Last Call

by Allyson K. Abbott

  “I just figured she was flirting, like all the others do,” Billy said. “I didn’t think it was anything serious.”

  “Well, it is,” I told him. “Do you like her?”

  “She’s a great conversationalist and whip smart,” he said. Then he shrugged and gave us a sly grin. “She’s also pretty and has some fantastic booty.”

  I smiled. It was typical of Billy to list the intellectual qualities ahead of the physical ones.

  “She isn’t seeing anyone?” Billy asked.

  “I don’t think so, but you could ask her to be sure,” I suggested.

  “I might just do that.”

  Having done my duty as matchmaker for the evening, I headed to my office and took care of some paperwork. Duncan and the O’Reillys returned a little under an hour later, hauling suitcases and bags behind them. Duncan and I took them upstairs, where I gave them the nickel tour, and again raised the topic of the sleeping arrangements.

  “It makes sense for me to sleep in the basement,” I told them. “My hours are strange, and I don’t want to come upstairs and wake all of you at three in the morning after I’ve closed down the bar. Nor do I want you guys waking me when you typically get up at six. So you guys take over my place, and I’ll sleep in the basement in Mal’s bed.”

  The expected objections were voiced, but I held firm, watching Duncan out of the corner of my eye. Part of me hoped he’d offer up his place for me to stay for the two or three days I’d be ousted from my own. I’d already decided I’d turn him down—it would be too much of a hassle driving back and forth with my crazy hours, and I’d get a lot more done if I stayed here. But it would be nice if he at least offered me the chance. It would communicate a certain level of commitment I had yet to see from him.

  The O’Reillys continued to protest, even arguing among themselves, something I’d discovered they did a lot. It was always good-natured bantering where no one’s feelings were truly hurt despite some robust name-calling. Their behavior gave me a glimpse into another type of life, one with lots of family and siblings, one that took place in an ordinary home, one that had two parents. It was the polar opposite of my upbringing, and for the first time in my life, I felt like I had missed out on something important and crucial. I shook it off almost as quickly as I felt it, because it seemed like I was betraying my father with the thought. He had done the best he could to raise and provide for me, and I’d never felt lacking or wanting when I was growing up. Sure, there were some awkward moments when not having a mother made things difficult. The onset of my menses was one, and my father had eventually solicited help and guidance from some of our female customers who came often enough for me to feel comfortable talking to them about such a delicate topic. And when I got old enough to start dating, I sought advice from my female friends and other women I knew, because my father’s take on me dating was that it would happen only over his dead body.

  I wasn’t alone in these trials and tribulations. There were always other kids who had similar issues: some with dead or divorced parents who had moved away, some with two moms or two dads instead of one of each, and some who had nothing but foster parents.

  I hadn’t thought much about kids before this. In the back of my mind, I think I always assumed I’d have one or two, but it was never a driving force or an urgent need. Now, for some reason, I could hear and feel my biological clock ticking. And after watching the loving banter that went on within the O’Reilly clan, I suddenly knew I wanted at least two kids, maybe more. Given that I was already thirty-three and about to turn thirty-four, the time for doing that was running out.

  These thoughts arose in my mind unexpected, unbidden, and a tiny bit unwelcome. It unsettled me. I looked over at Duncan, who was watching the O’Reillys with a smile, offering no hint that he was aware of my discomfort.

  I finally brought the discussion to a close. “Okay you guys!” I yelled. “This is my house, and my bar, and my town. You people have gone out of your way to help me with this elevator project, leaving your homes and traveling halfway across the country. I can’t possibly thank you enough for doing that for me, so please let me have this one piece, this tiny bit of gratitude I can show you. The very least I can do for all of you is make sure you are comfortable and safe. So the decision is made. All of you have the apartment, and I’m sleeping in the basement. End of discussion.”

