by Amos Gunner
CHAPTER 20: DALE
So, Thursday.
Owing to a dearth of evidence, etcetera, to support my position, coupled with your driving pressure, I capitulated. Subsequent to my shameful vote, I acted out of character. No, I don’t blush for my outburst--I apologized before the chair hit the floor. I blush because I relinquished the internal fortitude to resist you a bit longer. As it transpired, a bit longer was all that was required for the truth to expose its serpentine head. At any rate, I hereby concede I was wrong to express my discomfiture in violence. That is, if you will, in turn, concede I was absolutely correct in descrying Ravella’s ultimate guilt. To be fair, I know some of you were blinded by your pedestrian zeal for hard evidence.
I’m sure many of you, perhaps all, were pleased I was ordered to take an early vacation. And many of you, perhaps all, are now disappointed to set eyes upon my ugly mug once again, much sooner than you had anticipated doing so. Well, if life were predictable, wouldn’t the living of it become a joyless burden?
So, to recap: my vote, my outburst, my mandatory vacation. Now, to home. Everything a man worthy of the name could reasonably expect from a life partner, I have received in spades from my long suffering wife for over two decades. Yet, after returning to our domicile, I rewarded her steadfast good will to torments I’d rather not dwell upon.
I shall skip to the part where I am sipping scotch, neat and on the rocks--three rocks to be exact--in my small office, alone, bamboo shades drawn. The first glass had reconfigured my brain most promisingly. Curiosity as to what a third glass was going to soldier me through a second.
I can’t report much from this experience with my famous veracity, for the pages in my memory file are permanently smudged. Yet I do recall stumbling upon what some may christen a philosophical problem. As I poured that second serving of scotch over ice, the cubes appeared to turn color. I held the glass in front of my table lamp. By squinting one eye, I studied the ice with my other and found it rather difficult to designate with certitude the precise color of the cubes. The fact is, they were amber. Yet, rationally, in truth, they were translucent with an opaque center, or, if you like, opaque with translucent edges. If asked point blank for an answer, with what ought I respond? What is the factual answer and what is the truthful answer? And what is suggested when the fact and the truth aren’t precise synonyms? Intriguing as it was, this conundrum failed to elevate my mood.
I drank the glass, temporarily eliminating the problem, but upon refilling, the problem resuscitated. Sometimes--quite rarely, mind you--I am rendered confused by some enigma or other. My emotional side swells with frustration till I ejaculate an exaggerated proclamation such as, “Nothing makes sense.” However, all the credit you can spare ought to be set at my feet, for I refuse to halt at this point. I push on and eventually secure a plot of terra firma on which to stand. That antinomies often follow is irrelevant.
My attention--admittedly limited by this point--was so mired in this problem, I hadn’t heard the phone ring. I did, however, hear my wife in the other room intone, “Gruber? He has your number?”
“I got it,” I yelled to her, no doubt squashing those three syllables into an incomprehensible bark. I picked up and greeted the detective with, “You know we didn’t give him a poly?”
Gruber feigned interest in this item, and then asked after my welfare. Lord, how I hate doltish questions. It set off a rant, I’m afraid. “Are you deaf? Didn’t even threaten the son of a bitch. They didn’t care. Not from day one. The world just doesn’t care,” and such, although an interesting question jutted from the muck: “Because of indifference toward the shooter or who was shot?” You don’t have to answer now. Please don’t answer now.
Gruber attempted to spoon-feed me more samples of his mindless optimism. “Ravella hasn’t gone into hiding. He’ll kill again and we’ll catch him.” Hm. Gruber’s scale, with which he weighs the soundness or senselessness of what comes from his mouth, was faulty to say the least.
He then chose to regale me with a story.
Once upon a time, Gruber was on the scene of Ravella’s first shooting, back when Ravella was partnered with a prize named Quinn. Ravella, I’m told, did the talking, insisting the deceased was a midlevel dealer who had unwisely and too slowly drawn first. It may or may not be relevant to mention that the dealer was Mexican, but Gruber mentioned it to me and I suppose I now mentioned it to you. See how these things start? At any rate, no drugs were retrieved from the apartment. Ravella suggested the dealer was smart enough to stash the incriminating items elsewhere. Fine. The gun the alleged dealer pulled on Ravella was missing a serial number. This in itself may not mean much. Finally, in the course of Gruber’s investigation, he failed to unearth any information pertaining to the dealer. A midlevel dealer no one heard of? It’s possible.
Indeed, elements of Ravella’s story swirled within the neighborhood of possibility, and the whirling motion distracted the investigation enough that all official suspicion of Ravella quickly fizzled out. It took the grand jury longer to land upon an open parking space at the courthouse than to perform their duty.
Gruber, the sentimental fabulist, made an attempt to extract a premonitory moral thusly: “One day Ravella will step in some shit he can’t scrape off his shoes.” I liked that line and I intend to utilize it should an appropriate future situation afford me the opportunity to avail myself of it. How disheartening that he continued with: “Hang in there,” “Stay the course,” and other motivational phrases gleaned from posters which decorate the walls of dentist offices and small businesses.
I thanked him. With that, the great detective inquired if I had been drinking. Alcohol I took him to mean. Small wonder he wasn’t part of the Bradshaw task force. I hadn’t a sip since he had gifted me with his call, so I replied in the negative. He promised--or threatened--to check in on me later.
Don’t ask how I remember the conversation, but accept I do. While you’re at it, accept I remember it accurately.
Or perhaps you shouldn’t. After parting with Gruber, it came to my attention the objects in my office had doubled without my permission, and were now dancing with their illusory twin. Because, additionally, my world had gradually unhinged itself from the constraints of time, I am at a loss as to the duration of the festivities. However, my wife entered my office to announce dinner which helped me achieve my cosmic bearings. I presented her with my glass of scotch and sought her opinion as to the ice’s color. She answered, rather reasonably, there was no ice.
