Secrets and Ink

by Lou Harper

  He shook his head. “You’re impossible.”

  I lifted my glass. “Au contraire, my friend. I’m nothing if not possible.” I drank the wine and put the glass down. “Now if you excuse me, I need to visit the little jinxed boys’ room.”

  After dinner, we first dropped Charly off at her place.

  “I like him,” she whispered into my ear as we hugged good-bye.

  “Me too, unfortunately,” I whispered back.

  The freeway wound its way along the side of the San Gabriel Mountains, and all I could see on my side were dark lumps of shrubbery whooshing by. However, from the other side I caught glimpses of the city shimmering below like some underwater kingdom. I watched Nick drive, illuminated only by the dashboards and the headlights of passing cars. I took in the serious set of his jaw and his assured hands on the steering wheel. Strange and familiar. Longing swelled in my chest, making it hard to breathe.

  He gave me a sideways glance. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks for coming,” I said, pulling myself together.

  “I had a good time. Your sister is protective, isn’t she?”

  “I apologize for that. I might have told her something about you being a jerk, after…you know.”

  “So she knows?”

  “Yeah, I told her. Does it bother you?”

  He considered the question. “Better this way. Secrets tend to cause trouble.”

  Just then I almost told Nick about the second photo, but I didn’t know how to start, how to explain I had no idea whose cock I’d had in my mouth. I was afraid it would repel him. As I hesitated, the moment slipped away.

  Nick got off the freeway. It was several exits too soon and taking the surface streets would make the trip longer, but I didn’t mind. At least I’d have time to interrogate him. “So, out with it. What did you and my sister talk about behind my back?” I asked as we drifted through speed-bump-infested side streets.

  “Nothing much,” he hedged.

  “Bullshit. She likes you, and she’s a blabbermouth when she drinks.”

  “Fine. She warned me that you use wisecracks to hide behind when something’s troubling you.”

  Yup, that sounded like my sister, all right. “Pfft. Ever since she got her nursing license, she thinks she can psychoanalyze people too.”

  “I dunno. She might have a point.”

  “Everyone has problems, and we all deal with them in our own ways. It’s essential to keep a sense of humor. As they say, if you can’t laugh at yourself, who will?”

  He gave me a doubtful look. “Who says that?”

  “Well, my neighbor, Mrs. Gallagher told me it’s an old Polish proverb, but sometimes I get the feeling she’s putting me on. I like it, though.”

  “Charly mentioned you had a spell of depression after your accident. She’s worried you could fall back into it.” He spoke like a man picking his way among eggshells. I hated it.

  “Oh, not you too. She filled your head with rubbish. I’m not a basket case. Okay, so I find myself in the dumps time to time. You’d be too if a house fell on you, your lover forgot you existed, and you had to learn to walk and talk again, and then all kinds of crappy stuff kept happening to you. But this curse will run out eventually. I just have to wait it out.”

  While I talked, my roving left hand found a cozy spot to rest—on top of Nick’s thigh. I didn’t even notice it right away, and when I did, the warmth and strength soaking into me through the fabric felt too good. Nick’s surprised look got me out of my reverie, and I snatched the offending appendage away. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  To my bewilderment, he reached out and gave my hand a quick squeeze. “It’s all right.”

  My train of thought derailed; I stayed mute.

  Nick pushed the conversation back on track. “You’re not cursed.”

  “Oh really? My car got stolen twice in four years, windows broken another couple of times. I also got rear-ended by an uninsured motorist once, but at least that happened at low speed. My credit card number got stolen and then my whole wallet. I had a bed bug infestation that took me six months to eradicate. Those fuckers are nasty. Last year, a mocking bird built a nest outside my bedroom window. Did you know they sing at night? I hardly slept all summer. If it comes back, I’ll get a BB gun and shoot it. On top of everything, I’m undateable and will probably die alone. Oh yeah, and my cat ran away. I won’t even bring up my recent calamities.”

  The corners of his lips quirked up. “Okay, I admit, you had some bad luck.”

