Undercard

by David Albertyn

  Keenan tells Fitz who the Shaws were, the work they were involved in, the reports given about their deaths, and the strange conversation he heard between his father and Terrence Shaw in the boxing gym. Jess interrupts partway through to bring them their coffees, and she says to Keenan, “Come see Anna when you guys are done. You haven’t seen her since she was a newborn.”

  Once she is gone and Keenan has finished his story, Fitz says, “These are serious allegations. Political assassinations by active-duty police officers.” Fitz rubs his beard in thought, mug of coffee in the other hand. “Did you tell anyone else about this? Fischer? Miles?”

  Keenan shakes his head. “Just you.”

  “Good. Don’t tell anyone about this, Keenan.” Fitz takes a mouthful of hot coffee, gulps it down. “This might take some time.”

  “We don’t have time. Antoine’s after someone who is — or was — a cop. If not my dad, then someone else. He’s going to kill again unless we can stop him.”

  “We’ll be the ones killed if we stumble onto something we’re not supposed to. I know you want to rush this, because you think it’s bad right now, but it can get a whole lot worse. Not just for your old man. For you, for me, our whole families. I’ll help you. But I’ll help you my way. You still want my help?”

  Keenan swallows. “Yes. Of course, Fitz.”

  “Good. ’Cause I’m interested. I don’t like dirty cops.”

  “That’s why I came to you.”

  “That’s the reason? It’s not because you had no one else?”

  Fitz gives a wry smile, which Keenan returns.

  “Whatever the reason, thanks, Fitz. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

  They shake hands and Fitz says, “Don’t mention it. You’ve always been a good friend to Jess and me.”

  An image springs to Keenan’s mind: Fitz’s naked wife in bed beneath him. Keenan shifts awkwardly and mumbles, “Right.”

  “I’ll have to go into the station, but right now I have to check out some things on my computer. Try to relax for a couple minutes. And go say hello to my little girl. Good?”

  “Good.”

  * * *

  Upstairs in the baby’s room, Anna crawls onto Keenan’s lap as he sits on the floor, while Jess, standing, watches them from above, leaning her shoulder against the baby-blue wall, arms still crossed. “She likes you,” she says.

  “She’s a beautiful girl.”

  Keenan does not say it just to be polite. Anna is a lovely, plump child, with sparkling, expressive eyes the colour of the tawny Nevada plains. She reaches her chubby hand up to Keenan’s mouth and tugs at his lower lip like a rock climber finding a handhold. He lifts her by the armpits and holds her against his shoulder. Her warmth and softness revive him more than the coffee, and the smoothness of her cheek against his red stubble gives him a moment’s respite from thoughts of Antoine, his father, and Naomi.

  He looks at Jess, his eyes content, for this moment at least. Jess looks back at him, enjoying the sight of him with her child.

  “You like her?” she asks.

  “Very much.”

  “That’s good. She’s yours, you know.”

  Keenan’s eyes pop. He stares at Jess, waiting for the joke, but there’s no mirth in her face. He pulls the girl from his shoulder and holds her at arm’s length, inspecting her like he would a cancerous growth. He can see no resemblance. He stares up at Jess.

  Her pouty lips twitch at the corners, and she doubles over laughing.

  “It’s not funny,” he says.

  “Oh, it is,” she says.

  “So she’s not mine?”

  “Of course not. We used condoms, dummy.”

  “Oh yeah,” he says, remembering.

  He stands up and hands her the child, no longer a source of rejuvenation but just one more stress on this hellish day.

  “It’s not the day to mess with me like that.”

  She shrugs with Anna in her arms, and the baby seems to mimic her mother and half shrugs herself, which Keenan cannot deny is adorable. “It looks like you could use a laugh,” Jess says.

  “Does it look like I’m laughing? Holy shit, Jess.”

  Jess smirks and puts down the girl, who tentatively walks to her crib, holds on to the legs for support, then quickly walks the rest of the way across the room to her toys, plopping down to play with them.

