“I’ve got plans later. Skateboarding.” She had mastered every half-pipe and mini-ramp—I made an effort to learn the lingo—at Lakewood Park.
Cathy turned to me. “I’ve got a committee meeting after school.”
I shrugged and looked at my little girl as she brushed strands of silky hair away from her face and munched on an apple. “I’ll pick you up, out front near the bike racks. We can hit the park, then head home for dinner.”
Molly said nothing, obviously copping an attitude about her mother driving her to school.
“Good. That’s settled.” Cathy tousled my hair as she passed by, toward the stairs. “I need to get dressed.”
Molly watched her head up the steps and then set the half-eaten apple on the table. “I’m glad you came home when you did. Mom was scared.”
I nodded slightly. “She worries, you know.”
“Oh, believe me, I know.” Grinning, she reached for the apple and took a nibble.
I stood, kissed her on the forehead, and trotted up the frayed chestnut-colored stair runner. When I entered our tight bedroom, Cathy was shimmying into a gray skirt. She hadn’t donned her blouse yet; she stood there in a white bra. I’d first seen her in panties and a bra nearly thirty years ago, after our engagement, months after we’d met at a St. Patrick’s Day party.
In the wall mirror mounted above the dresser, she watched me approach across the brown pile carpet. Even though I couldn’t read her face, I took her by the shoulders and nuzzled the delicate skin on her neck. “I wish there were time …”
“Maybe this weekend, okay?”
I nodded, but no part of me wanted to wait until the weekend to have sex. Oyster’s death made me burn to take Cathy right on the carpet, to feel alive and breathing and coming.
She turned and rested her hand on my cheek. “Don’t get mad at me for asking, but are you going to be all right?”
“I can deal with it.”
“You drank too much last night.” She dropped her hand but continued to face me.
“After Molly was in bed. The thing with Oyster …”
“I get it, but you were pretty bombed.”
“Christ, Cathy, if you’d seen that body, you’d understand.”
“You still drink too much sometimes.”
“Curse of the Irish.” I smiled broadly.
“I’m serious.”
“C’mon. You know I’ve cut back. I catch a game at the Tam a couple times a week. Maybe a few after work, a nightcap when she’s in bed.”
“I’m not looking for a fight, John. I just worry. First the magazine article, now you find a dead man. It’s just … it’s been a long time since you’ve had to see a therapist.”
“You don’t need to worry, Cathy.”
She sighed and shut her eyes for a moment, and then said, “You’ll tell me, won’t you, if you’re having problems?”
“Cathy … I promise.” I wasn’t looking for a fight either; I knew that her heart was in the right place. I gently squeezed her shoulder.
“Sometimes you’re impossible.”
“What about sexy, handsome …”
“Not even close, not last night.” She picked up a pearly blouse from the dresser and slipped it on. “What about a session with Father McGraw next Sunday?”
I stopped dead, halfway to the bathroom. “Really, Cathy? I’m fine. We all are.”
“You just found the body yesterday, John. Shouldn’t we get ahead of the game, especially for Molly? I just want her to understand what you went through and how to deal with any problems at school.”
“I think it’s premature.”
“You know he saved our marriage.”
“But this is different.” The leaden counseling sessions with our priest had helped us, no question, but dragging Molly into the equation just didn’t seem necessary. “Can we talk about this later?”
Cathy nodded, tight-lipped, and I headed toward the bathroom. She called good-bye to me as I lathered in the shower, letting my skin grow soft beneath the spray of hot water. I finally emerged, toweled off, and walked directly to my oaken bureau. The envelope would be there, tucked beneath the folded woolen sweaters. I crouched, naked, and slid open the bottom drawer.
I’d shown the letter to the police after it had arrived, all those years ago. They had kept the original but given me a copy. I’d let Cathy see it after we were married, and she had wrapped me in her arms while I wept. Sometimes, nearly always beyond drunk, I’d pull the worn paper out and examine every marking, right down to the stains caused by my tears. That hadn’t happened for years now, which was fine by me.
The paper unfolded, but it would not lie flat against the carpet. The stiff creases resisted, as though the writing did not wish to be read. On the original, cutout letters had been fastidiously glued to white stationery.
