Last Call

by Matthew Nunes

  I turned the radio on, listening to the usual complaints about the Red Sox from a listener in Medford. Or was it Malden? Wherever. They droned on, as if a powerful offense and limited bullpen was a new development. I’d been hearing it for forty years, and I expected to hear it on my deathbed. I made a mental note to take ‘Sol to a game pretty soon. She loved Fenway Park, and she was developing a taste for baseball and hot dogs and stupid souvenirs that cost stupider amounts of money. I automatically made the shift over onto Route 4, saw the Ford slip in a few cars behind me and I continued to drive at moderate speed in the center lane.

  My exit was coming up, and I checked the traffic on both sides. I pulled into the left lane and wound up the RPM’s to kick in the turbocharger. I felt the boost and saw the speed climbing. The Crown Vic had to pick up speed and pull to the left to stay on me. I watched for the exit, and checked for gaps to my right.

  I kept looking into my mirror, checking the gaps, watching speed, distance, then twisted the wheel to the right, tapping brakes and clutch, to slow into the center lane, downshifting as quickly as double-clutching would allow. I was all the way across the right lane and onto the exit ramp in one continuous curve, braking heavily, not skidding, downshifting again and letting the engine decelerate the car. There were squealing tires and horns braying at me from behind. I hoped no one got hurt, except maybe for a certain cop, as I exploded from the ramp into traffic, cutting across two lanes onto Route 2 and diving further left as if headed to East Greenwich. More horns blaring, lots of tires squealing, and I knew, creative cursing directed at me.

  The speedometer was showing forty-five just before I braked again, without a directional, pulled into a gas station, then behind it and into a car wash, paying five bucks to wash my car. I got out and stood in the glassed-in alleyway, watching traffic and passers-by. He’d have had to be much further away from me and aware of what I was thinking to make it onto the exit ramp, much less follow me here. I gave it the full treatment, including “Royal Wax” for seven dollars more.

  I checked my watch. When my car was done, I drove to the business district. Warwick really doesn’t have a center, so I parked at a public garage right near the police station and hopped a cab to the airport. I mentally added up the cost to park, thinking of how many tips it was going to take to make it up. No sign of a big Ford. I checked no luggage, pulled an electronic ticket and after a reasonable wait, went through security, bought a book and headed to the gate.

  Did I notice DaSilva at the food court watching the security checkpoint? Would anyone watching notice that we saw or knew each other? I don’t think so. He was a pro, and I’d been one myself. I was sure, then, that it had been Petersen on my tail, and I imagined his embarrassment and anger. That was just fine with me. I boarded, found my seat, and even found room for my bag and briefcase within shouting distance.

  I would loved to have heard the conversation when I lost Petersen on Route 4. I had to call Dana at some point, and Marisol. Our home phone was probably still tapped, but they would only hear how much I missed her. I closed my eyes and slept.

  The plane was slipping from side to side when I woke up, probably fighting a crosswind on final approach to Baltimore-Washington. The small commuter jet landed on one wheel, then another, finally settling onto all three. When we got to the gate, I waited until most of the plane emptied before getting my bags and heading out. I didn’t expect to recognize anyone I saw, at least on the first viewing.

  I took a cab into Baltimore, got out and looked around for a few minutes. Then I took another back to the airport, where I rented a car. My motel was on Washington’s outskirts, on the Virginia side, and I checked in using my real name. If they were on me that tightly, a false name wasn’t going to help.

  Once I was in the room, with my clothes hanging up, I flipped on the television and had a short wait before the update on “Congressman Morley’s Killing: The Search.” I hit the mute button and picked up the phone, took a deep breath, and dialed a number that I’d never forgotten. “NCIS, Beaman speaking.” I didn’t know the name.

  “Is Al Williams there?” I asked.

  “Agent Williams is off today, can I help you?”

  “This isn’t an emergency, just an old friend trying to get in touch.”

