The Company of Demons

by Michael Jordan

  She smiled, stepped forward, and rested her hand on my arm. “Maybe another time?”

  I pictured Martha, and Cathy. Molly dropping her skateboard at the door to give me a hug. But Jennifer looked so damn pretty, and the desire for another kiss, like that night at Dino’s, was intense. I wanted to embrace her, to toss aside every conversation with Father McGraw, and screw her in the cramped front seat of my Buick. She faced me, her lips mere inches from mine. I glanced up, past the lights in the parking lot and into the darkness and glimmering stars so far above, but no words came to me.

  She broke the electric silence. “I think I’d better go.” As she opened the car door, I stepped back and was left to wonder whether I would have crossed the line. Again. I had vowed that my affair with Martha would be the last, but that promise had almost teetered in the parking lot of Ed’s Eggs. Oddly, her sister seemed to be some indecipherable link to Jennifer, but that was not all that bound us. There was also the Butcher and what he’d done to her father. To my father. And Frank, in a way, was a link all his own. Frank—and the secrets he harbored.

  I turned toward my car. It was time to go home to my wife and daughter.

  When I came in from the garage, I hesitated in the kitchen before walking into the living room. Cathy gasped at the sight of my bloated nose. She clicked off the television and sprang from the sofa. “Jesus, John … what the hell happened?”

  “I was asking around about Frank Frederickson, and some asshole bouncer belted me.” My guilt about the parking lot interlude spiked with every quick step that she took toward me. I wanted to be away from the Bible and the crucifix and her. “Let me shower.”

  “It’s nearly ten. You didn’t answer your cell.” Her hands cradled my face as she examined my nose.

  I pulled out my phone. “Must have powered this damn thing off. Pretty out of it after the guy sucker-punched me.”

  “John …” She dropped her hands and stepped back, her eyes narrowing. “Boozing? I can smell it.”

  “Just stopped for one, to clear my head.”

  “You could have had a drink here. You left us alone.”

  “Let it go, Cathy. I just got beat up—”

  “What if you have a concussion? Let’s get to the ER.”

  “No. Not even a headache. Let me clean up.”

  “Don’t be stubborn, not now.” She reached out, as if to take me by the arm.

  I stepped back. “Jesus, knock it off!”

  She jerked as though I’d slapped her. Nodding toward the stairs, she hissed, “Keep your voice down, damn it.” She returned to the sofa and curled her legs beneath her.

  “I’m sorry.” I took a breath to calm myself and ran a hand across my forehead. “We can talk once I’ve washed up.”

  “Listen to yourself. Think about what happened to you tonight. A fight?”

  “I just wanna clean up and go to bed.”

  “Some reporters called, too, wanting to know what you thought about all these killings. I told them that you had no comment, like you said.” Her hands tightened into fists in her lap. “I wanted to scream at them to leave you alone.”

  “They’ll stop pestering me once they understand that my lips are sealed.”

  “Vanessa Edwards, the pretty black one, said that she knows you.”

  “She covered a case of mine once.” Even Vanessa would have to back off, eventually.

  Molly’s feet padded down the steps. I wanted to bolt. I sure as hell didn’t want her to see me in a blood-spotted beige shirt, spinning half-truths to her mother, but there was nowhere to hide. She stood on the bottom step, her mouth agape.

  “Daddy …” Her dark eyes fixed on my face and welled with tears, a rare show of emotion. And to think that, less than an hour ago, I’d been ready to screw a woman who was not her mother.

  “A bad man attacked me, honey. I fought back, like I told you to, but he was younger, bigger.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Go on back to bed. Daddy’s going to shower.”

  She didn’t move, but glanced at Cathy and back to me. “Why did you yell at Mom?”

  I swallowed. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have stayed out. With the Butcher out there, I should have been home, with you and your mom.”

  “We talked about him at school today.” She stepped onto the hardwood floor and padded to Cathy. “The other kids said I must know more than anybody, because of my grandfather.”

  Cathy wrapped her arms around her. “You know, until they catch him, we just want to make sure that you’re safe. Remember my cousin Kate from Chicago and her husband, Peter?”

