The Long, Long Afternoon

by Inga Vesper

  ‘Fuck off. I got nothing to tell you.’

  Mick smiles. ‘Then you’ve got nothing to hide, either. That gun of yours, is it licensed?’

  ‘Registration’s in the post.’

  ‘I see.’ Mick doodles a gun into his notebook. ‘Your sergeant major told us you moved down here about two months ago. What brings you to sunny California?’

  ‘Business.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘Looking for work.’

  ‘You didn’t come to see someone?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘No old flame of yours?’

  ‘Dunno what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Jimmy, come on. What’s her name? I want it from your mouth.’

  ‘That’s what your wife said last night.’ Jimmy cackles, then smooths his face.

  Mick lets him have it. There won’t be many more laughs in this fellow’s life. ‘We have witnesses,’ he says. ‘You’ve been visiting Joyce Haney, haven’t you? Now, come on. I’m trying to protect you. You know that Joyce is missing, right?’

  ‘Got nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Then we have to eliminate you from our inquiries. But we can only do that if you cooperate, you hear me? We need to know the exact details of when you last saw her.’

  A moment of hesitation, as if he’s trying to do the math. One, two, three . . . ‘Friday. Last Friday, I mean. Friday a week ago.’

  Three days before her disappearance, of course. Mick sighs. ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘Just catching up, like old friends.’

  ‘Sure you didn’t quarrel?’

  ‘About what? I was just stopping by to say hi. Been a long time.’

  ‘And did you meet up with her before Friday?’

  Again, that calculating look. ‘A couple of times since I came down here. She’s a good pal. Invited me to meet her kids.’

  ‘But not her husband.’

  McCarthy scowls. ‘Frank would have made a big deal out of it. In fact, maybe he did make a big deal out of it. Have you asked him where his wife is?’

  ‘His alibi is watertight. But yours isn’t.’

  McCarthy’s eyes ignite. He grips the side of the bed. ‘I didn’t harm a hair on her head. You’re not going to collar me for this, Officer.’

  ‘It’s detective, actually. If you weren’t going to harm her, why did you bring a gun?’

  ‘I know what’s going on here,’ McCarthy splutters. ‘That bastard. That rich, fucking, Mr Shiny-Car Frank fucking Haney. He set this up, didn’t he? He told you it’s me that’s done it, but he’s wrong. He’s a liar and a cheat and a fucking killer, I swear it on my mother’s honor.’

  ‘Give me one good reason why Haney would kidnap his wife.’

  ‘She’s not kidnapped, Officer.’ McCarthy sneers. ‘He killed her. Because he found out.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About me, of course. Maybe Joyce couldn’t shut her cute little pie hole. Or he probably beat it out of her. He knew she loved me. She always did. So he took her away from me just like he did in fucking ’54.’ He groans.

  ‘In ’54?’

  ‘While I was kneeling in the mud in fucking Kaesong. I sweated for her, I killed for her. I licked every boot that kicked me in that dank fucking forest. And then I come back and what do I find? He took her. Like that. Snap.’ He tries to click his fingers but they don’t make a sound. ‘Just like that.’

  Mick nods. ‘Tell me from the start. You met Joyce when she was in college?’

  ‘Yep. We started dating. Her mom – her stepmother – told her I wasn’t a catch. I had no money, no education. No career. I couldn’t marry her. So I took the best option I had. I joined up. And they sent me to Korea.’

  ‘In 1952.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘And you got back the next year.’

  ‘Get your facts straight, Officer. I got back in 1956.’

  ‘It’s detective. And the war was over then.’

  ‘Huh.’ A sharp laugh, like a gunshot. ‘You go on thinking that. But I tell you how I see it. Eisenhower may have said on the damned news that the war was done, but the operations continued. Operation Glory, man. Exchanging bodies, all day long. Bag after bag after fucking, stinking bag. Some of them, they came apart in our hands.’

  ‘You received a dishonorable discharge?’

  ‘You’ve done your research, mister. But not before I spent a year down the rat hole. Might have been a little too keen to punch something that wasn’t already dead. The fucking chinkos arrested me. Threw me in the hole. No food, no water, shit running down your leg. Scurvy. And they know how to make a man suffer. You don’t even know the shit I’ve seen.’ His hands crunch the bedsheets. The two stubby fingers on the right barely curl.

