Broken Places

by Tracy Clark

  “I’m going to queue up for when he comes out,” Whip said.

  And he was gone, too.

  “Something I said?” Barb asked.

  I frowned. “That’d be my guess.”

  I began to stack plates at the table for no other reason than to give my hands something to do, hoping that the more I moved, the less it would eventually hurt when I did. I stood. “I know you mean well, but I don’t want to talk about my father, and I know that’s what you’re angling for. I’ve got other things to deal with right now.”

  Barb slid her plate toward me. “I know.”

  I only had four plates to clear. The stacking didn’t take long. I walked the plates over to the dishwasher to give myself some breathing room, but Barb followed me over with the glasses. She placed them gently onto the top rack of the machine, then backed up and leaned against the counter to watch me fiddle. I could feel her watching me and knew she’d keep at it until I turned around and faced her. The longer I didn’t, the sillier I felt, until finally I pushed the washer door closed, turned, and, leaning against the opposite counter, faced her, my arms folded, the only defense I had remaining. “You aren’t going to let this go.”

  She grinned. “Do you want me to?”

  “Words cannot express how much. I’m fine with things the way there are.”

  “Poppycock.” I looked a question. “Nun word for load of crap.”

  “I forget sometimes how earthy you can be.”

  She shrugged. “At your own peril.... It was a surprise seeing him, I imagine.”

  “Surprise would require at least a hint of recognition on my part. I thought he was just some guy looking for directions.” I stared down at my bare feet, warm against the cool linoleum.

  “And when you found out he wasn’t?”

  “I had a garden spade I thought about using for an alternate purpose.” I gave her a wan smile and padded back over to the table. She sat across from me. “I don’t need this right now, I really don’t,” I said.

  “I’ve never seen a convenient complication, have you?”

  “There’s that.”

  “How did he seem? Did he look well?”

  I shrugged. “He looked like an old man in a nice suit.”

  Barb drummed her fingers on the table. “You know, some people can handle upheaval, some can’t. Your Mom’s illness came out of nowhere, I remember, and blew everything up.”

  I nodded. It was true. Practically overnight, she was gone, and I was left with the one who didn’t know how I liked my mashed potatoes or what my favorite color was or on what side I parted my hair. My father was in the house, but not intimately familiar with my life, with me. He was a stranger even then. My care, the feeling of being cared for, was my mother’s domain. Then, just like that, she was gone; then he was gone. I grieved for her and for the sense of security I’d lost, but not so much for him. I didn’t know him well enough to miss him.

  “I can’t imagine who he thinks he’s coming back to.”

  “You should have asked him.”

  “That would have required having an actual conversation. Besides, I only gave him ten seconds. He doesn’t feel like my father. Your dad stuck around. You feel differently.”

  Barb chuckled. “He had nine kids! Where could he go that my mother couldn’t find him? That little spitfire would have hounded him to the ends of the earth. But, you’re right, I feel differently. He was a great dad. That didn’t stop him from grounding us or whacking us when we needed it, though.”

  “Or leaving one of you in jail overnight to teach you a lesson,” I said.

  Barb smiled wistfully. “Ah, those were fun times, weren’t they?”

  “Not if you ask your mother.”

  “I still don’t think she trusts any of us to this day. She proves it by staying in touch to a maniacal degree. She called me every other day in Tanzania.”

  “Go see her,” I said.

  Barb scowled. “She’ll want to trim my hair and buy me a new dress like I’m six. I’ll go soon. I’ll have to go. She knows I’m back. If I don’t go, I’ll find her camped out on your front lawn.”

  I sighed. “Well, there, I’ve talked.”

  Barb sputtered. “Barely. I did most of it.”

  I started to rise. “My bit still counts. Thanks for the ear. You’re a peach.”

  She waved me back down. “Nuh-uh.”

  “I’m feeling a little sorry for those Tanzanian children. You’re a bossy nun. That’s the worst kind, by the way.”

  “Quit your whining. Just this, then I’ll drop it. Whatever your father came to say, you owe it to yourself to listen. Then decide what, if anything, you’ll do about it.” She shrugged. “Maybe nothing. But what you have now is not a good place to end things. ‘Nothing is ever settled until it is settled right.’ That’s Kipling, not me, by the way.”

