Homicide Related

by Norah McClintock

  “I hear some people even live with ex-cops and go to school regular,” Jeffie said, grinning at Dooley now, like, are you for real? “When are you up, Dooley? When are you gonna cut loose?” Meaning, when could Dooley go back to being Dooley? There were times—plenty of times—when Dooley thought about exactly that—when he would have the authorities off his case, when he could party again, when he could do all the things he used to do that made him forget all the crap in his life, that made him float, that took the sharp edges off, that made all the bullshit go away. If he wanted it, Jeffie could fix him up with something. It would be so easy.

  “I’m out of that now,” Dooley said.

  “Right,” Jeffie said, still grinning—see?—not believing him. Well, why would he? Why would anyone who had known Dooley then believe that he was different now? It irked him, though, to have put in all that time, to have done everything that he had these past few months, and then to come face-to-face with someone like Jeffie and realize that Jeffie didn’t see the difference. What was the point?

  Dooley dug into his jeans pocket and pulled out the money he had withdrawn from the bank. It was a good thing—good for Jeffie—that he had called when he did because what he wanted was more than the daily limit that Dooley was allowed to withdraw from an ATM. Twenty minutes later, the bank would have been closed and Jeffie would have been out of luck. But because he’d called when he had, Dooley still had time. He’d told Beth he wouldn’t be long; he had to do an errand and he would meet her at the library. Then he’d gone and stood in a long line to get the money from one of two tellers working at a counter that had six teller stations. He held the money out to Jeffie now. Jeffie snatched it out of his hand, like he was afraid if he didn’t, Dooley would change his mind. He started to count it.

  “Hey, fuck you,” Dooley said. Didn’t anyone trust anyone anymore?

  “You have any idea what kind of shit storm I’ll be in if I’m short?” Jeffie said. He continued thumbing the bills. When he finished, he jammed the money into his pocket.

  “You’re sure you’re good for it?” Dooley said.

  “One hundred percent.”

  “Because I can find you if I have to, Jeffie. You don’t want to mess me up over this, you really don’t. You got that?”

  Jeffie grinned, but even in the darkness Dooley caught the uncertainty in his eyes as Jeffie remembered the Dooley he used to know. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe it would give Jeffie the right incentive to pay him back.

  “Don’t worry,” Jeffie said. “You’ll get your money. If you want, I’ll deliver it to your house.”

  That was the last thing Dooley wanted.

  “There’s a restaurant across the street from where I work,” he said. He told Jeffie where it was. “Meet me there on Monday, nine o’clock. That’s when I get my break.” He ignored Jeffie’s amused smirk and checked his watch. Unless he wanted to have to come up with excuses, which he knew his uncle would never buy, he had to get moving. “Monday night, Jeffie. Nine o’clock. Be there, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Jeffie said. “Don’t sweat it.”

  “Jesus H. Murphy,” Dooley’s uncle said as he came into the kitchen the next morning. “Just because I own a dry-cleaning store”—in fact, he owned two—“that doesn’t make me head laundress around here. The hamper is overflowing. When was the last time the thought of laundry crossed your mind, Ryan?”

  “I’ll get to it,” Dooley said.

  “Yeah? Like you’re going to get to picking up the clothes all over your floor? There’s a closet in your room, in case you didn’t notice. A chest of drawers, too.”

  Dooley gulped down the last of his orange juice and stood up.

  “You still want me to come by the store after school?”

  “What for?”

  What for? Dooley shook his head. “You told me a hundred times last week you’re getting the offices painted.”

  There were three offices at the back of his uncle’s original store—his uncle’s, the store manager’s, and the bookkeeper’s—all dingy and windowless. “You said you wanted me to move furniture for you.”

  “I have to go downtown today.”

  “How come?”

  “I have a meeting with Larry.” Larry Quayle, his uncle’s financial advisor.

  “I thought you met with him last week.” In fact, Dooley was sure of it. He had come down to breakfast one morning and found his uncle sitting at the kitchen table with a bunch of documents spread out in front of him. He’d been grousing about interest rates and the stock market.

