“What if I refuse?”
“Not a good idea. Evidently, I’m the only person who knows what you’ve been going through. If you need a restraining order to get away from Rich, you need me to back you up. Cops look out for each other. They won’t take your word over his without some corroboration.”
“What if he attacks me? He has a gun.” I can hear her breathing over the phone in short, shallow little breaths. “Do it in my office. In the middle of the day when there’s people around.”
“I’ve been to your office. There’s no place to hide.”
“No way am I meeting him in my apartment unless you bring a police officer with you, someone who could protect us both.” Actually, not until this very second has it occurred to me that either one of us might get hurt.
“Good idea,” I say. “And I know just the person to ask.”
CHAPTER FORTY
I head to Fran’s and tell Eddie that I have a job for him. He is so anxious to dive in I have to stop him from ripping off his apron and abandoning Fran in the middle of the breakfast rush. I tell him to wait until there’s a break in the action and join me at a back table for a cup of coffee.
“So, what up, Doc? Gimme the scoop.”
Fran, coffee in hand, walks over. “Can I join you?”
“No,” Eddie says. “Don’t mean to be rude but the doc and me have some private business.”
“Do what you can, Doc,” she says as she walks back to the counter, “This boy needs a tune-up.”
I tell Eddie about Marvel and Rich. He gives a low whistle. “The husband. Just like on Law & Order.”
“I don’t know for sure—that’s the point of getting him to talk.”
“So why are you doing this and asking me for help? Why isn’t the PD crawling all over him?”
“Good question. The chief’s missing in action and can’t be reached and Pence won’t give me the time of day.”
“Smart guy,” Eddie rolls his eyes. “Just kidding. When do we get started?”
“Marvel’s going to ask Rich to come to her apartment on Saturday night at eight. If we get there at seven that should give us enough time to set up the recorder and find a place to hide.”
“Excellent. That’ll give me a couple of days to hit the range. I need a little practice. I haven’t fired a gun in a while. Fran doesn’t approve of shooting people who don’t like how she cooked their eggs.”
“You don’t need a gun. We have a voice recorder.”
“So what am I doing there?”
“Protecting us.”
“With what? This guy’s twenty years younger and in a lot better shape. Plus, you think he killed his wife, which, in my book, means he’s capable of doing some serious shit. My motto has always been be polite and professional, but have a plan to kill everyone you meet.”
“Bring pepper spray instead.”
“This is a CQB situation. Close-quarter battle. I spray him and we all start crying.”
“What about a taser?”
“Taser is health insurance. A gun is life insurance.”
“I think bringing a gun will just escalate the situation.”
“So if I go in unarmed, nothing will happen, is that your theory? That’s like expecting a bull not to charge you because you’re a vegetarian. Look, you want my help, you got to let me do it my way.”
“What if you get into a fight? What if he takes your gun away? You already said he’s younger and more fit.”
“If he does, he’ll have to beat me to death with it because it’ll be empty.”
“I don’t know. This takes everything to a different level.”
“Trust me on this, Doc. I may be frequently wrong, but I’m never in doubt.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Whatever money Marvel has to her name these days must go into furnishing her office, not her apartment. Multicolored afghans conceal the wear on every secondhand chair in her small living room. Her bedroom is a virtual zoo of stuffed animals. A framed cross-stitched rendition of the Lord’s Prayer hangs over the bed. The woman who sleeps here is homesick and lonely.
“I’d have a helluva time getting it up in here,” Eddie says. “That Rich has weird taste in women.”
We find a hiding place for the recording device on a bookshelf in the hall, behind a collection of delicate china teacups, each of which comes with its own provenance. For some reason Marvel thinks it’s important that we know which cup belonged to what relative. When she picks them up, her hands are shaking so hard, they clatter in their saucers.
“Sit down for a minute,” I say. “How did Rich react when you called him?”
“Surprised. Happy. Wanted to come over right away, but I told him he had to wait until tonight.” She looks at her watch. “What time is it?”
