by Grant Mccrea
You don’t have a choice, asshole. Hector! he shouted. Stopped himself. Lowered the volume. Hector, run it to Thursday 10:35.
The scene had shifted again. The attorney wasn’t there any more. A red door was. A large red door studded with bolts and crisscrossed with what looked like black metal bands.
The runes were not visible in the gloom.
There was a small group of people huddled before the door. Three men, heavily muscled. They all wore black leather masks, big silver zippers for mouths. Black leather shorts and thick crossed suspenders, silver-studded gloves. Standard S & M stuff, you might say, you might think. The usual hi-jinks.
But there was something else there. I couldn’t point out what in the scene made me sure, but the feeling was very strong.
They weren’t having fun.
In the middle of the pack was a smaller person. Naked. Slim. Pale. Unforgettable.
The red door opened. It was dark inside the door. The men began pushing the struggling woman towards the door. At the last second before she vanished, she turned her head towards the camera. A full three-quarters view. They stopped the tape right there.
Oh fuck, I said.
There was nothing else to say.
79.
ROD STARTED READING ME MY RIGHTS.
Forget it, Rod, I said. I’m not saying another fucking word till I get my phone call. Talk to my lawyer. This is really fucked up.
Rod shrugged. No surprise.
Here, he said with a jaundiced smirk. Handed me his cell phone.
I called Butch. He wasn’t my lawyer. But who the hell else was I going to call? I didn’t even have a lawyer. Unless I counted myself. And they’d taken my cell phone away. So I wouldn’t have been able to answer my call …
Butch answered. I almost puked with relief.
Butch, I said. They’re holding me downtown.
What the fuck?
Yeah, I said. Rod and his buddies.
I told him the situation.
Jesus Christ, Rick, he said. You let them do that to you? Why did you even talk to them?
Never mind that now. Just get me the fuck out of here.
Butch hung up.
Rod left the room.
Before he left, he said one more thing:
She didn’t leave that place alive.
For fifteen minutes I stared at the frozen video screen. Tried to convince myself it wasn’t her.
It didn’t work.
The door opened. A cop so scrawny his pants looked in danger of dropping to the floor handed me my belt, my wallet, my shoelaces. Didn’t say a word. Left. Left the door open.
I was a free man.
80.
I’M TRAPPED, I said to Sheila.
In what way?
Every conceivable way, I said.
I related the recent events. Edited for shrinkish consumption, and time constraints.
She got the point.
You have to get back home, she said.
I know. I know. Though that’s only part of it. And I can’t leave yet. There’s still some entrails to be tied up.
Entrails.
My little joke.
I see.
Are there any drugs I can take?
I don’t think that’s the answer.
Of course not. Of course not. It’s just that … all of this shit is getting very hard to deal with.
I understand. Let’s do our best.
Listen, the thing of it is—
The thing of it.
Is entropy.
Entropy.
We’re urban beings, you and I. Everything is always disintegrating. It doesn’t matter how desperately we sweep up, paint over, shore up the falling bridges. Dust underneath the bed. Or pay somebody else to do it. It’s always falling apart.
A discouraging way of looking at things.
Is there any other way? I mean, in nature it’s different. Decay is the order of things. Decay is renewal. The maggot feeds on the corpse. The bird—the man—the starving man, maybe just adventurous, eats the maggot. Not so bad after all! he says. Goes off to propagate the species. Happily goes off. Whistling a happy tune.
I see.
When I was small, I said, I had a terrible fear of shrinking.
Shrinking.
Or maybe it was the other way around. I’d get these visions. Visions is the wrong word. The world would recede. Quickly. Like it was vanishing into the wrong end of a telescope. If you know what I mean.
I think I do.
That’s what my father said. I didn’t believe him.
Why not?
Amazing how perceptive children are, at the youngest age. I don’t know how old I was. Five, maybe. But I just knew he was trying to comfort me by that. Didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. He wasn’t a very sophisticated guy.
Which you knew at the age of five?
I read a lot.
I see.
I mean, some of it is ex post facto, you know? But yeah. I knew.
So what’s all this got to do with your current predicament?
Well, it’s not going to help it, God knows. I was a weird kid. So the fuck what? Who wasn’t? But it explains some stuff. I mean, I have some memories. I don’t know if they’re true. They may be apocryphal. I’d be in the basement. By myself. And I’d shit my pants. Or puke on the floor. And I’d be afraid to move. Just stand there in it. For hours.
That’s horrible.
I thought so.
And …
And something about that image explains this need for stimulation. You know?
I understand. Escape from the dark. From the basement.
Nobody’s coming to help anyway.
You have to get out of there.
And that kind of leads into why I’ve always liked sleazy joints, you know, better than classy places. I mean, I’m as happy as the next guy to be pampered and served. But there’s always something unreal about it. Like they’ve mistaken me for some other guy.
Perhaps we should talk about how to get you away from that.
I’ve got to think about it.
Of course. We’ll get back to it next time. If you like.
