by Julie Vail
I took a breath, and waited to see what would come out, because I hadn’t planned ahead. I wasn’t ready for this part of my life to be laid bare. I had barely reconciled it for myself. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to explain it to her. But here I was.
“Never mind,” she said. “That was rude. You don’t have to answer.” She turned around to face me. I took the gun and the holster and placed both on the night table next to me.
“I love you, John.” She looked me in the eyes when she said it. “I love you so very, very much.
“I’m a lucky man.” I kissed her then, softly at first—as a thank you, and then more urgently. I lay back and I pulled her on top of me. She stretched out the length of me and I pulled the t-shirt off, running my hands along her back, then down over her backside.
“When I get home, I’ll teach you how to sew up a gaping wound.” Her smile lit up the otherwise dark room, and I knew at that moment that asking her to live this life, with me, was as close to out of the question as anything I’ve ever dealt with.
TWENTY ONE
The detective drove into the alley behind Basta Deli and waited. A car drove up and another man got out.
Did you get it?
The detective nodded and handed him an envelope.
The lieutenant from Organized Crime looked in the envelope. Good. You keep close to him, John. Earn his trust.
Oh, I will, he said. Don’t you worry about that, pal.
I walked into the station at 7:10. Last night, during a brief interlude when we weren’t making love or eating, she asked for my mother’s address. She was going to try to stop by, introduce herself. She was going to New York for a consult at Sloan-Kettering, and she would be gone for about a week. I was thrilled that she was going to try to meet my family.
“We’re going back to the marina to question some citizens dyin’ to help us out with Kevin Meyers,” my partner announced before I even sat down.
“How’d we get that lucky?”
“I think it had something to do with Bill Grayson.”
“Really? Do I get coffee first?” I snipped.
“I insist.” He paused. “She leave yet?”
“No, not till noon.”
“When does she get back?”
“Not sure. Week or so.”
“And I have to put up with your sour, brooding ass til the woman returns? Is that it?”
“Basically. You mind?”
“Not at all, pendejo.”
We arrived at the marina and parked. He started to get out but hesitated when he didn’t see me do the same. “You want me to engrave an invitation for you, or what?”
“Thanks,” I said finally.
“For what?”
“I dunno. Haven’t said it in a while, I guess.”
He blinked at me a few times. “Can we go do this, Johnny, or should we forget the whole thing and do a week at the sweat lodge?”
“I’m coming.”
We walked along a path that paralleled the marina. Boats bobbed in the water, and seagulls scanned them for scraps. Buildings, including a yacht club and a boat repair shop lined the path on the other side. We came to the third building and climbed the dozen or so steps to Reynolds Boat Leasing.
“So, who are we seeing?” I asked.
Alex let loose a sigh and dipped into his pocket. “Man named . . . Reynolds . . . says he has something for us on Meyers.”
“Let’s hope,” I muttered as we opened the door and entered a small office. A long desk separated where you came in—normally called a foyer, but I hesitated in this case—from a few desks and a large open work-space beyond.
“He’p ya?” a man I’d have to try hard not to call ‘Pappy’ asked us.
“Uh, Mr. Reynolds?” Alex dared.
“Dat right. What can I do ya . . .”
“Uh, is there another ‘Mister Reynolds’, sir?”
“Ah, you be wantin’ m’son. Hang on.” He turned away, a face that was all eyes and beard, and hollered something I would not have been able to decipher even under threat of torture. A moment later a younger man, but no less distinguished than his ‘Pappy’, came out. Jesus, I wondered where the McCoy’s were hiding. The Hatfield’s had been found.
“Sir,” Alex tried again. “Detectives Ortiz and Testarossa. You called with information on Kevin Meyers?”
“Who?” he asked, and actually scratched his head, reminding me of poor old Stan Laurel, right before Oliver Hardy smacked him with his hat.
“Kevin Meyers, sir? Bill Grayson said . . .”
“Oh, right. The young kid you’re lookin’ for.”
“Yes, sir,” Alex said, relieved.
“Let’s step outside, take a walk. Pop, I’m out,” he called over his shoulder. He turned to us as we stepped through the door. “Mick Reynolds. Sorry about that. A lot goin’ on.”
“Yeah, Mick. With us, too,” I cracked. Alex shot me a look.
He nodded and said, “Yeah, I hear ya.” We walked down the stairs we’d just climbed, crossed the walkway and entered the dock where several slips, including Meyers’, were located.
“How do you know Bill Grayson?” I asked.
“He’s a minister at our church. He asked me, since I work here and all, if I ever seen this kid you’re after—Meyers. After Bill described the kid, I tol’ ‘im, yeah, you know . . . I seen ‘im.”
“Great,” I said. “What was it that you saw?”
“Well,” Mick Reynolds began, “I was sitting out here having a smoke . . .” Now, that was something I’d have never guessed. The odor alone coming off the man gave ‘second-hand smoke’ a whole new meaning.
“An’ I saw the kid coming up the walk with another kid . . .”
“When was this?”
“Uh, week ago Saturday, ‘bout noonish—I been known to take a break ‘bout noonish.”
