Castle Danger--Woman on Ice

by Anthony Neil Smith

  MORE TIME OFF?

  I shook my head. “This is nothing. Seriously. I’ll just take some Tylenol. Be back to normal in a day or two.”

  “That’s the spirit. My thoughts are with you,” The Chief said, as she patted some more. Then she stood and shook hands with everyone, except Joel, because he was the only one not in her path towards the door. The Captain talked quietly to Lt. Mauer, maybe about me, maybe not. Chelsea took the opportunity to take hold of the bedside rail, put on a loud smile and whisper, “I’m not buying it. I’m onto you.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t think I have to say it.”

  I turned away. “Whatever.”

  “No, not whatever. You can play dumb, but you suck at it, and I’m a better detective than you’ll ever be.”

  I glanced at Joel. Caught his subtle shrug and eye-roll.

  “Thanks, Chelsea. It hurts a lot, but I’ll be fine.”

  Then the Captain called my name and lifted a hand to wave bye. “Catch you soon. Get yourself better, okay?”

  Then he was gone.

  And everyone in the room stopped smiling.

  Mauer stepped up to the end of my bed, arms crossed. “First, please understand no one here is interested in invading your privacy. We don’t want to ‘out’ you—”

  I pushed myself up onto my elbows. “Whoa, whoa, time out.”

  “Listen, Manny.”

  “I was there for a friend. That’s all. He was just nervous. I was giving him some support.”

  “Okay.”

  “I mean, it’s not just a gay bar. There were plenty of straight guys there, straight women.”

  Mauer shook his head. Chelsea bit her bottom lip, then said, “I have a theory. I think you went there to stick your dick into our case, which we’ve all told you, over and over again, to drop.”

  I shook my head. Shook it hard. “Fuck you. I was there with a friend. He hasn’t dated in a long time. He wanted to make sure he had, like, some help.”

  Joel said, “A wingman?”

  “Yeah, but not, like, gay. You know I just broke up with Whitney. You know Whitney.”

  Mauer sighed. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Doesn’t feel like it to me.”

  Urbaniak raised his hand, stepped up. “Kid, I mean, it’s okay. We’re friends here. No one else needs to know.”

  “I was there. With a friend.”

  “And you danced all night. We talked to the bartender. He’s the one who found you in the parking lot.”

  Chelsea would not stop staring at me.

  They must have had an inside source: panic.

  Urbaniak could spin his bullshit about it all being good, but the call had gone out over radio. Cops knew. Cops would not forget. Might as well quit now.

  “I danced because I don’t care. I’ll dance with anyone.”

  Chelsea: “Who’s the friend?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Tell us who your friend was. We have a description from the bartender, so you’re good on that. Tell who he was and we’ll talk to him.”

  I looked from face to face. The only one not looking at me then was Joel.

  My mouth was dry.

  I said, “None of you even asked who did this to me.”

  “Would you tell us?”

  Would I? My fucking big mouth, right? “I don’t know. But you sure as fuck didn’t ask. What am I being accused of here?”

  Chelsea shook my bedrail. “You’re going places you shouldn’t go, asking questions you shouldn’t ask about a case that’s not yours. Either that, or you just got outed in a really shitty way.”

  Mauer said, “Detective?”

  She pressed on, “Or both. I think it’s both. And I think you’re covering up for someone. I think you made a move on a guy who didn’t like it. Or someone marked you as easy and rolled you. Where’s your wallet?”

  Mauer shouted, “De-tec-tive!”

  “What?”

  “Just …” He shoved his index finger at her. “Just, stop, alright? Jesus.”

  Shit, where was my wallet? Where was the picture of Hannah? Was it the trump card? Chelsea daring me to say I wasn’t there on the case, and that’s when she’d slam the photo down on the tray in front of me, right next to my sippy cup of water.

  I chose my words carefully. “I was there for my friend. I got drunk. I got in a fight. I didn’t know it would be this bad. Anything else?”

