Reboot

by Alan Mulak

  Tatman twitched, and without a word, headed for the elevator.

  Leaving the garage, Tatman drove across town. Not much had changed in twenty-two months. The dumpster was overflowing, broken glass littered the parking lot, and wind-blown trash clung to the chain link fence. Tatman pulled into a visitors slot, removed a handgun from the glove box, and got out. He took the stairs to the second floor and walked to apartment 203. The hallway reeked of urine and stale smoke. A dog barked from somewhere down the hall. He rapped on the wooden door. Nothing. He rapped again, louder. Still nothing. He tried to the doorknob. Locked.

  A few minutes later he stood at the counter in the building superintendent’s office, tapping the bell for service. An elderly woman, cigarette dangling from her lips, hair in curlers, shuffled out from behind a faded paisley curtain. "Keep your pants on. I'm comin’.” She glared at the tattooed man standing across the counter from her. “What can I do for you?”

  Tatman twitched and then said, "I'm looking for Alex Delvecchio. He lives in apartment 203."

  She squinted through the cigarette smoke, trying to recall the name. “Delvecchio? Delvecchio?” Then she nodded and squashed out her smoke in an overflowing ashtray. “You’re out of luck.”

  Tatman stared at her, waiting.

  “He’s dead.” She looked up, measuring Tatman’s reaction. Except for a facial twitch, there was none. “Neighbors complained of the smell. Shit happens.”

  He was silent for a moment, processing the news. “When?”

  She removed another cigarette from the pack and lit up. “Maybe a year ago. Not sure.”

  Tatman stood silently for a long awkward moment, then asked, “Are you sure it was Alex Delvecchio? Did you see the body?”

  Her eyes opened wide. “Not on your life! Creeps me out. When it comes to dead tenants, I leave the premises and go see my sister.” She shook her head, curlers going this way and that. “Awful. Just awful.”

  “So you’re not certain it was Delvecchio.”

  “I just told you, I was far from here when they came to haul him away.”

  “So if you don’t do it, who does?”

  She took a long drag on her cigarette, blew out a cloud of smoke. “Cops.”

  “Anybody living there now?”

  “Nope.”

  “Can I see the apartment?”

  The superintendent squashed out her cigarette. “I’m only supposed to show our units to potential customers. Are you going to rent it?”

  “Maybe.”

  By the time they reached apartment 203, the superintendent was audibly wheezing. As she unlocked the door, her hands were shaking from exertion. They stepped inside. It was dirty, smelled of dead rats, but empty.

  Tatman surveyed the unit. “Where’s the furniture?”

  “We hire the guys from Camden Estate Recovery to clean ‘em out.”

  “So where’s the furniture?”

  She shrugged. “Some landfill somewhere. It goes straight into a dumpster.”

  “Camden Estate Recovery – that a local company?”

  “They’re down on the wharf somewhere.”

  Tatman fell silent.

  The superintendent moved into the kitchen and opened the pantry doors. "Come check out the size of this closet." She turned, but Tatman was gone.

  While driving to the wharves, Tatman’s phone rang.

  “Yes?”

  "Mr. Tatman, welcome home," said a voice with a heavy Russian accent. "I trust you are well and have found all of your belongings in excellent condition. Yes?"

  “Car’s running okay.”

  "Marvelous. So let's get right down to business. Just before you went away on your twenty-two-month vacation, you were in possession of a large quantity of product. Yes?"

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “I’m checking.”

  “You’re checking?”

  “My mule is gone.”

  Silence.

  Tatman twitched several times, and then said, “Either he’s dead like his landlord says, or gone into business for himself.”

  “With my product I assume?”

  “I’m checking.”

  Silence. After a few beats, Tatman said, “You still there?”

  The voice said, “We’ll talk again soon.” Then the phone went dead.

