by Terri Nolan
Denis sat in the far corner at a round cocktail-sized table. He smiled and waved. He wasn’t particularly handsome. Birdie considered his five-foot-eight height short for a man. He had a bouncy stride boastful in nature. His dark hair was thick and in frequent need of a haircut, and his bushy eyebrows had strays that stuck straight out. He had nice hands though—small, compact, strong. He was smart, enjoyed movies and music, he was Catholic—always a plus. She liked him immediately when they first met and they quickly became lovers. A major downside to the relationship—at two years, her longest—was that they constantly fought; usually over trivial matters like how much to tip a waitress or the best route to drive. The fighting was actually a power struggle. A sign they weren’t compatible. So it was fitting that at the end they had the mother of all fights.
Despite Denis’ welcoming smile Birdie felt awkward as she approached. Should she hug him, shake his hand, or kiss his cheek? Denis took the lead by patting her hips.
“You’ve lost a lot of weight,” he said, pouring her a cup of coffee from the carafe.
“A side effect of sobriety.”
“It looks good on you.” He handed her the cup. “And your hair
is wavy today. That means you didn’t have time to straighten it. I like it in its natural state.” He reached out and wrapped a finger around a soft wave. “It’s beautiful.”
Birdie almost recoiled. She tried to relax her mouth into a polite smile. “Thank you.”
“Hungry?”
“Thom and I had a big dinner last night. Maybe fruit and toast.”
“Why would you eat a big meal knowing we had a date for breakfast?” he said with a disapproving sniff.
Classic Denis. Passive aggressive. Straight out of the gate he set the temper of the morning. Birdie hoped she hadn’t made a mistake in desiring his exoneration. The old Birdie would’ve told him to shove the attitude up his ass. The new-and-improved sober Birdie sighed with resignation. Forgiveness was worth an hour of her time considering the crime.
Birdie picked up a menu. “What looks good? Oh, homemade yogurt with fresh berries and granola. That’s new since I’ve been here last.” She snapped the menu shut.
Denis focused his attention on the menu before the fast-
approaching server reached their table. Birdie placed her order. Denis settled on an egg-white omelet with asparagus.
“How’s business?” Birdie said.
“Better than ever. I lost a contract, but picked up another one, a try-it. It went so well that we’re renegotiating a fixed contract that promises to be much more lucrative. The future looks bright. And, oh, I paid off the third bird. No more debt.”
“I bet that feels good.”
“Not as good as you’d feel.” He reached out and wrapped his hands around hers. “It’s nice to see you.”
“Denis—” She gently eased her hands away.
“What?”
“Mica?”
“We still work together, but, you know, things were pretty good with us.”
“Until they weren’t.” Birdie worried her bottom lip. “You always considered me an emotional shrew.”
“Yeah, but Matt was alive then.”
She was repulsed. She should’ve known that he’d consider Matt’s passing as the destruction of the Berlin Wall. Now there was nothing to prevent her from falling in love with him.
Birdie leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Denis, I tried to kill you because you cheated on me. And now you want to cheat on Mica? You’re not a good boyfriend.”
“I’ll break up with her if you’ll take me back.”
His words chilled her. That’s exactly what she’d done to George. With Matt’s encouragement, she intended to break up with George to pursue a long-desired relationship. He just beat her to it.
“I’d be willing to break up with Mica if you loved me back—” Birdie shrank. That was almost exactly the way she’d said it to Matt. She felt guilty about George. Was Denis capable of any measure of guilt? “—even though you cheated first,” he continued.
“Despite being a drunk, my memory is clear on the fact that I never, ever, slept with any other man while we were together.”
“An emotional attachment is just as hurtful. You led me astray with great sex and the promise of marriage and family. The whole time you were in love with Matt and unavailable to me. When I finally saw it, I got involved with Mica.”
“I never made you any promises.”
“Your actions spoke louder than words.”
Thus they settled into an old pattern. This discussion had no resolution and stirred up resentment and created heat where none was needed. When Birdie and Denis first started dating they had a stop-loss conversation. They agreed that their relationship would be an at-will arrangement. At any time one of them could simply say, “It’s not working for me anymore.” The six-word safety phrase would end the relationship with no-fault. Birdie mentally conjured up a revised version and was about to say, “I can’t go back to something that ceased working for me,” when the food arrived and interrupted the moment.
Breakfast seemed to last forever. Denis, perhaps sensing Birdie’s reluctance to resume their relationship, continually reworked the angles to finesse his way under her skirt. Birdie managed to tiptoe through the minefield of innuendo by gently steering the conversation to neutral topics like the ongoing restoration of his Spanish colonial in Echo Park or his ferry business in the gulf. She politely shrugged off his assertions and couldn’t wait to get the hell away and never take another of his calls. She was even willing to forgo her desire of forgiveness.
Birdie managed to catch the server’s eye and motion for the check. When it arrived Birdie whipped out her wallet and offered to pay before looking at the total. Denis, always chivalrous, snatched it away and said, “Birdie, you know better.” He set it on the table and then ignored it.
Birdie checked the time. She was okay with parking, but her grace was exhausted. She leaned over and thanked him for breakfast, making a show of gathering her purse, straightening her dress. She explained she had work to do.
