Kiss Of Evil jp-2

by Richard Montanari

  “I’ll be right back,” Mercedes says, and lets herself be led off. “Don’t leave the area.”

  32

  His car smells of old onions. I hadn’t expected showroom cleanliness from the man, yet I had expected a certain order, considering his profession. You would think as much.

  And yet it is good news. A car in such a state is never scrutinized.

  I clip the inexpensive wireless transmitter-one that allows me no more than a three-hundred-foot range, but operates well above the FM band-under the passenger seat, draw a deep breath, savoring his essence, and step back into the frozen night.

  33

  At nine-thirty the party begins to wind down, the dolls and race cars and action figures having been duly named, adopted, and secreted away. Rebecca had returned not with a handful of napkins and a paper cup of ice water as Paris expected, but rather a warm washcloth with which she gently washed his palm. They chatted as she did, and for Paris, so long out of a woman’s arms-any woman’s arms-the experience was highly erotic and ended way too soon.

  Then, the requisite old-fart feelings return and he begins to feel silly.

  “You’re sure you don’t mind?” Rebecca asks. “I can take a cab.”

  “I won’t hear of it.”

  “It’s not out of your way?”

  “Not at all,” Paris says, wondering how he was going to clean the inside of his car in the next ten minutes.

  “You’re sweet. Let me get my coat and say good-bye to some of the kids.”

  “No problem,” Paris says. “I’ll meet you by the back door.”

  Paris watches her walk away again, wondering, again, how he got to this age, this volatile state of his heart. When he cruised the nightclubs in his twenties, he would look at the guys in their forties-hanging around the bar, drinking their Scotch-and-somethings, surveying the human landscape like hairsprayed jackals-and laugh at their feeble attempts at picking up young women. Now he is that guy. When the hell did that happen?

  The hall is just about emptied when Mercedes returns, her coat on, her shiny black boots in hand. “Where’s your little friend?”

  “Don’t know,” Paris says. “Lost track of him when he went for his new Tootsie Pop.”

  “I meant the one in the tight jeans.”

  Paris laughs. “Off to say good-bye to the kids, I guess.”

  “Ah…”

  “She just needs a ride home, that’s all. Said her car broke down.”

  “I guess they don’t make Big Wheels like they used to.”

  “C’mon. She’s not that young. Is she?”

  “No,” Mercedes says. “Just giving you a hard time.”

  They stroll to the door. “So, what do you have planned for the rest of the evening?” Paris asks.

  “Not much. Home. Bubble bath. Snuggle up with Declan and watch It’s a Wonderful Life for the thousandth time. Cry like always.”

  “Uh… Declan?”

  “Yeah. Dec’s my twenty-year-old houseboy from Dublin. Soccer legs, eyes like Colin Farrell.”

  Paris isn’t going to fall for it. “I see.”

  “Declan is my dog. He’s a Jack Russell terrier. Jack Russells are a smaller version of the English Fox terrier that a guy named Reverend John Russell…”

  Mercedes keeps walking and talking, but Paris is frozen in his tracks.

  Mercedes stops, turns. “What?”

  “You have a JR?”

  His car smells like Taco Bell. He had done a quick cleaning job, shoving everything into the back seat and covering it all with that quilted moving blanket he carries around just in case he sees a spinet piano on a tree lawn someday, all the while reprimanding himself for offering a ride to a pretty woman before thinking about this. He is now parked by the back door of the auditorium, both doors flung open, heater on.

  Paris looks around the emptying lot. There are only a handful of cars left. Then, on the other side of the lot, next to the parking kiosk, he sees Mercedes’s brother, Julian, standing with some teenaged boys. Nearby, a fifty-gallon drum burns. Paris waves, but Julian doesn’t see him.

  Catholics, Paris thinks with a smile. Mercedes must have told him about the party and he had volunteered, too. He looks for Mercedes but doesn’t see her. A few minutes later he notices Rebecca approaching from the auditorium wearing a long dark coat and matching beret, compounding Paris’s schoolboy dread. He has always been a sucker for women in berets.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she says.

