Three Twisted Stories: Go Deep, Necessary Women, Remmy Rothstein Toes the Line

by Karin Slaughter

  “Radio if you need me,” the first cop called. The door clicked shut behind them.

  The room went quiet. The second cop was sitting close to him, their knees almost touching. Neither one of them said anything. Charlie could hear the clock ticking in the kitchen. He thought about the knife in his pocket.

  “So,” the cop said. “You wanna tell me what you were really doing at the dry cleaner’s today?”

  He crossed his leg to put some space between them. There was a twinge in his back. Charlie uncrossed his leg. He crossed the other one. The twinge didn’t go away.

  She prompted, “The dry cleaner’s. What were you doing there?”

  “Had to pick up a suit.”

  “Like the one you’re wearing?”

  Charlie shrugged.

  “That’s a nice suit, is all I’m saying. It’s got good lines. Especially across the shoulders.”

  Charlie felt a rush of heat go to his face. What the hell did that mean? Was she saying his shoulders were wide? Or that they weren’t? He crossed his arms over his chest. He could feel his jacket pulling tight across his back.

  The cop said, “Salmeri’s in Midtown, you’re up near Buckhead, right? Your dealership’s two blocks from Carriage Cleaners.”

  He shrugged. “So?”

  “So, what’s a guy like you doing in that part of town?”

  He picked a piece of lint off his pant leg. “The price is cheaper than on the Northside.”

  “Still.” She put her hand over his. “You drive up in that fancy car of yours wearing your good suit, people see that and think …”

  “Think what?”

  “Think you’re looking for trouble.”

  Charlie pressed his back against the couch. Her hand moved to his thigh. This was getting crazy. He said, “Listen, lady. I can take care of myself.”

  “Lady?” She chuckled. “Come on, Charlie. We’re all friends here. You can call me by my name.”

  “I don’t—” Charlie had to stop so he could swallow. “I don’t remember your name.”

  She gave him a crooked grin. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. After tonight, you’ll never, ever forget it.”

  APRIL 6, 1974

  Chapter Four

  Charlie paced back and forth across his office floor. His head was pounding. He felt hungover. His body ached. He felt scared. There was no other way to explain it. He was safe in his office. The door was locked. But he still felt scared.

  He wanted to put yesterday out of his mind. The task was impossible. He’d tried all night, but the minute he closed his eyes, an image would pop into his head. Smashing into Finkelmeyer’s shopping cart. Watching the blood spurt when the knife was pulled out. Grabbing onto the arm of the couch when the detective straddled him. The awful, humiliating things she had done to him while her partner was right outside the door.

  “Shit!” A sudden, sharp pain cut through Charlie’s gut. He pushed open the door and ran toward the bathroom in a crouch. He wasn’t going to make it to the end of the hall. At the last minute, he darted into the ladies’ room.

  “God!” Charlie knelt in front of the toilet. The cold concrete floor pressed into his knees. He was sweating, but he was cold. He stared into the still water inside the toilet. He wanted to throw up, but nothing would come. A drop of saliva sent ripples to the edges of the porcelain bowl. The cramping subsided, but his bladder started to spasm. Charlie couldn’t stand up. He got on his knees. He pulled down his pants. He screamed as it felt like a razor blade was passing through his dick.

  The urine was yellow, then pink, then bright red.

  “Shit.” As if last night wasn’t bad enough. Now he had some kind of goddamn VD.

  “Hey.” Deacon knocked on the door. “You okay in there, bud?”

  Charlie winced from pain as he forced out the last dribble of blood. He sat back on his knees. He was panting. His hands were still trembling.

  “Hello?”

  “Just gimme a minute.” Charlie put his hand to his stomach. The cramps weren’t going away, but he was getting used to them. Maybe he needed to take a shit. Charlie sat on the toilet.

  Nothing.

  He stood up and flushed the toilet. He went to the sink. The faucet groaned when he turned the handle. He let it run for a few seconds. He splashed cold water onto his face. He looked into the mirror. Jesus, he looked awful. His face was as ashen as Finkelmeyer’s. At least he was clean-shaven. Charlie ran his fingers along his chin. He felt a tender spot. He leaned in closer to the mirror.

