by Frank Zafiro
“You should probably sit down,” Clell said, pulling out a simple folding chair from behind the desk.
I took a seat, rubbed my arms and tried to control my shivering. Every time I managed to stop it for a second or two, the pressure built up and exploded into one giant shudder.
“Holy cow,” Clell muttered. He slipped off his coat and held it out to me.
I shook my head.
Clell cocked his head at me, and gave me a curious look. He didn’t ask a second time. Instead, he stepped in and draped the coat over my shoulders like a cape.
I could feel the residual body heat still inside the coat and I drew it close around me. There was a hint of the smell of Old Spice and old sweat in the fabric. I nodded my thanks to him, but he was already digging into a black gym bag next to the desk. A moment later, he pulled out a silver thermos roughly the size of a submarine.
“Let’s get some coffee in you,” he said.
Steam rose off the brew as he poured it into the cap. He only poured half a cup and handed it to me. I held it at my chest, warming my hands and making the brown liquid jump and dance as I continued to shiver.
“It ain’t the expensive stuff,” Clell said, sitting on the corner of the desk. “Folger’s or Maxwell House. Just good old Western Family blend.”
“It’s h-h-hot,” I said.
“That it is,” Clell answered.
We sat like that, wordless, for what seemed like a long time. Slowly, my shivering diminished to the point where I could drink the coffee without spilling it down my chin. Clell pulled a sandwich out of his bag and offered it to me. When I shook my head, he ate it himself, staring thoughtfully out the windows. Once he’d finished, he re-filled my cup and then made a quick trip around the lobby, looking outside at passersby and jiggling the front door.
“All secure?” I asked when he returned.
“Always is, it seems,” he said with a nod. “Guess I’m just here for that one time it isn’t.”
I glanced down at the belt around his waist and saw handcuffs, keys, a flashlight and a cell phone, but no gun.
“Feelin’ better?” he asked. He had a slight accent, but I hadn’t been able to place it. It was country, but not exactly a southern drawl.
“Yeah.” I took another drink of coffee. “Thanks.”
He shrugged it off. “No big deal.”
It was, though, and we both knew it. As I’d sat there warming up, I realized how cold I’d actually been. Clell had been right. I might not have made it home without having some serious frostbite. Maybe worse.
I looked around the stylish lobby. “Is this your only building?” I asked him.
“Tonight,” he answered, nodding. “They have a few they send me to. Just depends on who’s working.”
I drank some more coffee. I didn’t know what to say, but Clell didn’t seem to mind. We passed another fifteen minutes that way, with me drinking the last of my coffee and Clell making another pass through the lobby.
When he returned, I knew I was warm enough to leave. The warmth of the lobby and Clell’s coat, plus the coffee, had pushed the cold back to an arm’s length.
But I found that I didn’t want to leave just yet. For one thing, I didn’t know just how to say thank you to Clell. Maybe he hadn’t saved my life, but he’d done something very much like it. Besides that, my day had begun with Principal Jenkins busting my balls and proceeded through to Leon trying to put me through the uprights for an extra point. In between, there hadn’t been a whole lot of kindness coming my way.
Clell lifted out the thermos and offered it to me again. I shook my head. “I can’t drink all your coffee.”
He grinned. “Can’t say I’ve ever polished off this torpedo by myself.” He pulled open a drawer in the security desk and removed a small white Styrofoam cup. He filled it and then offered to fill mine again.
I held out the thermos cup. “Just two fingers’ worth.” As he poured, I said, “You’re not from River City.”
“Nope,” he said, screwing the plunger back into the thermos.
“Where are you from?”
He smiled, replacing the thermos in his bag. “Just outside Minot, North Dakota.”
“How big a town is that?”
He shrugged. “Well, I guess you could say I’m from the almost urban town of Minot.”
I smiled back, more because his grin was so infectious than at what he said. A minor throb from my cheek flared up when I did, but it was worth it.
“Well, Clell, how long have you been in the greater River City metropolis?”
“Metropolis?” He laughed. “That’s good. Haven’t heard that one yet.” He scratched his chin, looking out through the front windows. Finally, he said, “Guess it’s been seven years now.”
“You like it here?”
Clell smiled, “As well as anywhere. Ain’t got no family left back home since my folks passed. And—“A shadow passed over his face and he stopped.
“And what?”
He shook his head. “Nothin’. I like this town all right. It’s got its share of troubles, but most of the people are good people.”
I wondered how he could say that since he worked downtown guarding buildings at night, when all the freaks and idiots came out.
“You’re from here, though, aint’cha?” Clell asked. “I can tell. You’ve got the accent.”
“Accent? I don’t have an accent.”
“Sure you do,” Clell said. “You’ve got a very definite River City accent.”
I stared at him, trying to figure out if he was serious or jerking my chain. He watched me, sipping his coffee and smoothing his mustache.
“Accent, huh?”
He nodded, and motioned toward me. “You ought to be wearing a coat in weather like this.”
I didn’t answer right away.
“You can get them at the Salvation Army store pretty cheap. Or Value Village. They aren’t brand new, but –”
“I had a coat,” I said. “Someone stole it earlier tonight.”