  “When are you and Naomi going to have a little bundle of joy of your own?”

  “Never. Naomi’s leaving me.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. It’s over.”

  “She finally caught you cheating?”

  “No. I don’t do that anymore.”

  Jess makes a face. Sure you don’t.

  “I don’t.”

  “So if I got Fitz out of the house, you wouldn’t want to join me in the bedroom?”

  “Is this hypothetical or an actual possibility?”

  She slaps his arm. “You see! I knew it.”

  “It was a joke. I was joking.”

  “Sure.”

  “I was. I really don’t do that anymore.” He thinks for a moment. “Not that it would be cheating anymore. Naomi’s made it clear that we’re done.”

  Jess’s brow scrunches, and Keenan senses that he has missed something.

  “Um, it would be cheating on Fitz,” she says. “You might remember him. He’s the guy whose house and family you intruded on, begging for him to help you out of a crisis.”

  “I didn’t mean . . .”

  He gives up and leans against the wall beside her. His body feels much too heavy to keep up without support.

  “If not the cheating, then why did she end it?” Jess asks.

  “The same reason I retired.”

  “Because of the shooting?”

  He nods.

  “That’s a little harsh. She’s part Black though, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jess makes a hmm noise at the back of her throat, but refuses to elaborate. After a period of silence, she asks, “Are you okay?”

  “Not really, no. I liked my wife. I know I didn’t show it, but I liked being married.”

  “You know,” Jess says, “if you had left Naomi when I asked you to, I would’ve left Fitz.”

  “I was already regretting every decision I ever made but I had forgotten about that one. Thanks for that, Jess. Thanks for reminding me. I can add one more to the list.”

  She laughs. “Come here,” she says.

  She reaches out her arms and he steps inside them, and they hold each other, her soft body warm against his. He closes his eyes and inhales the scent of her hair and the lush scent of her neck, mixed with the comforting smells of her child, which pervade her. “Thanks,” he whispers into her ear. Then he leaves her to join Fitz downstairs.

  9

  8:23 a.m.

  “Well, this isn’t too bad,” Naomi says upon entering their hotel room.

  She lowers her in-laws’ hastily packed overnight bags to the carpeted floor.

  “It’s the ugliest hotel room I’ve ever seen,” says Rosie Quinn.

  Naomi nods in agreement, yet smiles anyway. “Beggars can’t be choosers, unfortunately.”

  “So I’m a beggar now as well as a coward, is that it?” Craig Quinn asks.

  “Who comes to a hotel like this?” says Rosie, her eyes glued to the maroon drapes dotted with white roses, blackened with smoke stains — the smell of cigarettes in the room is inescapable.

  “Gambling addicts and adulterers, I imagine,” Naomi says as she unslings her own overnight bag. She checks inside the small chest of drawers beside the first of two double beds. The bed closer to the door is better, she thinks, so that Craig will have to cross in front of her if he tries to leave in the night.

  “And p
ussies afraid of their own shadow,” Craig adds.

  “Craig!”

  “What? She can handle it. She’s a basketball player. What do you think they talk about in the WNBA?” He gives a lecherous wink to Naomi, which she ignores.

  No matter the conditions, Naomi is simply relieved that they have a room; it seemed every hotel in the city was booked solid this past Saturday night. They were far too early for Sunday check-in, so against Craig’s wishes they paid for two nights in order to hide away sooner.

  Rosie gasps from the bathroom door. “The bathroom is abysmal.”

  “Look at my socks,” Craig says. He sits on the bed and shows Naomi his blackened white soles. “I’ve only walked across the room twice. This place is disgusting.”

  “We might as well keep our shoes on, then,” Naomi says.

  “I don’t know if I can stay here.” Rosie turns back into the bedroom. “Craig, take that cover off the bed. People have sex on those things and I heard these hotels only wash the sheets.”