  “What the hell?” He had a pimple on his chin. What had that broad done to him?

  “Mr. Lam?”

  Again, Charlie cursed under his breath. His secretary. “What is it?”

  “There’s a man here to see you.” She lowered her voice. “He’s black.”

  Charlie closed his eyes. This was the last thing he needed.

  “Mr. Lam?”

  “Put him in my office.”

  Charlie turned on the faucet again. He held his fingers under the cold water. He didn’t want to look at himself in the mirror, but he had to. His hair was more gray now than it was the day before. His lips looked so pale they were almost white. There were bags under his eyes.

  He wanted to lie down on the couch in his office and rest, but he knew that he couldn’t. Not least of all because one of Thevis’s guys was being shown to his office. The commissioner or the judge or the deputy wasn’t used to waiting.

  Charlie checked the front of his pants. There was no blood, but he couldn’t take the chance. He rolled some toilet tissue around his hand and shoved it down the front of his underwear.

  Now he had to wash his hands again. There were still pieces of dried blood under his fingernails. He rubbed the bar of soap between his palms. Lilacs. Charlie smelled the soap. It was like a garden or something. He looked around the small room. It was a hell of a lot nicer than the men’s room. Someone had put a shag rug in front of the sink. There was a vase of fresh flowers on a side table. Magazines were neatly stacked underneath it.

  Cosmopolitan. The model on the front cover looked familiar. Charlie wiped his hands on a towel that matched the rug. He picked up the magazine. He thumbed through the pages looking for the chick’s name, but stopped when he saw an ad for Max Factor. He tore out the page, folded it into a square, and stuck it in his pocket.

  Deacon was waiting for him when he opened the door.

  “What are you doing in the ladies’ room?”

  “None of your business.” Charlie said a silent prayer of thanks to God, because touching a Cosmopolitan in the ladies’ room was a hell of a lot more hygienic than touching one in the men’s room.

  He warned his brother, “Stay out of there. It’s nice. You’ll just stink it up.”

  Deacon waved off the concern. “Look, the Mustang. You got fifteen hundred in it, right?”

  Charlie shook his head. “Two grand, plus I should probably get that oil leak fixed.”

  “No, you told me fifteen yesterday.”

  Charlie didn’t just remember the conversation. He knew what he had in every single car on the lot. “I said two g’s.”

  “You’re losing your mind, buddy. It was fifteen hundred. I was standing right here when you told me.”

  “Why aren’t you listening to me? I told you it’s two thousand. Two thousand, Deacon. Not fifteen hundred. Two thousand.”

  Deacon held up his hands like Charlie was going to jump him. “Jesus, pal, what crawled up your ass?”

  Charlie couldn’t do this right now. “You got some aspirin?”

  Deacon pulled a Goody’s powder from his pocket. “What’s going on with you lately? You’d forget your head if it wasn’t strapped to your neck.”

  Charlie opened the packet as he walked down the hallway. His guts were still on fire. His eyes hurt. He kept hearing a cracking sound. He glanced over at his brother. “Stop popping your gum.”

  Deacon gave him a funny look. “You sound like Mom.”

  �
��You sound like a pain in my ass.” Charlie tossed the headache powder into the back of his throat. He coughed. A puff of white powder came out of his mouth.

  “You okay?”

  Charlie coughed again. And again. He kept coughing and coughing, until he wasn’t really coughing anymore, he was choking.

  “Hey.” Deacon slammed the heel of his palm into Charlie’s back. “You okay?”

  Charlie bent at the waist. His eyes were watering. He was dizzy. He felt like he was going to pass out. Or worse.

  “Buddy?” Deacon leaned down to check on him. There wasn’t an ounce of concern in his eyes. He seemed excited, like he was watching a movie.

  A coffee mug was shoved into Charlie’s hand. He drank the whole thing, tasting the cold dregs at the bottom. When he could finally stand up, he saw that it was his secretary who’d saved him.

  “Darla,” Charlie said. “Thank you.”

  “Christ, man.” Deacon was laughing. “Lookit you. You got tears in your eyes.”