  “Oh.” Retirees are the bane of government employees, and his tone made his feelings clear. The voice on the message sounded like Al, and I spoke my name and the hotel number into it. I also said that it was urgent, and off the books. I hoped that the obligation he’d felt remained with him.

  I spoke with Marisol, talking about her evening, and what a great cook Mrs. Pina was. That made me sure that at least one sugar-laden treat had been made. She asked me how things were and I told her fine, but I really, really missed her. Really. I pictured a cop or agent listening to this, rolling his eyes and yawning.

  We traded “I love yous” and argued over who should hang up first, with her finally winning, so I softly cradled the phone. I picked up the phone one more time, and dialed the number I had for Dana Kilroy.

  “Agent Kilroy,” she answered.

  “Paul, Paul Costa.”

  “Yes? How can I help you?” My name wasn’t mentioned, so I suspected that she had an audience.

  “We should probably talk when you have some privacy,” I said, all in a rush.

  “Definitely. Can you give me a number and time to get in touch?”

  I tried not to hesitate, and gave her the number. “I have to rely on your discretion.”

  “I understand,”

  “Talk with you soon.”

  “Oh, yes, give me an hour, okay?”

  I looked at my watch, “Okay, an hour.”

  I hung up, and the phone rang immediately. “Long time,” said Al Williams.

  “I need to call in a marker.”

  “You need more than that, my man; you need Clarence fucking Darrow. Word is that they have you.”

  “So how did I get down here if I’m in the bag?”

  “Good question, but we’re not talking about that.”

  “Right, you’re not giving me the addresses and phone numbers for all of the surviving Morleys, and you aren’t going to give me the name and number of a reporter I can trust, right?”

  “That’s right. Got a pen?” He rattled off two addresses and three phone numbers. “Daughter still lives with mommy, the son has his own place. The third number is a TV lady. She’s pretty straight. I’d only trust her so far, though.”

  “Thanks for not telling me any of this, Al.”

  “Paul, you need to watch your six. There’s one more number.” He read it off. “His name is Peter Viater, and he can supply needful things.”

  “We’re even, Al.”

  “Nah, not even close. Remember, this conversation never happened.”

  “Needful things,” he’d said. Once we’d had to bust in on some guys selling small arms out of an armory. They were supposed to be armed to the teeth and dangerous. Out of sheer nerves, we’d dubbed our pistols, shotguns and MP-5’s “needful things.” I wondered what sort of rumors he’d heard.

  I lay back on the generic bed spread, looking at the generic art on the walls, and thought back to all of the motel rooms, hotel rooms and efficiencies that I’d lived in for all of those years. The air conditioner stirred the heavy drapes, and the television kept scrolling repetitive bulletins across the bottom. I waited for the phone to ring again.

  While I waited, I thought about a gun. An armed man walks differently. It can add that swagger that some young cops possess. I kept the number, but decided against using it. I stared at the ceiling, wondering if sleep would ever come.

  The phone’s chirp startled me out of sleep. I wondered what had happened to bells. A phone should ring, I thought, as I picked it up.

  “Paul?” Her tone was incredulous, and she laughed. “Sorry to wake you.”

  “What did I say?”

  “I don’t think I could imitate it,” she responded.
/>
  “Sorry, I was really out I guess.”

  “And now you’re in a D.C. suburb. Great.” She divided “Great,” into two syllables. “Petersen is livid. You lost him again.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s what DaSilva was saying, not a half hour ago.”

  “He stays too close, and doesn’t anticipate.”

  “I’ll pass that along.” There was a pause.

  “Paul, about the other night,” she began.

  I cleared my throat artificially.

  “Okay, you first,” she said.

  “I guess I messed up.”

  “I just thought I’d made a fool of myself, coming on to you like some lush at the bar.”

  “No, I was the fool.”

  “So when will you give up, let us do our jobs and come home?”

  “One way or another, I’ll be back by Friday.”

  “Not an answer. There have been some developments and you need to know about them.”

