The Fourth Motive

by Sean Lynch

  “Relax,” Chavez told him. “I ain’t proud; I been to the clinic lots of times. But it’ll cost you.”

  “I’ll pay you three hundred bucks over whatever the stuff costs.”

  “Shit, Ray; you must really be hurting. Deal.”

  “You got a pencil to write this stuff down?” Ray asked him.

  Ray gave him a list of items, most of which he was reading directly from one of his first aid manuals. He had to speak slowly and spell a lot of the words for Jimmy, which infuriated him. The list included Vicodin, Betadine, prescription-strength antibiotics, prescription-strength antibiotic ointment, hydrogen peroxide, and gauze.

  “This must be a serious case of VD you got, Ray,” Chavez commented when he finished reciting his shopping list. “Five rolls of gauze? What you gonna do? Wrap up your dick like the mummy?”

  “Just bring it,” Ray said. He told Chavez where he wanted the stuff delivered. “Get here within the hour and there’s an extra fifty in it for you.”

  “I’m almost there,” Chavez said, hanging up.

  Ray staggered to the couch and collapsed. His head was swimming and he thought for a moment he was going to throw up. Above him, the model aircraft suspended from the ceiling swooped and dived.

  He’d made too many mistakes. Despite his planning and his best efforts at making his father proud, Ray knew he’d fucked everything up. Leaving his gear back in Napa was the final straw; that mistake that would unravel everything. Game over.

  As he waited for Chavez to deliver the medicine, he thought about his father and how much he missed him. The aching he felt for his lost childhood rivaled the shrieking pain in his body. How he wished he was back in those days, the days before he became Ray Cowell.

  Before the summer of 1964.

  CHAPTER 45

  The apartment door opened before Farrell knocked. Standing before him in the doorway was a giant.

  “You Farrell?”

  “I am.”

  “Come on in,” the giant motioned, stepping aside. “The Judge said you’d be coming over.”

  Farrell entered an apartment with no sign a woman had ever graced it. The walls were adorned with sports posters and pictures of cars. Beer cans, dirty dishes, and soiled laundry lay scattered over worn furniture. A Sam Browne gun belt, complete with a revolver, lay on the coffee table in the middle of the room. There were also a pair of boots and a tin of polish next to the gun. The air was thick with cigar smoke.

  “I’m Charlie White,” the giant said in his booming voice. He was clad in a Hawaiian shirt with a multicolored stain on the front, and had a day’s gray stubble on his chin. A cigar smoldered in one corner of his mouth like it had been pounded in with a sledgehammer. He looked to be somewhere in the range of fifteen years older than Farrell, close to the Judge’s age. White stuck out a paw that completely encircled Farrell’s hand when he shook it. He pointed to a chair at the kitchen table.

  “You want a drink?” he asked Farrell.

  “Always,” came the reply. “What do you have?”

  “Name it,” White commanded.

  “Bourbon over ice, if you please.”

  “You work for Judge Callen?” he began, pulling a bottle of Wild Turkey from a cupboard.

  “I do. I’m a private investigator. Judge Callen hired me to find the man who’s stalking his daughter.”

  “Callen’s a good man,” White said. “The best. Old school. Known him forever. Work with his daughter Paige at the courthouse.” His brow furrowed. “You were a cop, weren’t you?”

  “Almost thirty years at SFPD,” Farrell told him.

  “What are you going to do if you find this creep?” White asked. “Arrest him?”

  “Not likely.” White seemed satisfied with the answer.

  “You mind if I smoke?”

  “Knock yourself out,” White told him.

  Farrell lit an unfiltered Camel with his battered Zippo and exhaled a long stream of smoke.

  “What can I do to help?” He poured two triple shots over ice and sat down at the table opposite Farrell.

  Farrell raised his glass; White did the same. “Does the name Arnold R. Pascoe mean anything to you, Deputy White?”

  White let bourbon roll around his mouth a moment before answering. “It does,” he finally said. “Real nasty blast from the past.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  CHAPTER 46

  The summer of 1964 would always remain etched in Ray’s memory. The images of that fateful season faded little with the passage of time.