  “No problem,” Paris says. “You all set?”

  “Yep.”

  They both get in the car, buckle up. Paris pulls out of the parking lot, heads east, absolutely dispossessed of clever conversation. Rebecca breaks the silence first.

  “So, how long have you been doing the Cleveland League party?”

  “Let’s see,” Paris says. “This was my fourth.”

  “Wow. You’re a real vet.”

  “I’ve got the broken eardrums to prove it, too. How about you?”

  “Just my first. There was a little article in last Sunday’s Plain Dealer. Some of the kids were quoted in there about what they wanted for Christmas. Some said they wanted a family. Some said they just wanted a friend. It broke my heart and here I am.”

  “They appreciate it,” Paris says. “They really do. And they won’t forget you.”

  “I hope not. But you. Four years. You must really love kids.”

  Paris thinks about it for a moment. It was true. “I do. The part that hurts, though, is that some of those kids are going into the system one day. Some of them soon. Guaranteed. And there isn’t anything we can do about it.”

  “I know,” she says. “It’s sad.”

  Rebecca turns her back to her door, crosses her legs, smoothes her coat. Paris can feel her eyes on him, but does not have the courage to look over. The silence lasts for four or five stoplights. Paris fills it by turning on the radio, finding a station with Christmas music. Finally, at University Circle, Rebecca asks, her tongue firmly in cheek: “By the way, can I chip in for gas?”

  “Sure,” Paris says, deadly serious. “I was just going to bring that up, in fact. I think it comes to twenty-six cents. But don’t sweat the penny. A quarter’s cool.”

  Rebecca laughs. “Okay, then. But at least let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

  Paris almost blurts out: “Sure. That would be great.”

  The Starbucks at Cedar-Center is busy with Christmas Eve revelers, mostly kids in their late teens and twenties. Paris takes a corner table. Rebecca soon joins him bearing espresso. She places the cups on the table and removes her coat, reminding Paris what a great body she has.

  “Gosh I’m getting old,” she says, sitting across from Paris. “It used to be that everyone behind the counter here was my age or older. Now I feel like somebody’s mother.”

  Right, Paris thinks. What a hag. “I wouldn’t worry too much about that for a while,” Paris says. “Take it from someone who knows.”

  Rebecca smiles. “So you’re Father Time then, huh?”

  “Sometimes I feel a thousand years old. And those are my ginkgoba days.”

  “Well, as a semi-young single woman, all I can say is you look pretty good for a thousand.” She sips her espresso. “Besides, like Groucho said: You’re only as old as the woman you feel. Or something like that.”

  Wow, Paris thinks. She even quotes the Marx Brothers. I’m in love.

  Over the next ten minutes or so they discuss their lives, their respective romantic pasts. Paris, divorced, one daughter. Rebecca, divorced, no kids. The conversation flows freely and comfortably.

  “So, can I ask an unbelievably personal question, considering the time we’ve known each other?” Paris asks.

  Rebecca examines every square inch of his face before answering. “Okay.”

  “What happened? In your marriage, I mean. That is, if you don’t mind telling me.”

  “I don’t mind telling you. What happened was I was married to a ma
n who thought he was going to hit me and screw me in the same twenty-four-hour period. Took me a whole year to figure it out. I was young. That’s my only defense. One day I woke up, looked at the newest bruises, grabbed a few dresses, and walked. Never looked back.”

  “Good for you,” Paris says. “What happened to your husband?”

  “Long gone. Texas, I hear. Although I do expect him to turn up someday. Most likely in a post-office photo.” Rebecca sips her espresso. “What about you?”

  Paris thinks for a moment. He hadn’t had to encapsulate his marriage and divorce in a long time. He finds that the pain hasn’t receded a bit. “The day I joined the Homicide Unit is the day my marriage began to crack, I think. The hours, the things I see every day. The fact that I couldn’t seem to leave the job at the office like I had before. Add to that too much booze, an average of four hours’ sleep every night, along with the attitude of a macho shithead cop trying to be protector to the world while ignoring his family, and you have the story. Old story at that. One day I awoke in a stupor, asked for a second chance, sobered up, and realized she’d already given me ten.”