  Craig recoils, face twisting in revulsion, then he notices Naomi looking at him and pretends nonchalance, rolling his eyes at his wife’s anxieties. Naomi frowns.

  “Really, Naomi, I can’t stay here,” Rosie says. “Can’t we find another hotel?”

  “Yes you can. And no we can’t. You can stay here, Rosie. We all can. It’s going to be all right.” Naomi runs her hands through her hair, trying to remain composed. “Why don’t we eat something? I’ve brought lots of food. We can eat a little, watch some TV. Then when we’re a bit more relaxed, we can have a nap and catch up on some of the sleep we’ve lost.”

  “I can’t sleep in the morning,” Craig grumbles.

  Rosie’s eyes continue to inspect every inch of the room with dismay. “I don’t have much of an appetite.”

  “I might be retired but I’m no slob.”

  “I get it, Craig, you don’t want a nap,” Naomi says. “Why don’t we talk, then? Tell me some of your stories when you were on the job.”

  “Keenan wants me to blab to you, huh? Subtle. I don’t know how anyone so obvious could’ve fooled you into marrying him. Or how he thought he could be a cop either.”

  Staring at this grizzled, bitter, insecure man, Naomi experiences a deep sympathy for her husband, something she has not felt in a long time. “Why not just tell us what happened?” she asks, plainly.

  “’Cause it’s none of your damn business, that’s why.”

  “It is my business, Craig. It’s Keenan’s business too. And Tyron’s. We’re all affected by what happened to the Shaws. And quite clearly, it’s Antoine’s business as well. He was most definitely affected. He was my friend. Maybe if someone had shared the truth with us when we were kids, we could’ve helped him. We could’ve stopped him from becoming a —”

  “Murderer,” Rosie says, still hovering near the bathroom door.

  Naomi glumly looks from Rosie back to Craig. “It’s a day for the truth to come out. We all have to face it.”

  Craig holds Naomi’s gaze and doesn’t flinch. “It’s none of your business.”

  “Please, Craig,” Naomi says. “For me.”

  A muscle twitches in his cheek, above the line of grey stubble. His Adam’s apple dips with a loud swallow and his eyes flick away indecisively. He opens his mouth to speak, and Naomi unconsciously leans forward in anticipation.

  “What’s on TV?” he asks. He breaks eye contact, walks to the television, and picks up the remote. But as he flips channels there is a touch of redness to his cheeks, shame spreading beneath Naomi’s scrutiny.

  Naomi leaves her parents-in-law to use her phone, but goes only so far as the balcony outside their room over the parking lot. She calls Keenan first and updates him on their whereabouts. He is following Fitz to the police station.

  “He’s taking it seriously?” she asks.

  “Very,” Keenan says. “He was the right person to ask for help.”

  “Good. Keep me posted.”

  A pause. “Whatever you want.”

  “You get in touch with Tyron yet?”

  “No. I can’t get a hold of him.”

  “Maybe I’ll give him a try.”

  “Sure. How are my folks handling it?”

  “I have a whole new appreciation for you, let’s put it that way. They’re doing fine. I haven’t been able to get your dad to open up yet, but I think I’m getting to him.”

  “You should’ve been the cop.”

  “Keenan.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Be careful.”

  “I better go.”

  “Okay. Talk soon.”

  “Talk soon.”

  She blurts out a sharp, urgent, “I love you,” but midway through it their connection ends.

  Lowering her phone, she does not know why she did that. She hadn’t planned to. It saddens her that he didn’t hear her say it.

  It’s a crazy day, she tells herself. Just get through it.

  Next up: Tyron.

  He is breathing heavily when he answers her call. “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey. You okay?”

  “No. What’s up?” There are plenty of voices in the background on his end.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t get into it now. What’s going on?”

  “Keenan’s been trying to get a hold of you.”

  “I know. You told him we kissed?”

  “No.” Her brow furrows, realizing what Tyron must have thought. “No, of course not. Did you hear about Antoine?”

  “The murders? Yeah. Insane.”

