RCC03.3 - No Good Deed

by Frank Zafiro

  “You ever think about the future, Connor?” she asked in a thick voice.

  “Hmmmm?”

  “The future,” she said. “You ever think about it?”

  “You mean like if there’ll be flying cars and stuff like that?”

  She was quiet for a moment and I felt a small hitch in her upper body. “No,” she answered, her voice catching. “I mean...whether you’ll be alone or not.”

  A stab of fear lanced into my stomach, followed by the wallop of guilt.

  “No,” I softly lied to her. “I don’t think about that at all.”

  “I do,” she whispered back.

  I didn’t answer. I pretended I didn’t notice her gentle crying and let myself drift to sleep instead.

  “Tell you what you do,” Aaron Norris told me one morning. He’d crashed our normal three-some of Gio, Batts and me because his partner Virgil Gilliam had called in sick. I’d given up keeping Lauren a secret from either of them, but I was surprised that Norris knew it, too. I shouldn’t have been. The rumor mill works overtime at River City PD.

  “What?” I asked, not caring much what he had to say.

  “It’s simple,” he said. “You just talk her into letting you fuck her in the ass, right? Then once she lets you, just tell her that you can’t respect someone that would let you do something like that. And then you dump her.”

  “Class act,” Batts said. He shook his head, but he was smiling, too. Easy for him to take it lightly. He had Rebecca. She was something special and he was locked into her. I figured I could look high and low and the best I’d probably end up with is something half as good.

  “Hey,” Norris said, “it works.”

  “So would taking a giant crap on her chest,” Batts said, “but I wouldn’t recommend that.”

  “If the thing with fucking her in the ass doesn’t work, that’d be my next step,” Norris said, and we all laughed, even though Norris was an idiot. Lauren came and filled our cups. She pressed her chest into my triceps as she poured, and I felt guilty as hell. The silence while she topped off everyone’s coffee made it obvious we had been talking about her, which made me feel even worse yet. But she just smiled that mysterious, seductive smile, pushed that lock of hair behind her ear and walked away.

  Norris watched her go. “Nice taste, Sully.”

  I didn’t answer.

  He turned to face me and said, “No, really. She’s a hot little piece of trim.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I just nodded.

  “Well-traveled,” he added, “but hot.”

  Anger flared up in me and my hand curled into a fist under the table, but I pressed my lips together and said nothing. To avoid his eyes, I took a drink of my coffee and gave him a vague grunt.

  Conversation turned to other topics, but my mind stayed on her. Eventually Norris left and Gio followed a short time later. Batts and I sat, drinking the last of our coffee and finishing reports.

  “Sully?”

  I looked up from my burglary report. “Yeah?”

  “You getting attached to her?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “No,” I said. “I’m not.”

  “You sure?”

  “You’re the Italian,” I said. “Remember? Us Irish are much more practical.”

  Batts let out a small snort. “Yeah, no romantics ever came out of Ireland, right?”

  “Not this one,” I told him and after that, he left it alone.

  When I finally stopped seeing her, it was nothing dramatic. I knew I’d never stop taking her home unless I stopped going to the diner. When I made the decision to break it off, that was how I did it. At my request, we started going up to Mary’s Café instead, and that was that. Gio never asked why and neither did Anthony. I was glad for that. I didn’t know if the real reason was that I didn’t want things to get any more serious than they were or if it was that I wanted them to but knew they couldn’t.

  About a month after I quit seeing her, I heard that Norris had gone home with her. Then I heard that Norris and Gilliam had both gone home with her on the same morning. I didn’t believe it, but the thought burned in my gut anyway.

  When I heard she’d quit the diner a year later, I hoped that meant she was going to Seattle like she planned. It was several more months before I heard the real reason she’d quit working. She was sick, according to the rumor mill. And then came the word, barely above a whisper.

  AIDS.

  That word scared the hell out of me. I remembered Gio’s warning and felt foolish for disregarding it.

  After my first test came back negative, I started thinking about her a lot. I found out where she was being treated easily enough. Anthony’s sister was a nurse up at Sacred Heart and could find out anything medical about anybody.