  “Which part?”

  Barb blinked. “What?”

  “Which part was Kipling?”

  “The part about nothing being settled. I could have gone with the parable of the prodigal son, but you would have expected that one.” I stared at her. “See him. Listen. Talk if you have something to say. Make the effort.”

  “He doesn’t get a do-over. He left, fine. I dealt with that. But now he comes back and thinks that’s perfectly okay to do? That’s what burns me, the audacity.”

  Barb sighed. “He’s not an idiot. He knows he can’t change the past. He’s got to be working on the next chapter.”

  “He’s a bastard.”

  Barb leaned over and patted my arm. “I wouldn’t lead with that. It starts you off on the wrong foot. Settle it right.” She clapped her hands together with an air of finality. “Now that that’s done, which one of us gets to tell Ben and Whip it’s safe to come out of the bathroom?”

  Chapter 20

  I gave up all hope of sleep around four AM. The fight in Pop’s room and the ensuing chase played over and over in my head all night like a lousy movie that just wouldn’t end. My blankets lay twisted and rumpled at the foot of my bed from all the tossing, as though I’d spent the night wrestling an alligator. I’d have had the wild man were it not for the slippery grass and the jittery cops. A couple more strides, one lucky break, and I’d have had him. Who was he? Who was he afraid of? What did he see in that church? Maybe I’d spooked him and he wouldn’t come back. Maybe I hadn’t, and he was there now. I couldn’t relax thinking about the possibilities. I had to get up.

  Every muscle in my body protested, but I slowly sat up in bed and slid my legs over the side, drawing in a cautious breath as I got to my feet. My head felt like a slab of concrete—leaden, blockish—and the aspirin I’d taken had done little to lighten it. I squeezed my eyes shut as jabs of molten dagger points seared their way up and down my spine. My lungs seized up and sweat beaded on my furrowed brow, but I slowly made it to the shower. I’d live, I decided once there, but for a while it wouldn’t be at all graceful.

  I left Barb sleeping in my spare bedroom and a note I’d written telling her where I’d be tacked to the door. I had no idea when I’d be back. Make yourself at home, I’d instructed her. I had a lot to do, and I had to get it done before Farraday decided it was past time to toss his weight around. Anton Bolek. He was hiding something. I was sure of it. But I couldn’t tail him twenty-four hours a day, not solo. I called Whip, hoping he was an early riser, hoping he had a friend or two.

  “How many do you need?” he asked. “And do you want just straight-up surveillance or scare-the-shit-out-of-him surveillance, because I got guys for both.”

  “Just curious,” I said. “What’s option B?”

  “We eyeball him, but he sees us doing it. Day in, day out, relentless, we’re there, like a bad smell, but he doesn’t know why. He worries about that. Where he goes, we go. By the end, he’s jumping at shadows and hiding under his own bed, ready for a padded cell. All depends on how far you want to push this.”

  I thought for a moment, thinking how nice it mig
ht be to put a good scare into the oily Bolek, but settled for option A. I just needed to know what he was doing that he didn’t want Pop knowing about. I didn’t want to scare him to death. “I want to know what he’s up to without him knowing he’s being watched.”

  “Option A it is then.” He sounded downright giddy over the phone, happy, I guess, to finally be given a task, which gave me momentary pause. Was I really going to sic a bunch of ex-cons on Anton Bolek?

  “You saw him at the memorial. You know what he looks like. He drives a dark blue Chevy S10 with a shoddy muffler. There’s a faded MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN sticker on his rear bumper.”

  Whip sputtered. “Shit, he’s due a good spooking just for that.”

  “No one gets hurt. Promise me.”

  “I’ll get back. Sit tight.” He ended the call. I held the phone in my hands for a moment, worried, just a little, about what I’d just done.

