River Kill

by Ted Begnoche

  All the walls are decorated with sports memorabilia: Signed photos of famous Boston sports legends, jerseys, and hockey sticks and Louisville Sluggers. There are televisions positioned strategically around the walls so that no matter which seat you pick, at least one is visible.

  You can sit in the middle of the place and root for the Red Sox, or pick a booth toward the back and have a halfway private conversation.

  Lou Venetelli, the owner, is an ex-cop from Weymouth. He stayed on the force long enough to get a retirement, then got out, he says, with no regrets. Since LuLu's is a watering hole for cops from a lot of the surrounding towns, he doesn't really feel like he's retired at all.

  The door was propped open with a push broom, and music and laughter and dim neon light spilled from the doorway. Lou himself was behind the bar, holding a glass under the Guinness Stout tap. He looked up and nodded, then went back to concentrating on his work.

  When it was full he set it down on a tray and pulled another off the shelf in the back of him. This one he loaded with Bass Ale, deftly working the tap with hands that looked like canned hams with sausages stuck in them.

  When he was done he ambled over to where I was standing, wiping his hands on the damp towel he always had slung over one shoulder.

  "Stuart McCann, I'll be damned," he said, extending his hand over the shiny surface of the bar. "I was just thinking about you today."

  "Is that so?" I said. We shook hands and he leaned his massive forearms on the bar, his big red face six inches from mine. I could smell Old Spice and peppermints.

  "That's right. Pete called this afternoon, said he wouldn't be able to come to work tonight. I figured you kidnapped him, took him on some crazy fishing trip or something."

  "Not me, Lou. I'm innocent this time."

  "Crap, maybe the bastard really is sick." Lou threw his head back and barked laughter at the ceiling. "What brings you out on a night like this?" He jerked his thumb at the open door. The rain was falling in sheets, driven sideways by the wind.

  "A couple of things. Your beer selection, for one."

  "What'll it be tonight?"

  "Surprise me, I said."

  "No problem,” he said. He rubbed his whiskered chin for a moment and then his eyes lit up.

  LuLu's has the best selection of beers anywhere on the South Shore, a fact I've confirmed by extensive research. Part of LuLu's popularity lies inside the giant walk-in cooler that Lou had installed just after he bought the place. It's a rectangle of about nine by eighteen feet, with racks and shelves so thick you can barely find a place to stand. Ales are in one section, lagers in another. Stouts get their own special spot, as do pilsners and specialty beers. It's a connoisseur's delight, and it pulls in a lot of customers.

  Lou emerged from the cooler with a 4-pack from one of the local microbreweries. He placed a can on the bar and slid a glass alongside it.

  "Beautiful. Can I run a tab, Lou?"

  "No sweat." He swiped my card and served another customer. I grabbed my beer and headed toward the back, settling into a booth that had a good view of the door, trying to tune out the Michael Jackson song that was playing on the jukebox. A clock shaped like a beer can displayed the time as 9:05. I still had almost half an hour to burn.

  I spent it pushing thoughts around inside my head, going back over the events of the day. I'd finished up one job, which was good for both me and my landlord and was about to start another. In a way, I had been looking forward to the John Barcom thing, even though I'd probably be chasing ghosts. I'd spent entirely too much time lately in the cramped confines of the Toyota's cab, trying to catch a glimpse of someone violating doctor's orders. I guess I'm solitary by nature, and it's a good thing in this line of work, but every now and then the long stretches without human contact make me edgy.

  I took a long pull at my beer. A small spasm shook my body, sprouting goose bumps on my bare arms. I sipped some more beer and brushed them away.

  And then there was Heather. Did I take on the Barcom thing as an excuse to see her again? Maybe. If so, it was a pretty damn selfish thing to do, and I knew John Barcom didn't deserve that.

  Or Heather, either.

  I finished my beer and brought the empty up to Lou. He replaced it with a full one, and I retreated to my booth and tried to concentrate on the Red Sox, who were up north beating up on the Toronto Blue Jays.

  Nice try, Stuart.