  ‘Careful now.’ Mick can’t let that one go. ‘I’m a veteran myself. Pacific theater, ’45. You don’t know the shit I’ve seen.’

  ‘Ha.’ Jimmy’s eyes darken. ‘At least you had the bomb to put an end to those vermin. You were the brave ones. We . . . we were forgotten.’

  The brave ones. Mick presses a hand against his gut. ‘You were court-martialed, right?’

  ‘When I got out, the sergeant put me down for treason. Gave me another year in lock-up, just for good measure. You serve your country and that’s what you get. Dysentery and discharge, and nothing to show your gal.’

  McCarthy falls silent. Mick lets him stew. But just as he takes a breath to ask the next question, McCarthy speaks again. His voice is softer now, and cracking at the edges.

  ‘All that kept me going was her. And our future. The two of us, together.’

  ‘What did you do when you got back?’

  ‘I could tell she still loved me. I could not stay away. She . . .’ A flicker of a smile crosses his face. ‘She liked having a good time. With me. We hooked up again, in early ’57. But Frank found out. By spring, he was on to us. I broke off all contact with her. No way I was going to go up against that guy and his lawyers. I left her in the nest she made herself.’

  Mick shivers. The room seems cramped. The empty beds, the dead machinery, they clutter up the place and take all the light away. He thinks of the baby in the flowerpot, the tiny, wispy bones.

  Jimmy McCarthy doesn’t notice. He chuckles as if he’s told himself a joke. ‘Next thing you know, she called.’

  ‘She called?’

  ‘Yep, Officer. Called my old man ’bout two months ago. Got my number. Asked me to come down here. I didn’t even know they’d moved. But I thought I’d better stop by. See what’s up.’

  ‘You met at Deena’s place?’

  He grins. ‘There’s a filthy whore if you ever saw one.’

  ‘You slept with her.’

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers. I went there with all sorts of hope, but Joyce got skittish and left. I hung around for a couple of drinks. And when the woman of your dreams gives you the cold shoulder, you’ve got to warm your balls where you can.’

  Mick folds his arms across his chest. ‘Did you see Joyce on the day she went missing?’

  Jimmy closes his eyes. For a moment, he seems to fight himself. Then he sighs and talks. ‘Yep, Officer. Went to Frank’s lair in the afternoon.’

  ‘You wanted to run off with her?’

  ‘She wanted to run off with me.’

  Mick leans back. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. She was behaving weird. High, or something. I said I couldn’t do it. Frank would skin me alive. She wouldn’t listen.’ McCarthy smirks. ‘Then she said she’d made something for me. And you know what it was?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A painting of a kid.’

  Mick jerks his head up. ‘A baby?’

  ‘Toddler, or something. She wanted me to have it.’

  ‘And did that mean anything to you?’

  His eyes flick away. ‘Nah. Like I said, she seemed kinda high.’

  Mick inhales. Somehow, a truth has just been revealed. He spools back their conversation in his m
ind, but it remains hidden just under the surface, like the carps he used to fish with Gramps on the old Troy reservoir.

  ‘I freaked out,’ McCarthy continues. ‘I left. Next thing I hear, she’s gone. Frank did it. It was his revenge, you see? He couldn’t get me, so he got her.’ A shudder runs through his body, from the shoulders to the toes. ‘He got her after all. She’ll always be his now. Forever.’

  Mick swallows. A hot whiskey would be good, double, please. Something to melt the ice cube in his stomach.

  ‘Mr McCarthy, where were you on Friday, two days ago, around 2 p.m.?’

  ‘Took my car to a garage. What’s your problem with that?’

  ‘The fellow who runs it is a dodgy dealer. How much did you pay him to make the right note in his files?’

  ‘I gave him nothing. He wrote it all down. It’s pay on collect.’

  ‘Don’t waste my time with that nonsense.’ A belated dose of adrenaline shoots through Mick’s veins. ‘You broke into the Haney house on Friday. You were looking for something, right? We have a witness.’

  McCarthy’s eyes darken. Something feral grows in them. Mick thinks that, if he were a woman, this would be the moment he’d scream for help.