Dear John Coleman:
I am so sorry about your father. He was such fun. So earnest, so intense, so desperate. The ridicule when he failed to stop me, the public outcry and scorn. Then losing his position, how embarrassing! So difficult for you to have a laughingstock for a father.
And the papers said that you found him! I can imagine the mess, and you, just a high school boy. He counts as one of mine, you know. I killed him as surely as if I’d taken his liver, his lungs, and his heart.
I’ll be watching you, young man.
Bold black capital letters spelled THE BUTCHER.
I had come home after football practice. My mother had been at her Altar and Rosary Society meeting, and our modest bungalow had been quiet. I went to use the bathroom, and he was slouched against the tile wall near the toilet, the bone-white porcelain spattered with red. Blood and brains were everywhere, and part of me cried aloud for the man I remembered, wishing that he were playing a macabre costume game with ketchup and cottage cheese. But another voice, deep within me, mouthed a prayer of thanks that the beast he’d become was dead forever.
On the morning of his funeral, I’d stolen into my parents’ bedroom, taken his thick leather belt, and flung that stinging memory in the trash.
3
On my drive into the office, along the Shoreway, Lake Erie was as calm as the proverbial millpond, and the few skyscrapers that framed Cleveland’s skyline were awash in the glow of morning sunlight. Recreational boaters dotted the blue water as they puttered away from Edgewater Marina, and in the distance, a freighter lazed northwest to Detroit. The lake wasn’t always so tranquil, of course; fifteen-foot waves would hurl against the meandering shore whenever a gale swept in from Canada. On those days, sailors huddled in port, and adventurous surfers, sheathed in black wetsuits, defied the churning green-gray swell.
My office was in the Singer Building, a once prestigious location but now just a site where even small-timers like me could afford the rent. Marilyn, my perky, divorced, forty-five-year-old secretary—or “assistant,” as the PC folks would say—was ensconced behind her cherry veneer reception desk when I arrived.
She was evidently between boyfriends because, once again, she had altered the color of her eye shadow, and her jet black hair was sleeked back in a new style. I shut the door behind me. “New ’do. Looking good.”
“Just once, I’m waiting for you to tell me I look like shit.” Marilyn had worked with me for ten years or, as she would say, a decade too long.
“So you’d walk out? Who’d convince pissed-off clients that I’m a saint? Or tell opposing counsel they can kiss my ass?”
“Yeah, yeah.” She crossed her arms and leaned onto her desk. Marilyn was thin and bony, but her stare had the intensity of the nun who’d caught some buddies and me passing around a Playboy magazine in eighth grade. “I saw the news. You okay with all this?”
We kept a coffee pot in a narrow alcove across from her desk; I poured a cup. “It’ll pass. But if the press wants to talk, I have no comment. I’m done with those bastards.”
“Can’t blame you. And you’ve already had some calls. I sent you an email.” Marily
n fiddled with a long earring, copper and silver strands that shimmered in the light.
“Go ahead, beat me up for not checking the cell. I figured anything could wait until I got here. Something urgent?”
“No, but one sounds like new business, handling an estate.”
“Worried about getting paid?” Big-firm lawyers can bank steady checks from corporate clients. Not me—a little estate work here, a little business stuff there, whatever I can get in the door.
“Never. I know where you live.”
“Don’t be smart. It’s too early.”
“By the way, the bloodshot eye thing? Nice.”
I flashed a mock grin and walked into my utilitarian office. The faux oak paneling looked tired, the requisite degrees needed reframing, and the worn office furniture nearly screamed that it had once been marked-down inventory at a discount place on Euclid Avenue. No plaques commemorated my leadership in civic organizations; no photographs bore witness to my connections with celebrities or politicians.
The phone message was from a Jennifer Browning. The name was unfamiliar, but I sipped my coffee and dialed the number. Odds were that she knew a cop or was related to one. Because of my dad’s old cronies, a lot of my clients were cops or retired cops and faithfully made referrals.
“Ms. Browning?” I said, in response to a sultry hello. “John Coleman, returning your call.”