“Not to worry, you’ve got time.” She’s gnawing at her fingernails. I need to find something to distract her. Given how many teacups she owns, I ask if she can make us some tea while Eddie and I pick a place to hide ourselves.
We don’t have many choices. This is a small apartment. The living room, kitchen, and dining counter make up one room. The one bedroom has a closet and a tiny deck, and there’s a bathroom and a closet in the hall. We eliminate the deck, Rich would spot us as he came up the outer stairs and Eddie’s too fat to squeeze into either closet.
Eddie walks to the kitchen counter and perches on a stool while Marvel fixes us tea. He looks right at home leaning on a bar. “So, what’s his habit? Single ready to mingle the minute he gets in the door, or does he like a little floor action before he hits the bedroom?”
Marvel turns scarlet. “I told her, we never had sex.”
“That leaves the bedroom and the bathroom. I don’t want to be in the bathroom if he has to take a leak. I draw the line somewhere. The doc can sit on the floor of your closet, and I’ll take the bed and hope I don’t fall asleep because it’s so comfy in there.”
“You can’t sleep…” Marvel says, looking panicky.
“Just kidding, sweetheart.” He opens his windbreaker enough so that she sees his shoulder holster and gun. “Not to worry.” He walks back to the bedroom. There’s a mirror on the back of the closet door and one attached to an old chest of drawers that probably belonged to the same relatives who gave Marvel the teacups. He adjusts the door, tilts the mirror, and steps back to check the angle. “Brilliant. The Rimbauer periscope.”
Marvel announces that tea is ready. She pours me a cup and offers one to Eddie. “Never touch the stuff,” he says and looks at his watch. “I’m going to get set up. Make sure you clean these cups so Richy doesn’t think you’ve got company.”
When he leaves the room, she looks at me. Her face is as white as the proverbial sheet. “I feel like I’m going to faint.” She sets her teacup down, puts her elbows on the table, clasps her hands together, and bends her head in prayer. “May the strength of God pilot me, the power of God uphold me, the wisdom of God guide me. May the eye of God look before me, the ear of God hear me, the Word of God speak for me. May the hand of God protect me, the way of God lie before me, the shield of God defend me, the host of God save me.”
Eddie steps back into the living room. “Just in case God’s got something else to do—” He pats his weapon, “Me and Dr. Glock are just around the corner.”
* * *
Rich is right on time.
“You look great,” he says. “I’ve missed you.”
“Me too,” she says. Somehow, in the last few minutes, she’s managed to get the tremor out of her voice. “These are lovely,” she says. “Thank you.”
Eddie places his hands over his heart, gives me a simpering smile, and mimes the word “sweet.” We are in Marvel’s bedroom. I’m sitting on the floor, my back against the wall. Eddie is sitting on the bed, his gun out of the holster, lying next to him.
Rich and Marvel move into the kitchen. I hear water running. I’m guessing flower-arranging activity. There’s a pop. Flowers and champagne. Who would have guess
ed that Rich was such a traditionalist? The champagne popping is followed by the business of setting out some snacks, opening and closing the refrigerator, pulling out drawers. I hear the clink of silverware and dishes better than I can hear what they’re saying. I can only hope the recorder in the living room is picking up more than I am. Twenty minutes of domesticity pass. Eddie’s starting to squirm, making hurry-up, get-going motions with his hands, and tapping the face of his watch.
They move back into the living room. More small talk. “This is good, did you make it?”
“Want some more?”
By now we’ve been here for forty-five minutes with no progress, and my fifty-minute bladder is giving me fits. Stupid me for drinking that tea. And then Marvel makes her move.
“One of the reasons I wanted us to talk is that I need you to clarify something.”
“Anything,” he says.
“Remember when I said I couldn’t see you anymore. That we’d have to stop?”
“Worst day of my life,” he says. Is that possible? Worse than the day he murdered his wife?
“You said something to me. You said I couldn’t stop seeing you after what you’d done so that we could be together. What did you mean by what you’d done?”