  * * *

  In the dark, I trolled the neighborhood around the church, cruising down alleys, scanning the sidewalks and gangways. I was still at it when the sun came up, but the man from the closet was nowhere. For lack of anything else to do, I pulled up into a spot a few doors down from the rectory and sat watching it until kids began flooding into the school next door. Sitting in my car, watching, began to feel a little predatory. I drove once more through the alley and was about to give up, when I caught sight of a woman picking through a garbage cart. I ditched my car and approached her slowly. “Hello?” I called. “Excuse me?”

  The woman jerked around, letting go of the cart lid, which landed with a reverberating thud. She rooted excitedly into layers of clothing, finally coming up with a battered metal rod about the length and width of a golf club. One end was wrapped in duct tape, I assumed, for a better grip. The other end, the business end, well, no tape needed there. That end was for bashing. “Mind your own! Ain’t doing nothing here that’s any of yours!” She thrusted and parried with the rod, impressively nimble on her feet. “Get on! I move along when I’m ready to, no sooner. Free country.”

  I took a step back, well out of striking range, my hands up. “When you move along is up to you. I’m not here to hassle you. I’m looking for a little information.” I gave her what I hoped was my most disarming smile. While in uniform, part of my job was moving the homeless along. I was a defender of the peace, the arm of the law, and the law said no vagrancy. Nothing in the law, however, forbid me from feeling for them, or taking a moment to realize that only the grace of God separated me from them. Most of the time, I let them be, often passing a few bucks their way for a hot cup of coffee or a meal. Many did more harm to themselves than they could ever do to anyone around them. They were ghosts who walked the streets alone, and people looked right through them as though they were invisible.

  The woman was of indeterminate age, dressed in threadbare layers of disparate fabric, some suitable for cold weather, some for hot. Behind her sat a bedraggled shopping cart adorned with long strips of colored ribbon worn dull by time, weather, and rough use. The cart held her meager possessions—clothing, plastic bottles, discarded toys and trinkets, and on top of all that, a stack of old magazines tied neatly in filthy twine. The woman smirked and lowered the rod a little, not much. “You got it right. I come and go as I please. If they throw it out, their loss. Mine now.”

  “My name’s Cass. I’m looking for someone. Maybe you know him?” She just stood there. Had she heard me? “What’s your name?”

  That got a rise. She reached back and grabbed the cart handle, as though I were going to snatch the cart from her. One hand held the cart, the other her makeshift sword, which she aimed at me. “Don’t talk to Social Services. Nothing good ever comes of it.”

  I eased my arms down primarily because it hurt to keep them up. “I’m not a social worker. The man I’m looking for is dark, about two hundred pounds, tall. He wears an Army jacket and likes candles. Maybe you know him?”

  The woman blinked rapidly, then shook her head. “Don’t like candles. Too witchy. I go flashlight—lasts longer, burns bright. Go with the bunny batteries, too, not the crap kind. The ones that go on and on and on and on. Get them from the church bins around donation time. That’s all you need to know about that.”

  I didn’t have my bag, but I reached into my back pocket for the case I kept my driver’s license and credit cards in and pulled out my emergency twenty dollar bill. I held the money up for her to see. “Maybe you could think about the man I described a little more? I’d like to pay you for your time—for keeping you from what you were doing. Dark, about two-hundred pounds, Army jacket. Maybe he hangs around here.”

  Her eyes darted around the alley as though she expected a sneak attack. “Ha. Know that old trick. Where they hiding? Are they out there parking the crazy wagon?”

  “No trick,” I said. “Just another moment to think about it and the money’s yours.”

  I could tell she didn’t believe me. Trust was just one of the many things she’d lost along the way. “Whether I seen him, or not?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “Either way.” I waited while she thought it over.

  “What do you want him for?”

  “Just to talk,” I said. “Like I’m doing now with you.” She eyed the money, but didn’t move. “I was a friend of the priest who died here. I think the man I’d like to talk to knows something about that.”

  The rod fell down to her side. She smiled. “Father Ray?”

  The tension between my shoulder blades relaxed some, not a lot. “He was real nice to street folk. Kindly.”

  “Yes, he was. So, please, is there anything you know that might help?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Money first.”

  I stepped forward slowly and handed her the twenty, watching as she deftly slipped it into a hidden pocket. “What should I call you?”

  She jumped back. “Why?”

