Pipe: (A Romance & Suspense Mystery) (Red Doors of New Orleans Mystery Series Book 1)

by Wade Lake

  Suddenly, overwhelmed with a sense of loneliness, Mack walks room to room, picking out spots where he and Chase could share a precarious fuck … he imagines ways he'd like to bend and twist his man … picks out corners he'd like to push him into … he touches himself through his jeans, thinking of the uncomfortable positions they've never tried because Chase is afraid he'll hurt his back or get a charlie horse.

  Chase likes to be on top.

  Actually, he insists on it.

  Chase likes to control the fucking.

  But Mack is stronger than Chase. And Mack has the weight advantage. Chase is only on top because Mack allows it.

  It's not hard to imagine a change: Next time they go at it—if there is a next time—Mack could start it off slutty and thankful; roll onto his back, hook his forearms behind his knees, pull his legs wide open; let Chase lube him up with his thumb; let him mount him; let him make his oh-ah noises and slide in hard and proud; let him find his rhythm … all Mack has to do is wait for the moment—wait for the back of Chase's head to gush sweat; wait for the wrinkles to tighten around his eyes; wait for his neck to elongate, veins popping to the surface like hoses, mouth open like a thirsty pipe; that means he's in the zone; he can't stop; he can't protect himself—that's when Mack could catch him by surprise; that's when Mack could flip him over, shove his face against the headboard, and fuck the melancholy out of his self-righteous ass.

  And when I'm done, and I let him turn around, if he says anything more than 'thank you,' I might just pop his nose with a little love tap—nothing hard enough to break it, just hard enough to remind him I haven't forgotten how to fight.

  As soon as Mack imagines it, he stops in his tracks, frozen in shock. Ashamed. He wants to punch himself. He never realized he harbored such thoughts. He never did before. Not before the pipes put them there.

  He feels evil.

  The fact that that's up there in his head now—that he can't unthink it—makes him hate himself more. His whole body goes hot now.

  He races into the kitchen, one arm raised, and open-palm slaps the faucet spout with all his strength—the force bends the metal neck, and the aerator on its tip appears to peer up at him.

  "Fuck you!" Mack shouts. He grips the neck and squeezes, causing it to swivel side-to-side over the sinks. "You hear me!?"

  He runs out of the kitchen—through the living room and bedroom—into the bathroom, throws back the shower curtain, and repeats the same epitaph. He hates the pipes for putting that thought in his head.

  Exhausted, he stumbles back into the living room.

  Leans against the bookshelf.

  Hugs himself.

  Tries to cry.

  Can't.

  After a couple minutes, he wipes his face where tears should be and wanders outside, hoping the fresh air will clean out his dirty mind.

  It's nearly dark now.

  The sky to the west is going peach to plum. The breeze is still moving. Smells less like rain now, more like dirty socks.

  Mack walks a circle around the entire house.

  His heartbeat slows.

  No matter how much fixing-up they do, it'll never be a magazine cover, but it's adequate, it's functional, it's … cute.

  It will be cute.

  Next year, once they've powerwashed the bricks and sodded alongside the sidewalk and beneath the oak ... once they've planted roses and gladiolas and built a raised bed for tomatoes … once there's a couple inside making love ...

  "Cute as fuck," Mack whispers to himself.

  As if disagreeing, a low, doubtful tone whistles through the largest tube of the tangled wind chime high in the oak branches above his head.

  Mack peers upward, arms behind his head, elbows out.

  He can see the breeze moving through the branches: hairy, moss-colored whispers snaking along the limbs.

  The same breeze is moving up the sleeves of his shirt. It tickles his armpits. He holds his upward gaze for a moment. The tree is filling up with shadows. He focuses. The wind chime really isn't that far up. He could reach it with his ladder. He could rescue it. Hang it on the front stoop. That would be a good start. A start to making the yard less trashy. A start to making the house cute.

  He checks his pocket to make sure he has his knife.

  He has to work quickly. Before his light is gone.

  He fetches the ladder from his truck.

