River Kill

by Ted Begnoche

  "Nice shot," I said.

  "I bank 'em off the building, just so my daughter knows I need another. Works every time."

  As if on cue, the screen door swung open and the woman emerged, still pressing the portable phone to her ear. She passed a dirty look to me, and a dripping can of Bud to her father, who groped vainly in the air for a moment before he snatched it from her hand.

  Suddenly it dawned on me that the old-timer was blind.

  "Broadhurst," he said.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Donnie Broadhurst. Told you it would come to me."

  "Oh yeah, Donnie," I said.

  "You know him?"

  "I know his father pretty well if it's the right one I'm thinking of."

  Al, short for Alphonse, Broadhurst was a career criminal who'd been arrested in Fairshore several times, not to mention a half-dozen other local towns. He'd done time for everything from petty theft to carjacking and had probably spent close to half his adult life in jail. He stayed out long enough, however, to father two children, both bad apples that didn't fall far from the tree. If I remembered right, one son had moved to Florida and was most likely giving their justice system a workout down there. It sounded like one son stayed local.

  "Seems like a bad seed, that one. Don't surprise me that Frenchy'd hang out with him." The old man slurped some beer and wiped at his chin with the back of one scrawny wrist.

  "Where'd LaPierre and his friend go?"

  "I thought I heard Martha's Vineyard. Coulda been Nantucket. An island, at any rate. What you want with him?"

  "I just need to ask him a few questions."

  "You from the police? 'Cause that wouldn't surprise me, not about Frenchy. Damn shame, too. I knew him when he was a good fisherman."

  "I'm not from the police. I'd just like to talk to him, that's all."

  "Should I mention your name?" asked the old timer. His wrinkled, whiskered neck worked convulsively while he pulled more beer out of his can. He burped loudly, excused himself, and then went back to his rhythmic rocking.

  "I'll stop in again," I said. I thanked my new friend and fired up the truck, splashing muddy water from the unavoidable potholes that dotted the parking lot.

  Martin LaPierre and Donnie Broadhurst. I thought about the two of them together as I drove back to the office. Well, at the very least I had another excuse to call Heather. I needed to see if Mr. Broadhurst's pride and joy was following in his father's footsteps. What the hell, might as well check on LaPierre at the same time.

  I spent what was left of the afternoon in my air-conditioned office, painfully pecking my handwritten notes into the computer. I made a few phone calls, one to Capital Insurance begging for another week before I started the next case for them, and another to Billy Cardell to give him an update. Billy was surprised to find that Martin LaPierre was back in the area, but beyond that, he just sounded tired.

  Heather was out of the office, so I left a message for her to call me back. I propped my feet up on the desk and had just closed my eyes when the phone startled me out of my skin. I reached for it while my heartbeat returned to normal.

  "McCann."

  "Stuart? This is Hugh Gertling. I'm glad I caught you in."

  "Mr. Gertling. What can I do for you?"

  "For one thing, you can give me the name of the person you thought might be interested in a job at StanMel. We had two more people quit today. They're dropping like flies, and Stepkowski's getting a little pissed."

  "What happened?"

  "Guy had a run-in with the baby Step. Stanley's been letting his son get more and more involved with the day-to-day operation, only the stupid bastard doesn't know anything about circuit board manufacturing, and even less about how to interact with people."

  "That's a shame,” I said.

  "It is, Stuart because we've lost some good people this year. It seems like Stepkowski is positioning himself for early retirement, but I'll be surprised if he doesn't fold up this company in the process."

  "Did you make it down to New Jersey for John's service?"

  "Yeah, me and two other guys. Actually, a guy who quit today was one of them. John had a nice family. Good people. Poor John."

  "Yeah. I can't get him out of my mind."

  "It'll take time, Stuart. What about this person you were thinking of?"

  "Right. Would it be okay if the person didn't know that much about the circuit board business? Is it okay if he's just a hard worker?"

