by Gregg Bell
* * *
Yeah, he told Aunt Elizabeth everything. Everything he knew anyway. Well, except about the scratches and the bump on his head. Why complicate things? He didn’t kill Rashida. Hell, with Aunt Elizabeth’s overkill defensiveness and already treating him as a suspect, she would’ve for sure figured he was the killer if he’d told her.
Now he had to face the rest of the day, and with all this fear he wasn’t supposed to drink?
He sighed. Oh well. He figured he’d at least try to be productive. He could talk to Orson. Orson already knew he’d blacked out—he wouldn’t have to go through the embarrassment factor again—and Orson was familiar with the world of the firehouse and The Wild Bull. Denny called him and arranged a meeting at a coffee shop on the northwest side.
Denny arrived first, tossing his cigarette as he got to the door. Normal people are here, he thought, when he walked in. Normal people, getting their morning coffee or espressos or whatever. He wondered what it was like to have a normal life. He felt like he used to have one. Well, maybe he did. A bar was right across the street. The Towner Inn. He knew it well. Knew the bartender. A Greek guy. Good guy. Would run you a tab if you ran out of cash. Maybe he could sneak over for a quickie before Orson got here? Nah, he got a coffee and decided to stick it out.
Orson strolled in wearing a heavy winter coat that went past his knees, hat, gloves—the guy was prepared. Orson was actually very smart, or maybe very clever would be a better way of putting it. He’d had to pull out of medical school when his mother got sick and was screwed out of her medical coverage by her insurance company. So yeah, Denny always felt like Orson was slumming by hanging out with the rest of them at the firehouse. He was this smart, neat, organized suburban guy while the rest of the firemen were city grunts who if they weren’t firemen would’ve been working for the Department of Streets & Sanitation, standing around open manholes, leaning on their shovels and freezing their butts off. While Orson could’ve been some fancy north shore M.D. They were just from different worlds.
A few of the firemen openly scorned Orson. Personally, Denny cut him some slack, figuring the guy probably couldn’t help being so different. The thing is, Orson tried really hard. Maybe too hard. He showed incredible preparation—he was certified in nearly every fire department specialty—and great courage during fires. Sometimes, though, Denny would have called it recklessness.
“Hey, Orson. Thanks for coming. Can I buy you a coffee?”
“No, I’m good. What’s up? Why did you want to talk?” He took off his hat.
Denny looked around carefully. Unless the CIA was bugging them they were pretty private. “Fallout from that night at The Wild Bull.”
“What kind of fallout?”
“I went to The Wild Bull again last night.”
“Yeah?” Orson slipped out of his coat. He had a concerned look on his face. “I’m surprised. Would’ve thought you might’ve wanted to stay away for a while.”
“Well, I just went to talk to Brig.”
Orson frowned. “Yeah, and Brig was the one egging you on that night.”
“You mean the drinking contest, yeah.”
“No, I mean about how Rashida was sleeping with Powell and blah blah blah.”
“Do you know—I don’t think Brig even knew Rashida was dead.”
“That’s impossible.”
“What do you mean?”
Orson bit his lip. “Oh, nothing. So what else did Brig say?”
“Not much.” Denny sipped his coffee. “I hardly got a chance to talk to him because he was gabbing with this Rufus Tucker guy all night.”
“Oh man.”
“What?”
“Rufus Tucker is the last person somebody like Brig needs.”
“What are you talking about?”
Now Orson looked around. “They say Tucker is the head of a white supremacy group, the AFO, America First Organization or something like that.”
“Who’s ‘they,’ Orson?”
“Just what I heard around. I’m telling you, Denny, things are getting scary. Not a few dangerous people are showing up. And I don’t need to tell you Brig is trouble. It’s like he brought all that violence back with him from Afghanistan. Thinks he’s still a jarhead in the Marines. Like his nickname, Brig. The other day, I overheard him telling somebody that before he joined the fire department he’d been in trouble a bunch of times here too. Oh, mostly for quotidian stuff—running red lights, that sort of thing. But they always let him off because he’s some kind of a war hero.”