  My thoughts kept drifting back to Heather, and I didn't put up much of a fight. Time has a way of dimming your memory, and it'd been almost a year since we'd bitterly gone our separate ways. In all that time we'd had only a few brief contacts, exchanging pleasantries, a few personal effects, and once a sloppy, ill-timed kiss. Now I was having a tough time trying to figure out what had happened. Hard to say, exactly, although I'm sure she wouldn't have any trouble at all pointing out a dozen factors that contributed to our breakup.

  Heather had always been a driven lady, striving to be at the top of everything she does, whether it's work-related or in her personal life. I guess you could say we’re polar opposites. What I always thought I had was a live-and-let-live, to-each-his-own type of attitude. Heather classified this as a serious lack of ambition. I could always accept things as they were thrown at me, roll with the punches, let well enough alone. This sort of thing repulsed Heather, who was always fine-tuning her life, making little adjustments and corrections. This, in turn, repulsed me.

  We learned to live with our differences and did so on and off for almost a year. There were good times and bad times, like all relationships, and like all couples, we forged ahead, worked things out, even set a tentative date for marriage. Then came the accident, and after a board of inquiry cleared me of any wrongdoing I quit the Fairshore police force, unable to cope with the aftermath of my last destructive night in uniform.

  The Board cleared me, but I still haven't cleared myself.

  Things went to hell pretty rapidly after that. In the space of a few months, I had lost a great job, an even greater woman, and had consumed more alcohol than a normal person might in a whole lifetime. That seemed like a million years ago, and since then I'd managed at least to give the outward appearance of having my shit together. I was holding down a job, and the work was getting steadier every day. I was enjoying being my own boss, setting my own hours, with nobody to answer to or to blame.

  Three beers later it was 9:45. I fed a dollar to the jukebox and found a couple of Stevie Ray Vaughan numbers. I tapped my fingers on the glass while his guitar wailed. I punched a few more buttons and returned to my seat in time to see Heather stride confidently through the door and take my breath away.

  She was wearing a red and white windbreaker and a snow white T-shirt tucked into jeans that fit her very nicely. Her chestnut hair had gotten longer, all the way to her shoulders, since I'd last seen her. A black ball cap with "FBI" printed on it was perched atop her head.

  Heather leaned a hip against the bar and scanned the room. Lou ambled over and they hugged across the bar, then he pointed in my direction. I raised a hand and Heather began weaving through the round tables that Lou had positioned like an obstacle course, carrying a bottle of Bud and turning most of the heads in the buzzing crowd.

  "Heather," I said when she had reached the table. "You look great tonight." I stood up and my knees began knocking together.

  I gave her a hug, and she gave me a dirty look in return, sliding into the booth opposite me.

  "Thank you," she said. "You look... well, I guess you look the same. You smell the same, too. Have you been fishing?" She wrinkled her nose and took a pull at her beer.

  "Not tonight. I took a ride on Billy Cardell's boat. Hey, thanks for coming out."

  "Yeah, right. It figures you'd drag me out on a night like this."

  "I appreciate it. It's nice to see you."

  "Okay, so what's up?" She folded her arms and leaned them on the table.

  "Just like that? All business?"

  "So make small talk if
you want."

  "How's work going? Are you still pulling cats down out of trees?"

  "Come on, Stuart," she said. She sipped some beer. "That was only one time. How come you remember crazy stuff like that? When my birthday would go sailing by you'd never even flinch."

  "I was trying to make a joke."

  "Not funny. As a matter of fact, I just got promoted."

  "Congratulations. So all that work-aholic stuff is paying off."

  "I guess it is. How about you. I assume all that loaf-aholic stuff is still paying off as well?"

  "I'm doing okay. The work's been getting steadier. I have one reliable client, Capitol Insurance, that's been throwing plenty of bones my way. I even have an office now."

  "An office?" said Heather, arching one eyebrow. "Where?"

  "On Washington street, in the Square. You should stop by some time."

  "Business must be pretty good, Stuart, if you can afford an office."