  With that, I spun on my crutches, went into my bedroom, and gathered some clothing and other items I would need. Duncan followed me into the room and watched me for a moment as I hobbled back and forth between my bed, my closet, and my dresser.

  “How much longer do you have to wear that cast?” he asked finally.

  “I’m not sure. The doctor said six to eight weeks, depending on how fast I heal. I have an appointment in the morning and it will have been just shy of six weeks, so I’m hoping it will be gone tomorrow.”

  “I have to go back to the station soon,” he said. “I wish I could stay here with you. I’d offer you my place for tonight, but I won’t be there, and I’m not sure you’d be comfortable. And frankly, you’re safer here.”

  “Safer? Why do I need to worry about that now?” I hobbled into my bathroom to gather up some toiletries and add them to the collection on the bed. “The letter-writer thing is resolved, and no one has threatened me lately. At least no one I know of.”

  “I know. But you’re working with the police now. It’s a matter of public record. And in some circles, that makes you the enemy. Plus, we’ve already seen how many crazy people there are out there, people like Apostle Mike.”

  Apostle Mike was a man who had a cult following in the area, a cult of people who often bordered on the edge of sanity and decency. He had targeted me as a “sinner” early on by sending me a letter that called me an abomination, among other things. We thought at one point that he might have been the letter writer, but it wasn’t the case. He was a nutjob, however, and I was on his radar. Duncan had a point, one that I had managed to put out of my mind for a while. I didn’t welcome its return.

  Seeming to sense my discomfort, Duncan said, “I have patrol guys checking on this place regularly throughout the night. Every night. It’s part of their normal routine.”

  That knowledge helped some, but I also found myself wishing Duncan could stay the night. In addition to wanting him here for my personal and emotional reasons, he made me feel safe. Mal had done the same thing for me. I struggled some with this need to have a man at my side to feel secure, but it was a physical security rather than an emotional one, and that meant I didn’t have to turn in my feminist card just yet. At least that’s what I told myself.

  “It does make me feel better,” I told Duncan. “Thank you.” I hobbled over to my closest one last time and fetched an overnight bag from the shelf. I tossed it onto the bed and then went about loading my treasures into it.

  “I’ll carry that downstairs for you,” Duncan said as I zipped it closed. “You’ll have trouble managing the stairs with it and your crutches.”

  “Thank you.”

  We went out into the main area of the apartment and bid the O’Reillys good night. I gave them a key to the apartment and assured them they could help themselves to anything they found in it, or downstairs in the bar and bar kitchen. Then Duncan and I made our way to the basement and Mal’s makeshift bedroom.

  I plopped down onto the bed, exhausted from the emotional drain of the last hour, as well as the physical exertions. Mal’s smell wafted up from the bed linens, and when I looked over at his shirts hanging from the overhead pipes, I felt tears well up in my eyes.

  “What is it, Mack?” Duncan asked with sweet, smooth chocolate tones. He sat next to me on the mattress and draped an arm over my shoulders, pulling me toward him.

  “Is Mal going to be okay?” I asked.

  “He’ll be fine,” Duncan said, but the taste of his voice changed just enough to let me know he wasn’t 100 percent convinced of it. “Is that what has you upset? You’re worrie
d about Mal?”

  “That’s part of it,” I said. I let my answer hang out there.

  After a good half minute, Duncan finally bit. “What’s the rest of it?”

  I didn’t answer right away; I was trying to find a way to couch my words so they wouldn’t sound as needy or desperate as I feared I was. “With everything that’s happened to me lately, all the deaths, you coming into my life, Mal and his family, the Capone Club . . . it’s been a lot of change. Most of it good, mind you, but I feel unsettled. I feel like I’ve lost control of my life, like it’s slipping away from me and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I’m feeling things I’ve never felt before, wanting things I’ve never wanted before.” I paused and let out a slow breath. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s a midlife crisis of some sort.”

