“What about Thomas Hitchy, Mr…?”
“Kelly.” He patted his chest just above his heart with his right hand and held the left up in the cigarette-scented air. “Sam Kelly. Sorry, I shoulda told you folks that. That’s my name.”
“Okay, Mr. Kelly. What about Tom?”
“What about him?” Sam Kelly balled a fist, flung it to his lips, and hacked two dry coughs. His eyes almost popped out of their sockets. “I’m…” he coughed once more, “…I’m sorry about that.”
“No problem.”
Sam swallowed hard. “So, what about Tom?”
“You just said how sweet Venice is…what about Tom?”
“He was a cocky kid, never cared for him.” He tossed his hands forward, his face disgusted. “It was’ah only a matter a time before that happened to him. Always walkin’ around here like he owned the place. I wanted him out of this apartment after the first year. He was always hollerin’ and screamin’ up there. That poor girl took that. But my wife always convinced me to let them stay. She had a soft spot for Venice.” He laughed, rubbed his hands together, and stared directly at Marisa as she jotted down his words. She sensed a break in the conversation and locked eyes with him. “Whatever the old lady says, well, goes. She’s the boss.”
Marisa smiled, almost flattered. Steel slightly shook his head. He had never been able to relate to that cliché. He couldn’t grasp how any man would do whatever his wife told him. Where was his pride? His thoughts drifted. Maybe it was his rebelliousness why he felt that way, but he stopped dwelling on it in the meantime, or else he’d go on for hours.
Sam Kelly continued, “That guy was out of here in November, when the lease was up, and I didn’t care what my wife said this time…I reached my limit with him. But don’t get me wrong…” he wiggled a finger and leaned close, “…I feel sorry for the kid. I don’t wanna see anyone die.” He turned the finger upside down and pointed it firmly toward the ground. “But he wasn’t staying here!”
“Were you and your wife home last night?”
“No, we were at her sister’s. Go there every Sunday for dinner. What a pain-in-the-ass, but, ya’ know.”
“Where’s your wife now?”
“Gettin’ her hair done.” He laughed.
Marisa slid her hand on Steel’s arm. “How long have you owned this building?” she asked.
Sam Kelly moved one inch at a time, grimacing as he turned in her direction, scratching the side of his head. “Ah...” he whistled, “…it’s gotta be fifteen years now. I been living here in this apartment for fifteen years. I was a contractor, ya’ know, bought and flipped properties. Got lucky with this one, especially now with the property values goin’ up around here.”
Steel listened.
Marisa continued, “Did Tom ever have visitors in the building?”
“Not that I know of. He was always on that cell phone…these kids with their phones…that’s all they do.” He contorted his face in disgust, reflecting on the days of old. “Anyway, the kid never seemed to be goin’ to work, always in and out, in and out. I noticed this about a year-and-a-half after they moved here. He was out after the lease in November.”
“Who lives on the third floor?”
“Mikie.”
“Mike?”
“Yeah, Michael, ah, I forget the kid’s last name.” Sam turned a thumb toward the kitchen. “I have it in there, you need it?”
Steel waved his hands, palms facing Sam. “No, that won’t be necessary.”
Sam’s face softened. His eyes lit up like a grandfather thinking of a grandson. “Nice kid, Mikie, hard worker, works the late-night shift. Kids are lazy today, but not him. Wish all my tenants were like him. Damn shame for him, though, lost his mother and sister in the same year, last year. I feel sorry for that kid.”
“Is he home?”
“He might be. Don’t know what time his shift ends.”
Steel wanted to finish this conversation but thought this guy would go on talking forever. “We’re going to need to talk to him, too.”
“All right. You see Venice yet?” Sam asked.
“Yep, she’s up there.”
“Maybe I’ll go see her when my wife gets back.”
Steel and Marisa got up, and Steel said, “Well, thank you for your help, Mr. Kelly.”
“No problem. You sure you don’t wanna cup a coffee for the road?”
“No, but thank you,” Marisa said.
Steel thanked him.