  Props it against the oak's broad trunk. Extends the ladder to its maximum length. Steps on the first rung and leans his full weight on the ball of his foot to test the balance. Satisfied, he climbs the ladder quickly, confidently, pausing only when he reaches the next-to-highest rung twenty feet above the ground.

  If he stretches … he can almost reach one of the wind chime's metal tubes. Up close now, he can see the whole thing much more clearly than he could from the ground. It looks homemade. Pieced together from metal pipes cut to various lengths to create the desired notes. He counts five separate metal tubes. Their sizes range from six inches and the diameter of a dime to twelve inches and the diameter of a soda can. They're held together by a fishing line. The aluminum tube is dimpled with corrosion; the galvanized steel tube is a weathered matte gray; the brass, bronze, and copper tubes are heavily tarnished, but the chime appears well designed. The ends of each tube have been sanded smooth with a grinder. A pair of holes have been drilled near the tops of each tube for fastening the whole piece together. Somebody put a lot of work into creating this chime. It's too nice to be lodged in a tree.

  In New Orleans, it's common for the trees along parade routes to become hosts for multiple seasons of Mardi Gras beads. Some people pay to have the beads removed. Most leave them. The colorful strands add character to the neighborhood.

  But who would throw a wind chime into a tree? That's a bit overzealous.

  Someone must have given it a hearty swing when they launched it upward—the pipes and fishing line wound round two separate small branches and tied itself in place.

  It's undoubtedly been locked in place here for years—Mack can see where the bark has grown around the fishing line in spots—but not for decades. The nylon mono line is vulnerable to UV light; its shelf life is just a couple years; after seven or eight, a slight tug will snap it.

  Mack digs into his pocket for his knife.

  Opens it with one hand.

  Reaches through a shadow for the nearest exposed length of fishing line … stretches … rises up on his toes, fully aware that if he falls from the ladder, he'll miss work tomorrow … and possibly the rest of his life. People die from falling off ladders … he should wait for Chase to get home before he does this.

  But he wants to do this for Chase.

  He wants to turn this property into a place that Chase will call home. He wants to give it charm, color, attention to detail, love. That's what the place really needs. Two people in love. Two people who know they're in love.

  That's the gap between what Mack and Chase have and what they need.

  It's as simple as that.

  This gesture … it's a simple gesture … it's a start … it's a step up the ladder … Mack needs to bridge the gap between being in love and showing it.

  Mack angles his knife toward the fishing wire. Across the street, atop the antique lamppost, the streetlight snaps on. Its beam glints off the short, sharp blade. He flicks his wrist, slicing the fishing line—

  The aluminum tube falls from the branch—

  Hits the metal ladder on the way down and makes a high-pitched scream—

  The noise startles Mack, and he leans too far toward his own reach—

  He quickly shifts his weight to compensate … it takes a moment, but he balances himself out. He switches the knife to his left hand for the next cut. Stretches toward an exposed length of fishing line along the second, higher branch … slices—

  Another pipe falls free.

  Lands with a musical bang.

  Now the remaining pieces fall in a tangled bundle, and the largest tube
—the galvanized steel pipe—moans a low, ghostly tone.

  Mack retreats down the ladder, collects the pieces, tosses them noisily into the bed of his truck. He grabs his headlamp from his glove compartment. Grabs his tackle box from behind the passenger seat. Finds a roll of fluorocarbon fishing line under the lure tray. Headlamp on, he sits on the tailgate, parts spread between his legs, and begins reassembling the wind chime.

  14

  Mack is watching through the living room window as Chase's truck pulls in behind Mack's. Chase's front-left tire rides up onto the curb. Mack draws a deep breath. The air inside the house smells like butter and garlic. Chase likes butter and garlic. Mack hurries to the kitchen.

  When he hears the front door open and close, he yells out, "I'm making cheesy bread."

  After a couple seconds, Chase peeks into the kitchen. "Don't let me stop you."

  Mack is standing at the sink, rinsing out a mixing bowl. "Lasagna, too. Gonna be so good."

  Chase steps into the kitchen. He's still wearing his work clothes. "If you say so."