“What does quotidian mean?”
“Everyday. Ordinary.”
Denny exhaled. So the rest of the world was falling apart too. But that was hardly any consolation. And really, it didn’t matter one way or another what the rest of the world did. Denny had to straighten out his mess. “Orson, look, scary or not, I have to know what’s up with Brig.”
Orson slid a ring, an emerald class ring, up and down his finger. “Know what, Denny?”
“Well, everything—what happened that night. And I’m also wondering about your text: Watch out for Brig.”
“Well, that was after you left with him.”
“I know, but what the hell did it mean?”
Orson exhaled. “Maybe I will get a coffee.” He stood and headed for the counter.
Orson was obviously buying time. Which could not be good. This whole thing was starting to feel like a spy intrigue. Everything so cryptic. Everyone so afraid to say the wrong thing. Here Orson came back with the coffee. He set it on a napkin on the little table between them, a steady steam swirling from the cardboard cup. Denny caught his eye. “So?”
“Yeah.” Orson picked up the coffee and hurriedly set it back down. “This stuff is so hot.”
“Come on, Orson, I’ve got a lot of pressure on me.” Denny rolled his neck around. “The cops have already questioned me twice.” Oh, did he really need to say that?
“Yeah?” Orson nodded. “Well, you and Brig were talking so crazy.”
“You said that before.” Denny gritted his teeth. “So I was talking trash at The Wild Bull about killing Powell?”
“Powell and Rashida.”
“Powell and Rashida.” Denny frowned. “So your last text? Watch out for Brig.”
“Well, I don’t know. I just had a bad feeling about the whole thing. Yeah, you were ripping on Powell and Rashida, and Brig kept pouring gasoline on that fire. It was—I don’t know—it was like he was baiting you.”
Denny’s phone vibrated in his jean’s pocket and he nearly jumped. He grabbed it. Detective Washington. Unbelievable. He let it go to voicemail. “Baiting me?”
“Well, like I said he was egging you on...” Another careful look around. “...to go after Powell.”
Powell. Frank Powell kept coming up. Denny hated him, yes. But he hated Rashida even more for sleeping with the scumbag. Then Denny told himself, ‘Think about what you just thought.’ He hated his wife more than Powell. Oh man, he didn’t like that he’d had the thought. He tried to banish it but it was too late. There’d be no forgetting it now. “What’s weird is, yeah, I was drinking the tequila shots, but I’d drunk plenty more on other occasions without blacking out.”
The two men locked eyes.
The startled expression on Orson’s face gave Denny pause, but when Orson looked away the spell was broken. Well, screw it, Denny thought. He wasn’t worrying about it. Besides, now the cat was out of the bag. He caught Orson’s eye again. “I’d appreciate you not telling anybody any of this.”
“Hey, you know I always have your back, Denny.”
* * *
Denny felt so exposed. His life, his mind, felt like they were on the verge of falling apart. When he left the coffee shop after meeting with Orson, he so wanted to walk across the street to the Towner Inn and have a few drinks. He could blot out his worries and by the time he was done drinking, all his problems might’ve worked themselves out. Maybe they’d have found Rashida’s killer. Maybe all
the pressure would be off him. Then he’d really be able to quit drinking. Then he’d really be able to get his life together.
Yeah, stinking thinking, they call it in AA. That’s what that was. Fooling yourself, talking yourself into believing drinking was the answer to all your problems.
He checked his phone. The voicemail icon was lit. Detective Washington. But Aunt Elizabeth said no more talking to the police. So he didn’t even need to listen to the message. Ah, what the hell. He held up the phone and said, “Play message.”
“Hello, Dennis. It’s Sergeant Washington. Dennis, we’ve made big strides and I’m confident we’ll be able to catch Rashida’s killer with just a little more information from you. Call me right away because we need to act fast before this guy kills again. We can nail him, Dennis, with your help. Call me.”