  I was already flinching in my head. Waiting for the reveal. But it didn’t come. Not at all. Just a glaring detective, a disappointed Mauer, and a sad smile from Urbaniak. Like an uncle saying, “We can still go to Twins games, you and me. Nothing will change.”

  Everything had changed. Even a non-detective could tell you that.

  Mauer said, “Do you want to press charges against—”

  “Sir, really, sir, I don’t even … it was probably stupid. It was probably a lucky shot. I have no clue, really.”

  Chelsea glared for another long moment, while I turned away, watching Joel watch TV. But then she huffed, let go of the bedrail and walked out of the room.

  I couldn’t help but say “sorry” to everyone else.

  Lt. Mauer nodded. Urbaniak stepped over to my bedside and clapped his hand on my shoulder. “Stay strong. I got your back.” Then he was out, too.

  I said to Mauer, “Listen, I don’t need any more time off. I’ll sleep it off tomorrow, and I’ll be back the day after. Tylenol and a bed, that’s all I need. Maybe a hot shower.”

  More nodding. Tight-lipped smile. “Whatever you need, Officer Jahnke.”

  And with that euphemistic “Fuck you” he left.

  Joel Skovgaard didn’t take the cue, though. He kept watching the TV. On mute. The remote control was right beside me on the bed, so I asked, “You want me to turn it up?”

  Joel said, “Sure.”

  It was early morning news, that time of day when they keep repeating the traffic and weather every three minutes.

  I said, “What do you want? Why are you here?”

  He finally looked at me. He was rock-faced, something I hadn’t noticed the first day. I’d call that sort of face “inscrutable” and not know what it means. He’d kept his coat on, an old, thick barn-jacket thing, brown. Snow dripped from his boots. He shifted in his chair and the floor squeaked.

  “The Sarge said they were probably going to make you and me partners. He told me what had happened to your last one. Crazy.”

  I dropped back flat, head deep in my pillow. It had hurt to sit up that long. “I don’t think so. They’ll let you ride with someone more experienced for a while. Like the Sarge, or, man, I can think of six guys other than me.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t think any of them want me. You did good yesterday. I don’t mind riding with you.”

  Sure, sure. “You still think so? After this shit?”

  “Hey, suck whichever dick you want. Just leave mine alone.”

  “I’m not gay.”

  “Of course not. You just danced all night at a gay bar, took some X, met a dude, went off for whatever, then woke up in your car the next morning, six shades of fuck battered out of your tender ass. That’s the straightest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I’ve already said no, dumbass.”

  That made me laugh. For a second, anyway. Then it hurt and I started to cough. My sippy cup was out of reach. Joel stood and got it for me. But I coughed just as I took a drink and sputtered water all over myself and the bed. The nurse buzzed my room and asked if I was okay. Joel answered for me, “He’s fine. Just got a little choked is all.”

  The nurse still came down and checked on me, Joel back in the chair watching the traffic report again. When she left, he asked, “What have you heard about me?”

  “Seriously?”

  “I don’t care if it’s bad. Can’t be worse than the shit Marines say.”

  “Daddy’s boy, skipped the academy because he’s some
sort of big shot who got you in.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Your family’s rich, but you slum.”

  “Two for two.”

  “But you’re still spoiled. The tough guy stuff is an act. You live at home and get anything you want. You dress like a blood-stained hunter, but you buy expensive gear with daddy’s credit card.”

  He didn’t say anything to that. Eyes on the screen.

  “Am I warm?”

  He was silent for a long time. Then he stood up, without ever turning to face me. “Least I’m no faggot.”

  And he was out.

  I was alone. Until Dad showed up.

  I told you I never talked to a reconstructive surgeon for my junk. Technically … I mean, not voluntarily. Being in the hospital reminded me of the last time I was in the hospital, after the accident, covered in ointments and space-age bandages, my nerves frayed, literally.

  They sent a guy around then to take a look and talk to me about options. “Options”. Yes. He could do it, I was sure of it. He could skin-graft my twig and berries back to some kind of normalcy. Reconstructive surgery had come a long way. In fact, they might even be able to grow new skin for me without having to graft … in the coming years. Not yet. But no reason to wait, the doctor said.