“Thanks for getting back to me.” Her lyrical tone was enchanting. “I called about my father, Wilbur Frederickson.”
“Oyster?”
“Yes, but I never liked that name.”
If my parents had saddled me with a name like Wilbur, I would rather have been called Oyster, but I wasn’t about to tell her that. “Sorry. A great guy—everybody liked him.”
“I can’t believe it.” Jennifer was clearly struggling not to cry. “He left a will. Your business card was on his desk, your name in the paper, so I figured …”
“I’d be glad to help.” I appreciated that she’d refrained from mentioning anything that the paper had said about my father. My calendar was virtually clear, although I didn’t mention that to Jennifer as we arranged the meeting.
“I have a brother,” she suddenly said. “He won’t need to be there, will he?”
“No. Is there something I should know?”
“It’s just … he’s a drug addict; we’re not on speaking terms.”
“I’m sorry, Jennifer. That must be difficult. He’ll need to sign some papers, but we can discuss that when we meet.” I wasn’t happy with the news. Dealing with family conflict only made my job more challenging. “My advice? Change the locks on your parents’ home.”
“Got it. Thank you.”
“I’ll watch the paper, but would you let me know when the service is? I’d like to attend.” Now that I’d been retained, showing up at the funeral was basically mandatory.
“That’s nice. Thank you. I’ll look forward to meeting you.”
We rang off. Oyster’s murder was going to net me a fee, and that seemed wrong. I’d at least make sure to toast his memory with a topshelf Irish whiskey and do a damn fine job for his heirs. I owed Oyster a good turn and, truth be told, I hoped like hell that Jennifer in the flesh wouldn’t remind me of her sister, Martha, Oyster’s late daughter.
Our affair had taken place in my pre-Molly days, during a rough patch, when Cathy and I had barely been speaking, let alone touching. Martha’s hand had brushed mine when we’d reached for the same bowl of corn chips, beneath a multihued piñata and strands of white, red, and green bunting, during happy hour at a popular Mexican spot in Bay Village. An orange sweater clung to her, and her hazel eyes sparkled. With a toss of her blonde hair, she said that my smile was cute. We were soon at her apartment, shedding our clothes, for the happiest hour of all.
Because she’d kept her ex’s last name, I hadn’t known that she was Oyster’s daughter, not at first. Once I figured out the connection, my cheating with Martha seemed even more problematic. Every time we were together, I knew that it was wrong—on many levels. The guilt kept mounting, until I finally summoned the courage to end our trysts. Sadly, by then, Martha had confused lust with love. The image of her, quivering beneath a tightly drawn blue sheet as streaks of mascara trailed down her cheeks, was searing. I’ll make it easy. Just get the fuck out.
I agreed to counseling with Father McGraw—although my affair was something that I’d never confessed. Cathy and I smoothed over our simmering issues and then adopted Molly, the glue that bound us together. And Martha? She’d been buried years ago, a young cancer victim, but shaking that vision of the pain I’d inflicted on her was impossible. And that shameful memory was exactly what I deserved.
Then, out of the blue, her sister. And a junkie brother. A slaughtered father. My gut told me that handling this estate was going to be anything but routine.
4
“So, what’s up?” I asked as Bernie slid into the pine booth. He wore an outfit nearly identical to his attire at the Tam—maybe he’d changed the shirt. His call just before noon, suggesting lunch, was timely. My hangover was finally drifting away, and I was ready for something to eat.
He eyed the Miller Café’s floral wallpaper and kitschy knick-knacks as if he’d never seen the joint before. “You doin’ okay?”
I didn’t need any more hand-wringing, not even from Bernie. “I told you—”
“I’m not talkin’ about Oyster and all of that. You and Cathy, how’s that going?”
I hated it when he dredged up the situation between me and Cathy. Our wives were close, working together on church potlucks or parish fund-raisers and related Good Samaritan missions. When Cathy and I started having some serious issues, Mrs. Salvatore yackety-yacked to her hubby about whatever Cathy told her, and ever since, Bernie felt some sort of obligation to follow up. “Everything’s fine.”