  “Tell me about it. But you know, it could be worse. I keep telling myself that. The world is full of people with much bigger problems. And I have all sorts of things to cheer me up.”

  “Like?”

  “Going for a swim, reading books, watching movies, watching the sunset from my balcony. But I really miss Pancake. She was great company.”

  “You could get another cat.”

  “It would just run away too. You should do the same, before it’s too late.”

  “I’m not superstitious.”

  “You should be, in your line of work. Flee. I’m like a black cat crossing the street.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  We’ll see about that, I thought but didn’t say.

  “And I don’t think you’re undateable either.” He turned to me as he said it, but there wasn’t enough light for me to read his expression.

  “Oh really? I have a string of personal disasters to prove you wrong.”

  “Your sister thinks you sabotage your relationships because you’re afraid of getting hurt again.”

  That did it. Charly would get an earful next time we met. “Does she now? Would you mind telling me how I sabotaged our relationship? And remember, I don’t have a working time machine.”

  Now, that shut him up.

  Chapter Five

  I had an early shift the next day—there are no weekends off in retail—but at least I got home early too, still buzzing with unspent energy. I decided to do an overdue spring cleaning. It had absolutely nothing to do with the possibility of Nick dropping by. As a friend. Because friends did drop by at each other’s places, even unannounced at times.

  I started with the kitchen—scrubbing down the stove, cleaning out the fridge, washing down the shelves and then organizing the cabinets too. I also reorganized the bedroom closet and filled a trash bag full of clothes I hadn’t worn in ages. I’d drop them off at the thrift store later. At the back of the closet, I came across a container of catnip. I should’ve thrown it out but instead put it back on the shelf. From the balcony I collected the ceramic pots of plants that had died on me, and piled them next to the Dumpster. May someone else have better luck with them. I even did a load of laundry but ran out of steam to put it away too. The sun was still fairly high in the sky when I called it a day.

  Proud of my accomplishments, I stretched out on the sofa and reached for the iPad. I hesitated between one of the many books I’d downloaded and Plants vs. Zombies. The game won—I had yet to complete the roof level. At the sound of purposeful knocking, I paused the game and jumped up with the same motion. To my disappointment, it wasn’t Nick at the door. I’d never seen the balding, middle-aged man with heavy jowls before, but he immediately put me at unease.

  “Jeremy Mitchell?” he asked.

  “That’s me,” I warily admitted.

  He pulled a wallet out of his pocket and held it in front of my face. “I’m Detective Gary Lipkin, LAPD. I’m here about a Riley Moore.”

  I stared at the badge under my nose but hardly took it in. “Riley? What about him?”

  “I’m sorry. Mr. Moore was killed. Have you seen him recently?”

  “Yes, last night. What do you mean killed?” It seemed surreal, and all I could feel was numbness. Strangers and people on TV shows got killed, not people you knew.

  Lipkin’s face was unreadable. Frigging cops. “It would be best if you came to the station to give a statement.”
>
  “Yes. Of course.”

  He gave me the address and driving directions while I put on shoes and grabbed my keys. Confusion and disbelief churned in my head during the whole drive. Riley dead? Seemed impossible—I’d just seen him less than twenty-four hours ago. “Killed” was such a vague word. It could’ve meant anything from a car accident to having his head bashed in by a homophobe. I was still in a daze as Detective Lipkin steered me through the bustling police station and into an interview room. At least it was quiet there.

  “Coffee? Soda?” he asked.

  “Uhm, coffee.”

  He left, and I looked around. Small desk, a couple of chairs. No mirror, only a clock hanging on the scuffed wall. It was the Hollywood Station, the same where I’d been taken at my arrest many years ago, but they’d just thrown me into a cell back then. However, it was also where Nick worked. I hadn’t seen him as we’d come in.

  Lipkin came back with a paper cup and a brown folder. He handed me the coffee, I had a sip and put it aside. It tasted like warm mud. He asked me about the last time I saw Riley, and I told him I’d met Riley on personal business, we talked for a few minutes, and then I left.

