Final Breath

by Kevin O'Brien

  "Anyway, now that we're living here, we don't even know when he's on a special assignment. He could be on one right now, doing something really dangerous. Anyway, I'm worried about him. If Dad got hurt or something, how would we find out?"

  "The same way we'd find out if we were still living with Dad in Chicago. Someone would notify us right away. Listen, Eli, if you're worried about Dad, then give him a call when we get home."

  "Okay. But he wouldn't tell me if he was in trouble," Eli murmured.

  Sydney sighed. "He wouldn't tell me either, sweetie."

  They drove in silence for a while.

  Sydney remembered back in March, when Joe had refused to admit anything was wrong. So she'd started her own investigation into the death of Arthur "Polly" Pollard. She searched the Internet for more stories about him, but there wasn't any follow-up to that first Tribune article about Polly Pollard's body being discovered in a Woodlawn alley Dumpster.

  Two days after Joe had told her, "It doesn't concern you," while Sydney was out shopping at Dominick's, she used a pay phone in front of the supermarket to call the Woodlawn police precinct. She asked if they had any updates on their investigation into the March 14th murder of Arthur Pollard.

  "Who's calling, please?" asked the cop on the other end of the line.

  "Um, Ellen Roberts with the City Beat section of the Tribune," she lied.

  "I'll connect you with Lieutenant Mullen."

  But Sydney got Mullen's voice mail and hung up. She couldn't leave a number for him, not without giving herself away. She made four more calls from pay phones over the next two days and always got Lieutenant Mullen's lousy voice mail.

  "Hey, hon?" she casually said to Joe while he was in the shower. She stood in front of the bathroom mirror in her slip. Her cosmetic clutch was on the side of the sink. They were getting ready for the wedding of Joe's cousin, another cop--in Evanston. "I was just wondering, did they ever find out who killed that Polly character, the one who called here?"

  She saw Joe's nude silhouette behind the foggy shower curtain. He stopped scrubbing his chest for a moment and turned toward her. "What?"

  "Arthur Pollard," she said, "the one who called here a while back. Did they ever find out who shot him?"

  "I don't know, and I don't care. It's not my case." He went back to washing himself.

  "All right already, you don't have to bite my head off."

  "Well, I really wish you'd leave it alone."

  "You make it sound like I'm needling you," she called, putting down her mascara wand. "I haven't even broached the subject since the poor guy was dumped in that Dumpster last week." She stared at the shower curtain again. "I'll be honest with you, honey. You're acting awfully strange about this, very touchy. It makes me think you might be in some kind of trouble." She paused. "Are you--in any kind of trouble?"

  The shower went off with a squeak, then he pulled a towel down from the rack and started drying himself. "Arthur Pollard was a pain-in-the-ass petty crook with drug problems," Joe said finally. "He was messing with the wrong kind of people and wanted my help. But I couldn't help him, and I feel bad that he's dead."

  "Why did he approach you for help?" Sydney asked, her eyes still on his movements behind the fogged curtain. "Did he know you, Joe?"

  "He knew my reputation as a sap who always tries to help people."

  Sydney smiled a little. That much was true. She turned toward the mirror again and wiped some steam away.

  "Anyway, I feel like shit I didn't help him," Joe admitted. With a whoosh, the shower curtain opened. Joe was still drying himself off as he stepped out of the tub.

  Sydney realized something he'd said that didn't make sense. She turned toward him. "Honey, if you feel so badly about Polly's murder, why aren't you interested in who might have killed him?"

  "What?"

  "A minute ago you said that you didn't care."

  Shaking his head, Joe wrapped the towel around his waist. "Y'know," he muttered. "I'd really appreciate it if you'd just fucking drop this."

  Her mouth open, Sydney stared at her husband as he stomped into the bedroom.

  Eli had been invited to the wedding as well, and he failed to notice that his parents didn't talk to each other all night long.

  Sydney did, however, talk to Sharon McKenna at the reception. Sharon's husband, Andy, was Joe's best friend on the force. Their oldest, Tim, hung out with Eli and his pal, Brad Reece. "The Three Musketeers," Joe called them. Sydney liked Sharon, a petite, pretty, freckle-faced woman with short red hair. She caught a few minutes alone with Sharon in a corner of the reception hall.

