Angry Jonny

by Joaquin Emiliano

  Jessica sat down at the thick, wooden table. “No thanks. Don’t drink.”

  “Just as well, seeing as how I have neither in the house.” Anita poured a couple of waters and joined Jessica at the table. “Only ask out of habit. That was Sebastian – my son’s drink of choice.”

  “Where’s he?”

  “Died a couple of years ago.”

  The hits just kept coming. “Sorry.”

  “Please, don’t be. I’m sure you didn’t come for the war stories.”

  Jessica wondered if there wasn’t still time to turn back. She thought of Al Holder, lying in the hospital. One of his final orders had explicitly been to treat Anita Montero with the proper respect. If he had known the amount of time Anita must have spent in her own hospital bed, would he even have given Jessica the address?

  But angry thoughts of her midnight stalker made quick work of her humanity, and she forged ahead. “This is going to sound strange, but… what was your impression of Ethan Prince?”

  “Yuck.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a ringing endorsement.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what brings you here asking about him?”

  What brings me here is a bullshit cover story that’s just given me access to your home and trust. “I think he’s involved in some unethical activities. Nothing I feel comfortable discussing just yet. And of course, there’s a good chance I’m just jumping at shadows, because… well, as you said. Yuck.”

  “Well, I never liked or trusted Ethan,” Anita said. “Not just him, but his type.”

  “Which is?”

  “You got a day job, right?”

  “Day and night job.” Jessica rolled her eyes. “I’m a waitress over at the Prescott.”

  “Oh, how nice.” Anita looked as though she were about to follow that tangent, then stuck to the script. “Well, you know those hotshot guys? Waiters who think they’re the cock of the walk because they’re so damn good at their job? Not just proud with their work, but infinitely superior to everyone? You just want to shake them by their shoulders and tell them that they’re just fucking waiters, they don’t make a goddamn difference. Wake up, y’know?”

  “Big fish, small pond.”

  “That’s Ethan Prince for you. His ego is completely wrapped-up with how important he is to the paper. And it’s the Verona Observer, for God’s sake. He’s never broken a congressional scandal, he’ll never set foot in Afghanistan. But if he’s at the top of where he is, then he’s at the top of it all. Presto. Life is now meaningful.”

  Jessica nodded, standing up and casually strolling to a wall of framed photographs. “Well, Mr. Prince ain’t exactly at the top. Don’t even think he realizes he’s just Al’s little hand puppet.”

  “Ethan’s wanted Al’s job for years.” Anita shook her head. “He must be drooling over the whole Angry Jonny thing. Been waiting a long time to shine for the board of directors. How often does a serial killer come along and make your little existence the center of the universe?”

  It was a fair question. One that hadn’t occurred to Jessica, though the signs had been there since day one. Ethan’s resentment had always seemed unnaturally aggressive. This was his golden opportunity and Jessica could’ve woken half the world with the thunder she’d stolen from him.

  “I’ve noticed Ethan’s empathy for the victims has often been… overshadowed by his own self-interest. By what Angry Jonny has done for him.”

  Anita sighed. “Wish I could say I blame him….” She stared across the room. Eyes glassy, absently stroking her arm. “When I read about the third victim, Dr. Lazenby… I was just filled with a hateful kind of joy. It was almost transcendental. Thinking about the horror he must have felt when he woke up and realized that he’d lost his tongue and both eyes. All alone. Completely helpless.”

  Jessica felt the room grow darker. The sun was in retreat, and the lit florescent tube alongside the kitchen sink began to hum with a greater sense of purpose.

  “Well…” Jessica cautiously abandoned the photographs. Slow steps once again putting the table between her and Anita. “There’s a lot of people out there who think Angry Jonny’s victims got what they deserved.”

  “Oh, it was a little more personal for me,” Anita said flatly. “Dr. Lazenby was one of the medical experts employed by Generation Insurance. It was his job to dig through any costly claims and search for any scientific excuses to deny coverage. Any excuse to deny coverage. They snatch their findings from whatever obscure medical journals, studies they can find. Almost out of thin air.”