  Ray was eight years old, and it was the summer his mother began working at the gift shop on Park Street to bring in extra money. It was the summer before he became Raymond Cowell.

  It was the summer of Sissy Levine.

  That summer, Ray’s dad began working longer hours at the naval supply depot. He also began to spend more evenings away from home with his co-workers. Though he always found time to toss the baseball with Ray or thrill him with exciting stories of fighting the communists in Korea, he was drinking more, and not just his customary Budweiser after work. On more than one occasion, Ray would go into the garage and find his father, bleary-eyed and slack-jawed, with an empty bottle at his feet.

  He remembered those episodes very well, because it was during such times his father would yell at his mother. Sometimes he would even hit her. Ray would hide in his room and cover his ears. Eventually, his mother would come in and convince him that everything was all right. By then, his father was usually gone and might not be home again for several days.

  When he returned, his dad was his old chipper self and would bring small presents for Ray and his mom. Once he brought Ray an authentic San Francisco Giants baseball cap.

  That summer was also when Ray’s mom began hiring Sissy to babysit him on the nights she worked late at the gift shop. At first, Ray was insulted that at eight years old, his mother thought he still needed a babysitter. But Sissy, who was fifteen years old, let him stay up past his bedtime to watch The Twilight Zone.

  Sissy’s real name was Cecelia Levine, and her family lived down the block on Pacific Avenue. Sissy had long, dark hair and had to wear a retainer on her teeth at night, which looked like a horse’s bridle to Ray. Sometimes after she put him to bed, she would take one of his dad’s Chesterfields and smoke it in the backyard after she thought Ray was asleep.

  Ray would sit up in bed and peer at Sissy through his window. She would lounge in the backyard, and he would watch her silhouette outlined against the white garage wall as she puffed away on his father’s cigarette. Sometimes, one of the neighborhood boys would come over and the two of them would go into the garage.

  When this occurred, Ray would creep in his pajamas out the back door to the far side of the garage. By climbing on the garbage cans stationed there, he could look in through the window above his father’s workbench. Through a kaleidoscope of Stanley handcrafted tools, he could spy on Sissy and her visitor in the semidarkness of the garage’s interior.

  Ray watched as the boy kissed Sissy and put his hand under her shirt. She would moan and rub against him. The first time Ray witnessed this, he was shocked to learn she wasn’t even wearing her retainer. He stared, fascinated, as they kissed with their tongues and the boy rubbed Sissy’s chest.

  For some reason, Ray would get short of breath while observing Sissy and her friend and start to feel warm and tingly all over. He knew Sissy’s chest wasn’t big like his mother’s, but the boy didn’t seem to mind. Every so often, the boy would try to touch Sissy between her legs, but she would push his hand away, even though it appeared she didn’t want him to stop. It was very confusing.

  The garage meetings between Sissy and her visitor usually ended with her announcing that Ray’s parents would be home soon. Not only was that her guest’s cue to exit but Ray’s as well. When hearing those familiar words from Sissy, he would quietly climb down from the garbage cans and resume his place in bed.

  One hot July night, however, the
routine changed dramatically. Ray was, as usual, perched atop the garbage cans and peeking intently through the garage window. This was the tenth or eleventh time he’d observed Sissy in the garage, and for some reason unknown to him, he never found it boring, even though she and her visitor always did the same thing. He found when watching his babysitter, he experienced tightness between his own legs and a pounding in his chest not entirely caused by his fear of getting caught.

  This particular night, Sissy seemed more daring. Not only did she let the boy rub under her shirt, but she took it off! Ray gasped through the steamed-up window, riveted by what he saw. She was wearing a bra, but not like his mom’s, which he sometimes saw when she left the bathroom in a hurry. Sissy’s bra showed more of her skin. A lot more.

  As the boy began to rub Sissy’s chest, she shrugged her shoulders and the bra slipped off. Sissy was half naked!

  Ray’s legs started trembling; the tightness between them had reached a fever pitch. Suddenly, Ray was flat on his back, the crash of the garbage cans exploding in his ears.

