by Laird Barron
“The killer absconded with the hands and head?”
“Hell if I know. All I heard is, they haven’t recovered ’em.”
“But you have your suspicions.”
“Oodles and oodles of ’em. Suspicions are free as air.” He dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “I want you to look into this on the Q.T.”
“Where’s your faith in the police?” I nodded toward the off-duty detectives. The frumpy couple might’ve passed for man and wife if I hadn’t known the score. We crossed paths now and again. I could testify that the dishwater blonde threw a mean hook. “I’m certain Kingston’s finest will bust ass to solve the death of a career felon.”
We shared a chuckle.
He said, “The pigs keep wrigglin’ from under my thumb. Can’t get a solid day’s labor out a them. I fear this demands an independent investigation.”
“You must have what, a dozen foot soldiers bucking for a promotion? Round up a posse of goons and see justice done, Old West style.”
“No can do.” His blunt rejoinder contained a multitude of implications, none pleasing.
“No? What does that mean?”
“Means no. Means I require a fuckin’ consultant and you’re bustin’ my balls here. Ain’t you a detective? I got a card that says you are.”
“Unlike flattery, mockery will get you nowhere.”
Problem was, he indeed carried my spiffy new business card.
Acquiring a New York State PI license was a snap. Not only had I picked an opportune moment to be thrown out of the Outfit, what with the Russian mob tightening its grip on Alaska, apparently years of criminal activity on behalf of the Outfit hadn’t left more than a minor blemish or two on my permanent record.
A retired investigator in Alaska recalled me fondly. The former gumshoe vouched for my investigative experience and dummied up the relevant papers. I aced the exam and paid the fee. A few short weeks later, presto. Snazzy photo ID in hand, I joined the hallowed ranks of private dicks alongside the Continental Op, Mike Hammer, Spenser, et al. This lent me supreme authority to snoop and an excuse to pack heat on the regular.
While Coleridge Investigations wouldn’t be taking on too many traditional cases, it provided a plausible shopfront for my more esoteric enterprises. If I caught the occasional gig tailing a cheating spouse or pocketed five hundred a day to track a runaway teen, fine and dandy. That said, tackling a murder investigation on behalf of the New York mob hadn’t figured into my wildest plans.
I tried another tack.
“Leg breaker gets iced, and you give a damn because . . . ?”
“Compelling interests in Kingston. Harry wasn’t quite family, so I can’t overreact. But, I gotta go through the motions. It’s a matter of perception. Leave it at that.”
“La Cosa Nostra moves in mysterious ways, blah, blah. How it usually unfolds: I get a name and I hunt the person. Very straightforward. This is tricky. As in, actual detective work. I understand you want to play it close to the vest, but you have to throw me a rope.”
“Fair point,” Curtis said. “Harry isn’t the first of our affiliates who’ve kicked in a similar manner. Second-story pro Ray Anderson took a shiv two years ago. Serrated knife right through his guts. Key word: serrated. Went down late at night near the waterfront. Drunk pack of fraternity brothers interrupted the proceedings. The attacker melted into the woodwork. Anderson died at Kingston General without regaining consciousness. He’d done jobs for us since George Bush, Senior, ran the White House, so we interviewed the wife.”
“I’m guessing she couldn’t help crack the case.”
“Anderson’s wife said he spent his last night on earth doing the town with an acquaintance. She didn’t catch the friend’s name. Figured he might be in the life, for obvious reasons. I let it slide. Shit happens, yeah? Now Lee receives the same treatment, with a side of mutilation. Enough to make a fellow wonder.”
Two similar murders didn’t necessarily indicate a pattern. Two dead independent contractors who’d done business for the local mob? Well, as Curtis had said, it was enough to make a man wonder.
“Is there a direct connection between Lee and the thief?”
“Did they know each other? Sure, sure. Everybody knows everybody and everybody pulls a job or two together. Were they die-hard buddies?” He spread his hands and shrugged.
“A former colleague with a vendetta could have done them both.”