  “How safe is the phone you’re on?”

  “It’s clean.”

  “Okay, tell me.”

  And she began. “It’s not likely that the Congressman was murdered in the men’s room,” she said, “And the knife was an afterthought. He was probably dead or nearly so when that went in.”

  I thought about how cold-blooded or sick with rage someone would have to be to drive a knife into a dead or dying man’s ear.

  “So what killed him?”

  “Myocardial Infarction,” she said, slowly as if reading it.

  “Heart attack?”

  “Kind of. The Medical Examiner is still working on all of that. Pretty much puts you in the clear.”

  “That’s nice,” I said, “But.”

  “There has to be a but with you, doesn’t there?”

  “I’m not in the clear, really, am I? There’s still pressure on to have someone take the fall.”

  “Neither DaSilva nor I are worried about it.”

  “How about the Assistant U.S. Attorney and the local D.A.?” There was a pause. “That’s what I thought,” I said. “Something in his secret life got him killed, if he was murdered. Or at least got the knife into him after he died. There’s nothing of the public man to make him a target. It wasn’t random. So, it has to be his private life.”

  “Paul, you have no authority, no support; you should just come home.”

  I thought about how tempting that idea was. I missed Marisol, and the hints at more time with Dana sounded good.

  This was sitting over my head, and in the background was a young stripper who maybe earned an effort from me. I honest to God felt good. I was carrying my weight on the balls of my feet. My arms were swinging. Maybe it wasn’t worthwhile to anybody but me, and that was just fine. I felt like I did just before a fencing or boxing match, as if I was unbeatable.

  Realistically, my record as a boxer and fencer should have given me pause. Still. I felt as if there was nobody faster, smarter, tougher or better. There was a certain “fuck you,” in me that I’d missed.

  There was a line from a bad movie that I’d always liked, “I’m here to kick ass and chew bubblegum; and I’m all out of bubblegum.” It was the only part of the movie that I remembered.

  “Dana, I expect to be back by the end of the week but it’s still something I have to do. I intend to piss a few important people off, if you’ll pardon the expression. You need to be able to deny any knowledge of my actions.”

  “DaSilva knew about this, didn’t he?”

  “Of course not.”

  “If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be so relaxed about it.”

  “I’ll call him tomorrow. You too, if you’d like.”

  “I’d like, but maybe we could be a bit less, um, businesslike?”

  “Maybe a lot less.”

  “Oh, good,” and she gave me her home and cell numbers. I felt pretty juvenile, and allowed myself a minute of that. I was lying on the bed and I dozed off.

  ***

  I woke up, ready to call the lady reporter. Al had called her, so she was expecting me. It helped. She explained “background, deep background, off the record,” and told me about the lengths she had gone to protect sources. She gave me an address in Washington, and told me to meet her in an hour. I’d left my cell at home, so the desk clerk did some digging and found a map. I got into my rental and wandered up and down one-way streets, into and out of ghettos, down streets with picture postcard buildings and finally found the restaurant.

  She knew what I’d be wearing, and right on time, a very thin woman came to the table. Supposedly, television adds weight. I mentally added ten pounds and decided she‘d look a lot better. Her facial skin was deplorable, probably from too many hours in heavy make up and her hair was lacquered into rigid order. She sat, held out a painfully thin hand and shook mine, looking directly into my eyes. She had luminous green eyes that would look good on screen.

  She dropped an immense black handbag on the table, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, drawing deeply. “Will this bother you?” she asked, too late.

  “No, it’s fine,” I answered and lit one of mine.

  “Thank God. I’m so tired of that bullshit. I pack on weight when I try to quit, and that’s death in my business.”

  “I’m sure you become morbidly obese.”

  “Laugh all you want. Men get gravitas, women get pudgy. Mostly it sucks. I only have an hour or so, then I have to get to the studio.”

  “Sandra. May I call you Sandra?”

  She nodded, spiking me with a suggestive glance and then she sat back, crossing her legs.