  “Shut up.” Charlie wiped his eyes. He’d almost choked to death and all Deacon did was slam his fist into Charlie’s back. “You hurt me.”

  “I hurt you?” Deacon laughed like it was funny. “Lookit you, cryin’ like a slit.”

  “Shut up.” Charlie headed up the hallway toward his office.

  “Hey.” Deacon caught up with him quickly. He put his hand to the small of Charlie’s back. “I know you got somebody waiting, but we need to talk about the blonde.”

  “What blonde?”

  “Where’s your brain?” he asked. “Chick from yesterday who wants the Mustang. I’m thinking we could get a little—” He stuck his tongue into his cheek as he made like he was giving a blow job.

  Charlie slapped his hand away. “Is that what this is about? You want to knock five hundred bucks off that car so—”

  “What?” he interrupted. “Of course not. That’s crazy. What the hell is wrong with you, brother? You need to go to a shrink or something.”

  He didn’t know the half of it. Charlie headed into his office.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Go back to work, Deacon.”

  “How am I supposed to work when you won’t let me—”

  Charlie shut the door.

  The black guy sitting across from Charlie’s desk stood up and buttoned his suit jacket. “Mr. Lam.”

  Charlie said, “Commissioner Ballantine,” because that was the name written on a piece of paper tucked inside the breast pocket of the suit he’d picked up at Salmeri’s.

  “The Chicken Man himself.” Ballantine shook Charlie’s hand. He didn’t let it go immediately. His smile went up a few watts. “I like that tie. Color brings out your eyes.”

  Charlie pressed down his tie. His daughter had given it to him. There was nothing special about it. “What kind of car were you looking for?” The question was perfunctory. All these black guys wanted new Cadillacs, just like the white guys who worked under the last administration wanted Ford LTDs.

  “Hmm.” Ballantine made a show of thinking about Charlie’s question. “You got any new Cadillacs?”

  Charlie walked across the Lenox Square parking lot. There were Braves pennants all around the outdoor square. He could see women sitting at tables having lunch. The sun was high in the sky. It was one of those perfect spring days where everything was blooming. Azaleas, dogwoods, tulips. Normally, all Charlie could think about was the pollen, but now he was feeling wistful because he knew that in a few weeks, all the blooms would fall away.

  He headed toward Davison’s. He needed new underwear. The toilet paper wasn’t enough, and besides, it was disgusting to walk around like this all day. He probably had a bladder infection. Charlie had had one of those years ago. Hurt just the same, like a knife in his back. He’d peed more than blood back then. There was pus. The doctor had said the words “bladder infection” like there was something else going on. Charlie had just gotten back from Vegas. He knew what the something else was, and assumed the gal who had given it to him would need a dose of penicillin, too.

  So, he had a bladder infection. Or a kidney infection. Or he’d caught something off the homeless guy.

  The homeless guy.

  Melvin Finkelmeyer. They had struggled over the knife. Had he managed to punch Charlie in the back and Charlie didn’t remember? The whole thing was a blur to him. Maybe he’d bumped into the door handle. That would explain why the skin felt bruised. Or maybe Charlie had hurt his back when he fell to the ground. He could’ve landed wrong. Who the hell knew what had happened? Whatever it was, Charlie would go to a doctor and get a shot or take some pills and he’d be fine. He made a mental note to make an appointment when he got back from the mall.

  Normally, his wife did all his shopping, but Charlie figured by the time he told her what to buy, he could just get it himself. Besides, he wanted some time away from the dealership. Deacon was getting on his last nerve. He had two calls from two brothers who he knew would be asking for money. His girlfriend had called three times, probably to smooth things over about last night, though Charlie wasn’t sure that could ever be smoothed over. Worst of all, as he was walking out of the dealership, Darla had handed him a message that the cop from last night had called.

  Jo. Probably short for Joanna. Charlie didn’t even know her last name. He felt his stomach roil at the memory of her touching him. “Groping” was a more accurate word. Charlie shuddered. He felt dirty every time he thought about it.