  “Keenan was there. He worked security. He saw Antoine after he did it.”

  A loud, muffled voice erupts in the background, followed by cheers. “Crazy,” Tyron says, speaking over the background noise. “I want to hear about it, but I got to go, Naomi.”

  “Ty, hold on, this has something to do with you. Antoine said that your parents were assassinated by the guys he killed. He said that the same corrupt cops who killed his father killed your parents.”

  “He said what?”

  “That’s why Keenan’s been calling. He’s trying to find out the truth —”

  “Naomi, I can’t deal with this right now. We’ll speak later.”

  The line beeps off, and Naomi wonders what else has gone wrong.

  8:28 a.m.

  There are gangs of gunmen everywhere. Firefights in the streets. They drop several of the enemy before the rest flee to entrenched positions. Miraculously, none of Tyron’s men are wounded. Instead they look stronger than ever, immersed in the fight now, coated in dust, dirt, and blood.

  When they concentrate their fire on the first of the buildings, squad leaders are volunteering to go in and clear it out. This time Lieutenant Lake is the one to say he’ll lead them.

  Tyron gives him a smile. “Aye aye, Lieutenant.”

  One by one they clear the buildings. He orders 2nd Platoon outside the wire too. The night wears away. Three of his men are hit by bullets: non-lethal flesh wounds. Four are hit by roadside bombs: two dead and two critical. A blood orange ribbon appears on the horizon to the east. Tyron can’t even remember how the night started.

  They curve around the combat outpost, to the buildings on its western flank, where fires have broken out everywhere and the remaining insurgents have dug in. On the rooftop of an abandoned low-rise, Tyron looks out at the colours of dawn. His night-vision goggles have been stowed, replaced by bullet-resistant glasses: he sees as clearly as you can in all this smoke and dust. And what he sees are the shades of damnation. If hell is real, he thinks, it must look like this. Sky and earth: red, yellow, black. A sliver of sun has risen over one horizon, while on the other the night isn’t giving up without a fight. Neither are the insurgents. Bombarded from two directions, they continue to fire back from windows
and rooftops.

  Tyron slaps at his face. Hard. To keep fatigue from setting in.

  He is not the only one battling exhaustion. All his men, who have performed so admirably, so bravely, and with such poise, look at least as tired as he feels. One more breakthrough, he thinks. One more advance and we’ll bust this thing open.

  He rises just above the low wall that encloses the roof, and quickly studies the lay of the battlefield. Crouches back down before a sniper can pick him off. Between his position and a darkened apartment tower, from which most of the enemy fire originates, is a market square strewn with garbage, shrapnel, bodies, and several burned-out vehicles. His men have blown open the entrance to the apartment building; they need only to cross the no man’s land to get inside the stronghold and take these fuckers out at close range.

  But it would take an Olympian to make it across the square unscathed. Or maybe an almost Olympian. He smiles to himself. I thought my track days were over.

  Lieutenant Lake, still by his side, tries to talk him out of it. “I got the best chance,” Tyron says, as cement chips rain down on them from errant enemy rounds. “And anyway, better me than one of my men.”

  “No sir. Not better. We need you.”

  “You got this, Lake. Just make sure I’m covered. And lay as much smoke as you can between me and them. If I make it, and start wreaking havoc, you send the boys in after me.”

  Then he is on ground level, jettisoning anything he won’t need in the next ten minutes. His ruck. His food and water. Even a ceramic plate in the back of his body armour. Fortune favours the brave, motherfucker. His heart thumps in his chest.

  His men fire smoke canisters across the square, adding to the obscurity of the battlefield, littered with flaming husks of metal that were once vehicles. There is a particular vehicle, a Humvee turned inferno, that lies roughly at the halfway point between his position and the enemy’s. That is where he will go: use the blaze for cover, then sprint the second leg. Already the twisted Humvee is lost from view with all the smoke, but the wind is not idle, and the cover won’t last long.