  “My name is Gerald, and I’ll be your server,” said the effeminate young man standing at my elbow. “May I get you anything?”

  “Coffee for me, black, please,” I answered, and gestured towards her.

  “Same, and a bagel, toasted, cream cheese.”

  “I’ll be right back,” Gerald smiled and glided away.

  We sat silently until he arrived. He poured, passed the bagel and cream cheese to her and left. By then she had lit, smoked and stubbed out three cigarettes. I was putting my first one out.

  She turned sideways in her chair, so that her legs were out from under the table. While slender, they were nice. She was a woman who was aware of herself, but something about her made her more pitiable than attractive. I couldn’t define it, or explain it. “Sandra,” I began again, “What did Al tell you?”

  “He said I could trust you, that he’d worked with you for quite awhile, maybe you saved his life. Men always say stuff like that, but Al’s pretty low key. He said that if I helped you, maybe it would be worth an exclusive. He said you’re not bad looking, and that I’d like you. He was right about that, anyway.”

  “Thanks, ” I said and smiled. “Maybe you could tell me what you know about Congressman Dick Morley, off the record?” Her lazy smile faded, and she brought her legs back under the table.

  “That prick Al said something about it, but you have exactly two minutes to convince me you’re real, or I’m out of here,” I still felt sorry for her. Anywhere I went I opened someone’s healing wounds.

  After I told her about Lois, she said, “A club. With a shitty initiation. Good line. She hit it on the head. You’re sure he’s dead? Maybe someone should dig him up and drive a stake through his fucking heart, just to be sure.”

  “Definitely dead, and with a fruit knife in his ear, instead of a stake through his heart.” Something about it resonated. It might mean nothing at all, or the knife might have been a kind of punctuation mark.

  “It fits. He was a shark, or maybe one of those fish that hides on the bottom with this weird growth. It dangles it over its mouth like a lure, and the little fish come up to eat it, and he explodes out of the mud and eats them.”

  “Angler fish?” I said, to slow her down a bit.

  “Yup, that was him.” She was silent for what seemed a long time. “Anyhow, a lot of women in the business, political or news, warned me
. Unfortunately, they warned me too late. A few of them were club members. Never in DC, always out of town, always someplace else. Rhode fucking Island, for chrissake.”

  “He kept it clean here?”

  She nodded.

  “How about his family?” I asked.

  “Wife, perfect congressman’s spouse. Drinks a little, smokes secretly. Any extramarital stuff is discreet. No sense of how attached she was to him, or what she knew about him. For all I knew, it might have been okay with her. Son is the kind of pig that looks great and popular with some women. I think he’s his father’s son.” She stopped for a sip of coffee and a pull on her latest cigarette.

  “Dangerous little shithead, I think,” she went on. “Daughter, pretty, blonde, perfect congressman’s daughter. Shy, but handles herself well. Mousy attitude, not looks. They have a houseboy, ‘Adam.’ I’m not sure what he does, really, but he sounds like the guy Lois described. You know, the third in the hotel?” She reached into her purse and pulled out a file. “Here’s what I know. There’s a section in there about me.” She looked down and picked at some lint on the tablecloth.

  I wrote the motel name and my phone number there along with the room number on a napkin and handed it to her. “If you think of anything, or if you just need to talk, I’ll be there for a few more days.”

  “Wait a minute,” she said, “There’s a quid pro quo, here, Paul Costa. I need your word that you won’t talk to anyone without talking to me.”

  “You mean news or media?”

  She nodded as if there was no one else to talk with.

  “Agreed. Any story, you get, before anyone else. At least a day. Okay?”

  “Okay, thanks.” She put the napkin into her purse, after folding it neatly. “What’s your plan?”

  “Plan? Oh, you think I have a plan. I have some vague ideas, that’s about it.”

  “And you won’t share with me?” She was smiling and now attractive. She wasn’t hunting, she was talking and listening. I liked her better this way.