and called Alison. I liked that she took my calls. Despite her being married and our, at best, complicated relationship, these conversations were the highlight of miserable days. I was also willing to overlook the possibility that her husband had dispatched two thugs to rough me up—if that’s what was even happening. Alison was the only friend I had right now who wasn’t admitted to a hospital with blunt head trauma and/or major organ failure. No love story is perfect.
“Hello, Jay. This isn’t a good time.”
“Just got home. Found a couple guys from your program lurking in my apartment. Wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
She didn’t say anything.
“Did your husband send them?”
“Not that I know of.” Long pause. “I mean, I don’t think so.”
“That doesn’t sound very convincing. If he did, it was a tepid warning—”
“This isn’t a good time—”
“Less a warning, more like a pleasant request.”
“Request?”
“To stop looking for Phillip Crowder.”
“I already told you that.”
“Things have changed. Might not have that option anymore.”
“Jay, this is getting old—”
“I need to see you. In person. I don’t want to do this over the phone.”
“Do what?”
“It’s about the woman who retained your services? Who asked you to kidnap her son? It’s about Joanne Crowder.”
“I’ve been explicit. I cannot talk about—”
“She’s dead. Joanne Crowder, the woman who hired you—or rather the woman you can’t confirm hired you, can’t admit knowing, can’t admit what-the-fuck-ever she is to you—she’s dead.”
“Oh my God.” Alison tripped over herself, still trying to maintain patient confidentiality, like it mattered in times like this. “That’s what the police wanted,” she added softly, as if to herself. Voices muffled on the other end, a dinner party bleeding through.
“Am I calling at a bad time?”
“It’s fine,” she said. It sounded like she’d moved to a quieter room with more privacy. I couldn’t hear any more third-party conversation. “What happened?”
“You want the official version?”
“Sure. Start there.”
“Suicide. Found the body in her car. In the garage. Carbon monoxide poisoning.”
I went to the window, checked up and down the block. I didn’t know what I was looking for.
“I appreciate you calling,” she said.
“I think we should meet. Go over a plan.”
“I can’t right now.”
“Listen, Ethan Crowder is going to petition the courts to get a court order. He’s sole custodian of his son now. You have a day, two tops. Then the police will come with a warrant, whether you want to talk to them or not. You’ll have to tell them where he is, and they will take him away.”
“A couple days ago you wanted me to divulge a patient’s whereabouts so you could return him to his father. Now you want to help me keep him hidden?”
“Let’s meet for dinner?” I caught myself. “I mean, get together, go out?”
“I’m married, Jay.”
“I am aware of that. But we need to talk about this. Maybe we can put our heads together, make a plan.”
I hear
d her thinking on the other end of the line, relenting with a sigh. “You’re going to have to give me time.”
“I know just the place. Laid-back little joint.”
“A bar?”
“Not a bar-bar. More like a café. But they serve alcohol. Most places do. Unless you want to come over to my apartment?”
When Alison didn’t respond right away, I fantasized she was scared to be alone with me. Maybe I was imagining this thing between us, this tension, which could’ve been nothing more than annoyance and a desire to get rid of me the quickest way possible. After my long-term, volatile relationship with Jenny, which had been filled with so many knockdown drag-out fights, I wasn’t sure I could tell the difference anymore.
“No,” she said, “public is better.”
“The Blue Carousel. Torrington. Twenty minutes southeast of you. Very low key, mellow. Meet there in an hour?”
“Make it two. This is going to take some doing.”
I didn’t mind coming to her this time, and Torrington was still far enough out of the way that she’d be safe from prying eyes.
After we hung up, I hopped in the shower, shaved, and put on my nicest button-up. Found a pair of dress shoes buried in the back of the closet. I wanted to pretend this wasn’t a date. But I had a hard time fighting the flutters. As uncertain and awkward as I felt, I was glad those parts still existed, that I still had a heart that could be crushed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I ARRIVED AT the Blue Carousel early. Walking along the ice-slicked sidewalk to the bar, I saw the sandwich board sign. Performing Nightly: Stan the Magic Man. I instantly regretted my choice of venue. I could only imagine how bad Stan the Magic Man must suck.
A long-haired hippy dude sat at the piano, tickling the ivories, singing a song I never heard before, with his eyes closed. I wanted to hate Stan the Magic Man. And I tried. But, goddamn, he was good.
The low-lit bar drew a decent crowd for a weeknight. I’d been here with Jenny a long time ago. I remembered digging the laid-back, authentic vibe. Drinks were cheap, great pub food, darts, décor understated. Of course, like everything else, that had changed. The bar now possessed that hipster feel so many places get because any place that’s cool can’t stay cool for long because the dipshits and douchebags always find out about it and ruin everything by showing up.