Soft Case (Book 1 of the John Keegan Mystery Series)

by John Misak

attention to my mental health.

  You know, when you think about it, some days are just days. They really have no meaning, other than to bridge the gap between the important days of your life. This day was just another day. A day to sit around, perhaps lie on my couch and stare at the cracks in the ceiling which, when looked at from the right angle, made an impression of Jesus Christ. I took that as a sign He was looking over me when I first moved in. Now I know that he really doesn’t give a damn. He obviously doesn’t believe in me and I don’t believe in Him. And yes, I know that I capitalized the “h” in “Him” despite the fact that I said I don’t believe in Him. Let’s just say that I don’t, but I am afraid He might hear me say that, okay.

  So there I was, sitting on the couch and staring at cracks in the paint. Yeah, I was headed for the warm confines of a mental institution. I had reason, of course, to feel this way, and this was only made worse by the kid in the next apartment who kept ringing my doorbell because he knew I was home and wanted to play Cops and Robbers with me. He wasn’t a bad kid, I think his name was Jared, but he never understood the meaning of “Don’t bother me today.” The kid was on Ritalin. I saw his pills one time. Brown and dirty looking, and he had to swallow three of those a day. I didn’t even learn how to swallow a pill until I was fourteen, and this nine-year old kid was practically a pill-popping junkie. I think his mother just didn’t want to deal with him, so she had some shrink prescribe the kid these pills to keep him out of her hair. Yes, the kid could be a pain in the ass, but I always thought that’s what kids were here for. I was a pain in the ass as a kid, and despite a few fluoride-overdose incidents, my parents never tried to do anything to remedy it. They just dealt with it. I remember reading somewhere that 20% of children were on mood-altering medication. Of course, we live in an age of medication. Why not let the kids join in on the fun?

  The doorbell rang for the ninth time, and I decided to let it keep ringing. I just wouldn’t have been able to handle the kid right then. I wondered how he knew I was home. Maybe he heard me, or maybe he smelled me, God only knew.

  As if in time with the doorbell, the phone rang.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Is this John Keegan?”

  I suspected it was someone from the station, but the voice sounded a bit Midwestern.

  “It is,” I replied.

  “This is John D. Keegan?”

  “It is,” I said. I had an idea where this was headed.

  “How are you today?”

  “I am.”

  “Mr. Keegan, sir, my name is Ralph Smith, from I-tel, and do I have something that will make you smile today.”

  “You have a couple of people’s heads on a platter for me?”

  “He-he. No, I am calling you to inform you that you are qualified to receive our Premium Plus package.”

  “The Premium Plus?” I asked, with excitement in my voice. I wondered if this guy even bought it. Telemarketers are pretty much the bottom feeders of society. I decided to have a little fun.

  “Yes, you’ve heard of it?”

  “Two of my friends can’t stop talking about it.” I said in the most deadpan voice I could come up with.

  “That’s great.” He seemed a bit stumped. No one ever heard of his fucking Premium Plus package. He probably hadn’t heard of it until that morning when the boss came out with the promos for the day.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Well, what we are offering today, is free long distance service on weekday nights, and a discounted rate at all other times,” the poor guy said, following his script.

  “What are you offering tomorrow?” I asked.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “I said, ‘What are you offering tomorrow?’ I just want to make sure that tomorrow’s deal isn’t better than today’s. I mean, if this is the deal of today, tomorrow’s just has to be better by definition.”

  “What could be better than today’s deal?” the guy asked, clearly outwitted, something I enjoyed a little more than I should have.

  “The option to not pay the bill,” I said,

  “Ha, yeah we don’t have that option.”

  “Maybe tomorrow you will. But don’t call me then.” I hung up the phone. There is only so much fun you can have with a mentally thwarted individual. I felt bad for myself that the only entertainment I could find was with a telemarketer. My, how the mighty had fallen.

  The doorbell stopped ringing, but not because Jared had given up. He was a persistent bastard, no doubt about that. Instead of ringing the doorbell, he went outside and rang the intercom buzzer. If he wasn’t such a cute kid, I would have strangled him. Hell, I was thinking about doing it right then, whether he was cute or not.