  "Well, I really can't," I said. I drained the rest of my beer. "I did a job for this guy a while back, surveillance on his wife while he was away at a convention. They just put an addition on their house, a beautiful place up in the Fairshore Highlands, and the guy was certain the carpenter was making more trips than necessary to finish the work."

  Heather squirmed in her seat, making little wet rings on the table with the bottom of her bottle. When I stopped talking she lifted her big green eyes to mine, then looked away quickly. "Anyway," I said "it turns out he was right, and I got some great pictures of her and the carpenter doing overtime in the swimming pool. When it was time to settle up, the guy gave me a song and dance about being short of cash, some deals had fallen through, I don't know. You want another beer?"

  "Um, okay," she said. "But none of that fancy stuff. I'll stick with Bud."

  I slid out of the booth and caught Lou's attention, holding up two fingers. By the time I threaded my way to the bar the beers were waiting for me, along with a sly wink supplied by Lou. I shook my head, denying his implications, and he formed a circle with a meaty thumb and forefinger.

  I set the beers down on the table and slipped back into the booth. Heather took a long swig and swiped at her lips with the back of one hand.

  "Anyway," I said, "I guess this guy owns a lot of office buildings. There's some in Quincy and Weymouth, and a couple in Fairshore, so he offers me a deal. A one-year lease, at no cost, with an option for another one at a ridiculously low price. I figured what the hell, at the very least I have another place to brew beer. And actually, it's working out pretty well."

  "Stuart McCann with an office," she said. "When you first started, the cab of that smelly Toyota was your office. You've come a long way."

  "Hey, I'm not the bum some people would make me out to be. "I smiled and Heather smiled back, and for a moment I thought how damned sexy she looked. I got an ache that started in the back of my throat and ended up way down in the middle of my chest as if I'd just been crying. I swallowed some beer, but that only made it worse.

  "Okay," she said, bursting my bubble, "let's get down to business. You didn't drag me here in a downpour just to shoot the breeze. What's going on?"

  "Right. Sure. I met with a client today. He wanted me to look into an accidental death that he was convinced shouldn't be classified as such. Only there's another problem."

  "And that is?"

  "My client's dead, Heather. There was an accident where he works. Worked." I picked up my empty beer bottle and held it to my lips, then set it back down. "Damn. I just can't believe this happened. I meet the guy for lunch today, and a few hours later he's not among the living."

  "What happened?"

  I related the incident to Heather as best I could, pausing once while the dart players sent up a rowdy chorus of cheers. When I was finished I put my hands palms-up on the table and gave a little shrug.

  "Wow, Stuart. What do you think?"

  "Well, I think the guy gave me five hundred dollars, and he damn sure didn't get his money's worth."

  "You're going to snoop around, aren't you?"

  "Yeah," I said. "It's my job, and I feel I owe it to the guy. Even though I knew him for only a short time, I really felt a bond with him. I know it sounds strange."

  "Your specialty," she said. "Okay, where did this accident happen? The first one.”

  "Actually, it happened in the Atlantic Ocean. Maybe you remember reading about it in the Patriot Ledger? Guy's boat was found adrift by a lobsterman. He alerted the Coast Guard, and they found the body."

  "No, I don't recall, but I'm sure there's info somewhere. How about a name to go with this guy?"

  I wrote the name Melvin Addson on the back of a cocktail napkin and passed in over to her. She took the pen from me and crossed it out, then rewrote it underneath, correcting my sloppy printing.

  "This would probably have been around the middle of May," I said, "if that's any help."

  "Oh yeah." She printed a few more neat characters on the napkin, tucked it into her back pocket, and passed back my pen.

  "I'll do some digging, Stuart, and see what I can find out. What I can't make is any promises."

  "I know. I appreciate whatever help you can provide. When I called tonight, I didn't know if you'd even show up."

  "Well," she said. "Do you want another beer? Two's my limit, but if I remember right, yours is up around twenty-two."

  “Sure, I'll take one more," I said. I was already over my limit, not that Heather would believe that. I guess the reason I wanted another beer was that I wasn't yet ready to watch her walk out the door, dragging my heart on a string behind her.