I wasn’t sure I liked.
If there is a next time, I said.
What do you mean?
No, no. Not that. Don’t worry. Just a general sense of doom.
Nothing new, then.
And meanwhile, I’ve got a couple of murders to solve.
I laughed.
I was laughing at myself.
Funny, I said, how small children don’t laugh.
What are you saying? Children laugh all the time.
They do?
Yes.
Oh.
81.
BUTCH WAS AT THE VELVET HANG. Impatient as hell.
I had to talk to my shrink, I said.
You can’t be fucking serious.
I know it’s hard to understand—
It’s easy as fuck to understand. You’re a self-indulgent asshole.
Thanks for that. I know I can always count on your support.
We got dead bodies here, Rick.
I know, Butch. I know that. Please chill a bit. I’m not dealing with all of this very well.
Butch bit his tongue. Leaned forward, hands on his knees. Looked me in the face.
Just give me the lowdown.
Download.
Whatever.
I gave it to him.
He relented. Sat back. Took a slug off his scotch.
All right, he said. We need a plan.
Let’s plan.
We have to talk to your friend Louise.
I couldn’t agree with you more. But I think it’s got to be me, not we.
Why the fuck—
Chill, I said. Trust me on this one. There’s stuff that … stuff that she’ll tell me alone that she won’t tell me if you’re there.
The corners of Butch’s mouth twitched. He pursed his lips. Looked me up and down.
Okay, I didn’t. Let’s shut that one down right here.
He sighed. I’ll pretend to trust you on this one, he said. But don’t think for a second that you’re fooling me.
I’m not trying to fool you. And by the way, what happened with your cop thing? Your little thing you had to do?
Didn’t pan out.
What was it?
It didn’t pan out, Rick. So whatever it was, it doesn’t matter.
I hate it when you get all mysterious.
Yeah, but it’s really sexy.
Fuck you. Okay. Next, Brendan.
I gave Butch the second download. Told him what I’d learned about the knitting needle.
You fucking went there without me?
I had to, man.
You’re such a dickhead.
I know. Sorry.
Whatever. Anyway, I already knew about that knitting needle trick.
You did?
Rick, I’ve been a cop a long time. We had one where the other guy got too excited. Three hours of surgery to get the thing out. Guy was never the same.
How could that happen? The thing’s got a wooden handle on it.
This one didn’t.
Why didn’t you tell me before?
Good question, Rick. What good would it have done you?
I don’t know, but shit, man.
Forget about it.
Well, I hope it was fun while it lasted.
What was?
Whatever he was doing with the thing.
I wouldn’t know. But meanwhile, all we got is Brendan had the thing in his hand. And it wasn’t his blood on the thing. We got to get the forensics.
Getting the forensics is your department, Butch. I’m still waiting.
I know it is. I been working it. In fact, I should be getting a message any second. Meanwhile, though, they did tell me there’s no evidence that the thing was used on Brendan, if you know what I mean. No, whatta ya call it, urethral damage.
Yeah, well, that fits with the blood, doesn’t it. It seems to me we match the blood on that thing, bare minimum we got a witness, right?
A witness to something, said Butch, showing little interest.
He checked his cell phone.
Any minute, he said.
All right, I said. And …
And you and me, we’re going to go down to that club and bang some heads. Those fuckers know a hell of a lot more than they’re telling you, Rick. You’re too much of a wuss.
I pondered that thought. Not the wuss part. The knowledge part.
Butch was right. There was no chance in hell they’d shared with me everything they knew. Actors, shit. I didn’t even know if that part was true.
Okay, I said. But it’s too early. These lizards only come out from under their rocks after midnight.
Yeah, yeah. Thanks for the update. You go talk to your lady friend. I’ll get the forensics lowdown.
Download.
Right.
Call me, I said.
You can count on me.
I knew that was true.
82.
I COULDN’T FIND LOUISE. This wasn’t necessarily bad. Things needed to slow down.
Family time. Yes.
Kelley, Madeleine and Peter had become inseparable.
At least one thing in life was working.
I called them up. Asked them out for dinner. Take my mind off the mud and sludge. And knitting needles.
Kelley recommended a cheery little Italian joint that had seen better days. The sign over the door may once have said Pappa Giorgio’s, but it could as easily have been Pop My Weasel, since only the first and third letters remained.
Ah, I said. My kind of place.
When I arrived, they were already there, together in a red vinyl booth, avidly engaged in a first course. Kelley had a spoon clinging to the curve of her nose, the handle hanging down in front of her mouth. It looked magical, but anyone can do it. I knew the routine. I didn’t say anything. Would have spoiled the effect. She was waiting for someone at the next table to react, do a double take. At which point she would casually let the spoon fall into her minestrone.
It worked to perfection. It usually did.
Sorry I’m late, I said. There’s a lot of stuff going on.
Dad, she said, I need you to get a grip.
It’s hard to find a good grip these days, I replied.
And what’s that on your head?
That would be a bandage.
And?
I had an unfortunate encounter with a stone wall.