There’s a pause.
“I need to know, Rich. What did you mean?”
“I don’t remember. I was upset. I didn’t mean anything.”
Ask him, I think, quit beating around the bush.
“Did you kill Randy?”
“Is that what you think? That I could do something like that?”
“I don’t know. Did you?”
He gets up. I can hear him walking around the small room.
“You know better than anyone that being married to Randy was hell. I used to sit in your office, watching the two of you and wishing I was married to you, not her. All consumed with herself. Nothing and no one mattered but her. All that drama. I finally told her, ‘You want to apologize to Ms. Gibbs, then apologize, but get it over with. Stop talking about it.’ She wouldn’t listen.” He stops pacing. “I couldn’t take it any longer. I asked her for a divorce. I felt like a shit, leaving her in that state. But I could tell it was never going to end—it would never be any different between us.”
“So what did you do?”
“I said fuck it. You want to apologize? I’ll drive you there. So I did.”
“And then what happened?”
“I don’t know.”
There’s silence. Rich starts pacing again.
I catch Eddie’s eye and mouth the words ‘I really need to pee.’ He leans over and points to the closet, tilting the mattress as he shifts forward. His gun slides off the bed and clatters to the floor.
I hear Rich say “Who’s in there?” and in a nano-second he’s on top of Eddie and they’re struggling for the gun. Marvel’s screaming. Maybe I am too. There’s a lot of grunting and banging. I duck down, push back into the corner with my hands over my head to avoid getting hit by a barrage of legs and arms. It occurs to me that I’ll be a lousy witness if this ever goes to court.
“Motherfucker,” Eddie screams. They are both on their feet now, Eddie panting and sweating. Rich is holding Eddie’s gun, pointing it right at him. His hands and the gun are larger than life. Then there is the loudest noise I’ve ever heard. I watch Eddie crumple to the bed, slide off, and lay motionless on the floor before someone whacks me on the head and everything goes dark.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Something soft rubs against my face. Whatever’s beneath me rumbles like a clothes dryer. A giant bump—first up, then down—jolts me forward, followed by the screech of tires. A voice says “Goddamn it,” and I’m awake, tied up in the back of my own car with the chenille belt from Marvel’s bathrobe. It has to be hers. I never wear pink. I push myself up far enough to see the front seat. Rich Spelling is driving my car.
“Where are you taking me? Where’s Eddie?”
“Shut up,” he says. I can see his reflection in the rearview mirror. He is sweating or crying. Maybe both.
“Is Eddie dead?” I try to squirm into a sitting position. My neck is killing me and my head weighs a ton. “Where’s Marvel?”
“Behind us. Driving my car.”
“Why? Where are we going?”
“I should have left you in the apartment. Shot you, put the gun in Eddie’s hand. Made it look like he killed you and then shot himself.”
Foggy as I am, I’m pretty sure the inevitable has only been postponed. I don’t want to appear ungrateful, but I have to ask, “Why didn’t you?”
“Marvel begged me not to. Said we’d go to Hell for breaking God’s commandment against killing.”
Thank God for Marvel, I say to myself, before I remember I’m an atheist.
There’s another screech. The car swerves and bumps over a curb. Rich hits the steering wheel with both hands. “Fuck,” he says. Then he brakes, backs up, and does a U-turn. I roll forward and almost fall off the back seat onto the floor.
“Watch how you’re driving,” I blurt before I realize that the more erratic his driving, the better the chances that he’ll get pulled over by a cop and I’ll be rescued. I roll back against the seat.
“Shut up. I can’t think when you talk.” He makes a sharp turn to the right and I slide down the seat towards the passenger door. Streetlights whiz by. I can see parts of buildings from my prone position, but nothing looks familiar. Wherever we are, it’s very dark. He turns another corner and I slide back in the other direction bumping my head on the door handle.
“Why is Marvel following us? Is she helping you?”
He’s slowing at every corner, craning his neck at street signs.