  As I watched her make her way to the restroom, Whitey's words played over and over in my head. Damn, it was good to see her again. Why was that guy so right on target all the time? I did miss her, and I couldn't help wondering if she felt the same way.

  I got my legs under me and swayed toward the jukebox, under the influence of six bottles of strong porter and the heady scent of Heather's perfume. I was feeling nostalgic, dismissed that immediately as the beer talking, and scanned the selections with a shaky index finger to see what else the machine had to offer. The best I could do was Rod Stewart's 'Tonight's the Night'. I clucked my tongue and shook my head. I made a few more selections, including one by Merle Haggard, before Heather appeared at my elbow.

  "Here," she said, thrusting a beer under my nose. "And don't even think about it. Tonight is definitely not the night."

  We slid back into our seats and exchanged a few more stories, me about the sedate, boring life of a lonely private investigator, and her about the swashbuckling life of a young, single, beautiful state trooper. I nursed my beer like it was the last one I'd ever have, and Heather crunched every last one of the ice cubes in her Coke.

  It was close to midnight when I settled up with Lou. In the parking lot, I fumbled for my keys while Heather fired up her Jeep and backed out. I was swaying back and forth slightly, humming the last song that had been playing on the jukebox.

  My head was buzzing and felt as big as a basketball. Heather swung around and opened her passenger door.

  "Are you sure you're okay to drive, Stuart?"

  "I'm fine," I said, but my keys slipped from my wooden fingers and landed in the mud. I bent to pick them up lost my balance, falling heavily against my truck. Heather jumped out from behind the wheel and picked them up, then helped me get upright again.

  The parking lot was slowly revolving, but I felt much better with Heather's arm around my waist. I could smell strawberries in her hair and felt her warm, firm body pressed against mine.

  "I better drive you home," she said.

  "Maybe that's best, Heather. I appreciate it."

  "I don't want anyone to get hurt, that's all," she said, steering me toward the Jeep. I got in and latched the door with amazing dexterity.

  "Wait," I said. "I have to have my fishing rod. Someone'll snag it for sure."

  Heather shot me a dirty look but went about fulfilling my
requests. She locked my tackle bucket and my smaller plugging rod in the cab, then picked up the Penn twelve footer and circled around to the driver's side. She shoved the butt end in first andwedged the tip around the passenger seat, with at least five feet sticking out the window.

  "There," she said. She found first gear and spun her tires in the mud.

  "At least it stopped raining."

  "Shut up and enjoy the ride," she said. I did, sneaking sideways glances every now and then as she wormed her way through the deserted streets toward my place.

  Chapter 6

  Heather dropped me and my fishing rod off in front of my place at about 12:30. I thought about asking her in, but instead, I gave her a sloppy peck on the cheek. She humored me by grinning and not trying to deflect it. I got out and watched until her taillights disappeared around the corner.

  My landlady, Mrs. Ferrell, has a Chihuahua whose balls are twice as big as his brain. I can't set a foot down in my side of the two-family without that mutt setting off the alarms. Tonight I was particularly heavy-footed anyway, and I heard Pedro begin his chattering bark. I let myself in, leaving my fishing rod on the screened-in porch, and tiptoed toward the refrigerator.

  There wasn't much, just some bologna and cheese stuck way in the back. I found some crackers in a cabinet and made myself a midnight snack, although I was pretty sure the bologna was already starting to go bad.

  I made my way to the couch and snapped on the television, searching for something to hold my interest. I had my choice of repeat newscasts or repeat talk shows, neither wf ich tripped my trigger.

  I snapped the TV off and stared into the darkness, unwilling yet to try sleep.

  The dream had come back, almost every night for the past two weeks now, and I was afraid that if I shut my eyes I'd just end up seeing things I didn't ever want to see again. I debated trying to chase it away with a few more beers, but a twenty-hour day was finally catching up with me. Exhaustion pulled me slowly and steadily into a bottomless black chasm. I struggled briefly and futilely.