  Then again, I couldn’t blame the kid for having a jackass for a mother. I had talked to her a few times, and despite the fact that she had some of the nicest cans I have ever seen in my life, she was so two dimensional, I could see right through her. Get the pun? I never said I was a literary genius. She was a typical Queens woman, about thirty-four, with fake blonde hair and a fake smile. Her accent belied where she came from, and I could picture her working in a beauty salon, chewing gum and gossiping all day. To make matters even more interesting, she was actually a fairly successful CPA. But she was dumb as stump, and couldn’t carry a conversation longer than thirty seconds. Jared was probably the product of one of the few conversations that made it past that point. She came on to me a few times, well, all women do, but I had to turn her down. I had met the kid first, and I had seen how she treated him. That turned me off. And it takes a lot to turn me off.

  The buzzer kept buzzing, and I saw that it was going to be nearly impossible to sleep the afternoon away, or sit in my apartment and feel sorry for myself. I would have to find something else to do that. That, unfortunately, required me to get up, take a shower, and get dressed. Well, it only required me to do two out of those three, but I don’t want anyone spreading rumors about my not showering. So, for all intents and purposes, I took a shower too. A long, clean shower. And I scrubbed every comer of my body. Okay?

  I went to get dressed. Guess what? I forgot to pick up my dry cleaning. I couldn’t really blame myself. It was a busy day, with a lot of unexpected twists and turns. I cursed out loud, and rifled through my drawers to find anything that was clean and wearable. I found a pair of jeans that were a few years old and never worn because I never liked how they fit, and a Yankee sweatshirt. I never wore that either. Not because I wasn’t a Yankee fan, I was, but this was one of those cheap knockoffs you buy outside the stadium after a game when you are drunk. I hadn’t even taken the tags off, and the shirt was over three years old.

  What an outfit.

  I got dressed, brushed my hair, and snuck into the hallway. I looked both ways, and didn’t see Jared anywhere. Thank God. What Jared was unaware of was the side exit. He was still buzzing me from the front, so I easily exited through the side and ended up on Fourth Avenue.

  Standing outside, I thought about where I was going. I didn’t want to go to the station, even if I had to check in there. The whole process would only piss me off. With nowhere else to go, I decided to drop by my parents’ place. Dad took off Fridays, and I knew my mother would still be there. I needed the comfort of my parents right then, and I am not too much of a man to admit it. I could only hope that they hadn’t heard anything about what has happened the night before, and I also hoped that no one was watching the house.

  Hope sure is an interesting word.

  Fifteen

  I made it to my parents’ house by 11:15. They lived in Rego Park in a more residential area than Dad’s office. It was considered a great place to live in when I was growing up, but by the time I had graduated high school, the neighborhood started to fall apart, with gangs and punk kids running rampant. They didn’t mess with my old man, only because I think they were afraid of him. He had no problems confronting them, and gang kids have a problem with direct confrontation. Dad didn’t.

  I
saw Dad’s car in the driveway. He still drove the 1984 Toyota Camry he had bought brand new. It was his first new car, and he hadn’t bought another one since. He always argued that he didn’t drive that much, and would rather spend the money on a vacation, or something else he would enjoy more. I couldn’t argue that.

  I also noticed the Chevy Suburban in the driveway, which belonged to my loving sister and her husband. They had moved back in my folks three years before. It was supposed to be for only a year or so, but I guess the “so” turned out to be indefinitely. I knew it pissed my father off, but my mother was happy to have them and their two kids. And Mom pretty much got what she wanted.

  Speaking of Mom, she stood in the doorway, looking at me. I looked up, noticed her, and smiled. She didn’t smile back.

  She opened the door, and I walked up to her.

  “I’m not so sure you came at a good time,” she said. “But I guess I should be happy you decided to show up at all.”

  “I’ve been busy. I’m sorry.”

  “Your father, when he was building up his practice, worked twice the amount of hours you do, and he still made time to see his family.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Really.” Man, Mom could really make me feel like shit when she wanted to.

  She gave me a look, the sort of look that said she wanted to be mad at me but couldn’t. That was part of my allure, my charm. I gave her a hug and she returned