“She’s only worried about you, John. Called the wife, said you got toasted last night.”
“Well, she’s right. I’m … under the circumstances, I’m not gonna apologize.”
“Think that’s what I’m asking? I just don’t wanna see all that bullshit from your past resurface and you start backsliding.”
Bernie knew too much, heard too much. He’d once pulled me aside, back in the day, and said there was some lewd gossip circulating about my drinking and running around. I’d confessed to some boozy, hazy nights, but claimed that I was keeping it zipped. Even Bernie did not know the truth. “Hey, I’ve been a damn Boy Scout.”
“Any interesting merit badges?”
“You are a dickhead.”
We laughed as the waitress, a bony redhead with a long tattoo of oriental characters on her arm, scampered over to take our order. She had a cute face, and I couldn’t resist asking her what the tat meant.
She shrugged. “I was hanging out with my Chinese boyfriend in New York. Him and the tattoo guy told me it meant flying red lady, which I thought was kind of cool.” She looked down at her notepad. “After the dirtball dumped me, he said it means dumb bitch in Mandarin.”
Straightening her arm, she gave us the whole canvas. “But it looks awesome, don’t you think?”
I nodded, but wondered why people would permanently disfigure their bodies like that. I hoped that Molly would never fall for a piece of shit like the Chinese boyfriend.
We both ordered sandwiches and coffee, and she pranced away, quickly returning with two steaming mugs.
Bernie took a loud slurp. “Anybody giving you shit about your father?”
“No. There’s been some calls, but I think it’s just to dig for gossip. Haven’t bothered to return them.” Back in high school, after Dad killed himself, the bullies had been all over my ass. Bernie, being one of the few Italian kids in our school, had learned at an early age to respond to slurs of wop and dago with his fists. He’d stepped in to help me out with the worst assholes.
“Good. I talked to Jennifer Browning a bit ago, a few follow-up questions about Oyster. She sai
d you’ll be representing her.”
I lowered my cup to the table. “You make it sound like that’s not a good thing.”
“The rumor, back in the day, was about you and the sister who died …”
“Martha.” I eyed a framed black-and-white of downtown Cleveland on the wall, taken fifty years ago, when dark plumes of smoke from bustling steel factories jousted with billowing clouds.
“Well?”
“Nothing to talk about.”
“Sorry if I hit a sore spot.” He smirked and raised his eyebrows. “Umm. Well, I do miss living vicariously. To quote President Ford, ‘We’ve all got a little lust in our hearts.’”
“That was Carter.”
“I forgot—you’re an authority on lust, ever since you nailed Ellen O’Donnell junior year. Can’t forget her in a cheerleading uniform.”
“Oh, yeah, Ample Ellen.” She’d let me go so far as dry-humping her in the back of her old man’s station wagon, and I’d blown my wad in about twenty seconds. I let Bernie and the other guys think that we’d screwed. “So, about Jennifer. Is there something I’m supposed to know?”
He grinned and took another swig. “Nothing about her, but her brother, Frank, is a real piece of work.”
“Jennifer told me he has issues.” The thought occurred to me that, although Martha had often spoken of her sister, I didn’t recall any mention of a brother.
“In spades. We want to talk to him. He might know more about where the old man hung out, besides the Tam, or if somebody was pissed at him. Trouble is, can’t find the bastard.”
“Maybe he’s too strung out to pick up a phone.” For several years after my father died, the docs loaded me up with meds—multihued mood stabilizers, antidepressants. Some days and nights, when I took the wrong dose or an incorrect combination, summoning the will to make a simple phone call was impossible.
“I’m worried the kid might be makin’ a run for it, Johnny. He’s in some deep shit.”
“You don’t … His own father?”
“No, I don’t make him for that, at least not yet. I don’t think he has it in him, for one thing. Frank Frederickson is basically a fucked-up punk. When the rich white kids in Bay Village or Westlake wanted a toot, they’d head out in Daddy’s BMW to see Frank. Some undercover cop, wired like a fucking Radio Shack, nailed his ass. But Frank kept his mouth shut, took the fall for a couple of guys higher up the supply chain.”
The Company of Demons Page 2