“Have you sought out any help?”
“You mean like therapy?”
“That's precisely what I mean.”
“I'm talking to you about it.”
“That's sauropod shit. You need to call up a therapist. Right now, before you go to sleep again.” She retrieved a first generation iPhone from her pocket (she had one just like mine; just about everyone did that year), and proceeded to scan through what I presumed to be a list of contacts.
“You're going to call someone.” I spoke it as a statement but intended it as a question.
“You bet your milky epidermis, I am.”
“I leave home on Monday morning, Leah. That's practically twenty-four hours from now, and doesn't leave a lot of room for office hours.”
“I'll have them come up here, to us..... now.”
“We're sitting on a roof. It's probably two in the morning.” But Leah wouldn't budge from her list of contacts. “Leah, Elise is getting her doctorate in psychology. We've had plenty of conversations. And I am talking to someone about it, back home.”
She set her phone down. “Why didn't you tell me?”
“If I recall, on the night we made out, I asked you for.....” I had lived in shame over what I'd asked for, and it was embarrassing bringing it up.
“You can say it. Blow job.”
“Yes, that. You slapped me and said not to call. If I also remember correctly, you never answered my phone messages or e-mails. I tried to reach you for months before finally giving up.”
“Well, you shotuld have told me.”
“What was I supposed to do, put the subject in an e-mail that said: I WAS IN 9-11?”
“Yes. And I see your point.” The cigarette had burnt down to its filter now. It didn't stop her from tugging every last nanogram of nicotine from it though. “Did Elise really break it off with you before you came out, the first time?” There it was. History repeats itself.
“Her mom threatened to cut off her tuition from USC if she didn't.”
“So your step-mother isn’t exactly a fan, then.”
“How could she not? Look at me, I’m adorable.”
“And you loved her.”
“Of course, I married her.” I looked down at the finger that had once contained my wedding ring. The flesh was still swollen around the pale strip of skin where the band had been. Considering what Leah might look like with that little white dress of hers relieved of its buttons was one purposeful way not to think about Elise. “But then again, I loved you too.”
“Don't say things like that. Don't ruin this moment.”
I kept quiet.
There was a pregnant pause and then Leah said: “If you don't mind my asking, how did you get back together?”
“A couple of days after the attacks Elise defied her mother by showing up at Cousin Joe's. It wasn't easy getting from one airport to another in the hours after, so I can only imagine her determination. She just showed up, no phone call or anything. I'll never forget answering the door and seeing her standing there, so young and vulnerable. It was one of the greatest moments of my life.”
“Did her mom really cut tuition?”
“Oh yeah, it may have been the greatest moment of my life, but I've been paying for it ever since.”
Leah laughed.
“I called you.”
Leah stopped laughing.
“The greatest moment of my life could have been our moment. It could have been you standing in the hallway.”
“Don't say things like that.”
“I'm afraid if I don't, I'll get on that plane Monday morning and regret it for the rest of my life.”
“You have a wife to go home to.”
I sunk my head and stared at my shoes, which was currently grinding at several shards of loose gravel. “Had a wife; I think if we're being honest here, our future is rather bleak.”
“I've never been great in the love department, Joshua. I'm not great in the religion department either. Relationships quickly take a nose-dive. Come to think of it, I'm not much good at anything at all, except for acting.” She pulled what was left of the cigarette from her lips, it was a stump now, and stared longingly at it. “It's best not to destroy what could otherwise be a good thing between us.”
“One woman's hell is another man's heaven.”
“Come again?”
“Loving for you is hell. Not loving for me is hell. I guess our path to heaven is two completely separate roads.” I so desperately wanted to tell Leah that I loved her. I even opened my mouth to say it, but my throat was without the wind power necessary to carry the words.
“Don't get all sappy on me, Chamberlain.”
“You look tired.” I quickly changed the subject. More small talk.
“Exhausted, and thanks for changing the subject.” She thought about it. “I can be difficult, I know.”