  Rebecca offers a compassionate smile and touches the back of his hand. “Do you have a picture of your daughter?”

  “What do you think?” Paris retrieves his wallet, takes out an old snapshot of Beth and Missy. Beth’s hair is long; Missy is in a two-piece bathing suit, wearing orange sunglasses and a floppy yellow sunbonnet, brim up. “It’s a few years ago.”

  “She’s such a little doll.”

  “All that heaven will allow,” Paris says. He returns the picture to his wallet, spins his cup idly for a few moments. “So, do you mind if I ask you another really personal question?”

  “Oh, why stop now?”

  “What the hell do women want?”

  Rebecca laughs. “That’s easy. I can’t believe you don’t know this one by now.”

  “It’s on a very long list.”

  “Women want three things in a man, Jack. One, strong hands.”

  “Okay.”

  “Two, soft heart.”

  “I see,” Paris replies. “And third?”

  “Fast horse.”

  It is Paris’s turn to laugh. “Well, I have two covered.”

  “Oh yeah? Which two?”

  “The two that don’t involve gravity or inertia.”

  For Paris, the next twenty minutes are a warm, pleasant blur. The conversation is all over the map. Rebecca shares his interest in film, especially cop movies, especially Al Pacino cop movies. They agree that the grocery store scene in Sea of Love is about as sexy as it gets. Rebecca seems to share some of his core political beliefs. Rebecca has dimples.

  They leave Starbucks and drive the short distance to Rebecca’s apartment building. Paris doesn’t remember any of it. They sit at the curb, headlights off, heater on low.

  “Thanks for the ride,” she says.

  “You are more than welcome.”

  “I’m glad we met. I feel like I have a new friend.”

  “Me too.”

  “It kind of made my Christmas Eve.”

  She really has no idea, Paris thinks. “Mine, too,” he says. “And thanks for the espresso.”

  “Sure.”

  They contemplate each other for a few moments, afield in that place where men and women sometimes find themselves after a little harmless flirting, after a brief encounter dusted with the casual flattery, the occasional touch, the silent sexual nearness.

  Mercifully, Rebecca moves first. She leans over, kisses Paris on the cheek, and says:

  “Merry Christmas, Jack.”

  34

  Christmas morning breaks silently over Lake Erie; milk-glass sunlight struggles first through thick lavender clouds, then splays like a wash of yellow tempera along the ragged shoreline that stretches from Ashtabula to Toledo.

  At ten-thirty, as per their arrangement, Paris is sitting in Beth’s kitchen, watching her make breakfast. Melissa is in her room, trying on her new Christmas clothes. And blasting some God-awful music.

  “So,” he begins, trying, and failing, to sound conversational. “You guys got plans for New Year’s Eve?” He used the word guys, hoping Beth and Melissa were going to do something together, thereby indicating that Beth did not have a date.

  “Missy is going over to Tina Manno’s house. I guess Jessica’s mother is putting on a pretty big spread for the kids. I heard she was even hiring a rock band.”

  “Wow,” Paris says, stoking a tiny ember of hope in his heart. “That sounds like fun.”

  “You can actually say that after watching that group the other night?”

  Paris laughs as Beth places a plate of eggs, home fries, and toast in front of him. He takes a bite of toast, remains silent for the moment. But the next question is in his eyes. There is no need to say it out loud. Beth puts down the butter knife. “I have a date, Jack.”

  The words ping around his heart for a moment or two, leaving welts. “Oh, okay. Anyone I know?” He tries to float it as a small joke, but it sinks.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why do you torture yourself?”

  “It’s not torture. It’s… conversation, that’s all.”

  “Okay,” Beth says.

  Paris furrows onward, heart first. “Somebody from work?”

  “Nope. I met him on the Internet, actually.”

  “What?” Paris drops his fork.