  “Sure.”

  I took a step toward them. “What are you doing?” I asked her, my voice low, warning.

  She ignored me. “You liked them when they visited. They said you could stay with them, just until this is over.”

  “Damn it, Cathy!” I wanted to snatch the perfectly poised figurines from the coffee table and smash every one. “We talked about—”

  “Watch your mouth,” she snapped.

  Molly said, “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Cathy’s voice softened. “Listen to me, honey. It will just be for a while. Dad’s business is keeping him out late, and he can’t always be here to take care of us.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “That’s—”

  Molly, the child of foster care, unfamiliar places, and lonely nights, held up a small hand to silence me. “I’m not doing it.”

  “Why don’t you go up and let your dad and me talk?” Cathy said. “We can—”

  “Mom, I’m not going anywhere. And I won’t stay inside all day, either. You said that you trusted me.” She was talking to both of us now. “You said to be careful, but never afraid. I’m not going to be stupid, and I’m going to be me. Just like you said.”

  Cathy and I didn’t utter a word. We had just been put in place by our thirteen-year-old daughter.

  “And, Dad, you should learn to duck.” Molly pulled out of her mother’s arms and trotted up the steps.

  Cathy gave me a long look. “Don’t you dare be upset with me. You won’t go to a counselor, and now you’re going out and getting beat up, your daughter sees you …”

  “I can’t believe you brought that up. I told you how I felt.”

  Her chin jutted defiantly. “One of us has to make the right decision. Molly comes first.”

  “Oh, for … of course she does.” I sat on the other end of the sofa. “Cathy, I had no way of knowing that somebody was going to take a swing at me. This won’t happen again.”

  “I want to trust you, John.” She stood and walked around the coffee table, away from me, toward the stairs. “But you’re just not being yourself.”

  “I’ll be here, Cathy.” I leaned forward and spread my hands.

  She didn’t pause as she went upstairs. “We can talk more tomorrow.”

  I poured a nice, stiff drink in the kitchen and returned to the living room, in the shadow of the cross above the mantel, to watch the news. Bernie was pissed at me, I’d gotten my ass kicked, my daughter had seen my mess of a face, my wife wanted to send Molly to Chicago, and the Butcher was on the loose.

  Then there was Jennifer.

  14

  “So many different smells!” Molly wrinkled her nose as the competing aromas drifted toward us: pungent raw meat, freshly baked breads, the fishy smell of perch and walleye. We’d traipsed down the bustling Twenty-Fifth Street and passed through a set of weathered green doors into the century-old West Side Market.

  “It was just like this when I was a kid, sweetie.” I’d had a direct talk with Cathy following our exchange in the living room and insisted that I could—and would—spend more time with Molly. Late nights out were also off the agenda, although Cathy had seemed to sense my hesitancy to make that promise. But I had made it, and I’d meant every word, because Molly had to come first.

  We navigated through aisles jammed with hectic shoppers inspecting stalls brimmi
ng with headcheese and kielbasa, rice hurka and blood sausage. A little bonding time with my daughter, followed by a steak dinner with my family on a Saturday night. Although Cathy and I remained testy, we had agreed to do our best to make our home as normal as possible, for Molly’s sake.

  Havlicek’s Meats was my favorite purveyor of slabs of beef in the market, maybe because my old man used to take me there when I was a kid and he was a bigshot cop. Havlicek’s was a bit of a local legend, as the oldest—and probably the best—meat stand in the market. Even though Oyster and I might have argued over who was the best Browns running back or the greatest Indians team, we’d always agreed that no one topped Havlicek’s.

  The grandson of the founder was toiling away behind the counter as we approached. He had always been a stocky, stern-looking man, but his crewcut was now pure white.

  “Hey, Mr. Havlicek. John Coleman.”

  “Well, well, look who drove in from the suburbs.” He grinned, wiped his palms on a grimy apron, and reached across the counter to shake hands. “It’s been months. Get tired of goin’ to Heinen’s?”

  “Guilty as charged.” I raised my arms in mock surrender. “Remember my little girl, Molly?”