How are your fingernails?
My fingernails are fine, thanks.
A waiter in a stained white apron appeared, said to Peter, Are you finished, sir?
Peter looked at his empty appetizer plate, a small mound of yellowed gluey substance remaining.
No, he said, I’d like to suck up the mayonnaise first, please. Do you have a straw?
The waiter didn’t get the joke. Brought over a straw. Peter played along. Sucked up the mayo, or whatever it was, with a straight face. The waiter took the plate away.
Madeleine, I said, I hope these guys aren’t a bit too much for you.
Dad, she said. Get a grip.
I ordered the cavatelli, with a creamy mushroom sauce. My instincts told me not to. I ignored them.
When it arrived, I told myself to reacquaint myself with the power of instinct. It looked like a bowl of slugs. Well, thinner than slugs. Maggots. It wasn’t just my mood, black as it was. They really were the shape, and color, of maggots. They weren’t al dente enough, mind you, to have the texture of maggots—or what I imagined the texture of maggots to be; I confess that I had never actually eaten a maggot—which only made the experience more horrendous.
Peter had ordered the shrimp scampi. How bad could that be?
How’s the shrimp? I asked.
On a scale from one to ten, he said, it’s shrimp.
Oh dear, I said.
It’s okay. If I can chew it, I’ll eat it.
Kelley had ordered a calzone.
Jesus, said Peter, that thing’s as big as my father’s ass.
So, said Madeleine, who had ordered a discreet but inedible salad, Dad?
Yes, dear?
They tell me you’re a little weird.
The joys of having children, I said.
I immediately regretted it. But Madeleine didn’t seem to have taken offense.
Is it true that you never even finished high school? she asked.
Uh, yes, I guess. I flunked out of high school. Well, maybe flunked out isn’t quite right. I could have gone back and retaken that algebra, the French course. I was homeless for a few years. Well, I don’t know if that’s really accurate. Though I did live in a tent from time to time, and a tar paper shack in the Arctic. Wait, it wasn’t above the Arctic Circle, so that’s not exactly it. Anyway, later I became a big-shot lawyer. But you know all that. Didn’t your Mr. Esplanade do all the research?
Esquinasse. Sure. But I wanted to hear it from you. Kelley showed me some pictures.
Oh dear.
Yes. You used to be so thin!
Ah, yes. Youth is wasted on the young.
What happened? I mean, it’s strange, usually when people are thin, they stay thin, don’t they?
Sometimes, I said. For the first thirty years, it wasn’t really a matter of choice, or metabolism. I didn’t have enough to eat. Most days. And then, once I got a job and stuff, I used to spend two hours a day in the gym, seven days a week. But then you get older. You slow down. You don’t change your eating habits. You have no time for the gym.
Dad? said Kelley.
Yes.
Tell the truth.
The truth?
The truth is, said Peter, he drinks about four thousand calories a day and barely moves for days at a time.
I wanted to be shocked and appalled, but they were all laughing. Daddy’d been caught. Again. It was okay.
Peter, I said, you’ve got personality enough for eight normal people.
I know. I was thinking of signing up to be a personality donor.
I hear the money’s good, I said.
But the surgery’s excruciating.
That can be a problem.
I’m going out for a smoke, said Peter.
I’ll join you, said Kelley.
Kelley didn’t smoke. She didn’t drink, either. Or have any other known vices, other than a terminally sardonic edge. But she had a fundamentally altruistic nature—when a small child, she always offered her cookies to the other children before she’d have one herself—and couldn’t abide the notion of poor Peter out there in the heat smoking by himself.
Or maybe it was just a cue.
I was alone with Madeleine. Clearly, she’d been briefed by Kelley and Peter about her dissolute dad. Though what she knew and what she didn’t I had no idea. I probably never would. It’s one of the burdens of fatherhood. But there was one thing, of course, that I didn’t know, and felt that I had to know.
Do you think it might be time to tell me about your mother? I asked.
Madeleine lowered her eyes. Watched her napkin for a while.
You don’t have to tell me now, I said.
No, no. I want to tell you. It’s just that …
I waited.
It’s just that I don’t know any more than you do. Probably less.
I waved at the waiter. Held up two fingers for a double.
Um, I’m not sure I understand, I said.
She died in childbirth. I was put up for adoption.
Madeleine kept her head down.
Oh my God, I said. I’m so sorry.
There’s nothing to be sorry about, she said, raising her face to mine. It wasn’t your fault.
If I’d known—
You didn’t. Everything’s fine. My adoptive parents are wonderful.
They would have to have been. Look at you.
She smiled through the tears. It means a lot to me, she said.
I’m sure they do.
No, not them. I mean, them, too. But I meant this.
This?
To meet you. Warts and all.
Warts and all, I laughed. Mostly warts.
No, she said.
That was all I needed.
It was nice to have someone around who was invested in me being less than all warts.
Kelley and Peter returned, with a saunter and a flounce, respectively. Distributed knowing looks all around.