  A rich doctor, I could tell. He smelled rich. He was in his early fifties but still had a boyish face — his own work? -, and only a little gray at the temples. An affect. His tie looked as lush as rose petals. But there was something of the rebel about him. He wore a small pin on his white coat, “First Ave”, and another, “POS”. I wondered how many of his clients would get that he liked the Minneapolis club and hip-hop scene.

  He said, “But it will be flexible and functional. Almost as if this had never happened.”

  “Almost,” I repeated, in a sigh that I gave up on halfway through.

  “Take some time to think about it? I’m sure you need some rest first.”

  Personally, I figure the first thing a guy would say yes to after a fire like this is full penis and testes reconstruction.

  But I was all like, “Okay, sure, we’ll talk later.” Then I asked him to come closer, without his nurse, who was a pleasant woman in her early thirties, half-soccer coach, half shy boy’s mother.

  I asked, “Can you turn it into a pussy?”

  I said it too loud. I don’t know why I said it at all. Nurse-Mom stifled a smile with pursed lips. The doctor immediately started talking, I think, before he’d really gotten what I’d said.

  “Well, yes, well, I’m sorry, are you asking about sex reassignment? That’s much much different than—”

  “Just kidding, doc.”

  A smile. “I’d be happy to recommend someone and talk to you about this—”

  I shook my head. “Really, just kidding. I’m tired. I’ll think about what you said.”

  So he left. The nurse stayed behind a couple of minutes more to ask if I’d like a follow-up visit the next day. I hemmed and hawed. She said, “Pencil it in?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m sorry I said that. You know.”

  She had large eyes and they didn’t look away. “We’re given what we’re given. I’ve had a lot more time to learn how to take care of mine than you have.”

  “It was a bad joke.”

  That suppressed smile again. “If you say so.”

  Neither of them came back. I didn’t ask them to. When my parents asked if I’d spoken to a surgeon — meaning they already had as well — I said I couldn’t remember.

  They didn’t bother me about it after that.

  9

  I went back to work after two more sick days, and just as I’d thought, I got a reception colder than an ice bath in Lake Superior. Some nods, yeah, but no one would look me in the eye. Same guys who used to be all “faggot” this and “faggot” that in the locker room went silent. I had never had many friends on the force. Some guys to drink and sympathize with, but never real friends. And now, well, fuck.

  Be careful what you wish for.

  That morning, the boss confirmed: yes, I would be partnered with Joel Skovgaard, and we would do a shitty speed trap on Miller’s Hill Road until, I supposed, I had “learned my lesson” (not that anyone actually said that to me). Conveniently, that would also allow Joel to earn enough real cop time to get booted to the next level, thanks to his cheat codes (aka “Daddy”).

  My DoubleShots didn’t help keep me awake, and the Arby’s coffee we’d picked up grew cold in the cup holder because my stomach couldn’t hack it. We were tucked between snowbanks on the shoulder. No one in their right mind would speed today anyway, not with all the glare ice, that melting and refreezing and melting and refreezing death trap. Mostly I stared out the front and tried not to sit tensed up all day. Yeah, I didn’t realize at first — every muscle, especially on the right side, the one closest to Joel, tensed as if trying to get as far away as physically possible within the confines of the car. My hands on the steering wheel, aching from gripping too tight. Barely any conversation between us. Then he started snoring.

  Come on, I was sleepy myself, shit yeah, but snoring?

  “Joel.” Like a shot. Loud and short.

  He jolted, hands grabbing the door handle and the dash. Then a rush of breath. “Fuck.”

  “Drink more coffee. Hell, drink mine.”

  “I’m good. I’m good.”

  “Dude …”

  Joel scowled and slumped back in his seat, arms crossed. “Don’t even. It’s personal.”

  “You don’t even.”

  Quiet. I thought he might drift off again. If he did, I’d wake him again. Fuck that guy.