Denny sighed. Orson had already left the coffee shop parking lot, and all Denny had to do was walk across the street to the bar. Why was Washington hounding him? He was invoking major guilt. Because what if he said was true? Or no, what he said was true. Why would he lie? The killer was running around out there and might kill again unless Denny helped. For God’s sake, he needed to man up and do his part.
But Aunt Elizabeth said absolutely no contact with the police. He crossed the street and when he did, again he thought the thought that turned his stomach. Wasn’t it possible he’d killed Rashida? And by talking to Washington mightn’t he be burying himself? He walked down the sidewalk to the bar. It was early so there would only be the desperate few there, but in the emotional state he was in, those would be the best people to drink with. Because they were the ones who needed to obliterate the day, obliterate reality because their lives were so hateful to them. He stopped in front of the plate glass window and peered in. Pinball machines. Video slots, their neon patterns zooming around in rectangles like glowing race cars. The bar. Enough booze stacked in its mirrored case to fell an army. Four guys, shoulders slumped, sitting there.
Denny shook his head and lit a cigarette. Where would going in get him? He took the deepest drag on the cigarette he could, hoping it would ease the pain of his indecision. Just where would it get him? He spat violently into the street and walked away. Who the hell knew how things would work out, but he knew for sure they wouldn’t if he got drunk. But he wasn’t happy when he got into his car.
And he wasn’t calling the cop back. Screw him. He’d told him everything he knew anyway, and now the cop was acting all buddy-buddy, and it was coming off as phony. Sure, some cops were cool but others held firemen in contempt. Saw them as cowards, drunkards, buffoons.
And what Aunt Elizabeth had said. He needed to establish a timeline to account for where he’d been, who he’d been with and—he blew out a breath—just what in the hell he’d done.
There was only one person who it seemed might know—Brig. But first Denny needed something to eat. A hotdog stand on Harlem Avenue was open. He got two dogs and fries and a chocolate shake. He sat in his car and greedily scarfed it all down, the buns soggy, the fries greasy, the shake syrupy. But it tamped down the fear-fire inside enough to keep him going. Now he had to find Brig. Which shouldn’t be too hard as Denny knew where he lived and this early, Brig wouldn’t be anywhere else. He lit a cigarette and headed there.
The northwest side was where many firemen lived. Brig’s complex was low-rent and it catered to singles. It was next to a self-serve car wash, a guy in a parka in one of the stalls waving the wand at his car, even though it was below freezing and snow was predicted for later. There were two buildings in the complex. Both a dirty-green. And with a view of the car wash.
Denny had partied at Brig’s plenty of times. It was on the third floor. A walk-up. This time even though he knew more than likely Brig would be home, he half hoped he wasn’t. And he hoped Brig would be able to tell him what he’d done—and he hoped he wouldn’t. Yeah, he wanted to find Rashida’s killer but he also needed to protect himself.
No doubt this early, Brig would be hung over. Ah, Denny didn’t care. He knocked. And knocked. And then pounded. Finally a cranky voice emerged from deep inside as if from a tomb:
“Go away.”
“Brig, it’s Denny!”
Denny waited. It would be a rare occasion to see Brig, outside of the firehouse, sober. Truth be told, whenever Denny was around Brig sober Denny was a little uncomfortable. Like they could hardly relate to each other unless they were drinking.
The door opened. Brig stood there in boxer shorts, a tattoo—of a helmet atop a rifle stuck in a pair of boots—stretched across his rib cage. On his bicep a tattoo of the American flag, circled by a snake. “What the hell time is it?”
Denny felt all the intruder but he had to talk to him. “I’ve got to tell you something. It can’t wait.”
“Oh, man.” Brig looked back into his apartment. “The place is a mess.”
“It’s always a mess, Brig. I don’t care.”
Brig stepped aside and let him in.
Denny brushed pizza crumbs from a chair cushion and sat. The apartment was one big clutter. Dishes and dirty glasses, empty beer bottles and remote controls filled a cocktail table. An entertainment rack—wires, like ratty hair, dangling everywhere—stood against the wall. CDs and DVDs were spilt across the floor. And what looked to be a 45 automatic pistol was lying on the sofa. “Thanks, Brig.”