  "I think that's alright. Step's getting so desperate for good people that he'll take anyone, as long as the guy can get along well with everybody. And he'd have to be a quick learner."

  "No sweat. What time can I be there?"

  "What?"

  "It's me," I said. "I want the job."

  "I thought you already had a job."

  "Business has been a little slow. Is it a problem?"

  "Well, I guess we were looking for someone long term, but with two more people quitting our situation has changed a little. Stanley said to get someone to help me on the dock immediately. Shit's stacking up down here. I've been working twelve hour days all week."

  "I could start next Monday, if..."

  "No good,” said Gertling. “We need someone pronto. And I gotta warn you about a couple of things. Number one, the pay isn't that great. Stepkowski'll probably sweeten it a little, just to get someone quick, but you'll be living just above the poverty level."

  "What else is new? How about number two?"

  "To start with, it'll be eight hours a day, but it won'tbe long until we'll be expecting ten or twelve from you, at least while we're getting over the hump."

  "That doesn't leave me much time to fish,” I said.

  "Or me to golf. But it should only be a couple of weeks until we get caught up. What do you think?"

  "What time should I be there?"

  "Try seven. And be ready to work."

  "Okay, I get the message. I'll see you tomorrow."

  "Seven sharp."

  "Seven," I said. "I can't guarantee I'll be too sharp. Oh, and one more thing, Mr. Gertling."

  “It's Hugh. And what would that be?"

  "I don't think we need to tell anyone what my other job is. It tends to make people nervous, although I don't know why."

  "No sweat, Stuart. Hey, you’re not planning to investigate on company time, are you?"

  "No way. You'll get an honest day's work from me."

  Gertling chuckled and broke the connection. I tossed my cellphone on the desk and shook my head wistfully, wondering what the hell I just got myself into. It wouldn't be the first time my impulsiveness got me in over my head.

  And what about Billy Cardell? I couldn't just start something and then leave him hanging. But John Barcom’s death still bothered me. Something wasn't right, and my gut feeling told me StanMel Circuits was somehow involved. With a job on the loading dock, I could snoop around and get paid at the same time.

  I left the office at five-thirty, with thoughts bouncing around inside my skull like ping pong balls inside a lottery machine. Billy Cardell. John Barcom. Heather. And tomorrow, the anniversary of the accident, and starting a new job I had no clue about, on a whim, a hunch, and a prayer.

  Jesus, McCann, I thought. Do you think you could get any more balls in the air? And which one are you going to drop this time?

  Dinner was a pizza from a takeout joint around the corner from my apartment. I ordered a large to make sure I had a couple of slices left over for breakfast in the morning. Around the corner from the pizza place was a florist, and I stopped in and picked up a dozen red roses and an enormous bunch of cut flowers.

  At home, I placed the flowers in the fridge and yanked out two beers while I was there. I settled into the couch with the pizza on my lap, swigging beer and clicking the remote. The Red Sox were being beaten silly by the Dodgers, and I was thinking the inter-league play was the best thing to happen to baseball in years when the phone jangled. I thought about letting it go to voicema
il, then scooped it at the last second.

  "McCann."

  "'Bout time, McCann. Where do you hide all day?"

  "If I told you, I wouldn't be able to hide anymore. Thanks for calling back, Heather."

  "What do you need this time?"

  "Damn, that hurts. You think I call you only when I need something?"

  "I could tell by the tone of your voice," she said. "I almost didn't call back."

  "Well, now that you mention it, can you run a couple of names

  for me? I need to know what these guys have been up to."

  I supplied her with Broadhurst and LaPierre, filling in a little

  background at the same time.

  "I'm out of the office right now. Is tomorrow soon enough?"

  "No sweat, only you'll have to leave a message. I'll be out all day."

  "A new case?"

  "No. A new job."

  "Explain yourself," she said. I could hear traffic sounds in the background.

  "I got a job, Heather. A real job. Stop laughing. I'm serious."