They were doing Steel’s favorite part of the job, hitting the streets and talking to people, but he felt he was getting nowhere.
13
Steel and Marisa stood out in the hallway again. He rubbed his face and yawned. She stretched her back, digging her palms into the small of it. The hallway still smelled. Invisible dust particles stung Steel’s nostrils, and his throat tickled as if someone had poured a bag of dust down it.
He sneezed back to back and was about to sneeze again before he said, “I want coffee, and I need fresh air, anyway.” He stroked a finger across his nose and blinked his watery eyes. “I saw a small convenience store on the corner. I’m gonna run there. You want coffee?”
“Yeah, small, two creams, two sugars. Why didn’t you get a cup from Sam?”
He swatted at the air, shook his head. “Ah—OCD—I have trouble taking food from people I don’t know’s houses. But, do me a favor.”
Marisa snapped her head back, blinked a few times, and scrunched her face, then shook her head once, hard. “You’re a weird man, Steel,” she said and circled a finger around her ear and whistled. “But, yeah, what do you need?”
“Put a call in for Hitchy’s phone records, and don’t forget we need to check his Facebook, Twitter, all of that.” He turned but stopped. “Oh, and Venice, too.”
She nodded.
He walked outside.
The streets were quiet, just a few women in their twenties walking dogs. The humidity thickened the air, nearly suffocating him. Breathing was slow and difficult. This fucking heat again, he thought. I can’t catch a break. He eyed the early twenty-something women and dogs once more. He saw that a lot. It made him reflect. Maybe it was that people weren’t getting married like they used to—at least not until later in life, late twenties and thirties. He read somewhere that women were most fertile between twenty and twenty-four. In contemporary society, women got degrees, had demanding careers; reproducing the way biology intended was difficult. He figured a pet was a way to subconsciously feed a woman’s need to nurture, to care for something. Sexist, maybe, but Steel knew he was a realist and that he’d never say that in public. He didn’t knock it but just tried to explain the independent woman in modern America and why he saw many of them with dogs as companions. Also, he knew he could be totally off—maybe they just wanted a pet. But he noticed that gender roles were changing. A man’s role in society was less defined. The days of the man being the provider, or of macho men of the world were fading—the John Waynes, Clint Eastwoods, and Frank Sinatras. That tough exterior had been on the decline for years, replaced by men who took pride in being geeky, that masculinity and femininity were being suppressed by society, almost as if acting naturally as a man or woman wasn’t trendy or fashionable.
He told his brain to stop thinking, stop generalizing, and to just shut the hell up because he probably didn’t know what he was talking about and climbed the three steps to the store.
He entered with a hard twist of a doorknob of an old screen door. His entrance activated a bell, letting off a single ding as he entered. Two Asian-Americans were behind a counter. Both appeared to be in their mid-forties—husband and wife. Each was thin and moving about quickly, alternating between their native language and English with an accent. They smiled and nodded at Steel often, and he nodded back. The store was small, with a single aisle wide enough for one person at a time, and the shelves were stocked with packaged goods, mostly potato chips, Top Ramen noodle
s, and pasta. A half-full pot of coffee warmed behind the counter on a stainless steel platform.
The woman saw him staring at the coffee and rushed over to it. “You want one, sur?”
Steel held up two fingers.
The man next to her sat down in a folding chair behind the register, crossed his legs and kicked off his sandals, and fanned out a newspaper that covered his entire face. Steel ran his eyes across all the different brands of cigarettes behind the register. Marlboro, his choice when he had been a smoker, jumped out. He cringed again. Twice in one day. The damn temptation, he thought. Should I get a pack? A prickly tingle ran through his body, and he swore he could feel the receptors twitch in his brain, perhaps remembering his old friend, nicotine, and the thought of inhaling it once more. He closed his eyes, brushing off the urge, reached under the counter, and grabbed a pack of chewing gum.
The woman raised her voice and asked him if he wanted cream and sugar, and he told her what he wanted.
She gripped each cup as steam rose from the slit in each lid. “Four-forty, sur.”