  The Camden Estate Removal company was a tiny storefront at the end of the wharf, the seediest section of a seedy town. The elderly owner, Jack O'Reilly, spent most of the day studying the sports page and calling in bets with his bookie. He dispatched his crew – most of whom he never laid eyes on - from his desk, and other than shuffling over to Willie’s Pub for a few pints at lunch, he rarely left the office. Jack sported the ruddy face and bulbous nose of a long-time alcoholic, carried way too many pounds, and between high blood pressure and off-the-chart cholesterol, was living on borrowed time. That particular afternoon when Tatman came calling, Jack had had one pint too many and was passed out at his desk. He awoke with a start when a glass of cold water was splashed on his face.

  “What the…!” he spluttered, trying to shake out the cobwebs. It was then he saw the gun barrel pointed at his face. His own handgun was in the bottom drawer, but there was no fetching it. He blinked, and blurted, “There’s no money here.” The shades had been drawn in the windows, and the bolt was clearly in the locked position. “What do you want?”

  Tatman flinched a few times and then said. "You cleaned out a dead man's apartment over at the projects on High Street about a year ago. It was unit number 203, and the dead man was listed as Alex Delvecchio. Ring a bell?"

  “Are you kidding? Do you know how many skid-row dives we handle?”

  “This one was special. There were twelve kilo’s of blizzard under the bed. That would have got your attention.”

  Jack shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re…”

  Tatman smacked the old man with his gun. Blood spurted from Jack’s head.

  “Do you remember now?”

  Jack cowered in his chair, hand to head, trying to stop the bleeding. “I never go near the jobs. If there was anything taken, I’d have no way of knowing.”

  Tatman again struck the old man, who tumbled backward off his chair, hitting the back of his head of the concrete floor with a sickening crack. He didn’t move. Tatman stood motionless, staring down at his unconscious, bleeding victim. As the puddle of blood continued to expand over the filthy floor, Tatman put away his gun, unlocked the door, and left. He never saw the security camera on the light pole at the end of the wharf.

  Just after ten P.M., Tatman left the University of Rutgers Bookstore and Internet Café, but before he reached his car, a black Escalade pulled to the curb. The back door opened, and a Russian accent said, “Get in.”

  The Boss was a thin, exquisitely coiffed gray-haired man, impeccably dressed, diamond ear stud and ring to match. His mustache was perfectly trimmed. He sat in the back seat with Tatman. Two thugs sat in the front.

  The Boss said, “Drive.”

  After a few blocks of silence, Boss asked, “Are you still checking?”

  “My mule has relocated.”

  “So he’s not dead?”

  “No. I found him by using the internet’s people search. There were several people with the same name living in Detroit, but they are all too old to be my man. Then, another guy with the same name paid his tax bill, and popped up on the web, in someplace called Dolores, Colorado. Plus, he’s been there less than a year, and he’s from Camden, New Jersey. He’s my mule. I’m sure of it.” Then he added, “I was going to call you. How did you know where to find me?”

  Boss smiled. “I was entrusted with looking after your ride for two years – a service I offer for all my employees. To keep tabs on it, installing a trace is child’s play. All my fleet has them.” He stopped smiling. “Now, what about my product?”

  Tatman shrugged. “I’m going to Colorado.”

  21

  A Visit with Lucy


  Alex sat on the front porch of his house for most of the afternoon, just staring at the Upper Dolores River flowing by. At one point, he considered diving into a bottle of Glenmorangie 18 Year Old Single Malt Scotch he had been saving, but thought better of it. Then he was tempted to smoke one of the Cuban cigars usually kept for his fishing trips, but canned that idea as well. He had given serious thought to jumping in his truck and driving off for a week, maybe camping somewhere, and then returning after Anna had departed. A voice in his head kept screaming: cut and run! Now, before it’s too late! That most certainly was his most logical idea, and it also was discarded. The flame for Anna was burning much too brightly for a retreat or even coherent planning. As the afternoon slipped into early evening, Alex still sat on his front porch, no closer to any resolution than he was in the morning.

  It was about then that Lucy Nelson, his next-door neighbor, came home. She got out of her car and spotted Alex. “Hello, neighbor,” she called.