  "Did you see what’s above the stoop?" Mack asks.

  Chase nods. "I saw it." He steps around Mack and peers into the oven.

  "We have a wind chime," Mack says proudly.

  "Why?"

  "I thought it would make the house more homey."

  "Got two homos living here, it's plenty homey."

  Mack sets the bowl into the drying rack, water still running. "You don' like it?"

  Chase shrugs, still staring through the oven glass. "I'm a deep sleeper, it won't bother me, but the banging all night might keep you awake."

  "I wouldn't mind losing a little sleep to some banging."

  Chase gets the joke but doesn't acknowledge it. "You should have waited until the lasagna was done before you made the cheesy bread,” he sighs. "By the time the lasagna's ready, the bread will be hard."

  Mack rubs his chin and mumbles into his hand. "I should'ave married the bread."

  The crooked faucet sputters as if laughing.

  Mack quickly shuts off the water.

  Chase hooks his thumbs through his belt loops and stares at the floor for a couple seconds before lifting his eyes and aiming his stare at Mack. "I'm guessing the, uh," he gestures over his shoulder, "wind chime thing and—" he points at the oven without looking at it— "making a decent dinner is your attempt at an apology?" His eyes look as hard as steel.

  Mack tries not to blink, but he can't do it. He lets his eyes drift to the toaster, the fridge, down to his own shoes. "I don't know … yeah … of course."

  "You know the best way to apologize is to just come out and say it."

  "I did that last night. You didn't want to talk about it."

  "I still don't want to talk about it," Chase says, "but I accept your apology."

  Mack's eyes hurry back to Chase's. "Thank you." He steps toward Chase, arms open.

  Chase turns and exits the room. "I gotta get outah these work clothes. Don't let the cheesy bread burn."

  ✽✽✽

  That night, while Chase snores, Mack scours the internet for a copy of the paperback Chase had been reading. One with all its pages.

  It's out of print, but he finds a used copy for ninety-nine cents.

  Plus thirty dollars for rush shipping.

  Outside, the wind chime over the stoop clangs softly—deep tone, deeper tone; now a high, sharp tone—and its soothing music enters the house through the window beside the front door. It flits about the rooms like a bendy, weightless waltz.

  15

  When Mack returns home from work on Thursday, there's a small box on the front stoop.

  It's the first time he's had a purchase delivered to the new house, and it suddenly crosses his mind that this may not be the best neighborhood for leaving boxes unattended. As he approaches the stoop, he notices something is … not where it's supposed to be. It takes him a moment to realize what's wrong.

  Someone has stolen the wind chime!

  Mack's face turns red, but what he’s feeling is more than anger. More than a sense of personal violation. No, what he’s feeling is a less shakeable sense: sadness.

  How miserable do you have to be to steal something as worthless as a wind chime? A homemade wind chime? It's just spare parts and fishing line. It has no value.

  Maybe this is the wrong neighborhood for them after all.

  Some people are so miserable, their only joy comes from stealing other people's peace of mind. It’s true. He’s seen it. A lot. As a tradesman, he's been inside so many people's houses—met so many agitated strangers—he can categorize their souls in less time than it takes to change out a flush valve. Most people fall into three categories: kind and optimistic, kind and pessimistic, or hopeless and cruel.

  No doubt, it was some hopeless and cruel asshole who stole Mack's wind chime.

  His anger resurfaces. And this time, it really is anger. His face feels like it's about to burst. Sweat dampens the collar of his work shirt. His gut aches. He has to lean in the doorway to catch his balance. Shaking, he scoops up the box and tucks it under his arm. Unlocks the front door, steps inside, and slams it shut behind him.

  He wants to complain about the theft to Chase.

  But, for the second day in a row now, Chase is late.

  Mack isn't okay with that … but it's his own fault.

  He tosses the box on the kitchen counter. This will be his second attempt at a meaningful apology, so he begins work, once again, on prepping a better-than-average dinner. Lasagna, maybe? Chase loves lasagna. Wait, they had lasagna last night. His frustration with losing the wind chime has him confused. And he’s still shaking. The thief not only stole his moment of meditation but also his ability to focus. And it's so fucking hot inside this house! He strips out of his work shirt, strips out of off his t-shirt—balls them up and tosses them both on the counter beside the box.