  “You still haven’t told me what happened,” I reminded him.

  “Mr. Moore was strangled in his apartment. His roommate found him,” he said with his eyes fixed on me.

  I stared back at him in disbelief. “Strangled? By whom? Why?”

  “We’re investigating it. Another roommate said you and Mr. Moore were arguing.”

  Oh. That had to be Ginger. Just then it dawned on me—I was a suspect. Thinking about it, it made perfect sense. I’d had an argument with Riley shortly before he was murdered, and we had a history. The situation seemed unreal, like a movie. A weird feeling took over me, as if I stepped out of my own skin and watched myself with the detective.

  “What did you argue about?” he asked.

  “Nothing serious. We used to be lovers.” I looked him squarely in the eye, searching for reaction and getting none. “He was playing head games, trying to get me back, or get back at me. I don’t know. I went there to tell him to knock it off. Then I left.”

  “A witness stated you’d been shouting about a photograph.”

  “Ginger exaggerates. I might have raised my voice, but I wasn’t shouting.”

  “What about the photo?”

  “Riley liked emailing me photos of us to remind me of the old days, or whatnot.” Technically, I didn’t lie. I couldn’t possibly tell this cop about the photo of me blowing a stranger. There was no way. Too humiliating. “Look, Riley and I had our problems, but who doesn’t? I told him we were through, and that was the end of it. I had no reason to kill him.”

  “I didn’t say you were a suspect.”

  “Right. I’ve seen Law and Order. Isn’t this when you ask where I was at such and such time?”

  A muscle in the corner of Lipkin’s eye twitched at the mention of the TV show. “Okay. Where were you last night between eight and eleven?”

  That was some mighty precise timing. I wondered how they’d come to it. I doubted he’d tell me. “I was at the movies with my sister, and then we went to dinner.” I wasn’t sure why I didn’t tell him about Nick being there too. Probably because of some old secretive instincts and too much of my mind taken up with the realization I’d never see Riley again, and the guilt over our last exchange.

  Detective Lipkin took Charly’s address and phone number and then kept pestering me with questions about Riley for another hour before he finally let me go.

  The first thing I did back at home was open my laptop and search the local news sites. I didn’t learn much, only that the body had been found by an unnamed roommate shortly after eleven the previous night. The second thing I did was locate the open bottle of wine and a clean glass and sit myself down on the balcony. Unfortunately, alcohol cheered me up only when I was already feeling good, and this time I started at glum. As I watched the sun go down, my mood went with it. By dusk, I found myself downright miserable. The evening seemed so similar to the other one when Nick sat there with me, but now I was alone, and Riley was dead. I still had trouble processing it. Back in the day, when I’d gotten in a bad mood, Riley kept pestering me with the worst jokes till I cracked up. What did the green grape tell the purple grape? Breathe, man, breathe!

  Somebody knocked on the door, but I decided to ignore it. They’d go away. The knocking got louder. Damn it. I dragged myself to the door.

  At first, Nick’s face radiated reproach, but whatever he saw in mine made it go away. “How are you doing?” he asked.

  “Not good.” I wound my hands around his waist and buried my face in the soft cotton of his shirt. I made a big mess of it too, with all the water leaking from my eyes. Nick took it well, silently rubbing my back. I could’ve stayed there forever with his arms around me, but I pulled back in fear I’d leak snot on him too.

  “I’m such mess,” I said, wiping at my eyes and sniffling.

  “Sit.” He guided me to the couch. “Kleenex?”

  “Bedroom.”

  He disappeared to the other room and came back with a box of tissues. While I blew my nose and straightened myself up, he sat next to me, kinda sideways, one elbow up on the back of the couch. He leaned his head on his hand and studied my face. “I’m sorry, Jem. I know you loved Riley.”

  “I did once. Not anymore. But it never stopped hurting. I can’t believe he’s just gone. And murdered. It’s so…barbaric.”

  “Why did you go to him? I told you not to let him manipulate you.”