  "I'm sorry. It just sounds so funny coming from you. Besides, I'm having a little trouble imagining what type of job you'd be suited for."

  “I'll be working on the loading dock at StanMel Circuits, as long as my back holds out."

  "Cut the crap. Is this related to your client slash friend who just died?"

  "It feels funny to me, Heather. I can't get him out of my mind. We really hit it off, and I don't feel right letting it rest."

  "If you have some valid concerns, you should let the police in on it. They..."

  "They've already said it's an accident. And I have to admit it really does look like one."

  "And that's not good enough for you?"

  "Not yet."

  "Stuart..."

  “Don't bother." I chuckled into the phone and swallowed some beer.

  "Christ, be careful."

  "Aw, that's touching, Heather."

  "I just don't want any of this harebrained shit linked back to me, that's all."

  We were silent for fifteen seconds. Finally, she said, "Anything else, Stuart?"

  "Nothing really. Tomorrow's the anniversary."

  "Which one?"

  "The accident."

  "Oh, God. I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

  "I guess so,” I said. “It's just that it gnaws at me. I can't push it from my mind no matter how hard I try."

  "You're going to have to let it go someday. It's over, you know."

  "It's not over for me, or a lot of other people, for that matter." I polished off the beer I was working on and set the pizza box on the coffee table in front of me.

  "I'll work on those names," said Heather. "Check your messages. I'll try to get back to you by noon. Call me if you need anything, or if you just want to talk."

  "I wasn't after sympathy."

  "I'm not supplying any," she said and broke the connection.

  I stared at the phone a minute and then retrieved two more beers, loading another six pack in the fridge while I was at it. The book I found in John's desk drawer was laying open on the kitchen table. I scooped it up and carried it to the living room, flipping through it while sipping on more beer.

  What the hell did the pictures mean? Was John just doodling, or trying to tell someone something? Dead fish. A skull and crossbones. Seemingly random numbers sprinkled on the pages.

  My head hurt. Too much was going on inside, and I tried to Shut everything off with another beer. And another. And then I think another.

  Chapter 15

  Wednesday morning was a rubber stamp of the last three weeks. I didn't need the radio weatherman to tell me it'd be hazy, hot and humid; I was already living through it. He did inform me that in spite of yesterday's rain we were still in the middle of a certified heat wave, with no relief in sight.

  Some things never change.

  Blue Hills Cemetery is a huge place, and when I get in there all the roads look the same. There wasn't much traffic at 6:00 AM, just me and a stooped old-timer paying his respects. He placed a bunch of wildflowers delicately on the ground, made the sign of the cross and knelt down in front of a headstone.

  I searched for Josh Bellingham's marker for five minutes before I found it, glancing around self-consciously while I stumbled about. The stone was surrounded by flowers of all varieties. A candle was flickering in a red cylinder. Someone had made a wreath out of a beautiful nest of vines.

  I bent close to lay my bunch of flowers with all the rest, and that's when I saw it. Propped against the headstone inside a waterproof bag was a framed family photo of the Bellinghams. Mom, Dad, Joshua and a cocker spaniel. All smiling. All happy. Josh, looking like a carefree kid, the way he should. The way he still should be.

  Goosebumps sprouted on my bare forearms. I sat in front of the grave and put my head in my hands and began to weep. It was uncontrollable for the better part of five minutes, and I didn't fight it.

  Three years. Joshua Bellingham would’ve been fourteen by now. Going into high school soon. Starting to think about girls. Normal kid stuff. Not too much to ask.

  Only thanks to me, he'd never get the chance.

  I heard a car start, and when I looked up the old man was driving by. He raised his hand and gave a little wave. I waved back and pushed myself up, suddenly wanting to be anywhere but where I was. I willed myself to turn around and look at the picture again.

  I said a tiny prayer, the only kind I know and made an awkward sign of the cross.

  I got in the Toyota and started it, took one last look at the spray of flowers for Josh, and headed for StanMel Circuits, a little less alive than when I'd started the day.