  Snapping back from his morass, Alex waved. “What’s up?”

  Lucy, still dressed in her RN blue scrubs, walked over. “Haven’t seen you much lately,” she said. “I hear you’ve single-handedly turned the Slater Ranch around.”

  Alex smiled insincerely. “You know that’s bullshit. MacKenzie gets all the credit. I just crunched the numbers.” Then, he was hit with a brainstorm. “Say, by any chance, interested in a walk?”

  Lucy cocked her head and looked at Alex. "Okay. I'd like that. The kids are staying with friends, I’m still stuffed from lunch and could use a little exercise. Let me grab a quick shower and get out of my work clothes.”

  Alex stood. “Great. I’ll see you in five minutes.”

  Lucy laughed. “It may be more than five minutes. Better make it twenty.”

  “I’ll be right here, watching the river.”

  Alex sat back and got comfortable.

  Forty-five minutes later, Lucy, freshly showered and dressed in shorts and a gray tee-shirt, emerged.

  A gravel trail hugged the river, twisting and turning all the way down to its confluence with McPhee Reservoir. Tall cottonwoods lined the river, shading walker or jogger from the brutal July sun. Alex and Lucy strode at a good clip, gravel crunching under their feet. They chatted for a while, mostly town gossip, and what her boys were doing. Then he asked, “So, how’s it going with Mr. Doctor?”

  “Better than I could have hoped for,” Lucy responded. "And by the way, his name is Nathan. We're taking it slowly, but the ‘m’ word has come up recently."

  “Wow! That is news. Is there a when yet?”

  “No, it’s still just something that will happen sometime in the future. But last month, something significant happened that I believe may move things along a bit quicker.”

  “Oh?”

  Lucy stopped walking and turned toward the river. “Like all doctors and nurses at the hospital, Nathan takes his turn in the emergency ward. We see plenty of sad cases come in, but last month, a young father – Navajo I believe – came in, complaining of a severe headache. Nathan admitted him, but then, with Nathan by his side, he stroked and died. His wife and kids were in the waiting area, and Nathan had to go tell them. The whole incident really shook him up. It’s been since then that our relationship has suddenly gotten more serious. We’ve talked for hours about time passing and came to the conclusion that maybe we don’t have all the time in the world. I suppose this was a wake-up call for both of us. Know what I mean?”

  "Yes, I do. More than you know." Maybe more than I ever realized.

  They continued their walk. “But that’s too heavy a topic for such a lovely evening. So what’s going on with you?”

  They strode along in silence for a few steps, Alex – a knot in his stomach - trying to choose the correct phraseology. Finally, he blurted out, "Have you ever run into someone you used to love? And I don't mean someone in your recent past. This would be someone from way back. Perhaps, before your marriage.”

  They stopped again, watching two kids in inner tubes float by, heading downriver. Finally, she said, “Yes, as a matter of fact, I have. Just once.”

  Alex asked, “What did that feel like for you? What were your emotions?”

  Lucy smiled again. “Curiosity. I guess that was the overwhelming emotion. Curiosity.” Another pause, then she added, “We had more or less come to a mutual agreement to break it off, so I didn’t harbor any ill will. All the same, I would have been interested in hearing how his life had gone since we parted. Am I making myself clear?”

  Mouth dry, Alex asked, “You didn’t feel an upwelling of passion or pain or regret?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Did you ever love this guy?”

  Lucy shot Alex a look, opened her mouth, and then shut it again.

  Alex nodded and waved his hand. “Sorry. Stupid question.” Then after a pause, plowed on. “Did you speak with him? You know, say hello?”

  Lucy smiled weakly. “I’m sorry to say…no. We just passed each other on the street. By the time I realized who he was, we had both walked on. I suppose that’s a good way to put it. We both walked on…both literally and figuratively.”

  Alex pursed his lips and nodded again. He picked up a small stone and tossed it in the river.

  Without looking at him, Lucy said, “It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure out what’s going on in your life.”