“I guess this week has been a roller coaster of real for the both of us.”
“Don't act so humble. I know this has been hell for you.”
“That may be so, but tomorrow's a big day for a certain big city girl I know.” I smashed my cigarette into the bowl and stood. “I think we need to get you to bed.”
“With or without my clothes on?”
I didn't answer her, but only because I couldn't craft an honest answer fast enough. How was it that Leah could be so suggestive and vulgar and yet so determined not to feel or express real emotion? She had a devilish look about her as she casually popped the question, and held both hands out, so as to be helped to her feet. I did just that. Contact with her fingers was enough to send electric volts of sexual energy up and down my wiring, and I considered what she might look like in bed again.
She said: “You realize I'm joking about stuff like that, right?”
“Oh, of course. I am too.”
“We're just friends.” Leah went for the stairway door and held it open for me.
“I wouldn't want it any other way,” I said.
“Joshua, thanks again for telling me.”
I released her of door holding duties and watched her thighs take several swaying steps down the first set of stairs before finally closing it behind me.
“That stint with the elevators?”
“I can't imagine if you'd died in there and I'd never have known.”
Our voices echoed.
“I did die in there, many times over, in my dreams.” I stopped myself. “I'm sorry, that sounded ridiculously silly.”
“No.” Her voice echoed. “That's not silly at all.”
16
RICHIE WAS SNORING INCHES from my face when I opened my eyes, not a clue as to what time it was. He’d never had his tonsils removed, and his breath spoke of unattractive things. It was a singular knock at the front door that woke me, and since neither Richie nor Leah were willing to rise above their slumber when I called for them (I even shook Richie's arm, quite violently), I stumbled out of bed, waddled towards the door and opened it myself, putting very little thought into the threat of such a late night visitor. Only nobody was standing in front of it. There were footsteps however, which immediately replaced the missing person, and I soon spotted the back of someone's head moving down the stairs.
“Alex?”
I don't know why I pronounced Parkers name, or why I followed the mystery intruder’s footsteps all the way down to Bleecker Street. He, at least I thought it was a he, was always a floor below me no matter how fast or slow I pursued him, very strange indeed, and it was on Bleecker Street where a monstrous automobile roared to life. Headlights flashed on; totally blinding. I struggled simply keeping my eyes open wide enough to swim through the light of them, and rather than the mystery knocker, it was the woman mannequin from my dreams who stood in confrontation, brilliantly blazing in its beams.
“Once more around the block, honey,” she said.
Richie was snoring inches from my face when I awoke from my dream.
“Alex, are you still out there?” I said,
wondering if I'd woken at all or if I had in fact wandered into another dream within a dream. Either way, Richie's breath smelt worse in this one.
17
THERE WAS MORE OF Richie's breath and tonsils to love as I woke up yet again at his side. According to my cell phone it was three minutes after seven, a Sunday morning. I added up the math and that gave me four solid hours of sleep under my belt, but nightmares had continued to plague me in Samsara circles, which meant Richie's morning-after breath, matched with the cool morning light, was warmly welcomed.
As a first order of business I stretched aching muscles and worked fruitlessly at ironing out the kink in my neck before lacing up a pair of running shoes. And I was right about the internal bleeding. A wedge of swollen flesh had begun to turn black and purple below the eye. Each day would probably grow worse. I gazed into the bathroom mirror (it stung when I prodded at it), popped a couple of pain killers in, and washed them down with a handful of water. But something else wasn't sitting right, and not simply because my butt ached from Mahoney's goat. I searched for my laptop computer among the wreckage of last night’s party. There would be no confusion as to whose laptop belonged to who since mine would most certainly be the only one with a bumper sticker that read: REPUBLICAN PARKING ONLY. I finally recovered it under a pizza box.
The headline was on MSNBC.
SUSPECT IN MANCINI MURDER CASE FOUND DEAD IN HO CHI MINH.