  He beamed in recognition and spread his Popeye-like arms wide. “How could I forget such a pretty young lady? You’ve grown!”

  Blushing, Molly leaned into me.

  “Remember what I told you about my stall?”

  Molly giggled. “I forget.”

  “Our beef is so tender, you wonder how the cows walked.”

  Now Molly full-out laughed. “I remember! I didn’t get it at first.”

  Havlicek gave her a wink and then turned to me. “I’ve been thinking about you, your old man.”

  “I know, hard to believe it’s the Butcher, after all these years.”

  “Yeah … I just wish they called him something else.” Havlicek shrugged, and even Molly smiled at his gallows humor.

  “You knew Oyster Frederickson, right? He used to come here too.”

  “Sure, the guy with the eyes. Nice guy. Helluva thing.”

  “I was there …” I noticed Molly looking up at me. It was time to change the subject, and I ran my hand through her hair. “You should ask Mr. Havlicek about the time he stole that ball …”

  Molly gave me a blank look, and I said, “Just pulling your leg, honey. He has the same name as a famous basketball player, before your time.”

  “I was in Boston once, when he was still playin’. You wouldn’t believe the restaurant reservations I got.” Havlicek nodded to a few people who had lined up behind me and asked, “So, what can I do you for today? Rib eyes look great.”

  I nodded, and he stooped to reach into the stand. As he wrapped the meat and slid the parcel of white butcher paper into a plastic bag, my attention drifted to a dark-haired woman in the rear of the stall, methodically slicing through cuts of meat. I wondered how long she’d had this job to make it appear so effortless, almost graceful. My mind flashed to Oyster, what had happened to him. I turned my gaze from the knife and paid Havlicek.

  As Molly and I worked our way through the crowd, I glanced at my watch. I was meeting Jack Corrigan for lunch, but there was still plenty of time to kill. “You want a pop, Molly, or chocolate milk?”

  She raised her eyebrows and smiled broadly, so we strolled into the snug café nestled in a corner of the market. Brick columns supported an arched ceiling covered in turquoise tile, creating a light, airy feel. We snared the one open booth, and I sat facing my daughter, bracing for the conversation that I knew we needed.

  A harried waitress with frizzy blonde hair took our order. Once she left, I groped for the right words. Molly made it easy, asking, “Is this where we’re going to talk about the fight you and Mom had?”

  I did smile, despite myself. “It wasn’t really a fight. Just … you know.”

  “Just an argument? Sounded like a fight to me, but what do I know? I’m just a kid.”

  “You’re a smart-aleck kid, is what you are.” I grinned. “Call it what you want; we made up. I’m just sorry you heard us.”

  “Did Mom really think I’d go to Chicago?”

  “She’s just worried is all.” The waitress set our drinks down, and I drew the coffee mug toward me. “That’s what moms do.”

  “I’m not going, no matter what.” Her jawline was rigid.

  “I know that, and really, so does your mom. I think she was just upset with me.”

  Molly took a sip of her sugar-and-caffeine-free pop. “She hates it when you’re late. And now that the killer is back, she’s afraid.”

  “The Butcher isn’t coming after any of us, honey. Your mom—”

  “You don’t understand. She’s afraid for you.” Molly stirred her pop with the straw.

  I felt myself tense. “Did she say that?”

  “No, but I can tell.” She took another sip, looked around the room, then back at me. “Mom says that, when you got punched a couple of nights ago, you were in a terrible neighborhood.”

  “Yeah, I was.” I forced a grin. “Even dads make mistakes.”

  “She says you were lucky, that it could have been worse. Killed, even.” Her eyes were moist.

  I wanted to toss the table aside and draw her to me for a hug. But I knew that Molly would not appreciate the gesture—at least, not in public. Instead, I said, “Don’t worry. I promised your mom that nothing like that would happen again.”

  I surreptitiously glanced at the clock mounted on the wall, but Molly noticed. So much for my stealthy moves.

  “Are you going to be late?” she asked.

  “No, no. I can cancel if you want.” I hoped she could tell that I was being sincere. Raising a teenage daughter is not for the faint of heart.