  So he tried to push it from his mind as he walked through the department store. There were Easter decorations all around. Charlie had forgotten the holiday was coming up. He should get his daughter something. She was too old, but what the hell.

  Charlie found the men’s department in the back of the store. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. There were all kinds of underwear, not just his usual briefs. Pajamas with matching robes. Slippers that looked soft enough to make you feel like you were walking on a cloud. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d shopped for anything new for himself. There were traveling salesmen who came to the dealership selling shit out of the back of their cars—suits, Valentine’s roses, steaks, whatever fell off the closest truck.

  Being in a mall was different. No one knew Charlie was here. No one was going to run up asking for a favor or a handout or advice. The whole point of these stores was that everybody was there for him. Charlie couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something about the anonymity of being just another shopper that made him feel more content than he’d felt in a long time.

  Why not enjoy it?

  Charlie had never been a boxers man, but there were some silk boxers with pinstripes that looked comfortable as hell. He held them to his waist and looked in the mirror. Jesus, his gut was big. He looked like a cartoon of a fat cat. The pleat in his pants was stretched to the limit. There was a coffee stain on his jacket lapel. His tie was crooked. Had it been that way when Commissioner Ballantine had complimented him on the color? Charlie had told himself that the man was just being polite, but the truth was the whole exchange had made him uncomfortable. What did the color of his tie have to do with picking out a car?

  Charlie looked up. A couple of women were staring at him like it was weird for a man to be in the men’s department. Maybe they were right. So far as he could tell, Charlie was the only guy in the place. It almost felt dangerous.

  He put the silk boxers back on the rack and grabbed a three-pack of Hanes. Maybe he could come back after work and pick out something different. Surely there would be more men around at night. He could probably use a new suit. And his shirt collars were looking frayed. Plus, he was sick of all his ties. He felt like he wore the same thing week after week.

  He stopped at one of the displays in the middle of the aisle. Easter baskets. Colorful pastel wrappers covered chocolate eggs. The fake polyester grass reminded him of Mr. Salmeri’s chest hair. Marshmallow Peeps. He never liked those. He didn’t see the poi
nt. Too many empty calories.

  Charlie picked up one of the eggs. Saliva filled his mouth. He could almost taste the chocolate. Charlie unpeeled the wrapper and shoved an egg into his mouth. The sugar and cocoa explosion was so intense that he had to close his eyes. He ate another one. Then another one. Before he knew it, the basket was empty except for the Peeps.

  Charlie heard a throat being cleared behind him. The woman at the register was giving him the stinkeye. He grabbed up the Peep basket as well as a new one for his daughter. He walked over to the counter.

  “Sorry.” Charlie forced a laugh, smiling at the stern brunette. “Couldn’t help myself.”

  She didn’t laugh with him. Instead, she rang up the baskets and underwear, hitting the keys hard with her fingers. “Six dollars and twelve cents.”

  Charlie reached into his pocket. Instead of the wad of cash he normally kept, there was nothing but lint. Charlie laughed again as he reached for his wallet.

  Fuck. He’d left it on the bureau at home. He could see the fat billfold in his mind’s eye. What was wrong with him? He never walked out without cash.

  “Sir?” the woman said.

  He read her name off her name tag. “Judy. I have an account here.” Charlie leaned against the counter. “I mean, my wife has an account. Mrs. Charles Lam.”

  “Do you have your driver’s license?”

  “In my wallet, which I left at home.” Charlie winced as he shrugged. He felt his cheeks getting hot. The woman thought he was poor—or worse, a thief. She didn’t know he had thousands of dollars in the bank. That he ran a successful business. That he had a wife and child. She thought he was some moocher off the street.

  He tried to be pleasant, like this was no big deal. “Can you look up the account?”

  Judy snatched up the phone. She tugged the rotary around, dialing in the extension. Charlie looked behind him. There was a line. Three women, all dressed to the nines with pointy high heels and perfectly coiffed hair. He could almost hear them judging him. Charlie wasn’t wearing his best suit. Hell, he wasn’t even wearing his second-best suit. Two hundred dollars off the rack, sure, but he bought them out of the trunk of a traveling salesman’s car for seventy-five bucks, no questions asked.