Clell nodded. “I see.”He pointed to my cheek. “Same someone that roughed you up some?”
“Same someone.”
Clell nodded again.
I set my jaw. For some reason, anger bubbled up inside of me. None of it was directed at Clell, this kind man who’d taken me in and warmed me up, but it surged upward nonetheless. “I’ll get my jacket back,” I said. “Believe that.”
“It’s just a jacket,” Clell said. “And like I said, there’s plenty of ‘em at the Value Village.”
“Not like this one.”
“No?”
I shook my head. “It’s a bomber jacket. You know, the leather ones?”
“I know what you mean. Those are nice jackets. But hardly worth going at some guy that already—”
“It’s all I have left of my father,” I blurted out. For a moment, I was sorry I told him. After another moment, I wasn’t.
Clell seemed to understand. “Your pop was military, then? A fighter pilot?”
I wished I could have said yes, but the best I could do was a derisive snort. “My dad was a drunk and a gambler, that’s all. Hell, he probably won the jacket in a game of dice.”
Clell nodded. “Still,” he said. “It was your pop’s jacket.”
“Yeah,” I answered.
We fell silent. I finished off my coffee. Clell did the same.
“I gotta make a trip around the outside of the building and then through the interior,” he said. “All seven stories. I’d let you stay, but if my supervisor comes by—“
“That’s all right. I understand.”
Clell gave me an appraising look. “I could wait another fifteen minutes, I suppose. If you need to warm up some more.”
“No,” I said. “I’m good.”
I swallowed the last of the coffee and handed Clell the thermos cap and his coat. He put on the coat and walked me to the door. When he unlocked it and pushed it open, arctic blasts came slashing in. Instincti
vely, my shoulders hunched and I wrapped my arms across my chest.
“You sure you’ll be all right?” Clell asked me.
I nodded. “I will now. Thanks.”
“Sure.”
I stepped out into the night and started west. I heard Clell lock up the door and come trotting up from behind me. We walked together to the end of the block, where he turned right to continue his circuit. Before he turned off, he clapped me lightly on the shoulder, and said goodnight.
30
By the time I got home, I was shivering violently again. It took me three tries to slide my key into the door lock to open it and get into my apartment.
Once inside, I stripped off my clothes and stood under a warm, then hot, shower. I stayed there until the shivering had stopped and a dull, painful throb returned to my fingers and toes. I only turned it off when the water finally turned lukewarm.
After toweling off, I examined the injuries on my body. The bruises from Mullet-man at the hockey game were turning yellow. I could see the faint outlines of new bruising where Leon had kicked me. The back of my head had a small lump from the brick wall in the alley. The muscles in my stomach were tender where Grill had drilled me with his foot. The blisters on my feet from all the walking I did in cowboy boots were the size of quarters. My shoulder and arm ached where my old gunshot wounds were. Not surprisingly, though, the jagged, tearing pain in my knee was the worst of all.
I popped three pain relievers and collapsed on my bed, hoping sleep would come. When it didn’t right away, I tried to wrap my mind around the case but the weariness of the day, the beating and the long walk distracted me from any critical thinking.
Instead, a mish-mash of images swam through my tired mind in no particular order. Mr. Jenkins and his arrogance. Rolo. Katie. Kris Sinderling. Grill’s fury. The kindly features of Marie Byrnes. Leon and his flat eyes. Kris again. Gary LeMond and the unsettling feeling he gave me. Tiffany the hooker and the fire she’d raised in me. Dookie. Clell and the odor of Old Spice and coffee. Then Kris again. Always her again.
She floated before my eyes, her eyes nineteen, her body twenty-one, her heart and soul only six years old.
Six. Just like Amy Dugger.
I pushed all of them away and eventually let sleep take me.
31
The next morning at the Rocket, Cassie’s mysterious smile lifted my spirits a little. I smiled back, then settled into a corner seat to mull over my next move. The answer came immediately, like I knew it would. I was just tired of asking for help.
I sat with my coffee and waited for Adam. He almost always came by, even if it was just to get a cup to go.
When he arrived, I was only half a cup down. He gave me a quick grin and ordered before he sat down. Then he noticed the cut and the puffiness on my eye.
“That looks new,” he said, pointing.
“Didn’t your mother teach you it’s not polite to point?”
He dropped his index finger and snapped out his middle one. “Nope.”
Cassie brought his latté and he tipped her a dollar. She smiled and said thank you. Her smile was genuine, but not the same smile she gave me. I was almost sure of it.
“A little table generals?” Adam asked, motioning toward the chess board.
I shook my head. “Not this morning.”
Adam shrugged and sipped his drink.
I leaned forward. “Adam, I need some help with something.”
He wiped some white froth from his lips with a napkin. “Sure. I mean, it’s legal, right?”
I pressed my lips together and tried to grin. “Well, it’s like your guy sings in that song.”
“My guy?” Adam asked but he knew what I meant. Adam was a bona fide Bruce Springsteen nut. For the most part, I wasn’t much into the guy, but Adam was a rock solid fan.
“Yeah,” I said. “Your guy. From the tape you made me last summer.”
“You actually listened to it?”