“You better take that parka off. They overheat this place. Half the time, even in the winter, I have to open the windows.”
Denny shirked the coat.
“So what’s so important?” Brig rummaged under a couple of throw pillows on the sofa, found a t-shirt, a NASCAR logo on it, and threw it on. He pushed the pillows onto the floor and sat.
There was no way to ease into this. “Brig, Rashida was murdered a couple nights ago.”
Brig looked down. “I heard. I’m sorry.”
Denny thought Brig seemed sincere. “Yeah.”
Brig sighed. “It’s a crazy world we live in.”
“Why do you say that?”
Brig picked through an ashtray for a marijuana roach. “Who knows, Denny? Who knows? But yeah, some crazy stuff is going down in the world. You just want to make sure it doesn’t happen to the wrong people.”
What was he talking about—the wrong people? Denny looked at his friend and shrugged.
Brig shook his head. “Forget it. I’m babbling. I’m barely awake. Barely alive.”
“No, please tell me.”
Brig set the roach back in the ashtray. “Well, it’s just who knows, Rashida being Muslim and all.”
Denny sat up. “What are you saying?”
“Nothing, nothing. I’m saying nothing. I don’t know what I’m saying.” He nodded. “You got a cigarette?”
Denny reached inside his shirt pocket. His phone vibrated. Must be the cop again. He tapped out a cigarette from the pack and handed it over.
“Thanks.” Brig found a lighter on the cocktail table and it didn’t work the first two tries but popped up just enough of a flame on the third to eke out a light.
“So what are you saying?”
Brig flipped the lighter onto the cocktail table. “I’m saying it’s crazy what you go through over there and what it’s like when you come back.”
“You mean Afghanistan?”
“Yeah.” He took a long drag on the cigarette. “You fight, supposedly to win over ‘hearts and minds,’ trying to help the people there, but then the same people you helped in the morning are shooting at you in the afternoon, and at some point it just makes you...I don’t know.”
“What?”
“At some point it makes you not care about their hearts or minds or anything else. It becomes simple—they’re trying to kill you so you try to kill them. And that leads to wanting to kill ’em all. And when you lose team members...” He ashed the cigarette into an empty beer can and shook his head slowly. “...it can make you crazy.”
Denny looked at him. “So you’re saying a Marine might’ve kill
ed Rashida because she was Muslim?”
“I didn’t say that. But what I was trying to say was I could see how it could happen.”
“So you could’ve killed her?”
“Hey, mother—” Brig stood.
“Well, why not? Rashida wore a hijab, the Muslim headscarf. You experienced some sort of psycho traumatic stress disorder reaction and poof! you snapped.”
“What the hell is wrong with you, O’Callaghan?” Brig dropped his cigarette into the beer can, stepped over the cocktail table, knocking over glasses, grabbed Denny by his shirt and yanked him up. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut the hell up.”
Denny glanced at the pistol on the sofa. “Or what? You’ll snap again and kill me too?”
Brig slammed him against the wall, once, twice, then he walked him to the door and shoved him out.
Denny stood on the concrete balcony, a bitter wind lashing his face. The door opened—out flung his parka—and then slammed shut.
Chapter Six
Denny drove home feeling like a failure. Hell, all he’d had to do was find out from Brig what had happened and he hadn’t, and now Brig was pissed at him. Screw it. Denny laughed bitterly. That was always his fallback position—screw it. But whatever. He had to fight to keep driving past all the bars and liquor stores on his way home. Then he figured he’d go to the Serenity Club instead. The AA club was open from six in the morning till midnight and could be a refuge, a last resort if you absolutely had to stay sober. But his resolve was wavering. He wasn’t as bad as a lot of those alkies and druggies at the meetings—this time maybe he could just have a few beers and stop. And the more he thought about it, the more he became convinced. Yeah, maybe he’d just pick up a six pack for later, grab a movie and have a relaxing evening at home. God only knew he needed one.