  Jessica reached for her water, took three large swallows. “How much of your treatment did Generation Insurance cover?”

  “Big fat nothing… Never mind that I quit smoking years before getting cancer. Never mind that it was breast cancer, and never mind the consensus on the genetic traits of breast cancer. Dr. Lazenby was more than happy to sign a letter stating that my cancer was a preexisting condition. Soon as my year was over, they refused me any further coverage...” She offered up a chilling smile that seemed to tighten her skin even further. “There’s days, I have to admit, when it’s not that easy to hate Angry Jonny.”

  With her knuckles turning white, Jessica set her cup down. Looking for any excuse to leave, unable to move under the spell of Anita’s empty stare. No longer the same eyes that had greeted her at the door, drawn her into the depths of this empty house.

  The piercing cry of a cellphone sent electric shocks through Jessica’s body, muscles seizing.

  “I’m sorry,” Anita said, sniffing and reaching for the fruit bowl. She removed her phone and held up a skeletal finger. “Let me just get this…”

  Jessica kept perfectly still as Anita waded through a quick conversation, comprised mostly of monosyllabic replies. Anita glanced over once or twice, tossing apologetic smiles her way. She finally concluded with a whispered, I’ll take care of it.

  Hung up and rose from her chair. “I’m sorry. I just need to use the restroom, if that’s OK.”

  “Fine,” Jessica said, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. “Mind if I go after you’re done?”

  “Won’t be long,” Anita replied, perhaps with too much zeal of her own.

  Jessica watched her exit, then heard a door close in the hallway. She quickly checked to make sure she had all her belongings, trying to remember if she’d left her book bag in the car. No longer remembering what had brought her there in the first place.

  Until she saw Anita’s cellphone.

  Lying on the table, unattended.

  Knowing she wouldn’t have another shot, Jessica scooped it up and began to fumble with the keypad. It was an outdated model, its interface completely counterintuitive. Trembling fingers sending her to alarm settings. Then to memo pad. She glanced up to the kitchen doorway, expecting Anita to return any second.

  The phone slipped from her fingers and bounced off her foot, skidding under the table.

  Jessica heard the toiled flush.

  Abort, now! her brain screamed.

  Unwilling to give in, she took a deep breath and dove to the floor. Reached beneath the table and recovered the phone. She flipped it open. Methodically moved the cursor to incoming calls and mashed the talk button.

  What came up could hardly be called a list.

  Just one name, repeated over and over.

  Chaucer.

  Chaucer.

  Chaucer.

  Chaucer.

  No time to put the pieces together. Jessica snapped the phone shut, set it back on the table. Hurried through the kitchen door and into the hallway.

  No time for much of anything, it seemed.

  Anita was standing at the entrance to the bathroom.

  Wearing the same startled expression as Jessica.

  Hands behind her back, turning her body into a single, sickly exclamation point.

  “Hey…” Anita nervously took a step to her left, away from the bathroom door. “It’s all yours.”
/>   “Don’t worry about it…” Jessica inadvertently took her own step to the left. “I’ve really got to get going.”

  “Jessica –”

  “Should’ve been gone fifteen minutes ago –”

  “Oh, don’t go just yet,” Anita insisted. “Head on back to the kitchen, I’ll fix us some tea. No rum, but I’m positive, I’ve got some chamomile –”

  “I’ve got to go, now.”

  Anita didn’t respond.

  Didn’t move either. Just kept blocking the hallway, hands behind her back.

  Eyes growing desperate.

  “What’ve you got behind your back?” Jessica asked, no longer content with play making.

  Anita began to move towards her. “Look, I’m sorry if I scared you with all that cancer talk –”

  “Don’t come any closer.”

  “I’m in pain, Jessica, and I have to do whatever is necessary –”

  Jessica began to inch backwards, second away from bolting for the back door –

  “Jessica, wait!”

  The discord in Anita’s voice actually managed to stop Jessica cold.

  With a shamed expression, Anita brought her hands out in front of her.

  No knife, no gun.

  Just a small, glass, army-green pipe.