  "You look gorgeous, Syd--as usual," Sharon said, raising her champagne glass. "You must be feeling better."

  "Feeling better?" she asked.

  "Yeah," Sharon said, sipping her champagne. "We invited you folks to dinner last weekend, but Joe said you had the flu." Sharon stared at her for a moment. "Joe didn't mention it to you? I was going to make lasagna, because I know Eli loves it."

  Sydney just shook her head.

  "You weren't sick, were you?"

  "I'm sorry, Sharon," she murmured. "I don't know what to say. I can't imagine why Joe..."

  "He's been really distant with Andy lately," Sharon frowned. She finished the rest of her champagne. "I don't know if you've noticed or not, but Joe has said about five words to Andy since we arrived here. He's managed to avoid me altogether, because he knows I'll tell him what I'm thinking. You don't just freeze out your friends like that."

  Sydney gave a hopeless shrug. "Sharon, I'm so sorry. All I can tell you is Joe hasn't been himself lately. This whole last week, I've been worried about him."

  "Andy's been worried about him for at least two weeks now," Sharon said. "That's when Joe started to give him the cold shoulder."

  "Do you know--" Sydney hesitated. "Has Andy mentioned someone named Polly?"

  Sharon's eyes narrowed at her.

  "Polly's a man, Arthur Pollard," Sydney explained. All the while, she had a nagging feeling she ought to keep her mouth shut. But she had to find out if Joe's best friend knew something. "Andy hasn't mentioned anything about Polly? He was killed last week."

  "No, Andy never talks about work at home. Besides, he wouldn't be on that case. He and Joe haven't worked on a case together in five years. You know that."

  "It's not Joe's case either," Sydney said. "Listen, Share, don't mention any of this to Andy. Please, forget I said anything. I'll talk to Joe, and--get to the bottom of this."

  But she didn't try talking to Joe.

  Sydney felt she'd already crossed a line by asking Sharon about Arthur Pollard. She crossed another the next day when she went through Joe's desk drawers in his home office. Unlike her office in the basement, full of expensive video and audio equipment, Joe's second-floor study was more like another family room--with framed photos of them on the wall, a sofa, and a smaller TV set. The only thing official about his office was a display case full of his police awards from the City of Chicago and the computer monitor on his desk.

  Sydney didn't find anything useful in his desk drawers except a stack of old birthday cards and love notes she'd given him, along with scores of postcards she'd sent him while on the road for Movers & Shakers. She got into his computer and checked his e-mails and recently deleted e-mails. But there was nothing about Arthur "Polly" Pollard.

  She kept checking the Tribune and Google for any news on the investigation into Arthur Pollard's murder, but came up with nothing. She re-read and re-read the March 15th Tribune article about the discovery of Polly's corpse. One sentence stuck with her:

  Pollard, a part-time bartender at Anthony's Cha-Cha Lounge in Cicero, was well known to Chicago Police.

  Anthony's was a cruddy corner saloon with cheap-looking faux-brick siding from the sixties. During the long drive to Cicero, Sydney prayed she wouldn't discover anything there that might incriminate her husband. As frustrated as she'd been by her fruitless search for clues in Joe's study, Sydney had al
so been relieved not to find anything.

  They needed her to go to Atlanta to cover a possible Movers & Shakers story, but she'd lied and told them she was sick. She couldn't leave right now. If Joe had been involved in anything dishonest or shady, it could ruin the whole family. Both of their careers would be in shambles. She kept thinking he must have gotten into some awful trouble to have frozen her out--along with his best friend, Andy. For someone with a reputation for rescuing others, Joe never asked for help himself. In times of crisis, he often pushed away those closest to him. Sydney wondered if his reluctance to talk with her about this Polly business was because he was protecting someone else. That was so much like him, and she desperately hoped it was the case here.

  Even with sunlight streaming through the front window--which had a filthy-looking grass-skirt-type valance--it was seedy and depressing inside Anthony's Cha-Cha Lounge. The interior design was a luau theme. But all of the tiki-style accents looked dusty and decrepit from the stuffed fish and barnacles in the nets on the walls to the fake plants and palm trees. Years of smoke and sun bleaching must have caused their plastic leaves to turn that ugly, light gray color.