  ‘That bitch.’ McCarthy hisses the word.

  ‘Do you admit to breaking and entering at 47 Roseview Drive?’

  ‘She set me up. That bitch is in it with Frank. He’s probably humping her on the sly.’

  ‘Let me repeat that. What did you do on Friday afternoon?’

  ‘I drove to the garage, because I saw her looking out the window while I was driving out of Sunnylakes, and I knew she might recognize my car. So I went to get a paint job, near my hotel. I spent the weekend lying low. Until you kicked my door in.’

  ‘Did you kill Deena Klintz?’

  McCarthy’s eyes widen. ‘She’s dead?’

  ‘I ask you again, did you kill Deena Klintz?’

  ‘I know nothing.’ He grips the metal railing fixed to the bed. ‘I wasn’t even there for long. I got nothing to do with that.’

  ‘Deena blackmailed you, right? She knew about your affair with Joyce. She knew you had a motive. And so she had to die.’

  ‘You think I give a damn about some diner hussy? I could have bought her off with two beers. And anyway, she didn’t blackmail me. She had no proof.’

  The carps surface and somersault in the morning air. It was Deena who had insisted that Genevieve Crane drive her to the search. The Haney house was a crime scene, but Hodge was out back, drinking soda. Not difficult for someone as unnoticeable as Deena to slip into the house unseen and steal a painting. When he’d encountered her among the trees, on his way to meet the search party, she had just slipped a few reams of paper into her bag.

  ‘She had proof,’ Mick says. ‘Joyce and Deena spoke that afternoon. Joyce must have told her you were there. When she turned up missing, Deena put two and two together. She stole the painting of your child and confronted you with it. She also saw a bottle of the same beer you like to drink in Joyce’s kitchen. You had to kill her. What did you do with the painting? Burn it? Throw it in the trash?’

  ‘You’re trying to set me up. I did nothing. It had already happened.’

  Mick’s veins buzz with so much electricity it’s a miracle the chair doesn’t start sparking. ‘What had already happened?’

  McCarthy presses his lips together. A tiny sound bubbles from his thorax, like a tiny sob.

  ‘It’s true,’ he says. ‘We fought. I . . . I might have struck her. But not, like, hard. She was fine when I left. I swear. Once I cooled off, I came back. I wanted to make up, before Frank came home. I went in through the back door. And there was . . . blood. In the kitchen. And no sign of her.’ He sighs. ‘I hightailed it out of there.’

  That would explain the car Ruby saw. But it’s too convenient. Too easy.

  ‘I knew Frank had done it,’ McCarthy continues. ‘He was never going to let her get away.’

  Silence. And in McCarthy’s eyes, terror.

  Mick doodles again on his notepad. Thinks it over. It’s not perfect. But it’s good enough.

  He pushes himself off the chair. ‘Mr McCarthy, I am arresting you for the murder of Deena Klintz and Joyce Haney. You will remain in hospital until a doctor certifies you ready for release, after which the SMPD will transfer you to a holding cell. Any information as to the whereabouts of Joyce Haney or her remains will count in your favor during an upcoming—’

  Jimmy McCarthy grins. It’s a malicious, terrified grin that splits his marshmallow head apart. ‘You got the wrong guy, Officer,’ he says. ‘You got the wrong guy.’

  *

  Mick calls Jackie and instructs her to send some underlings to Geddit Fixed. When he arrives, the whole glorious operation is already in full swing. The owner is being questioned on the sidewalk while two officers siphon through the paperwork. In the back, Officer Souza scrapes at the paintwork of a blood-red Crestliner with a screwdriver.

  It hits Mick while he crosses the road. That paint job. McCarthy said it was because someone saw his car at the Haney house. No, not someone. She. She saw the car. That bitch is in it with Frank. He’s probably humping her on the sly.

  Doubt starts clawing at his chest. Mrs Ingram told Ruby she saw nothing on the day Jimmy broke into the house. And on Monday, when McCarthy roared away from the crime scene, she was at home, concealed by the curtains. He might be talking about Ruby, who definitely saw his car. Not on the day of the break-in, but the day Joyce disappeared.

  Ah, well. McCarthy’s head got bumped. It doesn’t matter. He’s got this solved. He’ll prove to Murphy and the whole station that he’s still got it.

  Souza looks up and his face brightens. He points at the green stripes revealed under the red of the fender.

  ‘Nice work,’ Mick says and lays a hand on the metal. ‘Souza, we’ve got our man.’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Ruby

  T

  hat night, South Central doesn’t rest. Ruby kneels on her bed and watches the fires glow against the sky. When the detective dropped her off, Pa almost squeezed her to death. He’d been listening to it all on the radio. When was the last time they’d hugged like that? Not even at Momma’s funeral, that’s for sure.

  The fires conceal the coming dawn. It’s not until the neon sign of Fine 49 switches off with a clack that she realizes it’s daylight outside. In the kitchen, Pa is staring at day-old bread.

  ‘Did they say anything on the radio?’ Ruby asks as she enters.

  ‘It turned into a war. Lots of injuries. Two dead. Our boys, of course. None of them got hurt.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Ruby’s mouth has gone dry. ‘Any . . . Did they say . . . ?’

  But she cannot say her deepest fears out loud. Where is Joseph? Is he OK?

  Pa reads her mind. ‘You heard from your fella?’

  ‘Mrs Estrada’s gone to her sister so I got no telephone. Lord, I hope she wasn’t caught up in it.’

  ‘She’d knock ’em out.’ Pa smiles sadly. ‘Joseph can look after himself. I was more worried about you. I . . . You better get a shower before the hot water runs out.’

  With that, he disappears into his bedroom.

  Ruby walks into the bathroom and shuts the door. The air is stuffy and she opens the window. A breeze wafts in, and with it the smell of smoke. She slips out of her nightshirt and gingerly pulls the shower curtain shut. The rail is prone to falling off the wall.

  The hot water is a blessing from the Lord. Of course, technically it’s delivered by LA Water and Power, but she still utters a quick prayer in thanks. She lathers her skin with soap. The room steams up and the orange scent drives away the smoke stench.

  Against her will she thinks of Jimmy McCarthy. Two murders. They will hang him.

  Thing is, though, it’s not right. He brought his car to Geddit Fixed while Deena was killed. He came gunning out of the Haney’s driveway, but Joyce was already gone by then. And Frank Haney lied about being at th
e conference . . .

  They’re gonna hang the wrong guy. But what’s she gonna do about it? Nothing, that’s what. Why should she go wreck her ass for a scamp like McCarthy? Hell, he’d never lose a minute of sleep if she were left dangling in the breeze in some godforsaken prison yard.

  But Joyce and her baby . . .

  Something crashes in the apartment. Pa shouts. Another crash, followed by a high-pitched scream. Mimi.

  The cops. The image zings through her like lightning. McCarthy’s told them about her hitting Barbara. She’ll see that prison yard soon enough.

  Her bones freeze. The water burns her skin but she cannot move. They’re coming. They’re coming for me. They’re here.

  Someone bangs on the door. The sound breaks the spell. She yanks the shower curtain open and the curtain rail clatters to the floor. She grabs the dirty plastic and wraps it around her shoulders like a toga, just in time.

  ‘She’s in there,’ says Pa. ‘Ruby, open up.’

  The bathroom lock ain’t trustworthy at the best of times. With one bang, it flies off and skitters on the tiles. The door bursts open and Joseph appears.

  Ruby stares, uncomprehending. His hair is matted with dust, his shirt torn and bloody. His eyes are wild. They range over her body, up and down, and finally lock with hers.

  ‘What?’ he asks. ‘What are you staring at?’

  Ruby licks her lips, which are dry as sand. ‘I thought—’

  He won’t let her finish. ‘They set everything on fire.’ His hands begin to fly. ‘It wasn’t supposed to . . . All the cars were burning. The boys wouldn’t listen once the police showed up. Leroy’s in hospital. They beat him till he was bleeding. He might not—’

  ‘I thought you were the police.’

  He frowns. Silence hangs between them, heavier than smoke. Then she sees it. A rim of water on his eyelids. A telltale shiver across the soft part where his neck meets his chest bone.

  She opens her arms. The shower curtain drops to the floor, but it doesn’t matter. Joseph flies toward her. She wraps him in her embrace and holds him tight. She’s not gonna let him go. Not again. Not ever.