  Before Ray could get to his feet, the boy who only seconds before had been rubbing Sissy’s bare chest was holding him by the scruff of his pajamas, a fist poised over his face like a dragon.

  Just as Ray thought he was about to die at the hands of Sissy’s visitor, Sissy herself came running out of the garage. Her shirt was now on but her bra was sticking partially out of one hip pocket.

  Sissy yelled at the boy, whom she called Teddy, and tugged at this arm. After a moment, he released Ray, calling him “a little pervert”. He stormed off.

  Once Teddy left, Sissy seemed strangely calm. Ray expected her to yell at him and threaten to tell his parents. Instead, she helped him to his feet and put him to bed.

  Still shaking from his ordeal, Ray lay in bed with the covers up to his chin as Sissy brought him a glass of milk. In hushed tones, she told him she supposed he’d been watching her for a long time. He nodded. Sipping his milk, Ray noticed how pretty Sissy was, maybe even as pretty as his mother, even though her chest was smaller.

  Sissy explained that what he’d seen wasn’t bad, but if his parents found out she’d been in the garage with a boy, she’d get into trouble and wouldn’t be allowed to babysit him anymore. And then he wouldn’t get to watch Rick Jason and Vic Morrow in Combat! or go beyond the boundaries of imagination in The Twilight Zone. She told Ray if he promised to keep what he saw a secret, she would buy him a new baseball glove with some of her babysitting money at the end of the summer.

  Ray finished his milk and promised not to tell a soul. His heart burst with pride that someone as mature as a fifteen year-old would entrust him with so important a secret. Sissy kissed him on the forehead and left.

  The events of that July evening seemed spectacular to Ray until an occurrence less than a week later made them seem inconsequential by comparison.

  As usual, his father was out with his co-workers. His mother was working the late shift at the shop. Sissy was babysitting and had just put him to bed. Moments later, from his open window, he again heard Sissy greeting her backyard visitor. Ray resisted the impulse to spy on her, because the memory of his last disastrous jaunt was still fresh in his mind.

  Ray tried to sleep. He wondered if Sissy would take her bra off again, or if the last time was a special occasion. As his eight year-old brain pondered the status of Sissy’s brassiere, a terrible sound reached his ears. Footsteps, heavy and slow. His father!

  Ray heard the garage door swing open and the sound of his dad’s indignant voice. His angry words spilled through his open window.

  “…out of here, you little bastard. I catch you on my property again, I’ll kick your ass up to your eyebrows. Beat it.” The sounds of lighter, faster footsteps echoed and faded. Then Ray heard the garage door close.

  Ray couldn’t resist. The drama about to unfold in the garage was too exciting to miss. Would his father yell at Sissy? Spank her? Forbid her from babysitting him any longer?

  Like a cat, Ray was out the back door and on his garbage-can perch, shivering with anticipation. But when his eyes crept over the rim of the window, what he saw puzzled him.

  Sissy was seated on the garage floor where Ray had seen her many times in the past. She was covering her bare chest with her sweater and crying. His father stood over her, looking down. He had a nearly empty pint of bourbon in his hand and an expression on his face Ray had never seen before.

  Ray could hear what he was saying, even though his speech was fuzzy.

  “…a slut. That’s what you are. A whore. A goddamned whore. Am I paying you fifty cents an hour to fuck boys in my garage? Is that what I’m paying you for?”

  His father was using words Ray didn’t understand. Sissy cried harder.

  Suddenly, his father reached out and snatched the sweater away from her. She stopped crying, and a shocked look adorned her face.

  “What’s wrong, slut? Can’t I see your tits? You’ll let some punk kid paw at your boobs but won’t let a real man take a look?”

  Ray watched in a combination of fascination and horror as his father unfastened his trousers and took out his thing. Sissy started to scoot away, but his dad followed her and cornered her against his workbench.

  Ray was hypnotized, his heart pounding as never before. His father’s thing was standing up as if it had a will of its own.