He got the hint and pulled out his wallet. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
She begged him off. “Sit. Take your time. I’m not drinking anymore. I can walk a straight line. Even in high heels.” She stuck out a long limb and rotated an ankle to show off the shoe.
“I always liked those legs,” said Denis, flicking his tongue across his teeth.
Now you’ve done it. Birdie conjured another forced smile. “Thank you for the nice meal. I appreciate that you made the effort to reach out.”
Denis stood. He counted out some cash and took her elbow. “Let’s go,” he said. As soon as they were outside he lit a cigarette. “One of these days, it will be illegal to smoke in our own homes.”
“I’m this way,” she said, pointing down the block. They walked the distance in silence. She leaned against the car, getting comfortable enough to make one last nudge. “So, Denis, since you obviously want to get back together I take it you don’t hate me.”
“My leg has healed. You made restitution. Paid my bills. I mean, come on, you were totally off-the-charts wasted. Shit happens.”
“You forgive me?’
“Isn’t that what you want?” His smile was part charm, part menace.
“Yes. But what’s the price of forgiveness, Denis? You’ve made it clear that you want me again. Is that what I have to pay?”
“Would you?”
“Matt’s death doesn’t change how I feel. I also don’t like going backward.”
“So getting back together with me is beneath you?”
“That’s not what I said. Nor is that what I meant.”
“You know what your problem is? When you were an alcoholic it was all about you. Now that you’re clean it’s still all about you. You’re sel
fish and smug.”
Birdie felt strangely underwhelmed. Denis knew how to push her buttons, but unlike the past, she wasn’t going to issue the usual retort. So she said: “You’re right. It is all about me. When I was liquored up I worked hard, played hard, and paid an awful price for the unfathomable extremes of that life. I’m still paying a price. Since I’ve been sober I’ve not written a single word. I am the sole proprietor of my life. I am financially responsible. I’m it. There’s no script and the closest thing I had to a backup was my best friend. And now he’s dead. So, yeah, it’s still all about me. Instead of being a lecherous shit, you might try a little compassion.”
Birdie had a rich, raspy voice. There was a raw authenticity to it—like running on fumes. As she spoke, her voice pitched in a way that drew looks from passersby. Denis didn’t like the exposure of standing on a busy sidewalk being bitched at. He glared, smoked, and pushed gray smoke from his nose. He looked like a miniature bull. Birdie realized that she sounded arrogant without meaning to do so. She was about to issue an apology when he unexpectedly shoved her against the car. He pushed his body onto hers and kissed her ferociously on the mouth.
“Consider that the big kiss off. Have a nice life.” Then he briskly bounced away.
“Guess he’s not gonna forgive after all,” she said to herself. Thing is, she wasn’t upset.
Then another inexplicable thing happened. She thought of Ron.
thirty
Birdie practiced conversations on the way home. “Hi, Ron, it’s Birdie. I had breakfast with an ex-boyfriend. The one I tried to kill.” No. Violence bad. She’d already mentioned something terrible happened with an ex, the details weren’t necessary. “A funny thing happened today … ” Without the context what’s the real value of the story? “I was thinking about you this morning …” Totally not Birdie. “Remember what you said about skipping the audition and going straight to the play? We should audition. Get to know each other better.” Yeah, that worked.
Once Birdie pulled onto her street she relaxed her driving paranoia and dialed Ron’s number. She stuck the phone between her ear and shoulder. She got his voicemail as she turned onto her driveway. Emmett sat on her front porch. He stood and started walking toward her when she turned the engine off. She got the beep as she exited the car. “Hey, Ron, it’s Birdie. Remember—”
Emmett shoved her. She fell to the ground and dropped the phone. It skidded across the brick of the front walkway. “To hell with you, bitch! It’s been two days. You were gonna give me a week!”
“What the hell?” She scrambled to her feet.
He was drunker than before. “You couldn’t just give me the money. You had to act high and mighty and put restrictions on it. Then you didn’t give me the time you promised. You’re a piece of work.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will pay for this.” He spit into her face.
No one spat on Birdie Keane. No one called her a bitch. She wiped the mucus from her cheek and turned her back on him, headed for the front door. He grabbed her arm and pulled. She used the momentum of the swing and shifted her weight. Her right fist hooked him square on the chin. “AHHH.” Blood sprayed from Emmett’s mouth. She pushed him backward and he slumped into a heap on the grass.
Birdie shook so hard from the shock that it took several attempts to get the key properly fitted in the lock to open the door. She raced up the stairs into her office, grabbed the cordless and dialed Emmett’s wife. She ran to the living room window to keep watch.
“Eileen, your husband attacked me. I hit him. He’s passed out on my lawn.”
“He can rot in the gutter.”
“What happened?”
“I got a call. Linda’s daughter is Emmett’s child.”
No wonder he was so pissed. “I’m so sorry, Eileen. It’s the Goliath in his life.”
“You knew?”
“I just found out.” Birdie told her about Emmett’s visit and the money she had given him to pay a blackmailer.