Alex's mug made the cover. The article was short but brief. Alex had parted the land of the living, and perhaps just as importantly, he left behind a confession note of sorts. Little details were known of its context except he seemed to pen the murder of Gracie onto that Parisi fellow that I’d heard so much but knew so little about. It was however an apparent suicide, which meant the mafia hadn't gotten to him first. I almost fell out of my chair at the thought of his passing, and then had to sit there for a while on a swollen caboose staring at the headline and Alex's picture, hoping I hadn't confused articles, and the words suicide and confession note before I could allow myself to believe it.
But that wasn't the end of it.
FORMER MEMBER OF DUMB ANGEL FOUND DEAD AT WESTFIELD HOME
was another headline, just to keep the gossip juices flowing. Dumb Angel, of course, was Alex Parker's unsuccessful stint at rock music, and Nick Turino, I'd never met him in person but recognized his mug immediately, was a fellow band member. He'd been found that very Sunday morning folded up in a trash can, a broken eggshell for a skull, just as Gracie had four days earlier, which elevated these killings now to that of serial. Parker was in the clear. And I wasn't. Furthermore, the article stressed that the wedding photographer, that's me, was believed but not confirmed to be on the east coast. Westfield was close to Boston. Boston was on the east coast. Actually, it was only a few hours away from the island. Oh hell.
I added up the math. Alex had flown out from LAX on a Tuesday redeye, probably arrived in Bangkok on a Wednesday afternoon our time, which gave him precisely three days to catch a charter down to Ho Chi Minh City before chewing on the barrel of a gun. Hopefully he went without pain. Maybe he'd gotten word that somebody was on to him and this seemed better to the alternative. Or perhaps it was the guilt of whatever he'd done that finally devoured him. All the same, it just didn't seem possible. Alex Parker was dead. And I wasn't able to save him.
18
I NEEDED A GOOD RUN. The crisp morning air matched with light taxi traffic maneuvering under the dark halves of skyscrapers, due in part to a lowly positioned sun on the Atlantic horizon, looked especially appetizing for a recent running enthusiast like me. A newfound current of energy was overflowing in my veins, most of that probably sexual, and rather unbearable. After all, I was in love, even if I struggled admitting that mess to myself yet, and I wasn't in prison or the pig farm for the murder of Gracie Parker either, which was nice. I stopped in the bagel shop across the street from Brownstone, bought a half dozen, with a small assortment of crème cheeses, and startled Sinatra by knocking on his drivers-side window.
“Oh Jeez, you again,” he collapsed The New York Post in both fingers, gasping for a breath, and lowered the window. The cover story revealed a somewhat recent picture of Alex Parker with a caption that read: SUSPECT IN MOB KILLING COMMITS SUICIDE. “You know, that was a really crumby thing you did last night, taking me downtown and leaving me there.”
“Mm-hmm, mm-hmm, a valid point. You know what else is crumby? You following me all the way across the country.”
“Hey, we all gotta eat. I'm just doing my job, Chamberlain.” Sinatra grinned.
“I understand. And I'll try to be more sensitive about it in the future. That's why I brought you these bagels, kind of as a peace offering. I wasn't sure what kind of creme cheese tickles your fancy, so I thought I'd buy you a few, just to be safe.”
Sinatra snatched the bag with a violent sense of urgency, rather ungratefully too, without ever hinting at a thank you, and masked the newspaper over his eyes again. “Don't think you're ever safe with me, Chamberlain.”
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t steal my trademark lovemaking line.”
Sinatra just sighed and turned a page in the paper.
I said: “So where to this time?”
“Huh?” He seemed confused.
“I'm going on a morning jog, and since I assume you'll be on my shadow...”
“You assume correct.”
“I thought you might have a sightseeing request, this being your first trip to the big apple and all. You know, Central Park or the Brooklyn Bridge, that sort of thing.” I sighed, leaning my back against the hood of his rental car. “New York. She is a seductress, isn't she?”