  Didn’t take an enormous leap down memory lane to figure what Anita had been packing into that bowl.

  Jessica closed her eyes, kicking herself in the ass. “Shit.”

  “I guess I’m still kind of embarrassed…” Anita explained, lips trembling. “I guess it’s just… I haven’t smoked pot since I was a teenager. And now I’m forty-seven years old, and I’m dying… you know what my son used to say about pot?”

  Jessica shook her head.

  “He used to say pot’s for goddamn losers.” When she hit that final word, Anita broke down. Drawing out the vowels with a sob that threatened to rob her of her last breath. She drew in a shuddering sigh, only to reinforce the tears and despairing wails. “I wish he were here to tell me that’s not true.”

  Jessica couldn’t take anymore.

  Saw herself charging past Anita, right out the front door.

  Destination, anywhere but here.

  Two seconds into her decision, she drew Anita close in a tight embrace.

  Jessica was genuinely repulsed by what was left of that body. Repulsed by her own reaction, cradling the skeleton of a fading photograph. With every sob, Jessica felt Anita’s ribcage digging against her. Arms like brittle sticks against her back.

  “I just get so angry,” Anita cried, choking out two more breaths before stepping away. Wedging herself in the corner between the wall and the doorway to the living room. “I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry you had to see me like this.”

  “It’s OK.” Jessica unconsciously wiped her hand over the wet spot on her shoulder. “Sorry I reacted the way I did back there… Hey. You’re smoking like a teenager, I’m stuck being one. Who’s the real loser here?”

  “Oh, shut up…” Anita sniffed, rubbing her nose against her shirt. “You’re an old soul, Jessica.”

  “There’s days I feel it.”

  Anita laughed. “Ah, shit. Look at me…” She trained her eyes on Jessica, red blood vessels pleading with the rest of her face. “Promise you won’t tell anyone?”

  It was a ludicrous request. Victimless crime, no one to tell.

  At least, as far as Anita could have guessed.

  The connection to Chaucer Braswell was simply too much to leave to chance.

  “Of course I won’t tell anyone,” Jessica promised, fighting back a wave of nausea as she abandoned what little honesty they had shared. “Just please don’t tell anyone else I was here, OK?”

  “Yeah…” Anita nodded, because it seemed reasonable enough to her. “I won’t tell.”

  “I could get in a lot of trouble if Ethan Prince ever found out –”

  “Not a soul.”

  “Same here.”

  Anita held up the pipe. “Let me guess. You don’t smoke pot either, right?”

  Sharing a bowl with Anita was more tempting than she could have imagined. “I’ve really got to go.”

  “I know.”

  “Are you going to be OK?”

  “Oh, what a question,” Anita mused. Realized she’d said it out loud, and quickly reassembled her pride. “I’m going to be just fine. Both of us are.”

  Jessica was none too sure about that.

  When she finally got behind the wheel of Eli’s car, her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. It was Anita’s pain, it was Chaucer’s duplicity. It was Al Holder’s heart attack, it was the decaying nature of the everyday, every skip on the calendar bringing another reason to slip into madness.

  Jessica began to pound the dashboard with her fist.

  Hating herself.

  Hating the whole goddamn world.

  Chapter 55: Diary of a Mad Black Woman.

  It was half past one in the morning and Jessica’s wrist had taken on a mind of its own.

  Door shut tight, modern equivalent of candlelight casting a pool over her desk. Over her notebook. Every last nerve begging for a drink to go with her fatigued ramblings. She settled for another cup of herbal tea. Kept right on letting the pen stagger across the page.

  Adding to the list of every last person who has lied to my face. Am I angry at them, or is this rage more properly directed at myself? Never had a father. Along comes some capable, resourceful man. Tall, dark and handsome, out of the CLEAR BLUE SKY… and suddenly I’m just a giant ball of trust.

  Jessica glanced out the window, across the street. No Pontiac to be found. Maybe Anita mentioned something to Chaucer. Maybe it was just one of those random nights that the car simply failed to make an appearance.

  Maybe any number of things.