“This him?” Alex asked, producing a picture of Rob Chambliss that I’d never seen before. I made a note to ask him where the fuck he got that.
“Yep. Anyhoo, I remember all’a this because the kid . . . this one . . . was cussin’ a blue streak, tellin’ the Meyers kid he was gonna take off, som’it about it bein’ ‘over’ . . .”
“And you don’t know what ‘it’ was?” I asked.
“No, sir, I’m sorry to say. But the other kid, Meyers, he was pretty pee-ohed about whatever it was that was ‘spose to be ‘over’, and he says to get on the boat, after a few beers they’d figger out what to do, yada yada . . .”
“Yada yada . . . anything worth mentioning about the yada yadas?” I asked.
“Naw, just, you know, ‘get that rope, tie it here’, that kinna stuff. So, they take off, an’ the Meyers kid comes back about two hours later, that other kid not on deck, at least that I could see, and then the Meyers kid . . . he did the strangest thing.”
“What was that?” I asked. This backcountry boy was actually helping me, aside from the ball-knocking headache he was giving me.
“Well, he goes into the supply box, right here, and he pulls out a bag.”
“What kind of a bag?” Alex, trying to keep me out of it now that I’d found my cop-jones again.
“A black one, one like you’d take to go on vacation . . . but not too long a one, ya get my meanin’.”
“And why was that strange to you,” I asked, getting right back up on the horse again.
“Because, why the hell would he stick it in the supply box? Why not take it with from the git-go? See my point?”
“Yeah, Mister Reynolds, I think I do. What normally goes in these boxes?”
“Oh, anything, really. Extra rope, gasoline cans, life jackets . . . name it. But I ain’t never seen a suitcase.” And with that he peeled off into fits of phlegmy laughter, followed by a coughing fit that I was sure would have us sending for the EMT’s in no time flat. We waited—or rather Alex waited—patiently for him to get his shit together. I was trying not to belt him. Finally, he began to breathe again and his color returned.
“What else?” I finally asked.
“Nuttin’, ‘cept he was in a big hurry ta git back on that boat.”
“Did you notice anything else, sir?”
“His hand was hangin’ kinda limp. He went for the lock on the box with his hand—right, I think—and then used the other one to open it.”
“Did you see the hand at all?”
“Naw, but I knew sure as shit what happened.” I couldn’t wait to hear. “He was shakin’ it, like so . . .” and he demonstrated. “He knocked someone, or something, purdy hard.”
“What, like a wall . . .?”
“Or a face. My hand been that way a time’er two.”
Jaw’s broken . . . Blunt force, like a punch. Bruising to that side of the face. That’s what Pete Tabor had said about the condition of Rob Chambliss’ body. But something else was nagging at me. I thought back to the forensics report I was reading yesterday. Blood in the shell found at the boathouse, blood here in the supply box. Shaking his hand . . . his hand.
A fingernail. A portion of a fingernail was found inside the shell. It was on the forensics report. Kevin Meyers was missing a portion of his fingernail.
“Mister Reynolds, thank you,” I said.
“Aw, glad I could help. Any friend of Billy Grayson’s . . .” As he spoke, I looked down and saw that the lock on the supply box was open. I looked at Alex, then I reached into my pocket, and as I did so, Alex spirited the helpful Mr. Reynolds out of eye-shot, and I took the handkerchief, wrapped it around my hand, and removed the lock. The box was empty.
But the smear of blood on the inside was unmistakable.
††††
I got home, changed clothes, and opened a beer. It was almost eight, which meant it was eleven in New York. I checked the answering machine when I got in and there was no message from her, and none on the cell. I tried not to panic, or get angry. I really had to tone it down, this need to keep track of her every breath. I knew this wasn’t about trust. I trusted her without question. This was all about just needing her next to me, and if she couldn’t be next to me, I wanted to hear her voice. And barring that, I needed a lock of hair, a dish with some of her DNA . . . something.
The phone rang. “This better be you, lady blue” I said when I picked up.
“And if it’s not?”
“Then I’m gonna start a manhunt, baby. How was your flight?”
“Late getting in, then I went to dinner with a colleague from Sloan-Kettering. I’m currently soaking in the tub . . . not that you asked.”
“Yes, well, that’s information I need to know, cara. Thank you for telling me.”
“Johnny, before I forget, I have a favor to ask.”
“Shoot.”
“Very funny. I got a notice from UPS . . . a case of wine I’m expecting. They’ll ship it back if I don’t respond. Would you mind calling them and picking it up for me? The notice is right on the little table inside the front door. I’d ask Jada except she decided to take a vacation while I’m away.”
“No problem, sweetheart.”
“Thank you, baby.”
“I’ll pick up your car, too. Where is it?”
“No . . . it’s okay. It won’t be ready, I don’t think . . .”
“Alright. What do you have going tomorrow? In fact, why the hell are you in New York and not with me?”
“Oh, there’s my sweet Neanderthal. I am in New York, as you know, and I’m consulting on a limb transplant case. Very interesting, and I will fill you in when I know more. In the meantime, I would like to discuss coming attractions.”