Sinatra crinkled The Post in his fingers. “Didn't you take me on a damn tour of that big park a couple of days ago with the smelly horse carriages and shit?”
“You've got it, big guy. A trip across the Brooklyn Bridge and back it is.” I started on my way, pausing several steps into my stride long enough to turn around. My row of teeth hinted at many things, butterflies and clogs and tiptoeing through the tulips and all that, but most of all they spoke of love. “I'd recommend driving. I'm feeling especially energetic this morning, which means it's going to be a long run.”
19
BOTH FEET WERE FIRMLY PLANTED in Brooklyn when Kitty Wells asked the age-old question, Will Your Lawyer Talk to God, on my iPhone.
“Where's Waldo here,” I said, sweaty and gasping for breath. A detectable but non-threatening slur of asthma, leftover from my childhood, flared in my lungs. “You can dial my number but you'll have a hell of a time finding my whereabouts on the page.”
“Have you heard the news?” Josephine said.
I hobbled in little circles, keeping a hand to my thigh while my lungs had a chance to recover, and then stooped over. “Aren't you supposed to be on your honeymoon or something?”
“I'm giving Charlie a chance to recover.”
“I assume you're either commenting on Alex's suicide or Nick Turino's murder, or both. Why are you catching up with the news so early on a Sunday morning?”
“Our neighbors complained of the noise, so we leave the television on to drown it out.”
“I thought there wasn't another living soul for miles.”
“There isn't.”
“Wowzers.”
“Anyways, I'm just letting you know the police are handling this as a suicide. There was a confession note and everything, in which he made clear that you had absolutely nothing to do with it. The media hasn't latched onto all of the details yet, but suffice to say authorities won't be pursuing you any longer.”
I said: “Nick Turino.”
“Uh-huh, and what of him?”
“We've got a serial killer on the loose, and with some sort of personal vendetta, which is worse.”
“Believe me, Joshua, you're not a suspect on this one. It was clearly a mafia hit. Even the detectives will agree with me.”
“I still don't believe it.”
> “I don't give a damn about that. You've been removed from the investigation, and that's all that matters.”
“There are much bigger people at play here, Josephine.” The mystery driver parked all weekend outside of Leah's apartment was testament to that. “I get this feeling that they're not going away any time soon.”
“Are you safe?”
I spotted Sinatra in his car. He was idling in front of a fire hydrant, bagel clenched between his teeth. “Yes,” I finally said.
“Then we'll talk about it when I get back. For now, keep out of trouble.” She paused to consider the matter at hand. “Promise me you will.”
I remained silent, staring at the driver.
“Joshua, where are you?”
“I'm still in New York.” A police car popped its lights on, signaling for Sinatra to move his keister away from the hydrant. Sinatra obeyed. “Brooklyn, actually.”
“Stay as far away from this as you can. Rumor has it there's a war brewing between the Mancini family and this Parisi fellow. Don't be a casualty. Joshua, promise me.”
“I promise.”
“That great-uncle of yours, the gumshoe; he hasn't been snooping around, has he?”
I remained silent.
“Joshua,” she said with directness, “Tell me he hasn't been snooping around.”
“Jack's a P.I., Josephine. Never gumshoe.”
“He called you, didn't he?”
“Possibly.”
“Oh hell.”
20
MANHATTAN UNFOLDED LIKE A POP-UP BOOK on my return trip across the Brooklyn Bridge. I was about two-thirds of the way across when Charlie texted me on my phone.
Hey, stop talking to my wife on our honeymoon, his message read.
She grudgingly said she was giving you a rest, buddy. I thought I was doing you a favor, was my reply. I punched the sentence in as I ran, almost colliding with a biker before pressing SEND.
On second thought, call her again. She's staring at me from across the room. My muscles ache, and she looks hungry. Charlie.
Goodnight Sometimes Means Goodbye (Wrong Flight Home, #2) Page 26