  His uncle gave him a sharp look. “You’re keeping tabs on me now?” he said.

  Dooley rinsed his juice glass and set it in the dishwasher. Whatever had flown up his uncle’s nose, Dooley wished he’d snort it out soon.

  “I gotta go,” he said. “I’m gonna be late. I’ll go by the store after school and move the furniture, okay?”

  His uncle grunted.

  Two

  The next night at supper Dooley said, “If you want me for anything later, you’re going to have to get me on my cell phone.”

  His uncle looked up from his plate. “Why?” he said. Is the phone here busted and no one bothered to tell me?”

  “I have to go out,” Dooley said. “And it’s poker night, right?” Dooley knew for a fact it was, because it was written on the calendar on his uncle’s fridge. His uncle and a bunch of his cop and ex-cop friends played whenever they could pull a game together. When that happened and Dooley’s uncle left Dooley alone at home, he always called to check on him. He insisted on calling him on a regular phone line, never on his cell phone, his way of making sure Dooley was where he was supposed to be.

  “Where were you planning to go?” his uncle said, his choice of tenses making it clear that it wasn’t a done deal.

  “To the library. I’m going to see if Beth can come with me.”

  “You two have been spending a lot of time at the library lately.”

  There was no pleasing some people. When he’d first met his uncle, it was always, “Read a book, for Christ’s sake,” as if lack of reading had landed Dooley in trouble in the first place. Now it was, “You spend a lot of time at the library,” like that was the road to disaster.

  “You know Beth,” he said. “She’s into school.”

  “She’s a smart girl.” His uncle liked Beth. He particularly liked that Beth wasn’t the least bit intimidated by him. “Library closes at ten, correct?”

  Dooley nodded.

  “So be back at ten-thirty. Call me on my cell when you get in.” The idea being that his uncle would be able to see from the readout on his phone that Dooley was actually home.

  “Make it eleven,” Dooley said. “Give me time to take Beth home.”

  His uncle gave Dooley a look that Dooley couldn’t decide about. Either he was surprised that Dooley was so careful with Beth or he was suspicious, maybe wondering if Beth’s mother was going to be out and that’s why Dooley wanted to take Beth home, if maybe he’d take her home early—thinking that over and then probably wondering if Dooley would even make it to the library. Finally he nodded and said, “Eleven. I’m going to be expecting that call.”

  As soon as Dooley’s uncle left for his poker game, Dooley phoned Beth.

  “I have to go to the library to work on something for school,” he said. “You want to come?”

  “Again?” she said. “You were there last night—and the day before yesterday.”

  “I ended up not going last night,” he said. “You know, on account of you couldn’t make it because … what was the reason again?”

  “I had an essay due today,” she said. “And when I go to the library with you, I end up not getting a lot of work done.”

  Normally Dooley would have smiled at that—but not tonight.

  “So how’d it go?” he said.

  “The essay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I handed it in on time. What a relief.”

&nbs
p; Right, Dooley thought.

  “You worked hard on it, huh?” he said. What he was remembering: He’d started for the library but had lost interest when Beth said she couldn’t go. Instead, he’d drifted over to her building, thinking he’d maybe call her when he got there and see if her mother was out. If she was, maybe Beth would let him come up for a while. Or maybe she’d come down. It turned out that was a big mistake because while he was standing across the street so that he could look up at what he knew was her apartment, he saw a midnight blue Jag pull into the visitor parking area and a guy with perfect hair get out. Nevin. He went in through the main door and still hadn’t come out again forty minutes later when Dooley’s cell phone rang. It was his uncle, telling him, “Pick up some tonic water on your way home, would you? Jeannie’s coming over.”

  “I always work hard on my essays,” Beth said now.

  “Come to the library with me,” Dooley said. “I’ll let you work. I promise.” He would let her do whatever she wanted, just so long as she was with him and not Nevin.

  “I can’t.” There was a slight pause—what was that about?—before she said, “My history team is coming over.”

  “Your history team?”