  Another grass valance hung over the bar, where a large, goateed man with a cigarette dangling out of his mouth poured drinks. He wore a Hawaiian shirt. Neil Diamond's "Cracklin' Rosie" resonated on the jukebox; in the corner, two guys who looked like ex-bikers silently played a game of pool. A few people sat at the bar, and Sydney spotted a couple quietly talking in a booth.

  She took a seat at the bar, away from the others, and ordered an Old Style light beer. As the bartender set the full pilsner glass in front of her, Sydney worked up a smile for him. "Hey, I used to know a bartender here named Art Pollard. Polly? Do you know him? Does he still work here?"

  A few barstools down, a forty-something woman with straight platinum-colored hair and black roots looked up from her drink. She wore jeans, a tube top, and a gauzy, see-through flower-patterned blouse--unbuttoned with the shirt-tails tied around her slightly bulging midriff. She stared at Sydney, and then a look passed between her and the bartender.

  He turned toward Sydney and shook his head.

  "So--you don't know him?" Sydney asked. "Or he doesn't work here anymore."

  "I knew him," the bartender grunted. "And he doesn't work here anymore. He's dead."

  Sydney feigned surprise. "My God, how did he die?"

  "Stupidity," the heavyset man grumbled.

  The blonde slapped the edge of the bar. "Hah! You're a real shit, Phil."

  Ignoring her, the bartender stared at Sydney. "Want to start a tab?"

  "I'm not sure yet," she said.

  A few stools down, the blonde cleared her throat. "What's your name, honey?"

  Sydney hesitated. "I'm--Sharon." She worked up a little smile.

  The woman slid off her bar stool and took her drink over to where Sydney sat. "I'm Aurora. I was a good friend of Polly's." She raised her glass. "God rest his soul. Somebody shot him two weeks ago."

  "Oh, no," Sydney murmured. "That's horrible."

  "How did you know Polly?" she asked.

  "Um, I came in here a few nights some months back. My mom lives in the area, and she was sick. I remember Polly was really sweet and helped cheer me up. He didn't get fresh or anything. He was just nice. Anyway, my mom's real sick again, and I came here, hoping to see Polly. Do they--um, do they know who killed him?"

  Aurora tilted her head to one side and gazed at her for a moment. Sydney wasn't sure if Polly's friend believed her or not.

  "Phil?" Aurora called, not breaking eye contact with Sydney. "Phil, honey, start a tab for her, and put a Seven and Seven on it. Okay?" She smiled at Sydney. "Okay?"

  Sydney nodded.

  "Let's go sit where we can talk," Aurora said. She grabbed her drink and sauntered toward a booth.

  Sydney followed her, and slipped into the booth with her Old Style Light. The brown Naugahyde cushioned seat had black duct tape on one corner. The table was overly lacquered, and decorated with cigarette burn marks and an unlit hurricane lamp.

  "So--did they catch whoever killed Polly?" Sydney asked.

  Frowning, Aurora shook her head.

  "Do they have any clue who shot him?" Sydney pressed.

  "Well, his pals here at Anthony's have their own theories," she said, draining the rest of her glass. "Polly was sweet. But he also pissed off the wrong people. So--it could have been a mob hit. That's the popular theory around here. But some of us think it's the cops who killed him. He was--"

  Aurora fell silent as the stocky, goateed bartender came by with her Seven and 7. He set it on the table and took her empty glass.

  "Thanks, Phil, you're a peach," she said, not really looking at him. Then Aurora waited until he was back behind the bar. She pushed her colored blond hair back behind her ears. "Polly was a snitch. But of course, you probably already knew that."

  Sydney stared at the woman and shook her head. "I don't understand--"

  "He was a snitch, a police informant," Aurora whispered. "He gave them information about drug deals and small-time jobs, and they gave him money."

  "Oh, I see," Sydney replied numbly. "A snitch, of course." She figured that must have been how Joe had been acquainted with him. Even the newspaper article said Polly was "well known to Chicago Police."

  Aurora sipped her Seven and 7. "That's a sweet story about how you met Polly," she said. "Did you just make it up on the spur of the moment? Or did you dream it up on your way here?"

  "What?"

  Aurora leaned back in the booth and smiled. "You're name isn't Sharon. You're Sydney Jordan, and I recognized you the minute you walked into this dump. You're married to a cop, aren't you?"

  Sydney took a minute before she could answer. "Yes, that's right," she said, finally.