  Except for one rusty old pickup, the parking lot at StanMel was deserted. I parked near the Town river and waited, watching the tide slowly slip out to sea. Two other cars arrived, and I watched in my rearview mirror as the drivers got out and used the loading dock entrance. I decided to wait for Hugh Gertling, but not in the truck. I shuffled carefully down the weed-covered rocks until I was standing alongside the river.

  I scanned the area for signs of life, looking for small bait fish that sometimes dimple the water's surface. Nothing seemed to be moving. I glanced up and down the river, squinting against the reflecting sun.

  Off to the right, some movement caught my eye. It was a seagull, struggling as if it was caught by something. I walked closer, picking my way among the loose and slippery rocks until I was about ten feet from the bird. The gull seemed to be free from any wire or fishing line. It lay in a small pool of water, unable to stand or flee as I approached.

  As I inched closer the big bird became more and more agitated, feebly flapping its wings and staring at me out of one cold marble eye. When I reached down to lift it, the gull pecked weakly at my hand. I picked it up and tried to inspect it, but it started to protest so I set it back down. It flopped on its side and flapped one wing at the sky. I righted it but it listed again.

  I found a dry boulder and sat for a few minutes. When the traffic began to thicken in the parking lot I scrambled up the banking and back to the truck, taking one last look at the injured gull.

  My dashboard clock read 6:45. Hugh Gertling would be along any minute. I leaned my rump against the tailgate and nodded to people that were striding by. After another five minutes, Gertling's beat up car chugged into the lot. I walked over to where he parked and we shook hands.

  "Good morning, Stuart," he said. "Are you ready?"

  "As I'll ever be, I guess."

  "Good. Let's get to it."

  I followed Gertling into the building, watching while he went about his morning routine. He flipped on lights in the stockroom, stowed his lunch in a small refrigerator, started a pot of coffee. My stomach burbled along with the coffee, and I was wishing I had stopped by Whitey's. The back of my head was throbbing from too many beers and too little sleep.

  “Okay," said Gertling, rubbing his hands together briskly, "let me give you the rundown. Our shipping servi
ce will be here at 10:30 and we have a shitload of stuff we need to pack. I need you to get some boxes, 'cause what we have out won't be enough. Here are the keys." Gertling held out a small ring. "Room's over there."

  I took the keys from Gertling and made my way over to where he was pointing. On my third try, the key twisted easily and I pushed the door open. I gathered as many boxes as I could carry and shut the door behind me.

  "Right over here, Stuart." Gertling directed me to a long bench where all the other shipping boxes were waiting to be filled. "Here," he said, handing me a tape gun. "Use this to make up the boxes. I'll lay the paperwork inside. Then you come by and match up the paperwork with the product on the racks over there. We'll do the first couple together, then when you feel comfortable you're on your own."

  "Let's do it," I said. I began assembling the boxes while Gertling shuffled through a massive sheaf of paperwork, dropping a neat stack into each waiting box. We did the first few together, then I heard Gertling's name over the intercom. He handed me his stack of papers and disappeared through a door that led to the assembly area.

  What the hell was I doing here? I had a friend who needed my help, and here I was fooling around on the loading dock of a company that needed a real worker, not someone like me who had no intention of staying put longer than it took to snoop around. I was just being foolish, and in the end, I'd probably wind up hurting more people than I helped. And for what? Just so I could keep busy, and I wouldn't have to think about things I probably could never drive from my mind anyway.

  Gertling returned, shaking his head as he checked over my work. He swapped a few packages I had screwed up, then went to fetch us both a cup of steaming coffee.

  "Take a break, Stu," he said, handing me a Styrofoam cup. He dragged a chair over and sat down.

  I leaned against a bench and sipped coffee. "How're we doing?" I asked.

  "No matter how much you do, it never seems like it's enough. We'll make our shipment this week, but I still think we're behind for the month, so Stanley won't be happy."