“I don’t care. Linda is … was my friend. I’m April’s Godmother. They betrayed me.”
“He’s torn up.”
“Screw him,” she sobbed. “He should have thought of me before he made love to another woman and fathered a kid.”
“Eileen … he hasn’t been a bad husband or a bad father. He gave in to temptation.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“I know this is hard,” said Birdie. “Thing is, blackmailers never accept payment in full. They probably put the squeeze on him by telling you. If you let this destroy your marriage, they win. Please don’t let that happen.”
The only sound from the other end was Eileen’s wails.
Birdie stared out the window at the man passed out on her lawn. “What do you want me to do with Emmett?”
Eileen sighed. “I’ll come pick him up.”
Birdie babysat Emmett from the safety of her home while she iced her knuckles. He hadn’t moved and she began to worry. It seemed a long time to be passed out. About fifteen minutes later he began to stir. He managed to stand just as Eileen arrived. She threw water on his face. He gestured wildly and stumbled toward his car. Eileen tried to grab his keys and he fisted his hand as if to hit her. Eileen backed away and watched helplessly as he stumbled into his car and sped down the street.
Birdie ran outside and hugged Eileen. “I’m sorry for you both.”
Eileen held onto Birdie and sobbed. When she had somewhat recovered she said, “I’ll call his brothers. They have to get him off the street.” She made call after call to her brothers-in-law in hopes one of them could manage to pull him over before he got into a career-damaging accident, or worse, killed someone.
Birdie’s house phone was ringing when she finally made it back inside. It was just about to go to voicemail when she picked it up.
It was Jimmy, the bartender at the Westend.
“Still interested in stuff about Matt?”
“Absolutely. What do you have?”
“Photographs of his dead body.”
“What the—? Where? When?”
“Here at the bar. Some dudes I don’t recognize are smokin’ him.”
“Asses. Photos or downloads?”
“Definitely downloads, but the quality is good. No doubt on identity.”
“Can you get your hands on them?”
“No problem.”
“I’m on my way.”
_____
Birdie stood in the women’s bathroom for what seemed liked hours, dumbstruck at the one image that Jimmy had managed to pilfer.
She already saw the remnants. Heard the gruesome details. But nothing prepared her for the visual she held in her hand. Matt died with open eyes. His lovely, shamrock green eyes were opaque. His dangling feet were swollen and reddish in color. Stringy vomit covered his mouth and nose. A thermometer stuck out from his liver. His chest—scratched with red scars from the domestic—was bare. Urine and solid waste had oozed from his boxer briefs.
She couldn’t believe she had been upset for not making it to Henshaw House in time to see this. Or that she was offended that Parker Sands hadn’t let her see Matt at Holy Cross Mortuary. If a photo of it unleashed this kind of drink-craving horror, what would the Technicolor version have done? It was shockingly grotesque. She’d seen many offensive crime scene photos, seen more than her share of violent deaths at active scenes, but never had she seen the freshly dead body of a person she knew and loved. The eyes disturbed her the most. Vacant. Dead. She couldn’t take her own off them.
After a long while she thrust the nasty image into her bag, walked back to the bar, slammed a ten on the oak, and said, “Black Bush, Jimmy.”
“You outta your mind?”
“Give me a drink,” she said between clenched teeth.
He shook his head. “I should’ve
kept my mouth shut.”
“Are you gonna pour?”
“Hell, no.”
“Fine,” she seethed. “I’ll go somewhere else.”
She stomped out of the bar and bumped right into her dad.
“Jimmy called. Come on. I’ll take you home.”
_____
Birdie sat in the passenger seat of her own car while Gerard drove like a typical cop: quick accelerations, hard stops, fast and jerky weaving around traffic, running red lights, tailgating. Buildings and cars passed her periphery in a frenzied blur. The rhythmic boom-boom of rubber tires driving over street grooves became a calming lullaby that seemed special-ordered.
“How can cops celebrate the loss of a fellow officer?” she wondered. “I bet most of them were at his funeral—black bands around badges—and they probably went to the wake, too. Hypocrites. And I don’t need to hear your sibling rivalry brotherhood bullshit.”
“I don’t think they were cops,” offered Gerard.
She thrust three pieces of gum in her mouth. Spittle oozed from the corners of her lips as teeth worked through the tough sugar until it became soft. The action of chewing calmed her and the brief encounter with a scotch craving abruptly ended.
“I can’t believe you asked Jimmy for a drink,” said Gerard.
“It was stupid. I’m okay now.”
“So fast?”
“The immediacy of the craving was delayed.”
Gerard reached out and squeezed her hand.
The landscape became greener. The street smoother. And soon they were at Birdie’s house. Gerard slowed and pulled the car into the driveway. His stealth car pulled in behind, driven by his devoted adjutant.
Ron paced the walkway, distraught expression on his face, phone pressed to his ear. Birdie’s cell in his free hand.
“Hey,” said Gerard. “That’s the detective you were introducing at Matt’s funeral.”
Birdie jumped out of the car before Gerard had an opportunity to put it in park. Ron relaxed for a moment until he saw her aiming straight for him. She thrust her body toward his chest. He swiveled his torso, deflecting her.