  But he cleared his throat and said, “This girl I’m seeing … Robin. Robin Malmon. Like Salmon …”

  “Okay.”

  “I mean, goddamn, she’s something else. She’s really, I mean. The sex? Like animals. She grunts. She flexes. She demands.”

  “TMI, for fuck’s sake. Jesus!”

  “Don’t TMI me, Mister Knocked-Out at a Gay Bar.”

  Sigh. “Continue.”

  He nodded. Used his hands to talk. Like he was squeezing fresh fruit. “But the whole thing has been fuck games, you know? She says she doesn’t play them, but she so does. Her rules, her ways.”

  “What does that even mean? Games? Seriously? It’s called getting to know you.”

  “Well, according to her, it’s all part of ‘dating’.” He did air quotes. “In dating, there are rules. She knows we all have a list, things that cannot be talked about early on. Things that should be off the table. But she thinks that’s bullshit. She thinks the only way to know if two people are wasting their time with each other is to get it all on the table. And the first thing she needed to know about me was if I had killed people.”

  “The fuck?”

  “Yeah, I know. That was a sticking point. And not because she is against soldiers killing people. No, she gets it. What she’s saying is, you can’t know a guy, not really, if he’s killed people but hasn’t told you that.”

  “Have you?”

  “Have I?”

  “Killed people, man? Have you?”

  He nodded. “I had to. I don’t feel good about it. Don’t feel bad about it either, though. I had to.”

  (I didn’t get the truth out of him for months. I had no reason not to believe him.)

  Quiet again.

  Then Joel said, “I told her that. She keeps pushing. She wants to smash any mask I put on. So we talk all night. We yell and scream, we shut down, we fuck, we cuddle, we yell again. I’m getting, like, a couple hours of sleep. That’s it.”

  “What’s her deal?”

  He gave me a shitty look. “Careful.”

  “What? I can’t call your psycho-bitch girlfriend a psycho-bitch?”

  “Goddamn it—”

  “I mean, what about her secrets? If she’s digging them out of you, what about hers?”

  Big sigh. Was th
is our fate? Speed trap bullshit with a side of dislike?

  I said, “Never mind.”

  “No, you’re right. You are. She told me she was married, but she cheated. Married for four years, cheated the last two of those. With a French guy.”

  “Jesus.”

  Shrug. “She wasn’t happy. But she told me she still talks to the French guy, like, all the time. He’s not around anymore, but only because he couldn’t get a permanent visa. Oh, and she fucked her ex-husband for a whole year after they broke up.”

  “You see that movie, It’s Complicated?”

  Joel smiled. He didn’t often. “Complicated can be fun.”

  “Or not.” And then I thought about why I’d said that. I would’ve loved uncomplicated. I cried at night for uncomplicated.

  “Dude, you don’t get it. You have to be there. You have to feel it. Just when I don’t think I can go any more, she gets me hard again. I don’t know why that is, but, I’m telling you …” He shook his head.

  Guy flew past in a Honda CR-V way too fast, sloshed us. Radar said “TOO FAST!” I started the wipers. “Wanna?”

  Joel punched the roof. “Go go go!”

  So we went.

  We nearly died twice catching up to the CRV. I’ll stand by that story.

  Not a guy, but a woman. Young woman. Barely stopped talking to take a breath, blamed everything but her shitty driving (while applying lip balm), even blamed us for “picking” on her when everyone else was driving just as bad.

  I didn’t care. I just listened to her haranguing me out there in the chill, while cars flew past — best time to speed is when the cops have already stopped someone — mud and snow flying, grit flying, couple of assholes honking horns. Joel leaned against the back of the Honda, shielded from the wind. This girl, begging, then accusing, then flirting. I figured just out of college, maybe a year, wishing she was still there.

  I had already handed her the ticket. I didn’t know what I was waiting for. I closed my eyes, intending for it to be, what, a blink? But I kept them closed. I took a noseful of icy air. Let it out again. She had stopped talking. I opened my eyes again, saw that her lips were open and she was looking me up and down. I just shrugged at her. “Okay.”

  And I walked away.