  “You’ve got a name. I’d like to use it.”

  “What’d you say yours was?” she asked.

  “Cass.”

  She grimaced, shook her head. “Like mine better. Cleopatra.”

  I took her name at face value. Maybe it was real, maybe she’d just adopted it for herself. Her prerogative. It was clear she had very little else to call her own, but at least she had the freedom to cling to a name that suited her. I stood quietly as Cleopatra reached into her fuzzy memory bank. After a time, she let out a loud, triumphant snort.

  “Sure. I know him. Name’s Old Sarge. Army man.” She made a broad sweep with her arms. “Walks all around here, up and down, night, day. And he can do it, too. He’s always got new boots. It’s magic, or something. Haven’t seen him. Used to, now I don’t.”

  “Old Sarge? You’re sure?”

  She glowered. “You heard. Now you best be getting on the get and leave me to myself.” She backed away.

  “Wait! Do you know where he’d go?”

  She sighed heavily. “I just told you. Here!” She yelled the last bit.

  “Besides here.”

  She spread her arms wide in a gesture of profound annoyance. “How would I know? I’m in this place, and he’s in some other place. I can only see what I see. See? But if it was me looking for Old Sarge, I’d check where the food’s at. Everything living’s got to eat.”

  She turned and double-timed her cart down the alley. “Free to do my business,” she shouted back over her shoulder. “Free to come and go.”

  While I watched her round the corner and disappear, I dug my phone out of my pocket. Following the food wasn’t a bad idea, and food meant checking shelters and soup kitchens, and in this neighborhood that meant Bear Burgett. She ran the Sanctuary out of a repurposed dental clinic, well within wandering distance of the church’s back door. Hers was the closest free meal around. Bear had a spooky gift for memorizing names and faces, a gift she’d perfected as a prison guard at Logan Correctional. If she’d ever served Old Sarge a meal or offered him a bed, she’d remember him.

  I’d pu
nched in the first three digits of her number, when I heard the rectory door open and shut. I trotted over to the gate just in time to see Father Pascoe slide into his car and drive away. I put the phone back in my pocket. Bear could wait. I eased open the back gate, slipped through the courtyard, crept up the rectory steps, and rang the bell. No one answered. I leaned on the bell. Nothing. I pressed the bell to the tune of Jingle Bells, then waited a few seconds more. All clear.

  “Hot diggity.” I dug out my picklocks, ducked behind the evergreen bush, and went to work on the tumblers. No alarm to worry about, thank goodness. I’d often urged Pop to get one, but he never felt the need—something about trusting his fellow man and fostering a sense of openness, blah, blah, blah. I had the lock beat in less than three minutes. Not as fast as Whip’s record, but breaking and entering wasn’t my day job. “Just proves I was right, Pop,” I muttered, just in case he was listening. I slipped inside and closed the door behind me. “Flimsy locks leave you wide open for all kinds of squirrely vagabonds. Present company excluded, of course.”

  I bypassed the office. I’d searched it already and hadn’t found anything that got me anywhere. I took the stairs two at a time headed for Pop’s room, to the closet, which last time had held a nasty surprise. I didn’t expect lightning to strike twice, but just in case, I unholstered my gun before easing the door open, exhaling deeply when I found it empty of anything with a pulse. I put the gun away and got to work. Time flies when you’re breaking the law.

  The contents of the closet proved less than revelatory. Nothing inside but Pop’s black suits, a couple of cardigans, and a St. Brendan’s baseball jacket hanging on the rod. Every pocket I slid my hand into was empty. No book. No proof of Cesar and Pop’s connection. The fact that I wasn’t finding the book anywhere led me to believe its absence was deliberate, that someone had taken it, but for what purpose? What secrets did it hold?

  A cardboard box about the size of a kid’s lunchbox sat on the top shelf. I pulled it down and opened it, but there were only white clerical tabs inside. I shoved the box back, frustration getting the better of me. Reaching up to feel around the back of the shelf, my foot bumped up against something on the floor. I looked down to find a battered green duffle bag pushed under the hanging suits. Down on my hands and knees, I slid the bag out where I could see it and quickly unzipped it.