I shrugged. The truth was, I’d let it sit for several weeks, but eventually I gave it a listen. Some of the songs were okay, which made sense, since Adam had compiled the tape to try and win me over. Or maybe convert me is a more accurate way to put it. But there was one song I’d liked in particular, a subtle one that resonated with me.
“It was nothing illegal,” I quoted, “Just a little bit funny.”
“The Big Muddy,” Adam said automatically. Then his face pinched and he looked at me for a long while. Finally, he said, “You know, if you’d spring for a CD player, I’d burn you a bunch more. Even some bootleg stuff.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
Adam shrugged. “It’s only live shows.”
I shrugged back. “Either way, I’m good with the radio, you know?”
We sat quietly for a minute or two. This was uncharted territory for us both. I’d never asked Adam for anything before. A year or two after I left the job, he stopped offering. We picked up our own tabs at the Rocket. I didn’t talk about how light my pockets were after I made rent every month and he didn’t talk about the new toys he bought with the nice income he had. A few Christmases, he’d had me over, but we’d agreed in advance to keep the gifts modest. Adam had been a good friend. He’d never flaunted his own good fortune. He never blamed me for my mistakes. He also never tried to convince me that they weren’t mistakes or that I shouldn’t feel guilty. He didn’t judge. He was just there. And that’s why I never asked him for anything.
Until now.
“I can’t promise,” he finally said, his voice lower even though he and I were the only people in the Rocket besides Cassie. “But I’ll listen.”
That’s what I told Matt Sinderling, I thought, and look where it got me. But I didn’t say it, only nodded my thanks.
Adam leaned in and I told him everything. Told him about the hockey game and Officer Glen Bates being a jerk (“no big surprise there,” he’d muttered) and Matt Sinderling’s request. He raised his eyebrows when I described Kris and again when I said I took the job, but said nothing. I related my trip to Fillmore, but when I got to Katie, I stumbled a bit.
“Was she okay with you calling her?” he asked.
“I think so,” I answered, my voice a little thick. I swallowed and went on, “I mean, she showed up. She helped me.”
Adam was watching me carefully. “But…?”
I shrugged. “There’s still some…hurt there.”
He nodded. “You know, you could have asked me for that information. The stuff on your complainant and the runaway. I use the database all the time.”
“I know,” I said. “I guess I just…”
“You wanted to see her.”
I nodded.
“Okay. Go on.”
I told him about the FI report in Katie’s file, how I contacted Tiffany and got Rolo’s name. Once I was past Katie’s part, it tumbled out in a rush, unedited. Adam listened, nodding sometimes, wincing when I mentioned Leon’s punting drill and waited for me to finish.
“You’re lucky you didn’t freeze to death or lose a finger or something,” he told me when I was done. “That security guy did you a solid.”
“Yes, he did.”
We were quiet again for a bit and Cassie re-filled my cup. Adam watched her go, then looked back at me. “How do you rate re-fills in an espresso bar?”
“Dude, it’s Americano. It’s basically drip coffee. It costs like, three cents.”
He shook his head. “You go ahead and believe that.” He pointed to his own cup. “See that? Two-thirds empty and likely to stay that way, unless I want to part with another two-fifty.”
I didn’t answer but smirked and blew on my coffee instead.
Adam watched me a moment, then leaned in. “Okay, I’ll say it. I’m glad you’re doing something. You’ve been spinning your wheels ever since—”
He stopped. I don’t know if he was going to say ever since I quit the job or ever since I got off the tranks and the booze, but either way, he was right. It had been a long
time.
“Well, for a lot of years,” he finished. “It’s good to see you with a purpose. But, Jesus, Stef…couldn’t you have just gone back to school or something? This is some dangerous stuff you’re involved in here. You could’ve been killed out there at The Hole.”
“You think I can’t handle it?”
“That’s not it, and you know it.”
“Then what?”
“You shouldn’t have to handle it, that’s what.” He drummed his fingers on the table.
I knew he only believed part of what he was saying. And I think he knew that I needed this. That it was worth the stretch for me. Besides, I was involved now. I’d bled a little on this one. I was seeing it through.
“Like my grandmother used to say,” I said. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”
Adam heaved a sigh, looking over my shoulder at the selection of pastries listed on the wall. Then he said, “All right. What can I do? What’s not illegal, but just a little bit funny?”
It was my turn to lean in. I pulled out Kris’s photo and slid it across the table to him.
He picked it up. “This is her? The runaway?”
I nodded.
Adam gave a low whistle. “Trouble,” he muttered. “This one has trouble written all over her.”
“She’s sixteen,” I said, bristling a little.
“I know. You told me. That’s the problem.”
I couldn’t argue with that, so I pressed on. “Look, Rolo said that she was hooked up with a guy who makes sex movies here in River City. I want to find that guy.”
Adam shook his head. “That’s a crock. Unless he’s making hand-helds in a basement somewhere, there’s no professional porn filmmakers here in town. Plenty of sellers, but no filmmakers.”
“Rolo said he made them for the Internet.”
The word hung in the air. Adam looked at me and paled. “Oh, no.”
I didn’t respond, just looked at him.
