by J.R. Rain
“You know, to silence the pesky private eye.”
“You are kind of pesky, aren’t you?”
“The peskier the better.”
“So what’re you going to do?” she asked.
I sipped some wine. I tasted nothing, literally, but at least I didn’t double over with stomach cramps. Sipping from the wine glass gave me some semblance of normalcy. “I’m going to have a talk with Detective Sherbet this evening.”
“But what can he do?” asked my sister. “He can’t just barge in there and arrest the guy without probable cause.”
“You’ve been watching too much TV, but you’re right. Not without a search warrant. And one needs evidence to obtain a search warrant.”
“So breaking into this guy’s house and finding evidence hidden under his bed won’t fly with a judge, right?”
“Right,” I said.
“So what will you do?” she asked.
“The detective and I will figure something out.”
“Will you tell this detective about your break-in?”
“Yeah, probably.”
“Will he like it?”
“Probably not.”
We were silent, and I decided now was the time to tell her about the attempted rape and the death of the gang banger—and about the sucking of blood. So I did. The story took a few minutes, during which Mary Lou said nothing although I noted she had quickly finished her drink.
“That was very reckless of you,” she said when I was done.
“I know.”
“And you really drank his blood?”
“Yes.”
She was silent. I was silent. The noises of the bar came floating to my ears, the chink of glasses being washed in the sink, the sound of laughter behind me, the snapping opening of the cash register drawer.
“What if this somehow causes you to lose control, Samantha?”
“I love my kids too much to lose control.”
“Then you took a foolish chance by drinking that man’s blood.”
“Yes, I did. But the situation had gotten quickly out of control. Before I knew it, I was holding a corpse.”
“You should not be jogging so late.”
I drank my wine. Sometimes Mary Lou was impossible to talk to.
“When is there a better time? I’m a goddamn vampire.”
“The early evening.”
“In the early evening I have the kids and work.”
“Then why do you need to jog at all?”
“Because it helps me stay sane.”
We were alone at this end of the counter. As we spoke, my eyes constantly scanned the crowd, making sure we had no eavesdroppers. “I walk a fine line, Mary Lou. Everything around me is threatening to crumble away. Something like exercise is within my control. I need control right now.”
“Maybe you need help.”
We had gone through this before. “There’s no one to help me.”
“Maybe you need to speak to a therapist, someone, anyone.”
“You think this is in my head?”
“No. It’s real. I know that.”
“The moment I tell a therapist that I’m a vampire, they’ll lock me up and take away my kids. Is that what you want?”
She didn’t answer immediately.
“Is that what you want, Mary Lou?”
“No, it’s not what I want, but I also think your kids are not living a very healthy and normal life.” She sighed and reached out and held my hand. “You are a good mother, I know that. I know your kids mean everything to you, but I think they are in an unhealthy environment.”
“I see it as a different environment,” I said, then studied her concerned face. “Wait. Do you worry for their safety?”
She said nothing.
“Do you worry that I will have a craving and drink from my own children?”
Nothing.
“You do, don’t you?”
She sucked in some air. “No, of course not. But if you keep behaving recklessly you might, you know, someday lose sight of who you are. Sam, you’ve fought for so long to keep things together. I don’t want to see your life crumble around you just because you found the taste of one man’s blood particular good.”
I studied her and she looked away. I suddenly had an insight. “You’ve been talking to Danny, haven’t you?”
She reddened. “Yes. He called me the other night to apologize for not picking up the kids. He’s worried about the kids.”
“Oh, really? And he shows this by coming home at midnight?”
She shrugged. “He worries that you will have a negative influence on their lives. I told him that was ridiculous. No mother loves her kids more than you.”
We were silent. It was just before dusk, and I was irritable and cranky and tired. I wanted to sleep.
“He’s screwing someone else,” I said.
“You know for sure?”
“No. But I’m going to find out.”
“I’m sorry, Sam.”
“So am I. But it was bound to happen, right? Who wants to be married to a freak?”
“You’re not a freak,” she said, and then cracked a smile. “Well, okay, maybe a little freaky.”
I laughed. She reached out and took my hand. I reveled in the warmth.
She said, “So what are you going to do, Sam?”
“Follow him,” I said. “I am, after all, an ace detective.”
32.
The sun had just set, and I was in Detective Sherbet’s office. I felt good. Most important, I felt cognizant and lucid.
I sat in the visitor’s chair in front of his desk and noticed for the first time that Sherbet was a handsome man. His arms were heavily muscled and tan, with dark hair circling his forearms. I didn’t usually go for arm hair on men, but on Sherbet it seemed fitting and a little exciting. He seemed like a man’s man, powerful and virile. No wonder it galled him to think his kid might be gay.
“So how did the basketball game go the other day?” I asked.
There was a greasy bag of donuts sitting on top of a very full trash can. The scent of donut oil was foul, and slightly upsetting to my stomach. I fought through it.
“Kid was horrible. He actually took a shot at the wrong basket. Hell, he almost even made it. I nearly cheered. The coach benched him after that.”
“Did your boy have fun?”
“No. He was miserable.”
“Did you have fun?”