  Sissy started to scream, but before any sound left her lips, his father smothered her mouth with her own sweater. He dropped his bottle and it shattered. He pinned Sissy, who was struggling terrifically, against the bench. With one hand still covering her mouth, he forced his other hand under her skirt and pulled off her underpants.

  Ray was beginning to feel frightened. His father was obviously very upset with what he’d caught Sissy doing in the garage with her friend and punishing her severely. The look of pain and terror on her face scared him. Ray became afraid of what his father might do to him if he learned about his spying; maybe his father would punish him in the same way?

  The thought of his father’s thing, coming after him like it was going after Sissy, made Ray wish he’d never gotten out of bed. Now it was too late. If he tried to climb down now, his father would surely hear him. His only hope was to wait until his dad was done punishing Sissy, and sneak back into his room when his father left the garage.

  His father was on top of Sissy and shoving his stomach over hers with tremendous force. Ray could hear her muffled screams through the sweater over her mouth. Ray decided the punishment must be very painful indeed.

  Finally, his father stopped pushing and stood up. He was sweaty and breathing hard.

  To Ray’s horror, he saw his father’s thing covered in blood. Sissy lay sobbing on the garage floor. His father threw her sweater and underpants at her in disgust.

  “Fucking slut,” he heard his father say. “You ever tell anybody about this, and I’ll say I caught you in here with one of your boyfriends. Who do you think people will believe?”

  His father left the garage, pulling up his trousers.

  Sissy got up, still crying hysterically. Ray noticed that she also had blood between her legs and on her stomach.

  Ray panicked. If his father went into his bedroom to check on him and found him gone, Ray would experience his father’s punishment firsthand. Forgetting the need for silence, Ray leaped from the garbage cans, ran straight for the back door, and was in his bed with the covers over his head when he heard his father enter through the front door.

  Sissy never babysat again. After that night, his father stopped staying out late and came home right after work each day, eliminating the need for a babysitter. In a surprisingly short time, Ray’s eight year-old attention span pushed the horrific punishment his father inflicted on Sissy into the recesses of his mind. At least for a while. He did remember the words his father used, and vowed to someday learn the meaning of “fuck” and “whore” and “slut”.

  Once, Ray saw Sissy. Though her family lived only a block away,
it seemed that since her punishment, she avoided the part of Pacific Avenue where Ray’s family resided.

  It was a month after she last babysat him when Ray saw Sissy at McKinley Park. He waved to her, but when she saw him, she got up and walked away. Her eyes seemed sad. Ray felt sorry for her, remembering the incident with his father in the garage.

  But one Saturday, not long after summer ended and school began, Sissy came to the house. Ray was outside bouncing a tennis ball against the garage with Skipper when she arrived. Ignoring him, Sissy walked up to the front door and knocked. His father answered the door in his undershirt.

  All Ray heard Sissy say before his father motioned her inside was that she knew his mother was at work. His father wouldn’t look at her directly. They went inside and Ray’s dad closed the door.

  Ray continued to bounce the tennis ball for the better part of an hour before Sissy emerged. He heard his father say he’d pick her up later and that everything would be all right. Sissy only nodded, a sullen look on her face. It looked to Ray like she’d been crying.

  Ray never saw her again.

  That night, Ray’s father drank more than usual. He left after dinner in the car, which was rare, since he normally walked to one of the bars on Park Street only a few blocks away. He came home early, too. Early enough that Ray was still up and watching TV. When he entered the house, he had a peculiar look on his face, the same expression Ray had seen him wear the night he punished Sissy.

  The next day, exciting things happened in the neighborhood. Alameda policemen, resplendent in their tan uniforms and caps, went door to door. It wasn’t until they came to his house he found out why.

  Listening from behind a chair, Ray heard a tall policeman ask his parents if they’d seen Sissy. Actually, he called her Cecelia Levine, but Ray knew Sissy was only her nickname. She’d been missing since the night before, and her parents were frantic. Ray’s mom told the policeman they hadn’t seen Sissy in weeks, and Ray’s dad bobbed his head in agreement with his wife’s statement.