“Possible. Here’s where you come in, like a cadaver dog. You can navigate the underworld. People will tell you what they’d never dream of telling a cop. Regular rules don’t apply.”
“More important, I’m unaffiliated.” Code for “I could tread where he dared not.” Best of all, if I went too far, it was my problem, not his.
“Bingo. You’ve got scruples, but not too many of ’em.”
“I’m not interested in bloodshed.” Saying it didn’t make it so. My relationship with violence was ever-evolving. No use burdening my mobster pal with undue nuance.
He feigned innocence.
“Bloodshed? Moi? Who said anything about bloodshed?”
“This isn’t about Vitale Night?”
“Ah, because you snuffed Mr. Quick Draw, maybe I think you got a special talent for icing button men? No, it ain’t like that.”
“Carrying water for wiseguys tends to lead down a dark path.”
“Ask around. It’ll ease my mind. Mayhem is strictly optional.”
“Ask around, okay?”
“Be your mean self while you’re asking.”
“That’s the only self I have.” I drained my whiskey. Couldn’t think of a polite way out before I reached the bottom of the glass. “I’ll shake the tree. Be swell if you could point me toward a likely candidate. Any disgruntled former employees in particular you like for this?”
“Traditionally, we fit malcontents with concrete galoshes. Tends to have a discouraging effect.”
“Sure does. Back in Alaska, I chaired the Outfit’s Department of Union Grievances.”
“Interview Lee’s housemate. Kid named Nic Royal. He moved in earlier this year—Harry was showin’ him the ropes. Another tough-as-nails bouncer, rent-a-thug. Cover the bases. Royal even looks at you cross-eyed, I wanna know.”
“Cops say it’s always the spouse.”
“Call me directly if you find somethin’.” His emphasis on directly didn’t escape my notice. He pushed a fat envelope across the table. “Your retainer plus the police report, the contents of Lee’s wallet, and a list of notable acquaintances. Get you started on the right foot.”
It chilled me that Curtis had obtained physical evidence from a major crime. Forget the long arm of the law—the Deluca Family’s reach was frightening. I’d almost forgotten the power of the Family.
“None of my associates are to hear a whisper,” he said. “Fat Frank, Bobby the Whip, none of them. As for the cops,” he nodded at the plainclothes pair. “They come across anything pertinent, I’ll pass along the news. Got it?”
I didn’t get it, not even close, and that worried me plenty.
CHAPTER FOUR
Lunar moths battered the porch light at Meg’s.
My girl split a modest two-bedroom house in Tillson with her son, Devlin, and a seldom seen roommate. Her librarian’s salary didn’t cover many frills after student loan payments, babysitting fees, and all the rest.
We weren’t married, might never be, and that curtailed my role as a provider. I brought groceries once or twice a week and took her and the boy to dinner as often as she’d permit. Difficult to help Megara Shaw—she was as stubborn as any person I’d met. The merest whiff of being kept by a man was anathema to her sensibilities.
I let myself in and sneaked around the darkened interior, trying not to trip over scattered toys. School night meant Devlin had already gone down for the count. Occasionally,
when the world piled trouble on my shoulders and life grew ever more byzantine, I felt a melancholy pang for mac and cheese dinners and a first grader’s curfew.
Devlin’s room was painted purple and yellow. Glow-in-the-dark stars formed the Big and Little Dippers across the ceiling. Superhero posters; a wooden footlocker with toys jamming the lid open. One dared not venture inside while barefoot for dread of a Lego- or action-figure-related injury.
Meg sat in the kitchen, organizing bills by the lonely glow of a porcelain lamp. She’d loosed her dark hair and slipped on a pair of drugstore reading glasses. I’d told her they looked sharp. She hated the glasses, never mind my opinion. Minerva lay at her feet, motionless as a stone, eyes burning holes into my soul.