  So Chaucer’s got a cancer ridden friend. Woman friend. Come to think of it, ain’t seen no ring on his finger. More to the point... Who wouldn’t love to wreak that kind of vengeance, that particular “Jonny” brand of justice on a man like Dr. Lazenby? Didn’t Chaucer always claim to be in town on business? Business he refused to speak of? Business he claimed he was done with shortly after Dr. Lazenby met his grizzly fate on the Fourth of July?

  Jessica paused, wondering if anything at this point was too far a stretch.

  It’s not too far a stretch. On the one hand, Chaucer seems to be fixated on me. Helping me, or so I thought. So that checks out. On the other hand, such calm and cool. The person I’d least suspect. Didn’t he show up late for my meeting with Benjamin Morris, the computer geek at the center for human genetics? Matter of fact, how easy was it for Chaucer to get that manifest implicating Malik in the theft of those chemicals?

  Jessica felt herself straying. Gritting her teeth she fought to stay on point.

  Dr. Lazenby, one of the men responsible for fucking over Anita Montero… who just happened to have quit Generation Insurance to work at Pantheon… just happens to end up at the wrong end of a wine key.

  She ran her hands through her hair, tugged sharply at her curls as though forcing them to go straight.

  But what about the others? Could Angry Jonny’s interest in me really extend to murdering Clarence Davenport? Or maybe it was all just a wonderful coincidence. Here he comes, looking for a way to kill the man responsible for Anita’s condition… and then Davenport comes along. Shit, what if Davenport was just a practice run? A dress rehearsal that got rid of one of my enemies while preparing him for his main target. Two birds? One stone?

  What about Jason Castle then? Where was the connection?

  Maybe there is no connection between the crimes. I keep thinking about the violence that’s erupted on the streets of my city. Verona has become ground zero for this country’s anger and hatred. Our worst fears manifested. Didn’t Detective Donahue tell me that any one of us could be Angry Jonny? Who’s to say each crime wasn’t committed by several different perpetrators?

  Jessica stopped writing. N
ose tilted upwards, as though catching the scent of her own argument. Multiple criminals, multiple offences. That wasn’t the argument Detective Donahue had posed to keep Dinah locked up without bail.

  No. No, that can’t be right. If I’m going to add Chaucer to the list, then he must have had a reason to off Jason Castle as well. What’s missing? What am I missing?

  The world was spinning. Eyes growing heavy.

  Only a few sentences left in her before collapsing under the weight of her suspicions.

  Looks like I’m going to have to dig a bit deeper to find out what Chaucer Braswell’s doing here in Verona.

  Whatever came next, Jessica would have to wait till morning to read.

  By the time the sun had risen, she awoke to find herself curled up on the floor.

  Halfway between bed and the open notebook on her desk.

  Chapter 56: Starting Over.

  Jessica awoke to a searing puddle of sunlight and a three loud knocks on her door.

  She shot to her feet just as Dinah barged in. Dressed in nothing but white cotton panties and a bra.

  Jessica was all ready to spout out an explanation, some contrived story to hide the fact that she had passed out on the floor in her work clothes. Fortunately, Dinah didn’t seem the least bit curious. She went to the wall opposite her bed, and lowered the blinds.

  “Can you fucking believe it?” Dinah put her hands on her hips. “I go to the kitchen to get the coffee going, and there’s some goddamn Mexican construction worker on one of those giraffe machines.”

  “Cherry pickers,” Jessica clarified, din of construction work just starting to rattle in her ears.

  “Cherry pickers, ass-lickers. This guy’s just looking through the goddamn window, staring at my tits, or legs, or all of it. Whatever.”

  Jessica rubbed her eyes, eased herself into her chair. “Welcome to the club.”

  “You know, I’d walk right down to the office and tell that bitch Kate to do something about it –”

  “Do what about it?”

  “I know, right? That woman’s unflappable.”

  “Yeah.”

  “The woman’s a goddamn cyborg.”

  Jessica shrugged, leafing through her notebook. “A politician, is what she is.”

  “She’s a half-cyborg politician sent from the fucking future to… I don’t know, pave the way for Skynet to kill us all.”