“Coming attractions?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Elaborate, baby.”
“Well, I will be returning in a week’s time, perhaps sooner. I’m hoping that . . . coming . . . is in my future?” She paused for effect. “Is it, Johnny? Is coming in my future?” she asked breathily.
“Have you been a good girl?”
“Of course I have—at great effort, I might add.” I heard water splashing in the background.
“Alright, well I have a plan. Would you like to hear it—subject to change without notice?”
“I would love to hear it,” she purred.
“Alright, well the first thing I will do is . . .” I got just far enough to where I could hear the heavy breathing on the other end.
“I think that’s all for now. Go to bed now.”
She gasped. “Oh. . . .”
“I’ll finish your bedtime story tomorrow, okay?”
“MEAN is what you are. Goodnight, baccala.”
“Hey.” I heard her giggle. “Goodnight, piccolina. Ti amo molto.”
“Ti amo, anche, bello.”
I hung up the phone. Breathe, Testarossa . . . breathe.
TWENTY TWO
He sat in the bar with the retired detective. The streets had aged him to look twenty years older than he was. Booze and cigarettes rested in his voice like a comfortable companion.
We were all in it, kid . . . but your pop . . . he got too close.
What do you mean, ‘too close’?
He got ‘involved’. He got in too deep. He made close ties that he couldn’t cut in the end. See, kid, your pop did his job and he did it good. Too good. He got too close. He tossed the bourbon down in one shot. But, with these guys, the Vitello’s? Once you’re in, kid . . . you’re in.
He stood and offered the detective a twenty for the drink. The detective waved it away.
You watch your back, Johnny, you hear? You watch your back.
It had been a day of more of the same. Kevin Meyers was in the wind. We were sure now that Meyers was in the canoe in the creek. He got David Crane to get into the canoe with him, and somewhere along the way, Rob Chambliss came on the scene. Kevin held the pipe, Rob held the gun. Why all this ended in David Crane’s death was the unknown element. And now, we had the body of Rob Chambliss to deal with. His teeth had been knocked loose, which accounted for a tiny sample of blood found in the storage bin at the dock. The larger sample, the one I spotted with my naked eye, belonged to neither. We now had a DNA match to Kevin Meyers due to the fingernail found inside the canoe. The other blood sample was unknown. What blood from a third, unknown party, was doing inside the storage bin at the dock, was yet another mystery.
I was looking forward to tonight. Mark and I were going to meet Alex at his house, have a beer, then go out for a couple of hours, play pool maybe. It had been a while since I’d been out with just the guys. We never went out on a weeknight, and we weren’t planning to be out late.
I went home, showered, and drove over to Alex’s. He and Lisa lived in a small house in Mar Vista. Their house was in a cul-de-sac, which was great for the kids. They could actually play in the street, and it seemed that every house had a kid the same age as theirs, so they were not poor for friends.
I drove up and parked in the driveway. My godson was playing outside and he ran to me when he saw me drive up. In fact I almost ran him down and had to slam on the brakes, which caused Lisa to storm out the front door and threaten to spank his behind if he ever ran in front of a moving car again, punctuated with a resounding, “Do you hear me, mister?” Ouch. I lifted him up into my arms quick, stemming the threat temporarily. Lisa and Alex were great parents, but they were tough.
Shielding Steven’s little butt with my big hand against any stealth attacks by his mother, I bent down and kissed her on the cheek.
“Calm down, mama. No harm done,” I said, and carried him into the house, feeling the knives that shot out of her eyes, twisting in my back. The kid giggling in my arms didn’t help his cause, or mine. I tickled him again.
The living room was small, with gleaming hardwood floors throughout, and you could see straight back into the kitchen. A counter with stools separated the kitchen from the living area, and that’s where I planted myself after I set Steven down between his mother and me and whispered, “Beat it.” And he did, which caused her to give me the stink-eye as
she passed me on her way into the kitchen. She knew how I felt about her kids. Aside from the two of them, no one loved them more than I did.
She went into the refrigerator and pulled out a Molson, opened it and handed it to me. She remembered suddenly that she also had a husband, probably because he had just walked in the room and farted, so she took pity and pulled a beer out for him, too.
“Nice,” I commented.
“John almost ran down his godson,” she said, handing him the beer, then suddenly realizing what he had brought into the room with him, said, “Oh, God. Al, get out of here.” She waved her arms around, as if that would help, and finally after her eyes stopped watering she reached into the cupboard, took down a large bowl, and filled it with potato chips.
“So, you’re alone tonight?” she said to me as she placed the bowl down in front of me.
“No. I’m going out with Alex and Gonz.” I grabbed a handful of chips. “I’m not alone at all.”
“When are we going to meet her?”
“I don’t know. I like to keep things separate, you know?” I teased.
“Not with me, you don’t.”
“No?”
“No. You look to me like a man in love, John.”
I glanced at Alex. He shrugged, then gave his wife a little pinch on the ass. She’d said too much.
“I am. Satisfied?”