  "Oh?" He reached down to pick up another stone, but his hands were shaking. Embarrassed, he stood up and looked up at the sky.

  “I’ll tell you what,” she said. “Let me take a shot at it. Okay?”

  “Okay. Shoot.”

  They took a seat on a nearby park bench. “Sounds like,” Lucy began, “you have run across a former lover. And maybe you’re wondering what she’s feeling about now. Further, and from your questions, I’d guess you’ve been knocked for a loop. And now, you’re thinking about trying to reconnect. How am I doing?”

  “We are speaking hypothetically of course.”

  She chuckled. “Okay, if that’s what you want. Hypothetically speaking.”

  Alex said, “You are right on the mark. No fleas on you, girl.”

  After a moment’s pause, Lucy asked, “Let me ask you something. How did it end? I mean, did she break it off or did you? Or was it mutual?”

  Alex stopped and stared at the river. By now, the sun had slipped behind the mountain peaks, and the air was suddenly much colder. “I broke it off. And it didn’t go well. I shudder with shame every time I think of that morning. I took the coward’s way out. I’m really bad at…” He shook his head but said nothing more.

  Lucy touched Alex’s arm. “Here’s my two cents and I'm going to be blunt. Don't contact her. It won't go well. Some wounds are better left alone, even if they never completely heal. I think most people can forgive, but never forget. I mean never. You are my friend, so here's some advice. Stay away. Go fishing for a week. Get out of town. When it comes to affairs of the heart, you can't right old wrongs. Somebody once said you can't refight battles that took place in the past and hope for different results. They're done. Move on." Lucy stood. "Now come on, let's head back. I'm getting cold."

  They walked back, mostly in silence, and then said good night. Alex drifted around his house, not focusing upon anything, but unable to sit on his porch, eat supper, or even watch TV. Then, at about nine PM, he received a text message: Hello Rob.

  22

  Contact

  Next morning Alex got to work at seven and slipped behind the guest desk. Jackie, the desk clerk, was busy giving driving directions to a small group of guests. While she was otherwise occupied, Alex covertly removed the master room key from its nook and dropped it into his pocket. He had read the ACTIVITIES OF THE DAY sign-up sheet and saw Anna and Jacques's names listed for the full-day tour of Arches National Park. The van had already left for the three-hour drive to Utah.

  As casually as possible, he strolled across the great room and climbed the stairs to the guest room f
loor. His heart pounded as he walked to room number six, and knocked on the door. No answer. His hands were shaking wildly. So much so, it took both hands to insert the key. The door swung open, but he did not step in. His feet were frozen to the floor. For a few moments, Alex leaned against the door jamb, steadying his suddenly weak knees. He blinked away the sweat dripping down from his forehead, and looked into the room, scanning the scene from the hallway.

  He could see the unmade bed and clothing was draped over the chairs, but that was all.

  Alex knew if he stepped across the threshold, it would be taking those first steps down a long, slippery slope to a place where he did not want to go. It would be a violation of sorts, and the person he’d be violating was the only person he ever truly loved.

  Murmuring to himself, he whispered, “What the hell are you doing here? What do you think you’re going to find?”

  But there was another voice in his head, screaming, “Oh for Christ sake, just do it. No one will ever know. You’ve come this far!”

  He closed his eyes and listened to his panting breaths; it was as if he'd just sprinted around the lodge a few times. So much had changed. He'd been in full retreat for so long, and it was all his own doing. He had made that momentous, immoral, downright sleazy decision some thirty-some-odd years prior, and been haunted by it ever since. Was he about to make another? Would he regret this as well, whatever it was; invasion? trespass? infringement? Would he ever be able to trust himself again? Who would look back at him from the mirror?

  Alex opened his eyes, let go of the door jamb, straightened up, and shook his head no. His eyes welled up, but his hands were now steady. He closed the door, taking care to lock it as it was, and walked away.

  Back in his office, he composed a return text to the sender – Anna. It read: