Lamentation

by Joe Clifford

  “No, man,” Fisher said, “like I say, I’m stuck in this shitburg. You two might like fixing phones—or whatever the hell it is you do, Porter, selling lamps at flea markets or some shit—but I got nothing to do during the day. I’m bored out of my mind. Might as well help out a couple old pals, right?”

  The barmaid, Rita, Liam’s wife, stuck her head out the back door, and Fisher hoisted his empty pint glass and pointed at the empty pitcher.

  “If you’re not private,” I said, “then you work for the police or something?”

  “Something like that,” Fisher said.

  “Something like what?”

  “Insurance.”

  “Insurance?”

  “Yeah, insurance,” Fisher said, heated. “I investigate fraudulent claims. I do surveillance, videotape assholes trying to steal my company’s money with their bullshit scams. I follow them. Use public records. The Internet, eyewitness testimony. Study accident scenes, examine a claimant’s past for any recurring patterns of negligence or deception. Conduct interviews, follow up leads, write reports. A fucking investigator. You got a problem with that?” He threw up his hands at Charlie, who motioned with both of his to stay calm.

  “He’s just worked up about his brother,” said Charlie, turning my way. “Right, Jay?”

  I nodded. I didn’t need any more drama in my life right now.

  “Jay, tell him about the hard drive,” said Charlie. “That’s the key to this whole thing.”

  Fisher whipped out a tiny notepad and pencil, crinkling his brow as though commencing an exclusive interview.

  “Not much to tell,” I said. “According to Turley, my brother made some threats, so the cops called me down. Chris and his buddy, Pete—”

  “The guy who was killed,” Charlie interjected.

  “Yeah, the guy who was killed,” I said. “They have a business recycling old computers, erasing their memory. Chris claims someone dropped off a computer, and they found something incriminating.”

  “He say what?”

  I shook my head. “He wasn’t making much sense. When I picked him up and we went back to my place, he asked if I could keep a secret. But he was also making up stories from when we were kids and quoting Bob Marley songs.” I looked at Fisher, as if he needed the added explanation. “My brother’s a whack job; his brain’s fried on drugs.”

  “What kind?” Fisher asked.

  “I don’t think he discriminates. I know he does a lot of meth.”

  “That’s hard to get up here,” Fisher said, thoughtfully tapping his head with the pencil, then pointing its tip at me. “That’s good info. It’ll help me chase down leads, y’know?”

  “And then there was the phone call,” Charlie said. “Jay, tell him about the phone call.”

  Rita returned with a new pitcher, and we all refilled.

  “While Turley was telling me they’d found Pete’s body at the TC,” I said, “I got a call from a guy, a boy—real soft-spoken, voice cracking—who said he’d dropped off a computer and wanted it back. Obviously, he was looking for my brother. I don’t know how he got my number. He sounded desperate. He offered to pay money.”

  “When?”

  “When, what?”

  “When did you get this call?” Fisher asked.

  “I already told you. When I was on my cell with Turley, yesterday. Maybe, what, Charlie? Noon? Could have been a coincidence.”

  “In the world of investigation,” said Fisher, “there’s no such thing.” He jotted a note. “You received the call on your cell?”

  “Yes, I was at Charlie’s.”

  “You call the number back?”

  “No. Why would I?”

  Fisher exhaled. “Jesus, you guys have no idea what you’re doing.”

  “We’re not doing anything,” I said.

  “That’s the problem,” said Fisher. “Is the number still on your phone?”

  I pulled my cell and scrolled through Saturday’s calls. I recognized the police station number, so it was easy to find. Only, it was pointless.

  “Restricted,” I said.

  “Interesting,” replied Fisher. He held out his hand for my phone.

  “Why do you want my phone? I told you the number was blocked.”

  He kept his hand out, twiddling his fingers, so I slapped the phone in his palm.

  “Let a professional handle this,” he said.

  I don’t think he noticed me rolling my eyes at Charlie. He scribbled in his notepad, before passing back my cell.

  I answered some more of his questions about the bikers at the shop, my brother’s recent bizarre behavior, the details of Pete’s death. After another pitcher, when Fisher started slurring his words and getting snippy, I got a feeling the subject of Gina Rosinski might come up soon if I didn’t bail. So I said I had to take a piss, then headed out to my truck.

  Sizable drifts had started to mount in the parking lot as snow continued to fall. Letting my truck idle, I cranked the heat, even though I knew damn well it wouldn’t work, then got mad when it didn’t and pounded the dash.

  Heading back to my place, I grew increasingly furious, livid, although at what, exactly, I couldn’t be sure. Maybe for wasting the last hour and a half of my life with Fisher and Charlie, acting like a bunch of teenage Hardy Boys trying to crack the case of the missing yellow dog. I collected junk. Charlie worked for the phone company. Fisher pushed pencils and thought he was Dick Tracy. And Chris? My brother was nothing but an opportunistic scam artist who’d pissed away his life. And now he’d pissed off the wrong people and was going to have to pay the piper. There was no good end to this, and I felt guilty for admitting I’d be happier if he stayed gone. And then I knew what I was so angry about. It was a rotten thing to think about your own brother, no matter how big a fuck-up he was.

  I hopped over the Turnpike, hitting the no-man’s-land stretch of Orchard Drive, a long, one-lane road that ran along old apple orchards. No streetlights. No houses. Bumpy, torn-up gravel. With the storm, I couldn’t see shit through the swirling gusts, my truck’s rear end swinging all over the place. Drainage ditches, filled with the felled limbs of fruitless apple trees, traversed each side. The last thing you wanted out here was to blow a tire or to spin off into one of these culverts and spend the next two hours trying to wedge a jack on soft, loose soil.

  I downshifted to a slog and had just lit a smoke, cleared the windshield of fog, when out of nowhere, a pair of headlights jumped in my rearview, a giant, gas-guzzling 4x4 practically crawling up my ass. I waved the driver around, but he stuck right there, glued to my bumper. I slowed down even more. Fuck it. Let the asshole ram me. I’d have an excuse to get out of my truck and beat something senseless. The guy didn’t move, though, instead blasting high beams and revving the engine. Something told me this wasn’t a random drunk driver. I kicked it up, my bed skidding, slipping. I put my hand up to shield the unrelenting glare from the headlights. As soon as I hit Axel Rod Road, whoever it was peeled off, headlights sweeping north.

  What the hell? I might’ve been buzzed, but that sobered me up fast. I could feel my heart stuck in my throat.

  Pulling into the filling station, trying to figure out what had just happened, I looked up and saw the lights still on in my apartment. Despite how angry I’d been at her, at that moment, I was really hoping Jenny had stuck around.

  Taking two stairs at a time, I started running through all the things I wanted to say.

  Then I pushed the front door open and discovered my apartment had been ransacked.

  Cupboards flung open, shelves overturned, silverware strewn across the floor, chipped ceramic and shards of glass everywhere. I called for Jenny. No answer. Stepping into my bedroom, I saw my chest of drawers had all been pulled out, balls of socks and underwear spilled, flannels, jackets, my only dress shirt and suit ripped from hangers. Even my mattress had been tossed. A thorough working over. Living room, bathroom. But she wasn’t here.

  My first thought was trying to c
omprehend why anyone would want to rob me. My next immediately shot to the only person who would. Except this hadn’t been my brother. Someone had been after more than spare change or trinkets to hock.

  Scanning the damage in the living room, I could see my TV facedown on the carpet, books and DVDs, my entire movie collection fanned like a bad blackjack hand.

  Had one of those thugs from the computer shop followed me back here? Had the guy who phoned yesterday found out where I lived? Charlie had been amped up over the hard drive. I wasn’t even sure it existed. But why else would someone break in?

  Then I thought about Jenny. How long had I been at the Dubliner? What if she had still been here when whoever did this showed up?

  I pulled my cell to call her and saw that the porch door was open. I thought I heard stirring out there. Tucking the phone away, I crept past the closet toward the patio. I took a deep breath and jerked the handle. Something jumped at me and my hands flew up.

  I looked down and saw my nameless cat rubbing against my leg, crying.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I said. “Get in here. You’re going to freeze to death.”

  A blur came from out of the shadows, a hard crack against the base of my skull. A searing flash of white blazed behind my eyes.

  Then everything went black.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Deadened voices dialed in and out of reception, a radio clinging to its last taste of frequency, like that dream you have where you’re drowning, clawing at the ice or trapped beneath an avalanche, muffled sound clapping in waves. A pinhole of light shone from far away, expanding into a slow ball of heat. Reaching for it, I anticipated warmth and forgiveness, some profound emotion.

  Instead, I opened my eyes to Turley jabbing a penlight at my irises.

  “He’s all right,” said Turley, with a goofy grin. He kneeled beside me, laboring with each breath the way fat men do. I sat up. My skull felt like it had been stomped by a pair of Doc Martens at a punk show.

  “Whoa, big fella,” Sheriff Sumner said. “Hold on. You got whacked pretty good. Wait till we can get a doctor up here to check you out.” With his diminutive stature and snow-white hair, Pat Sumner reminded me of a badger from a children’s book.

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  Turley placed his hand on my chest. I shoved it away and got to my feet. I rubbed the back of my head, which lumped sticky with congealed blood.

  Another uniformed cop, a young Puerto Rican kid I’d never seen before, clean-shaven with a crew cut, walked in and said something to Turley, who turned and left the apartment. The kid poked around in the kitchen, picking up and inspecting random objects, leaving me in the living room with Pat, expression awash with grandfatherly concern.

  “How’s your head?”

  “I’m all right,” I said, patting down my jeans for my cigarettes and not finding any.

  The detective I’d seen at the TC stepped in from the porch, scowling as he scoured my dingy apartment and surveyed the carnage from the break-in. His face was cold and alien, void of any charm or kindness. I immediately resented him being there. It was more than the slicked hair and moisturized skin, the way he pulled off his leather gloves one finger at a time. He projected a superior disdain, like somehow just being in our hick town was beneath him.

  “Can you tell me what happened?” Pat asked.

  “I’d gone down to the Dubliner,” I said. “When I came home, the place was torn to shit. I checked the back porch. I guess somebody was still here.”

  “Didn’t see who?” Pat asked.

  I shook my head “no.”

  “Have you spoken with your brother?” the big city detective asked, stepping to me without a trace of sympathy or respect for personal space.

  “No,” I said, pulling back, “I haven’t.”

  He scoffed. “I find it hard to believe he wouldn’t have contacted you by now.”

  I turned to Pat. “Who the hell is this guy?”

  “Jay, this is Detective McGreevy. He’s up from Concord, investigating the Pete Naginis murder.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s in my apartment now, and I haven’t seen any ID.”

  “Jay,” Pat said with a nervous laugh, “I know you got a good bump on your head, but there’s no reason to be rude.”

  Agitated more than offended, McGreevy whipped out his ID badge from his inner breast pocket and shoved it in my face.

  Wallace D. J. McGreevy, City of Concord, Detective.

  I’d heard before that you should never trust a man with two first names. Wasn’t sure where conventional wisdom stood on three.

  He flipped the wallet back just as fast, returning it inside his crisp overcoat. “Let’s try this again. Have you spoken with your brother?”

  I shook my head.

  McGreevy resumed inspecting the damage, room to room, kicking aside my belongings distastefully like they were steaming turds.

  “You sure you didn’t get any look at who did this to you?” Pat asked.

  “Not really. I mean, I saw an arm swing at me, but I couldn’t see who it was attached to. Must’ve been hiding in the closet.” I paused a second. “Why are you guys even here?”

  “Hank heard a commotion out back,” said Pat, gesturing with his thumb. “Whoever knocked you out made a helluva racket running down those old creaky steps. Hank found you passed out on the floor and called us. Turley’s downstairs with him now, to see if they broke into the garage too, or if they were just targeting you.”