  “We got divided into teams for a class project. My team is meeting tonight.”

  “You didn’t mention that,” Dooley said, meaning, when he had talked to her last night. And, just like that, he was thinking about Nevin again. He wondered how long Nevin had been there last night and what he and Beth had been doing up there in Beth’s place. He couldn’t believe it was debating. If Dooley had been alone with her in her apartment, the absolute last thing he would ever be interested in was debating. He wouldn’t even be interested in talking.

  “We just got assigned today,” Beth said. “Believe me, I’d rather go with you. But I can’t.”

  History teams. What kind of dumb idea was that, especially when, from what Beth had told him, there was no team spirit at her school when it came to academics? The way Beth had described it, getting the best grades was practically a blood sport.

  “There aren’t any boys on your history team, are there?” he said. He tried to say it like he was kidding around.

  “It’s a girls’ school, Dooley.”

  “A girls’ school that debates boys’ schools.”

  “The history teams are all girls,” Beth said. She dropped her voice, and Dooley wondered if her mother was listening in. “Come on, Dooley. If I could go with you, I would. But—”

  “If you can’t, you can’t,” Dooley said. “It’s no big deal.” Well, it wasn’t, was it? “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  He cleaned up the kitchen and then went up to his room to grab a sweatshirt. He ground to a halt when he passed the bathroom.

  What the hell …?

  The hamper had been overflowing this morning. Now it wasn’t. He lifted the lid. It was empty. Shit. He’d promised his uncle but …

  He went into his room. Double shit.

  Not only had all the clothes been picked up off his floor, but there were two fresh piles of laundry on his bed. And, triple shit, there was a little heap of stuff on his dresser that hadn’t been there this morning—a half-gone pack of gum, some coins, a couple of crumpled pieces of paper, damn, and a couple of rubbers. His uncle had emptied Dooley’s pockets before doing his laundry. The thing Dooley couldn’t figure out: Why his uncle hadn’t rubbed his nose in it over supper. He picked up one of the pieces of paper, smoothed it out, and stared at it for a moment before folding it and tucking it into his jeans pocket. He grabbed the sweatshirt he had come upstairs to get, pulled it on, and went back downstairs. He locked the house and walked to the bus stop, where he got on the bus and rode it to within one block of the central library. He went straight to the information desk and asked one of the women behind it half a dozen questions about where he could find information for a project on global warming. The library was full of people—students and older people, plus a lot of people from different countries. A lot of them were using the rows and rows of computers on the main floor. Dooley thanked the woman behind the information desk and went upstairs. Half an hour later, he couldn’t stand it anymore. He couldn’t handle the library when he wasn’t with Beth. She always worked hard, which made it easier for him to concentrate. Plus he could look at her. But when she wasn’t there … He wondered about her history team. It had to be all girls, right? She went to an all-girls school.

  He went back down to the main floor and got in line to leave. The library had an electronic security system, but it obviously left a lot to be desired because it also had guards posted at the exits to search briefcases, purses, backpacks, whatever you were carrying. One of the guards must have been on a break or something because the line-up for the only other guard was long. Everyone in it was speaking a foreign language. Dooley thought it was Chinese or maybe Korean, he wasn’t sure which. Finally he got to the head of the line and opened his backpack for inspection. The guard barely glanced into it. Dooley left the library—which was still crowded—without saying a word to anyone. He stood outside for a moment, trying to decide what to do. He kept thinking about that slip of paper in his pocket. Should he call? What would he say? What would she say? Maybe he should just drop by and check things out. Jesus, every thing had been going so well. At least, that’s what he’d thought. Why did it have to go and get all complicated?

  Fuck it.

  He walked to the bus stop and got on the first bus that came along. It wasn’t long before he was standing in front of an apartment building. He hesitated. Should he or shouldn’t he? Do the right thing, Dooley. Don’t screw things up.

  He crossed the street and marched up the concrete-slab walk. A man was coming out just as Dooley reached the security door. Dooley turned away quickly, as if he had forgotten something. The man strode past him without looking back, which made it easy for Dooley to grab the security door before it clicked shut.