Over the past year and change since her rescue, my mongrel had evolved from a scrawny, terrified puppy to a confident watchdog bolstered by pearly white fangs and seventy pounds of muscle. An associate of mine had begun training her as a protection dog to properly channel her instincts. Minerva ranged Hawk Mountain Farm (where I currently hung my homburg) or camped with Meg and Devlin when I wandered afield on business. A kid should grow up with dogs. Judging by Minerva’s sweet, implacable protectiveness, I had a hunch she loved them the best.
The dog rose and pawed my knee until she received her quota of pats.
I rummaged in the cabinet, retrieved a bottle of California red, and poured half a glass. I set the glass near Meg’s left hand and kissed the nape of her neck. Then I leaned against the sink and watched her for a few minutes. She sighed and stared into the distance. She got that thousand-yard stare when visualizing her recently estranged husband, Mackenzie.
“Is he late with the child support?” I said.
She sipped and grimaced.
“Child support is discontinued.”
I didn’t do the gallant thing and offer to brace the ex or tide her over with cash. She would’ve punched me in the balls. Instead, while she drank her wine and fumed in radioactive silence, I kept my trap shut and waited.
She raised her glass and I refilled it.
“The ex took a job in Nicaragua,” she said. “His aunt owns a construction company. He sent me a note and that’s all it said. Jettin’ to Central America, see ya when I see ya. Broke the lease on his apartment. Didn’t leave a forwarding address. I don’t think we’ll hear from him anytime soon.”
I wanted to say sorry. I couldn’t muster the hypocrisy.
Meg stood and rinsed her glass. She gripped my belt and towed me toward the bedroom. Sleek and wiry, she possessed the outsized power of a serious athlete. Her robe came undone and we toppled onto her bed.
“Please don’t hurt me,” I said half seriously.
Her vulpine smile promised nothing.
* * *
—
“WOULD YOU KILL HIM IF I ASKED?”
Once upon a time, I might’ve lain in bed and smoked a cigarette. Now, I stared at the ceiling and regretted my temperance. Our shoulders and thighs touched, sealed with cooling sweat.
“Kill whom?” I said.
“You know.”
I knew, indeed. The dastardly deadbeat ex-husband had pissed her off royally.
“Would you . . . take a contract?” she said.
“Technically, you take out the contract. I fulfill the contract.”
“Okay, smartass. Answer the question.”
It seemed I’d spent the entire night dodging rhetorical gambits.
“I’d decline.”
“Why?”
“Besides that I’m retired? A chick driving a 1997 Passat can’t afford my rates.”
She caressed my belly.
“You aren’t retirement age. So . . . could I finagle a friend discount?”
“Pro bono is an option.” I turned my head to regard her in the near darkness. Doubtless, this rendered my expression suitably sphinxlike. “This what you want? Are you certain?”
“Smile. I’m putting you on.” When I didn’t respond, she stiffened. “Can’t you see I’ve had a rough day and I’m joking?”
I gazed at her, and let the mask slip a fraction, let her feel a whisper of the winter wind that blows through my heart of hearts.
“Isaiah,” she said. “Tell me you understand I’m kidding.”
“Do you want it to look like an accident? Dead easy to slip off a roof. Or would you prefer an example to be made? The Outfit goes gaga over examples. A sander can buff a man’s skin from his bones. Earplugs and a raincoat are recommended for that menu item.”
“Should I be afraid? Is that what you’re hinting at?”
“Of me? No. I’m your willing slave.”
“Why are you acting like this? For the third time—I’m joking.”
“Many a truth is told in jest.”
“Many a jest is told in jest, jerk.”
It hit me not too long after that. Her ex received custody of Devlin every other Saturday. The realization flowed through my blood, cold and dark.
“Did Mac . . . Did he tell Devlin?”
Her breathing slowed.
“They were supposed to tour the Wild Acres Animal Sanctuary over in High Falls. The only thing Dev loves as much as his superheroes are wolves. It was kinda rough explaining why his daddy left without a good-bye. He didn’t cry, didn’t ask any questions. He was coloring in his book. Said, ‘Okay,’ and kept coloring. Hasn’t mentioned it since.”