“No. I was embarrassed.”
“So what are you going to do? Keep forcing him to play?”
“You sound like my wife.”
“Your wife sounds like she might be the only reasonable parent in your household.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do with that kid.”
“Just love him.”
“I do.”
Our section of the police station was empty and quiet. The detective had his hands clasped over his rotund belly. Although his stomach could have been flatter, the roundness sort of added to his manhood, pronouncing him as a real man who wasn’t afraid to eat.
“You’re looking at my fat belly,” he said.
“I would call it rotund,” I said.
“Rotund? Are you trying to get on my good side?”
“Maybe.”
He rubbed a hand over the curving sweep of his belly, then played with one of the clear plastic buttons. His face turned somber. “Samantha, I know you were assaulted six years ago, here in Fullerton. It’s in your record. You were found in Hillcrest Park, half-dead. Your throat torn open. Although there was little blood at the scene, you had almost bled to death. At first it was believed that you might have been attacked by an animal, a dog or coyote. But later you told investigators that it had been a man. He was never found.”
“Detective, I don’t want to talk about—”
“Now, I understand you might not want to talk about it, but there’s something strange going on here in my town, my backyard, so to speak. My beat. I would app
reciate if maybe someday you could help me understand.”
“Someday,” I said. “Just not today.”
“Okay, fine. On to item number two. What do you have on the Fulcrum case?”
Relieved to be talking about anything else, I told him everything I knew about Horton. When I got to the part about breaking and entering Horton’s home, I said, “Are you going to arrest me?”
“Not yet. Keep going.”
“Horton had files on Hewitt Jackson and Kingsley Fulcrum, not to mention a new file on me. In these files are detailed information on Jackson’s and Fulcrum’s movements. A date and time was circled on Jackson. In fact, it was the exact date and time he was murdered.”
Detective Sherbet’s eyes widened a little. For Sherbet, this was the next best thing to him jumping up and down and yelling yippee! “Then he’s our man.”
“Yes, I think so.”
“You think so? Hell, he had everything but the smoking gun. And he might still have that, as well, once we serve a search warrant.”
“He just doesn’t feel right.”
“Is that your gut talking?”
“Yes.”
“Well, my gut says he’s our man.”
“How are you going to convince a judge to issue a warrant?”
He sat back, laced his fingers behind his thick head of salt and pepper hair. “Good question. Any ideas?”
“You’re the homicide detective.”
He thought about that. “How about a trash run?”
“As in dig through his trash?” I said.
“Sure. It’s public domain. We find something incriminating we can convince a judge to issue a warrant.”
I blinked. “We?”
“Yes, I’m not going to dig through his trash alone.”
“The trash went out last night,” I said. “I saw the barrels.”
“It’s settled then. Next Thursday we go out to Horton’s place and dig through his trash.”
“Sounds like a date.”
“Let’s just hope we find something.”
“Oh, I’m sure we’ll find something,” I said. “Let’s just hope we find the right something.”
33.
The kids were in karate class together, so I used the opportunity to work-out at Jacky’s. It was late evening, and the sun had set. I was feeling strong and healthy. At the moment, Jacky was taping my fists. We were both silent. I think he sensed I was in one of my moods. Occasionally, he would look up into my face, then quickly avert his eyes.
“I’m not going to bite you, Jacky.”
“You think I’m afraid of you?” he asked. “Well, I am.”
I rubbed his shining head with my already-taped right hand.
In fact, I was having a hard time letting go of my conversation with Mary Lou. I was trying to comprehend the fact that she had been secretly speaking to Danny. Discussing what an unfit mother I was.
“Whatever’s eating at you,” said Jacky, “take it out on the punching bag. That’s my motto.”
And so I did. Pummeling the thing until I was dripping sweat. We worked in three minute drills, with Jacky screaming at me to keep my hands up. I would finish each round in a flurry of punches, rapid-fire body shots to the punching bag. During one of these flurries, I caught Jacky’s expression as he steadied the punching bag. It was one of profound pain. The punches were reverberating through the bag and into him. The Irishman was taking a beating, but he seemed to love it.
At the end of the sixth round I dropped my hands to my side. The gloves felt like bags of cement. Jacky staggered away to get some water.
I leaned my forehead against the punching bag. I was still thinking about Danny. It seemed to me that he was building a case against me. Of course, building a case against me couldn’t be easier. Hell, in my current condition, even I knew I was an unfit mother. But I was doing my best and I loved my kids with all my heart. You could never replace that. Ever.
At the far end of the gym, I noticed a tall boxer working out with one of Jacky’s long-time trainers. The boxer was young and blond and very muscular. His punches were rapid and precision-like. His muscles stood out on his hot skin.
Jacky came back, holding a little Dixie cup full of water. The cup was shaking in his hands.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about those Dixie cups,” I said. “We pay good money to join your gym, and the best you can give us are these paper thimbles in return?”
“Ah, lass, you pay for the atmosphere.”
I nodded toward the young, hotshot boxer. “Who’s that?”
“That’s Desmond Beacon. A boxing champion in the Marines, went undefeated. He’s turning pro.”