  It was two minutes past eleven according to the clock on the stove by the time Dooley flicked on the kitchen light, picked up the phone, and punched in his uncle’s cell phone number. His uncle answered on the third ring. Dooley heard music in the background. What was that—a radio? A sound system?

  “Are you playing poker or having a party?” Dooley said.

  “Go to bed,” his uncle said, pissed off about something—again.

  “Good luck with the cards,” Dooley said. He hung up and then stood there for another minute, staring at the phone. He reached for the receiver again but pulled back at the last minute. Some things it was better not to know. Hell, a lot of things it was better not to know, even if trying not to think about them drove you crazy.

  “How’d you make out at the game?” Dooley asked the next morning when his uncle came into the kitchen.

  “I’m the one who does the checking up, not you,” his uncle said. He glanced at the coffeemaker. “So, how about it? You make it to the library?”

  “What?” Dooley looked at his uncle, whose sharp gray eyes were drilling into him. What kind of question was that? “Yeah. Of course.”

  “How was it? You get any work done?” There was a hook in his voice, like he was trying to catch Dooley out.

  “I got done what I set out to do,” Dooley said. He was relieved when his uncle stopped staring at him and turned his attention to pouring himself a mug of coffee. “So, who all was there?”

  His uncle, who was opening the fridge to get out the milk, glanced at him. “Where?”

  “At the poker game.”

  “Why?”

  “Just making conversation,” Dooley said.

  “Who wants conversation? I haven’t had my coffee yet, for Christ’s sake.” He slammed the fridge door. “Don’t you have school?”

  Jesus, not only was he still in that mood, but he was in it to the power of ten. Dooley gulped down the last of his own coffee and put his mug in the dishwasher.

  “I’m working tonight,” he said. “I’ll grab something to e
at on my break. I’m off at eleven.”

  But his uncle was seated now and had the paper open to the metro section, to the crime stories, and was sipping his coffee as he read. Thank God for that.

  At nine o’clock, Kevin came up to the cash where Dooley was working, slid the “Sorry, this cash is closed” sign onto the counter, and stood there watching while Dooley finished with a customer who was renting a couple of new releases. The other two customers in Dooley’s line shuffled over to Linelle’s cash. After Dooley had bagged the customer’s movies and handed him the receipt, he turned to Kevin.

  “What?” he said, thinking Kevin was going to ride him for a couple of freebies he’d given to a woman who had come in twenty minutes earlier itching for a fight. Seems she had rented some Disney piece of crap for her kid and had got all the way home, as she put it, making it sound like she’d trekked across a couple of continents instead of driving her SUV a total of four blocks (Dooley had checked her address in the computer) only to find that the case contained the director’s cut of Basic Instinct, which fact she had discovered only when she went into the TV room to check on her kid (a twelve-year-old boy who, if you asked Dooley, had outgrown Disney a minimum of five years ago) and caught him replaying the scene where Sharon Stone uncrosses and crosses her legs. Not only was the woman incensed at the incompetence of whoever had put the wrong disk in the case (from the way she looked at Dooley, Dooley believed she had decided on him as the prime suspect) and the slack attitude of whoever had neglected to check that the case contained the correct disk (Dooley hadn’t even been working the first time the woman was in the store), but she was also appalled that her son had been exposed to such inappropriate material. She had pointed dramatically to the kid, whom she’d dragged back to the store with her and who didn’t look nearly as appalled as his mother. In fact, when Dooley winked at him, the kid had grinned, but boy, he’d wiped that look off his face when he sensed his mother turning in his direction. Well, whatever. Dooley apologized, even though he hadn’t been at fault, and let her have two Disney movies, no charge. When she demanded that he double-check the disks, he not only managed to say “Sure, no problem,” without a hint of sarcasm, but he’d showed her the disks so that she could reassure herself that her son wouldn’t be subjected to any more inappropriate material. He’d even thrown in a free candy bar for the kid, mostly because he felt sorry for him.