  “No offense, but Riley is…was my business. I had to see him one last time, make him understand we were finished for good.” I tried to shake the disbelief out of my head. “I didn’t expect it to be so final. You don’t think I killed him?”

  “No, of course not, but it’s a strange coincidence. Why didn’t you tell Detective Lipkin I was with you at the time?”

  “I dunno, I didn’t want to mix you up in it.”

  “And you didn’t think it would make us both look suspicious when it came out?”

  “Oh, I didn’t think of it. I’m sorry.” I realized what a dumb ass I’d been. “Did he call Charly?” She would’ve told him about Nick having been with us for sure.

  “I saw the name on the board and talked to Lipkin. I told him about Saturday night, so your alibi is airtight.”

  “Does he really think I had something to do with the…murder?”

  “I won’t discuss an open investigation with you. And I’m not even on the case. But Lipkin is a good cop, and he’ll follow up every lead. If it were me, I’d look into the roommates, boyfriends, ex-boyfriends and anyone who might have had a quarrel with him.”

  “Hm. That might take a while. Riley had a knack for pissing people off.”

  “Did he really?”

  “Well, it was more like he couldn’t let things go. If someone got on his wrong side, he could be deviously vindictive. Like one time in high school there was this guy, Tyler…something—a jock type. Something happened between them, Riley wouldn’t tell me what, but he decided to fuck with Tyler. We went hiking in the hills, equipped with rubber gloves and plastic bags. And then one day, after school we broke into Tyler’s locker—Riley was an expert in lock picking—and rubbed poison oak all over his stuff, his books and his football jersey. Tyler got the rash so bad he had to stay home for a week.”

  “That is vindictive,” Nick commented.

  “Riley thought of it as a just revenge for whatever had gone down between him and Tyler. They never found out we did it, but Tyler must’ve suspected something. However, I don’t think he’d be seeking revenge after all this time. Have you guys questioned the redheaded roommate yet? I bet he’s up to no good.”

  Parallel grooves of disapproval appeared over the bridge of Nick’s nose. “I don’t think Riley was a good influence on you,” he said.

  “Now you sound like my sister.”

  “She’s a smart woman. P
romise me you won’t do anything stupid like trying to talk to the witnesses.”

  “Are you crazy? Why would I want to do that?” Where did he get these strange ideas about me?

  “You’re impulsive.”

  “Don’t worry. I have no intention of getting involved.” A loud growl from the direction of my stomach added punctuation to my words. I hadn’t eaten since lunch. Something had to be done about that, so I pushed myself up. “Why don’t you stay for dinner?”

  “I should go,” he said but didn’t move.

  I gave him the figurative nudge he needed. “Oh, come on. I’ll make chicken fajitas; they’re quick. You must be hungry too.”

  He grimaced and scratched his head. “Well, I am. Yeah, okay, what the heck.”

  Over dinner, I told Nick about the time I kidnapped Charly’s dolls and switched Ken’s and Barbie’s heads. In exchange, he shared a story about a speeder who refused to pull over.

  “So he finally stopped, and we were right behind him. I was about to pull a gun on him when he jumped out of the car with a duck under his arm,” Nick said, wiping his fingers.

  “A duck?”

  “A real live duck. He ran straight into a building, and that’s when I saw it was a vet’s clinic.”

  The mental image of the whole scene with sirens, flashing lights and a duck cracked me up. Then I remembered that someone I’d been close to was dead and laughing seemed wrong. Disrespectful and selfish.

  Nick read my sudden silence. “Let’s see what’s on TV,” he said.

  That was how I found myself on the couch watching Back to the Future with Nick. He loved “the classics,” as he’d put it. He kicked his shoes off and we both put our feet up on the coffee table. He not only let me cuddle up to him but even put his arm around my waist. With my head resting on his shoulder and the scent of him, the sound of his breathing and the warmth of his body enfolding me, I felt more content than I had in a long time. Also, slightly horny. Contentment won, and I dozed off in the middle of a squaring-off between Marty and Biff.

  My pillow trying to escape woke me. “Hey, sleepyhead, I need to go,” he whispered.