  “You asked, right?”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Jack, you want to know where I met him? I met him on eharmony, an online Christian dating service, okay? Is that safe enough?”

  Paris throws his hands skyward. “Safe? Are you nuts? Do you want to know how many people I’ve locked up who’ve gone to church every Sunday of their lives?”

  “How many?” Beth asks with a smile, one that Paris knows she uses when she is trying to break the tension in what will certainly become an argument. An argument they are no longer authorized to have. It works.

  “A lot,” Paris says. “It’s just that-”

  “It’s just that you love your daughter very much and you want the very best for her.”

  Paris would add Beth to that list, but doesn’t. “Well, yeah. That. But I-”

  “And that is why Melissa adores her father,” Beth says. “She knows.”

  Knockout punch. Paris doesn’t even bother getting off the emotional canvas. “Okay. Just be careful, all right?”

  Beth salutes him, then gives him a hug. “Missy loved her present from you, by the way. She thought it was cool.”

  He had returned the perfume and gotten her a gift certificate to Abercrombie amp; Fitch, hoping it was still in the realm of cool for girls his daughter’s age.

  Beth leaves the room for a moment, then returns, a gift-wrapped shirt box in hand. Missy’s gift to him. He takes the box, opens it. There, inside, is a white Calvin Klein dress shirt, spread collar. A very nice tie as well, clearly his weakest suit when picking out dress clothes.

  But, also in the box, is a smaller box, something that looks like a jewelry case. Paris glances at Beth, knowing that she broke the rules. The shirt may be from Missy, but whatever is in the leatherette jewelry box is from Beth.

  “No fair,” Paris says. “I thought we had an agreement.”

  “Just open it, Jack. You’ll understand.”

  “But we agreed,” Paris says, feeling like an idiot for not having the brains to have brought a contingency present for Beth in case this happened.

  “I know,” Beth says. “But if you’d just open it, you’d understand.”

  Paris opens the small, square jewelry box to find a pair of beautiful silver cuff links.

  Beth says: “It’s a French cuff shirt. Completely useless without cuff links, right?”

  After an early dinner at his mother’s-the usual belt-loosening holiday spread that includes a primi piatti of homemade gnocchi, followed by a main course of roast capon, followed by w
arm hazelnut biscotti-Paris spends the remainder of the day reading the Web Cam for Dummies book Carla had given him, addressing it in a manner in which he addresses most technical material, that being with one perfectly glazed eye. At eleven, with the book tented over his eyes, he falls asleep on the living room couch.

  Usually, whenever he pays a visit to his ex-wife’s apartment, he has the standard dream about Beth, one where she spends a pleasant day with him, laughing and touching and hugging, only to say good-bye forever at the end, breaking his heart anew every morning. But this time he doesn’t dream about his ex-wife and their long-cooled love affair.

  This night he dreams about a beautiful young woman with burnished bronze hair.

  35

  The day after Christmas in most major cities brings a brief respite in violent crimes. If people are going to kill each other around the holidays they seem to get their licks in on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. Or they wait until New Year’s Eve.

  At noon, on December 26, the halls of the sixth floor at the Justice Center are quiet.

  Paris and Carla Davis are meeting with Greg Ebersole in Greg’s office. Greg looks like a beaten man. The benefit for Max Ebersole had gone well, but not as well as Greg had hoped, Paris had learned. It is the holidays, they all said, a reassuring hand on Greg’s shoulder. A lot of people are out of town. A lot of people are simply tapped out. Paris considers the possibility that Greg had not been to sleep for more than an hour or two at a time since leaving the Caprice that night.

  Greg says: “I’ve got a sketch coming this afternoon. Composite of a woman that Willis Walker was seen with at the bar at Vernelle’s on the night he was killed. White woman.”

  Paris and Carla exchange a glance. “White woman? Anybody recognize her from before?” Carla asks.

  “No,” Greg says. “And they all say that they would remember. The men anyway. They said she was all that and a bag of chips, you know?”

  Carla laughs. “You say that pretty good for such a doughboy, Greg.”

  Greg goes red.