  “Uh-uh. Tell Mr. Corrigan I said hello.” Molly slurped the last of her drink through the straw. “I remember him, that time he came to the house. He has a mean face, but he’s nice.”

  “What did I tell you?”

  She nudged the glass to the center of the table and sighed. “I know. Never judge a book by its cover.”

  I DROPPED MOLLY AT THE HOUSE AND HEADED STRAIGHT for the Tam, arriving just ten minutes late. Jack Corrigan was three-quarters of the way down the polished bar, with a mug of beer and a shot glass in front of him.

  “I thought you said noon.” The big bastard looked perfectly at home. His leathery mitt nearly swallowed his mug.

  “I figured you wouldn’t mind waiting, as long as it was somewhere you could get a drink.” Jack had called the day before to arrange for lunch, which made me curious. I’d suggested the Tam, figuring it was time for me to slide back onto my usual stool. Jack said he’d been there before, which was no surprise.

  Despite the time that had passed since my altercation at the Alley, my nose was still puffy.

  Of course, Jack noticed right away. “So what happened to the schnoz?”

  There was no way to put a positive spin on the story, because Jack wasn’t a guy who would have gone down with one punch. I slid onto a stool and waved to Karen. “Out lookin’ for my client’s brother and ran into some trouble.”

  “How many were there?”

  He asked it deadpan, but I knew he was baiting me and would sniff out a lie in about a second. “Guy was as big as a goddamn truck and half my age. Half my age and he does this, the prick.”

  “So you’re out doin’ a cop’s job and get beat up by a kid. Helluva game plan you got, Ace.”

  Karen saved me by setting my usual beer on the bar. Her blue eyes sparkled as always, and she looked vibrant in an emerald green sweater. I hadn’t seen her since Oyster’s funeral. “Doin’ okay?”

  “Still hard to believe it was the Butcher,” she said. “Right in our alley. I try not to think about it, but he’s all over the papers, the TV.”

  “Press called me, but I’m not talking. They twist everything.”

  “What do you expect? You ever confuse any of those faggots with Walter Cronkite?” Jack
asked. “They’ll leave you alone after awhile. Too many other dickheads want to be in the spotlight, throw in their two cents. I mean, not that you’re a dickhead …”

  I grinned, but my gaze wandered toward the back door, leading out into that alley.

  Karen broke my train of thought when she slid a couple of menus on the bar and told us to let her know if we wanted to order anything. The Tam served classic bar food, which would be fine with Jack. No Cuban sandwiches, no fish tacos, nothing trendy or foreign for him to bitch about. Of course, he still might start in about the rock and roll bands. A poster on the wall behind him, a psychedelic rendering of long hair and hazy smoke, touted an appearance by Grand Funk Railroad at the old Agora Ballroom, near Cleveland State.

  “So, why the call?”

  Jack folded his arms on the bar. “I sat down with Bernie Salvatore and Dickless Tracy about the killings. Apparently, I’m the only cop still around who worked on both Torso and the Butcher.”

  “You guys used to have, like, class reunions?” At least I got a smirk out of him. “That Coufalik’s a piece of work.”

  “Built like a brick shithouse, and twice as hard. She don’t much like you.”

  “We got off to a bad start.”

  Jack sighed and pushed away from the bar, stretching his back. “Bernie thinks you’re getting carried away with these murders. She thinks you’re, well … strange was the word.”

  So this was what our meeting was about. Not to catch up and shoot the shit, not to banter about the murders, but to talk about what a problem I was. “Bernie worries too much. His wife’s close to mine, they talk, you know how it is.”

  “He says you nearly left Cathy’s birthday dinner to get to that crime scene in Shaker?”

  Bernie must have had a helluva conversation with Jack. “So? I didn’t go.”

  “Yeah, but then you did go lookin’ for the brother.”

  “Look, I wanna talk with him, too, about the estate. I was only trying to help.” I sipped the cold beer. “I thought that was what they wanted.”

  “Oh, they ask you to try and track him down in some shithole neighborhood?” He glanced at my nose. “That’s workin’ out well for you.”