He tossed the gum onto the counter and motioned with his hands to include it. The Powerball was up to half a billion, but he didn’t feel like buying a ticket. Whenever someone would ask him if large sums of money would make him happy, he’d respond with a line from Forrest Gump. After Forrest and Lieutenant Dan had invested their money in stocks and made a fortune, Lieutenant Dan called Forrest and told him they weren’t going to have to worry about money anymore. And Steel loved Forrest’s response: “That’s good, one less thing.” He’d tell that to anyone who thought excessive amounts of money always equated to happiness. He’d also remind them that he’d never heard of anyone remembered for his or her possessions, such as so and so was survived by four Mercedes Benzes and a mansion in Beverly Hills. He reasoned that people were usually remembered for the people they were and the good they did—how they treated family and friends, loved, held their word, lived their deepest convictions. Life to him was how many people he impacted in a positive way.
But he laughed to himself and thought that he wouldn’t mind hitting the lottery.
As he waited for her to ring up his items, two teenagers walked behind him in line, about eighteen or nineteen. Their conversation focused on the Phillies. The smaller kid, with a round head and muscle shirt, debated over which player was more valuable to the team—Utley or Howard—with a tall, scrawny dude with tattoos running down each forearm. Steel had heard this argument before among sports fans in Philadelphia. He eavesdropped for a second before turning around. “Hey, guys, they’re both good for the team; it’s not a competition. One’s a power-hitter, and one’s an all-around player.”
The two teens shot a sardonic look at one another, which read, What does this suit know? Steel remembered how he had once lived and died with the Phillies. Not anymore, but he still wanted to do his lifelong dream of traveling to every ballpark across the country. A buddy of his on the force from South Philly had told him a story how four guys he knew had done it, traveled to them all. But, he figured, why should he worry and waste time debating about Phillies’ players’ legacies. Couldn’t he use that time to build his own? He still followed them and watched when he could but figured the Phillies didn’t sit around and ask who was a better detective, him or Marisa.
He flipped his hand as cold silver coins fell from the woman’s curled fingers, tossed the change into his pocket, and grabbed the pack of gum. After placing the Trident in his inner pocket, he reached for the Styrofoam cups with each hand. He smiled at the couple. “Thanks.”
The husband and wife smiled and repeatedly nodded. Again, the red and white pack of Marlboro caught his eye, and he did another double-take but pressed on. He eased his back against the door because both hands held a cup and exited before he had time to change his mind about the cigarettes.
Brilliant sunshine—so powerful it was almost white—blurred his vision. He gritted his teeth, huffing and puffing, frustrated that he couldn’t rub his tingly eyeballs. He thought about whether or not to put the coffee down and flip his Ray-Bans on but decided to continue on his way. The temperatures had risen to the nineties, and Steel’s black suit didn’t do a good job of deflecting the heat. The streets were still quiet, just a few stragglers walking, air conditioners hanging from residents’ windows humming, and a couple of cars swooshing past him.
In minutes, he reached the building. Because of the humidity, the walk seemed like a marathon rather than just a few blocks, and how he despised holding anything in his hands for longer than thirty seconds—maybe it was a guy thing. He bent and pressed one knee onto the front steps, placed his cup down, and held Marisa’s in his left hand. After pushing himself back up and leaning against the door, he turned the knob, then hunched back over and grabbed the coffee. As he lifted his hand, the warm liquid leaked from the edges and trickled down his wrist. He cursed under his breath, and his stomach tensed and flipped. His blood boiled. He muttered, “Son of a bitch, bastard, motha-humper, bitch…fuck…shit—fuck!” Light brown coffee dripped farther down his sweaty forearm. These small outbursts occurred maybe once a week and were almost unavoidable for him. That was his temper—couldn’t change it. It could explode in seconds. During his younger years, the anger snap-outs had been more frequent—maybe they were getting less intense with age, but not by much.
He hadn’t noticed Marisa leaning back against the wall in the hallway the entire time.
She tossed her head back and laughed. “Whoa! The language…you all right there, partner?”