  Targeting me? I remembered the truck following me from the bar.

  I lowered my voice to a whisper. “I left Jenny here when I went to the Dubliner.”

  Pat raised his bushy white brows.

  “It’s not like that,” I said. “Can you check on her, though?”

  “Ramon,” Pat called to the Puerto Rican kid. “Have Claire call and check on Jenny Price.” He turned back to me. “You sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?” I shook him off. As the kid was walking out, Hank came stomping up the steps.

  “Anything missing from the garage?” Pat asked him.

  “Locked up tighter’n a drum,” said Hank. “You okay, Jay? You know who did this?” He paused, shifting uncomfortably.

  It was Pat who finally asked outright. “Think this could’ve been your brother?”

  That caught the attention of McGreevy, who stalked out of my bedroom, waiting for my response.

  I made for the kitchen, found my coat on the table, flipped it over and pulled out my Marlboro Lights.

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “How would you know?” asked McGreevy. “You just said you didn’t see anyone.”

  “Because Chris wouldn’t sucker punch me in the dark. He might break in and steal something, but he’s not going to ambush and assault his own brother.” Man, this guy was rubbing me the wrong way.

  I didn’t see any reason to come clean about the bikers at that computer shop or the mysterious phone call or any missing hard drive. I might’ve told Pat, had we been alone. But I didn’t trust this McGreevy. I had no idea why a detective would be up from Concord, hanging out with our yokel police department and probing the whereabouts of a junkie, even one wanted for questioning in a murder. That’s not how we did things up here. His involvement had set off my bullshit meter. Even if I couldn’t figure out exactly what that meter was reading, other than he sure as hell didn’t have my brother’s best interest at heart. And I knew something else: this wasn’t a random robbery. For as agitated as I’d been earlier, thinking Charlie was getting swept up in the drama and that Fisher’s involvement was completely unnecessary, I was suddenly glad I’d made that trip to the Dubliner. I didn’t have a whole lot of faith in the cops.

  I went to the fridge, grabbed a beer, and pressed the cold aluminum against the back of my skull, where a sizable knot had blossomed.

  Ramon returned upstairs.

  “Miss Price is fine,” the kid said through a heavy accent. “Left here around eleven.”
Anticipating the follow-up, he added, “Didn’t see anything.”

  Pat said he’d have a prowl car patrol the neighborhood, which I told him was unnecessary, but he insisted. I soon realized that it had less to do with my safety and more to do with my brother; if he came knocking, they wanted to be nearby to pick up his ass. Even though Pat was doing most of the talking, the way McGreevy loomed over him made it clear who was running this show.

  No one but me seemed convinced it hadn’t been Chris who’d broken in. I’d certainly startled someone though, and there was no doubt he’d been in the middle of looking for something. It broke down to two possibilities: either it was my brother, and he’d been jonesing bad enough to coldcock me; or, that computer hard drive was real, and there was something damning enough on it that people were willing to break, enter, and assault to get it.

  The telephone ringing ripped me from a deep sleep, from somewhere soundless and beyond dreaming. My head throbbed worse than any hangover I’d ever had. And I’d endured some brutal ones.

  I rolled over and gripped a pillow around my ears, but whoever it was had no intention of giving up. I dragged my ass out of bed, scuffled into the kitchen, kicking aside the junkyard that was my new floor. I swiped the phone from its cradle and fell into the chair.

  As soon as I put the receiver to my ear, she started in.

  “You want to tell me why the police are calling my house at two a.m., asking my boyfriend if I arrived home safely from your apartment?”

  Rubbing a hard hand over my face, I searched for a clock. That’s another problem with the dead of winter up here, you never know what the hell time it is. The only clock in the kitchen, the one on the microwave, had stopped working when it had been jerked from the wall during the robbery. Out the window, rolling dark clouds dimmed the light. It could’ve been eight in the morning or nine at night. I reached out in the cold darkness for my Marlboro Lights on the table, located the pack, and clamped one with my teeth.

  “What time is it?” I asked, wearily leaning over to light the cig off the stove.