I wanted to communicate to her that we’re humans; we learn to accept whatever indignity, whatever intolerable condition. She didn’t need me to state the obvious. I did the only thing I could, and that was to hold her hand as it got later and later.
* * *
—
PHANTOM DENIZENS of my subconscious swooped in for their periodic torments. They spirited me back to Alaska for a nightmare about my old mentor, Gene K, and my father, Mervin. My long-dead dog, Achilles, was there too.
Gene passed away during a blizzard in the Wrangell Mountains in ’08. No such luck in regard to my estranged father. He’d retired early from the Air Force and currently moonlighted as an asset for one government intelligence agency or another. To my knowledge, the men hadn’t met in the real world.
Dreams are like that, though. Murky distortions of reality. Rarely, they’re a wiretap on the cosmic phone line—an early warning of some hell headed one’s way. This was such an instance, although I wouldn’t put one and two together for a while.
The four of us bunkered in Gene’s cabin in the depths of a blizzard. Besieged by the forces of evil, was my impression of our circumstances. Frost rimed the interior walls. Floorboards groaned as we lurched from window to window with our rifles. I’d reverted to early childhood. The weapon felt heavy.
Figures skulked among the trees that surrounded the cabin.
Gene hunched, gaunt and feral as a starving wolf. His own totem animal made flesh. Dad’s silver hair hung lank over his red-rimmed eyes. I must not have looked any better, because he glanced at me mournfully. The real Mervin Coleridge would have sooner gnawed his arm off than display a glimmer of sentimentality.
Dream logic being what it is, I knew the civilized world had succumbed to darkness. Everyone we’d ever loved was dead. We were dead too; just spending the last of the bullets.
Gene said, Don’t worry, killer. We’re gonna make it. He’d always been a smooth liar.
Dad said, Love and loyalty are the two most powerful forces in the universe. They won’t save you in the end. Nobody is saved.
The cabin dimmed as snowdrifts blotted the winter sun. My companions became silhouettes, then disappeared except for their agonized breathing. I crouched, blind, cold, and afraid. Achilles began to bark.
Nightmare Dad was correct. We still hadn’t made it when dawn’s light beamed through the curtains and woke me from the death dream and into the present.
CHAPTER FIVE
I drove home to Hawk Mountain Farm. My agenda: a three-mile jog over hill and dale followed by a scalding shower. The jog was more of a stagger; my cracked ribs and bruised spleen were on the mend, but drawing deep breaths required real willpower. Better every day; that and You should see the other guys! were mild consolation.
Established in the ’60s, Hawk Mountain Farm proper was a tranquil collection of antiquated structures at the end of a winding private dirt road amid the hills north of New Paltz. A raggedy association of white-haired refugees from the days of Timothy Leary and peak counterculturism, tenanted shacks and lean-tos scattered across several hundred wooded acres.
The languid pace and cast of eccentric local characters soothed me. Minerva loved to race through the fields and into the surrounding woods. Her doggy joy counted for much as well. We dwelt in a snug cabin—bedroom, bathroom, and kitchenette. The well-stocked fridge, DVD player, shelf loaded with books, and a stereo satisfied my basic survival requirements. The dog received a steady supply of kibble and steak bones. Neither of us required any more in regard to material comfort.
After the run, I put on a decent suit and searched for my dear friend Lionel Robard. When not playing Iolaus to my Hercules on one mission or another, he worked as a roustabout and bunked in a cabin near my own.
The farm—or rehabilitated hippie commune, as Lionel saw it—belonged to the Walkers, an elderly couple who hosted symposiums on a multitude of esoteric subjects and provided life-coaching services to wealthy rubes. Incidentally, the couple rescued stray animals—and the occasional stray human, as I could attest. My former boss with the Outfit, Mr. Apollo, pulled strings to land me a bed at the farm when I departed Alaska as an exile.
Shortly after my arrival in New York, the Walkers’ teenage granddaughter, Reba, had gone missing under a cloud of mystery. Signs pointed to her relationship with local gangbangers as the cause. I went looking for the girl and found her. Too late.