  Maybe andouille sausage.

  Cayenne-spiked mustard for dipping.

  Roasted broccoli on the side.

  Mack isn't a chef by any definition, but over the last five years, he's learned to make a dozen of Chase's favorite dishes. Before he can block it, an uncomfortable question jumps to the front of his thoughts: How many of Mack's favorite dishes has Chase learned to cook? It's not the same, he reminds himself. Every member of a team has different roles.

  Andouille sausage, it is.

  There's a pack of sausages in the freezer. Mack pulls open the freezer door wide open and moves in close. The cold air rolls out like steam and collides with his bare chest. His nipples go hard. After a couple seconds, he rummages inside until he locates the sausage package—pulls it out, tosses it in the microwave, hits the defrost button.

  The freezer door is still open.

  His hands are still shaking.

  He sticks both of his hands into the freezer and holds them there, just above the ice tray, allowing the cold spill over his hands and up his wrists, up his forearms. He tries to imagine the cold as dawn, his favorite time of day. Imagines the calm of early morning enveloping his body. A full minute passes before he has to pulls his hands out. They’re shaking worse now. He slams the freezer door shut.

  Turning, his eyes land on the box he brought in from off the stoop.

  Why would someone steal the wind chime and not the box?

  Stepping to the box, he pulls his knife from his pants pocket. He has to rub his fingers for a second to get them to work. With a quick motion, he slices the top of the box along the center seam.

  The book is inside.

  Face up on a bed of foam peanuts.

  Same cheesy cover as the copy still sitting on Chase's nightstand.

  The sight of it fills Mack's whole body with revulsion. He's never read the book, but he hates it nonetheless. He reaches into the box with his free hand—tentatively, as if reaching into a shadow concealing invisible filth. It’s just a book, he reminds himself. Just a book. As he lifts it out, he squeezes as if to squish anything livi
ng between the covers.

  When he hears the front door opens, his hands stop shaking.

  A sense of relief floods his body.

  "I just started dinner," he yells out, attempting to make his voice sound light.

  "Oh, we can't stay for dinner," a deep, oily voice calls back.

  Mack pivots abruptly, dropping the book.

  Jim and Jeremy are standing in the kitchen entryway. "Where's Chase?" Jim asks.

  Mack makes a mental note that he dropped the book, but not the pocketknife. He tightens his grip on the knife’s handle. Just in case. These two men—especially Jim—give him the creeps. "I figured he was with you," Mack says.

  Jim approaches with long, spider-like steps. "Oh, don't I wish that were the case," he says, and with one more gangly step, he's right up in Mack's personal space. His toothy smile is repulsive. His breath smells like garlic and ketchup.

  Mack's instinct is to take a step backward, but he won't allow himself to do that. He doesn’t want to give any ground to this man. This … intruder.

  Jim kneels on one knee and appears to be reaching for Mack's shoelaces—instead, he picks up the paperback. Without standing, he flips through the pages. "Chase told me about this book," he says, a hint of whimsy in his voice. "Said it kind of just leaves the reader hanging."

  Mack doesn't take the bait. "How can I help you, Jim?"

  Jim's eyes lift from the book and point straight at Mack's crotch. "Umm, I can think of so many ways."

  With one quick motion, Mack could cut this man's throat. Realizing the possibility has entered his imagination, he now forces himself to take that step backward that his instincts had urged him to take just a moment earlier—

  His lower back touches the edge of the sink. It may not be enough distance to lessen the temptation. "Why are you in my house, Jim?"

  Chuckling, Jim braces both hands on his thigh and, with a little push, stands. "Jeremy and I were out for a walk, and saw someone was home, so we—"

  "Walked in without knocking."

  "Yes, but only because we're such close friends. Well, Chase and Jeremy and I are. We're still working on you, but we'll win you over. It's three against one."