“I want to box him.”
Jacky’s eyes brightened briefly—perhaps with excitement—and then he came back down to earth and shook his head. “Look, kid, I know I built your hopes up and all that, but that ain’t going to happen. Maybe we could arrange a fight with another broad.”
“Broad?” I said. “Maybe I should box you.” I looked again at the ex-Marine. “I want to fight him.”
“No, lass. I’m sorry.”
“So he kicks my ass. At least it’ll give me something else to think about.”
Jacky looked at me and sighed. “Your day that shitty, huh?”
I thought of Danny cheating—or possibly cheating—and I thought of possibly losing my kids. “Yeah,” I said. “Hell of a shitty day.”
He sighed again and said, “Hold on.” He went over to the Wonder Kid and his trainer, spoke briefly, pointed at yours truly. Desmond Beacon shook his head, said something, and they all laughed. All of them, that is, except Jacky. He got into the tall Marine’s face. By got into his face, I mean, Jacky looked up from the man’s chest. I had no doubt that Jacky could have taken the Marine in his day. But his day was long past him. They stared each other down for another ten seconds and then the Marine turned away, dismissing Jacky with a contemptuous smirk.
“What was that all about?” I asked when Jacky had hobbled back.
“Fucking prick,” said Jacky. “I have a mind to kick his ass.”
“What did he say?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“He doesn’t want to fight me?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It’s because I’m a woman.”
“He said something about that,” said Jacky, looking back at the Marine, who had gone back to shadow boxing. “Actually, he said something about doing something else to you, but I ain’t gonna repeat it to you.”
“Is that when you stuck up for me?”
“The kid’s disrespectful. Someone needs to show him a lesson.”
“I agree.”
“Samantha...I get nervous when I see that look in your eye.”
But I wasn’t listening. I was already marching over to the six foot four Desmond Beacon, who was shadow boxing near the ring. When he saw me coming he stopped, nudged his trainer, and grinned. A wolfish sort of grin. When I got to him, I looked him in the eye, smiled sweetly, and promptly kicked him square in the balls.
Hope he’s wearing a cup.
His eyes bulged and a look of confusion swept across his face and then he dropped to a knee, groaning and turning red.
Guess not.
His little trainer shrieked like a monkey. He grabbed my shoulder and tried flinging me around, but I don’t fling easily and he lost his balance. Instead, he settled for getting in my face. “What the hell are you doing, Missy? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
“Just maybe,” I said. I pushed the trainer aside and looked down at the boxer kneeling before me. I felt like a queen. “Will you fight me now?”
Desmond Beacon looked up. His face had gone from red to green.
“You bet your ass,” he croaked.
34.
Jacky and I were in a corner of the ring.
The little Irishman was doing some last minute adjustments to my head gear. The headgear felt big and clunky. I didn’t think I n
eeded it, but having it on seemed to make the others happy. The Marine, in the opposite corner, was also wearing head gear. I assumed he, too, felt the gear was unnecessary.
I stared down at Jacky’s bald head as he now worked on my gloves. From this angle I could just make out some old boxing scars above his brow. Many, many old boxing scars. There was a wicked little gleam in Jacky’s eye whenever he looked up at me; he was breathing hard and fast, face red with excitement.
“Remember what I always tell you,” he said, “keep your gloves up.”
“Keep them up? Or down? I get confused.”
But Jacky wasn’t listening. In fact, he had this sort of dreamy look on his face. Perhaps he had regressed back to the backroom fighting halls of 1950s Belfast, when he was a young prize fighter with something to prove. His fighting days were long gone and I had a feeling I was his outlet, but that was okay. I wanted to fight. I wanted an honest-to-God slugfest. Sometimes you just need to beat the crap out of something.
“Focus on your jabs, doll.”
“Don’t call me doll, and I’ll focus on whatever I want. This isn’t a real fight. I’m just going to beat the crap out of him and then pick up my kids.”
Jacky pushed me away and held me at arm’s length. “Don’t get too cocky, kid. You’re strong as hell, and to be honest, a little freaky, but this guy knows the fundamentals. I’m not sure you realize what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into.”
“We’ll see.”
Jacky held up a white towel. “I’m throwing this in if things turn ugly.”
“For me or him?”
“Either.”
***
“Ding ding,” said Jacky.
Desmond Beacon stood nearly a foot taller than me. In the center of the ring we touched gloves. Now that the pain was gone from his groin, he didn’t look so eager to fight a woman—especially now that we had a few female onlookers.
So, to get him back into the spirit of things, I hit him with a quick jab that landed on his chin and snapped his head back. When his head settled back into place, there was a suitable look of irritation in his eyes.
Behind me, Jacky screamed, “Yes, yes!”
Desmond now bounced on his toes and worked his neck, and suddenly flicked his glove out at me much quicker than I was prepared for. I tried to dodge right, but there was no escaping it. His glove hit me square in the jaw and I staggered backwards and promptly landed on my ass, skidding to a halt near the ropes.
“Sammy, you okay?” Jacky’s worried, ruddy face peered down at me through the lowest rung of rope.
I got up. “I’m fine.”