  “That’s all understandable, given everything you’ve been through,” Duncan said. “You’ve lost the only family you ever had, you were betrayed by someone in your new, adopted family, and you’ve nearly lost your own life a couple of times. You’re embarking on a new career of sorts, and even making some significant changes with your old one. That’s a lot of stress for anyone, Mack.”

  “Do you want to have kids?” I asked him.

  The suddenness and unexpectedness of this segue made him stiffen. But he didn’t hesitate to answer. “I do,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to be a father. What about you?”

  “I never really wanted to be a father,” I said, hoping to lighten the mood. It worked. Duncan chuckled, and I felt him relax, though the arm holding me tightened ever so slightly. “I guess I’ve always wanted kids,” I went on. “Or at least I assumed I’d have them one day. But to be honest, it was always off in the distance, a thing in the future, something to think about but not seriously consider. And now . . .”

  “Now you’re considering it, thinking about it more seriously,” Duncan finished for me.

  “Yes.”

  “And do I figure in to that equation at all?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, pushing myself away from him so I could look him in the eye. “Do you?”

  He leaned in closer. “I sure hope so,” he said, his voice rich with sweet chocolate. Then he kissed me, and before long we discovered that the makeshift bed was plenty comfortable and accommodating for the two of us.

  I slept alone in a strange bed, in a strange place, with noises and smells I didn’t typically experience during a night’s sleep. But I slept deep and well, dreaming of both Duncan and Mal, and then, oddly, about my mother. I say oddly, because I have no memories of her, only the pictures my dad showed me from time to time. But in my dream, I heard her voice before I saw the face, before I had any reason to expect her to be there. And I knew it right away. I’m sure I heard that voice plenty of times while she carried me in her belly, and perhaps some vestigial memory of it lingered in my brain. Or perhaps I made the whole thing up. I had no way of knowing. What I did know, is that when I woke the next morning I felt closer to my mother than I ever had before in my life. And I believed her when she told me in my dream that everything was going to be okay.

  Chapter 11

  I arose in my basement bedroom at eight the next morning—much earlier than my usual time, but I had my doctor’s appointment to go to at nine. I headed upstairs to the bar bathroom and did a sponge bath, brushed my teeth, and tried to tame my hair. Then I dressed and went out to the bar to put on some coffee so I’d have a cup to take with me. I heard the now-familiar sounds of the O’Reillys working on the elevator and went by to say good morning to them before I left. Not only was I impressed with the O’Reillys’ commitment to early rising day after day, I couldn’t help but envy how chipper and energetic they always were. I’ve never been much of a morning person, and me before and after my first cup of coffee each day is like the saga of Mr. Hyde and Dr. Jekyll.

  The O’Reillys’ high spirits buoyed my own as I left for my appointment. An hour and one X-ray later, I returned in a mood more exuberant than theirs. My doctor had determined my bones had healed enough to do away with my cast and crutches. I felt pounds lighter and so much freer without these encumbrances, though the sight of all the hair growth on my newly revealed leg kept making me feel a tickle in my nose that made me want to sneeze. As soon as I was inside, I headed upstairs to my apartment, which was vacant now that the O’Reillys were downstairs working, so I could wash, shave, and apply some lotion to my poor neglected leg.

  By the time I returned downstairs to the bar, my day crew was in getting things ready for opening at eleven. Pete, my day bartender, noticed the difference right away.

  “Mack, you’re back on two legs!” he said with a big smile.

  Missy, who was behind the bar with him setting things up, turned and looked at me. “That must feel good,” she said.

  “Oh, it does,” I told them. “Is Jon here?”

  Jon was my day cook, and both Missy and Pete nodded.

  “Great. I have some work to do in my office, but holler if you need me for anything.” As I headed into my office, I relished the simple task of being able to open a door and walk through it without having to prop myself up on a crutch and risk losing my balance. I knew the excitement and delight I felt over this newfound freedom wouldn’t last long—soon enough, things would be back to what had been normal for thirtysome years. But for now, I felt like kicking up my heels with joy, though the site of the break remained just tender enough that I wasn’t going to try it. It would take a little longer before the muscles in that leg were back to normal.