“Listen to me, Rich. You’re in a terrible state. You’re too agitated to think clearly. Pull over, let’s talk this through.” He jams his foot on the accelerator and speeds up.
“Marvel set this whole thing up, didn’t she? Told you I’d be in the apartment by myself, listening. She’d ask you if you killed Randy, you’d say no and that would be the end of it. I’d be off your back and everyone would go on thinking Randy was killed by Lakeisha Gibbs’ family or Darnell Taylor.”
“Darnell Taylor is a piece of shit.”
“That may be so, but one day you’re going to have to explain why you shot Eddie and why you did whatever you’re planning to do to me.” Several deadly options run through my mind. Rich brakes hard, stops a second, and speeds forward. “Marvel didn’t tell you that Eddie was going to be in her apartment with a gun, did she? You’re just a fling for her. She doesn’t intend to stick with you, she’s going back to Nebraska. She told me so.” Divide and conquer. Worked for Julius Caesar.
He makes a wild turn and slams on the brakes.
“Are you going to kill me?”
“I told you to shut up.”
“You killed Randy. Tell me. I’m dead anyway.”
“You’re just like her. It’s all about you.” My mother would say this was a perfect example of the pot calling the kettle black. “Randy was violent. You didn’t know that, did you? She threw stuff at me, hit me. Why do people always think only men are violent?” I decide to overlook the obvious irony of his question.
“I didn’t know, Rich, because you didn’t tell me. This makes everything different, don’t you see? I can back you up. Be a character witness. I can testify that Randy was suicidal, out of control. If you kill me, you lose the one person who can help you.”
He turns in his seat and looks at me. “And why would you want to help me? You hated me from the beginning. Took her side all the time. Randy needs this, Randy needs that. What about what I needed?”
“I’ll help you because I want to live.” The realization that this is the truest thing I’ve ever said is so astonishing that after I say it I go mute. I want to live so much it hurts. My heart aches with it. I can taste it. Feel it vibrating in my body.
People who are about to die are supposed to see their entire lives flashing befor
e their eyes. What plays out in front of me is the life I won’t get to live, the pain I’m causing my mother by dying first, the grief I feel for Eddie blindly following me to his death. And Frank, dear Frank, all that love squandered, wasted, because I don’t know when to give up.
Rich opens the door and drags me out of the backseat onto the ground. Pebbles dig into my backside. I try to focus. Marvel is several yards away standing next to Rich’s car, staring at me, frozen with fright.
My eyes adjust to the dark. An apartment building looms in the shadows. It is three stories high with outside passages. I’ve been here twice before and this is the first time there is a light on in 3C.
With one hand Rich jerks me into a sitting position. He has Eddie’s gun in his other hand.
“Where are we? What are we doing here?” Marvel says and takes a few steps towards us.
“Stay back, “ Rich says. “You don’t want to see this.”
“You told me we were going to the police so you could turn yourself in. I begged you.”
His face crumples. For just a moment I think he’s going to cry. “I’m sorry. I have to do this. I don’t have a choice.”
“No,” Marvel says. “Stop, please.”
“I killed a cop. I’ll go to jail.”
“Two wrongs don’t make a right.” She takes another step forward.
“Get back in the car, please.”
“Pray with me, Rich. Ask God for forgiveness and guidance.”
“Get in the car.”
“No.” She screams it this time. Her voice is a mix of fear and fury. Rich looks wild, his eyes popping, sweat pouring off him in the chilly wind. He looks from her to me and back again.
“I killed a cop.”
“It was self-defense. You said so yourself.”
“No one’s going to believe me. I could’ve stopped that fat bastard with one hand.”
“Marvel’s right. Eddie had a gun,” I say. “I saw it.”
“And you’re going to defend me? Bullshit. You think I killed Randy. You can’t wait to tell someone.” He gestures with his gun. “Darnell’s out on bail, up there in that apartment. He knows you’ve been snooping around. That’s why he kills you. Perfectly believable. He’s the number-one suspect.”
The Right Wrong Thing Page 20