  "So--what the hell are you doing here, Sydney? And please don't try to tell me you're doing a Movers & Shakers story on Polly, because you don't profile fuck-ups on that show. And sweet as Polly could be, he was a major fuck-up. Did your husband send you here?"

  Sydney shook her head, then gulped down some beer. "Joe doesn't even know I'm here. You--you're right about Polly being an unlikely subject for Movers & Shakers. The truth is, he called my house twice, and when I read about his murder, it really disturbed me. The newspaper article made him out to be this shiftless ex-con with a drug problem. They more or less indicated he got what was coming to him. But I thought about this guy, Polly, who sounded so nice on the phone, and I wondered what happens to the friends of someone like him. Okay, so he had a criminal record, and he had some troubles--he also had friends, didn't he? I'm sure Polly made a difference in the world and touched several people's lives in a positive way. I know my husband felt bad about his death. He didn't know Polly very well, but suggested--if I wanted to do a story about Polly--I should talk to some of his friends. So--here I am."

  With one elbow on the table and her chin in her hand, Aurora sat across from her and stared. Sydney wasn't sure if she believed a word of this. "What does your husband say about him?" Aurora asked.

  "Joe and I have a rule. Neither one of us can talk about our work at home. Besides, Joe didn't know Polly very well. At least, that's what he said." Sydney waited to see if Aurora would contradict her.

  Aurora uttered a sad little laugh. "Well, I can tell you Polly was good to his cat. It's this half-deaf, half-blind, old bag of bones named Simon. I inherited the thing, lucky me. Is that the kind of shit you're looking for?"

  Sydney nodded. So Joe didn't know Polly very well, thank God. "Yes, little human touches like that," she said. "And of course, I'd like to include something about the work he did for the police. Without Polly's help, they probably wouldn't have been able to crack several important cases. Am I right?"

  "Yeah," Aurora replied over her Seven and 7. "In fact, I figured it was his part in that drug bust at the pier three weeks ago that got him killed."

  "What drug bust?" Sydney asked.

  "Hu
h, you weren't shitting me earlier," Aurora said. "You and your old man really don't talk about his work. It happened about three weeks ago. A couple of small-timers were moving some cocaine at Fort Jackson Pier when the cops arrived. The two schmucks ended up burning to death in their RV, along with most of the stuff--or so the cops claimed. Polly was the snitch on the deal. He told me there was up to half a million worth of coke involved. The four cops who pulled off the raid recovered something like thirteen thousand dollars' worth, and claimed the rest went up in smoke. I think the newspapers estimated forty-some-odd thousand went poof, but that's bullshit. And Polly knew it." Aurora sipped her drink, then gave her a wary sidelong glance. "So--this is all news to you?"

  Sydney nodded.

  "Well, honey, then this must be news to you as well. Your husband was one of the four cops who pulled off this drug bust--though I'd call it a heist."

  Sydney shook her head. "My husband would never get involved in anything like that. Joe's a good guy. He's an honest cop. He--"

  "Huh, Polly used to think so, too," Aurora said, cutting her off. "He knew these guys were after him, these hit men. Polly wasn't sure if it was payback from someone connected to those two schmucks who fried in their RV or if the cops had hired these guys to shut him up permanently. Whoever it was, Polly knew he was a dead man. I've never seen him so sick with worry. He called your husband at least six times, begging for help."

  "But I didn't think he knew Joe very well," Sydney said.

  "Not very," Aurora agreed. "Polly never snitched for your husband. For the Fort Jackson Pier deal, he dealt with one of the other cops. But Polly knew your husband. He knew Joe McCloud's reputation as a good guy who went out of his way to help people in trouble." Aurora drained the rest of her glass and loudly set it down on the table. "Well, your nice-guy hero-husband didn't lift a fucking finger to help Polly. He let him down--and he let him die."

  Sydney squirmed in the booth seat. "Why are you telling me this?"

  "Because I don't believe a goddamn thing you've told me--except the fact that Polly called your house, and your husband doesn't talk to you about his work. It's why you came here, isn't it, Sydney? You wanted to find out why your big hero-husband was associating with a small-time hood like Polly. Well, now you know. He was involved in a heist--and murder. And then he let a sweet guy get shot to death. Why don't you do a story on that, Sydney?"