  I had just settled in behind my desk when Duncan called me.

  “What’s up?” I said, not even bothering with a greeting.

  “You sound chipper,” he said.

  “I am. I got that annoying cast removed this morning.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. Do you have any news on Mal?”

  “He’s doing okay,” he said. “I went back out to the lake house last night so I could give him a burner phone. But I’m getting some pressure from Chief Holland regarding this Sheldon Janssen shooting, and the fact that Mal’s fingerprints were found on the gun. Holland wants to know if you were able to contribute anything to the scene analysis. I told him what you provided for us while we were there, but he feels that’s all stuff we would have discovered on our own in time. He’s hinting around that he wants you to come up with something better.”

  “Such as?” I asked, feeling annoyed and wondering if I’d made a deal with the devil when I agreed to this consulting work. “Did you tell Holland I spoke with Mal and asked him if he shot Janssen? And that Mal denied it and was telling the truth?”

  “Ah, no, I didn’t. I don’t want him to know that I know where Mal is just yet. Besides, I’m not sure your little lie-detector trick is what he wants at this point.”

  “Do you want me to go back to the scene? It’s been long enough since it all happened that I’m not sure I’ll be much use, but I can try.”

  “No, I agree with you there’s probably little you could come up with there that our evidence techs didn’t find. But I’m thinking there’s another way, something else that might help.”

  “What?” I said, feeling—and sounding—a little perturbed.

  “I want you to see what else you can get out of Felicity. She was there when all of this happened, and I have a feeling she knows more than we realize. Plus, I think we’re going to need your help in getting her fingerprints.”

  This was a mixed surprise. Felicity had been on my mind ever since Parnell had taken her away yesterday, and I was eager to see her again. But lurking in the back of my mind was a fear for what the child might have done.

  “I’m happy to try to talk to Felicity some more,” I said. “In fact, I’d welcome the chance. But I’m not sure that social worker woman is going to go for it. She seemed dead set against me getting any more involved.”

  “Yeah, let me work on that. I’ll let you know.”

  “Why do you want her fin
gerprints?” I was a little hesitant in asking this question. I hoped Duncan would tell me it was so they could rule her prints out from any they found in the house. As it turned out, that was the gist of his answer, but it was worse than I’d feared.

  “It turned out those three prints on Janssen’s gun were from three different people,” Duncan said. “You already know that one came back belonging to Mal and another came back as belonging to the victim. But we haven’t been able to identify the third print yet.”

  This gave me pause. “You think Felicity might have shot her father?”

  “Well, she was there, and he was shot in the back of the head. Maybe she picked up the gun from the floor and used it. It could have been an accident. Maybe she didn’t know what it was, and fired it without meaning to.”

  This idea was disturbing but also plausible. Poor Felicity. If she did shoot her father, the trauma of that would likely haunt her for the rest of her life. And the kid was damaged enough already.

  “Please tell me there is someone else on your list of suspects,” I said.

  “Well, there are all of Janssen’s coworkers. And his boss, of course. We need to bring Klein in for questioning and have you listen in.”

  “I’m game for that whenever you’re ready,” I said. “And let me know when you can get me more time with Felicity. I’ll be around. Unless you think I should go to visit Mal. Those wounds of his could probably use another cleaning and a dressing change.”

  This suggestion was met with silence, and I wondered if Duncan was harboring some jealousy regarding my relationship with Mal. “I don’t think you need to do that,” he said finally. “But I also know you have a mind of your own and will do what you want regardless of what I say. So if you do go there, just be absolutely sure no one is tailing you. And make sure you call Mal to let him know you’re coming so he doesn’t shoot you.” He gave me the number of Mal’s burner cell, which I entered into my phone.