Her words downgraded his temperament from rage to annoyed—and a bit embarrassed. I have to work on the cursing, he thought. He forced a smile, blushed a bit, and handed her the cup. “Yeah, I’m fine. I spilled coffee down my wrist. It’s about 200 degrees out there, and I’m frustrated, that’s all.”
She laughed. “I thought you were getting shot at or something.”
Steel’s sticky, burned hand tapped the door on the third-floor apartment.
No response.
“We could stop by later or tomorrow,” he said.
Marisa slurped her coffee. “Yeah, we could do that.”
They had roamed the hallway before a doorknob rattled behind them. Mike called out, “Hello,” and then peeked his head through the doorframe.
“Mike? I’m Detective Steel, and this is my partner, Detective Tulli.” That line was becoming so embedded in his brain. He didn’t even have to think about it; it just came out effortlessly.
Mike yawned, then scraped crust from his eyes. He combed his wild hair with a few fingers. “Oh…hello. Sorry, I was sleeping. Is this about Tommy?”
“Yes…do you have a few minutes?”
“Yeah, sure…come in.”
Mike stepped back, opened the door as far as it could go, and fanned his right arm toward himself.
As they entered, Steel did his usual quick scan of the place. The apartment had a similar layout to Tom Hitchy’s on the floor below. The only difference was that it wasn’t as luxurious. The furniture, TV, and color scheme were all modern but fairly worn down. Steel could tell this guy lived alone. His apartment had all the telltale signs of the bachelor life—unwashed dishes piled up in the sink, a few Philadelphia Eagles and 76ers posters on the walls, sneakers tossed in the corner of the room as if they were part of the interior design. Although messy, it was nothing compared to some of the homes Steel had been to over the years.
A memory formed. Once, he’d walked into a house for questioning and had been blown away. It’d been insane. The entire kitchen had been filled with dirty dishes. And some of the plates had to have been months old because mold of all colors had built communities on them—the old food had stuck to them and made the kitchen reek of spoiled meat, rotten dairy, and molded cheese. Cigarette butts had been died-out into grease-stained carpets. That person had owned ten cats, and a thick cloud of urine had floated through the air. While Steel had walked in the living room,
he’d stepped over clothing, boxes of cereal, and things he hadn’t even known existed. Needless to say, it’d been a disaster zone. Probably could have been featured on Hoarders on A&E.
The door slammed and broke Steel’s thoughts. “Sorry about that, the wind always does that with the window right there,” Mike said. He paced over to Steel and Marisa with his right hand stretched. “Mike, Michael Ranks.”
Firm handshakes followed.
Mike pointed toward his kitchen. “Do you want coffee?” he asked before checking out the cups in their hands. “Water or something?”
Each said no.
“You mind if I grab a bottle of water?” He squeezed his throat. “A little dry.”
“Nah, go ahead.”
Mike cut into the next room, and Steel and Marisa sat on a sofa. They watched Mike’s white socks disappear into the kitchen, his shadow trailing behind.
Steel whispered, “Why does everybody wanna give us coffee?”
Marisa sipped hers and stared at the stains on his shirt. She winked. “I think you’ve had enough coffee for the day.”
He smiled. “Tell me about it.”
Mike’s socks reappeared from the kitchen. His puffy face revealed the appearance of a man attempting to wake up, and his shaggy brown hair swayed in all directions. He wore an old t-shirt, centered with a faded 76ers’ logo, and a pair of wrinkled, gray sweatpants. His skin was pale like he hadn’t had a suntan in years.
He eased into a small recliner just in front of them.
Steel sucked some air back through his nostrils, put on his detective-face, and assumed his elbows on thighs, facing the person he was questioning demeanor.
“So, Michael, I’m sure you’ve heard about Thomas Hitchy by now.”
“Yes, I have.”
Steel went right to one of his favorite tactics, interrupting so he could get the first thought that came to the person’s mind. “Did you know him?”
“Yes, pretty wel—.”
The Highway (A Benny Steel and Marisa Tulli Novel - Book 1) Page 9