  The small hospice was in the heart of the worst part of town, where the rent was cheap enough to afford a place for the dying. I prepared myself to lie to whoever ran the place and say I was her brother, but the woman in charge didn’t ask any questions. She led me up a flight of stairs and down a long, narrow hallway.

  The door to Lauren’s room stood open about a foot. I considered knocking, but in the end I just eased it open. A wiry black woman sat next to the bed, dabbing at her patient’s lips with a washcloth.

  The woman lying in bed was thin and she seemed exhausted. Splotches of dark brown or red peppered her face. Her hair was damp and slicked back away from her face, except for that one lock. Her eyes were closed and shook her head slightly.

  “Lauren, girl, you gotta eat,” the black woman at the bedside said softly. “Gotta keep up your strength.”

  The caregiver tried to spoon a thin broth into the woman’s mouth but she refused to open it. I stared at the woman in the bed and tried to find Lauren somewhere in that emaciated frame. I searched her sunken face for some vestige of the woman I remembered.

  The caregiver lowered the spoon into the bowl with a patient sigh. Then she noticed me and raised her eyebrows questioningly.

  “I’m...an old friend,” I said, trying to be quiet, but surprised at how loud my voice came out.

  “Really?” she asked, looking me up and down. “What do you want?”

  “A moment?”

  The caregiver considered, then rose and walked toward the door. “Five minutes,” she said. “That’s it. She needs her rest.”

  She brushed past me and I grabbed her by the arm. “How is she?” I asked quietly.

  The look she gave me was full of contempt and pity at the same time.

  “She’s dying,” she said.

  I let go of her arm and she left the room.

  Lauren’s eyes were still closed when I sat down next to the bed. I reached out tentatively and touched her on the shoulder, whispering her name.

  Her eyes fluttered open and came to rest on me. There was a flicker of confusion, then recognition flooded her face.

  “Connor,” she said, her voice a croaking whisper.

  I smiled at her, but my gut wrenched.

  She brought her hands up to her hair and covered her face.

  “I look terrible,” she said. I could barely hear her through her hands.

  I took her hands and pulled them easily away from her face. Tears welled up in her eyes and slid from the corners onto her pillow.

  “No, you don’t,” I said. I pushed the lock of hair away from her brow and tucked it behind her ear. “You look the same as ever. You’re beautiful.”

  “Liar,” she whispered, almost a hiss, but she smiled.

  I was a liar, but I sat with her, shushing her questions and stroking her hair. I told her more lies. After fifteen minutes, the caregiver returned to stand in the doorway, signaling an end to the visit.

  “Eat your food,” I whispered, and lowered my face to hers. Her breath was stale and her lips were cracked and dry, but I kissed her on the open mouth anyway. When I pulled away, she was crying again.

  “Eat,” I whispere
d again. I got up and walked toward the door. When I reached the caregiver, I said, “Thanks for the extra time.”

  She shrugged. “It’s her time, not mine.”

  “Does she get many visitors?”

  “Just her mother.”

  I pressed my lips together, nodded and left.

  I should have gone back to that hospice every day or two. I should have sat with her, pushed away that stray lock and told her lies. It would have been fitting. And, for a change, telling lies might have been a good thing.

  Instead, after the first visit, I stayed away. The thin tears that fell from the corner of her eyes and streamed onto the pillow were loud accusations. I liked to think that I didn’t go because I knew I didn’t deserve the vindication that might have come with sitting at her side as she left this world. But I knew the truth.

  When she died, I couldn’t even muster the courage to go to her funeral. It happened right in the middle of my workweek, which made for a hollow excuse.

  The truth was, though, I didn’t want to see newly turned earth next to her open grave. I didn’t want to see fake grass or real flowers. I didn’t want to see her mother, whose careworn features I feared would resemble Lauren too much.

  I don’t know how many people went to her funeral.

  I don’t know if there was a single cop there.

  Two days later, I went to her grave. It was late October, and cold.

  I made my way through the acres of cemetery and found her grave. The stone was small and simple and bore merely her name, the dates she lived and the words “Beloved Daughter.”

  I touched the top of the marker with my fingertips, then bent and kissed the rough stone.

  “I’m sorry, Lauren.”

  I didn’t love her. I was no better than all the other men in her life, just one in a parade of empty sexual partners. I had used her, too, if only gently.

  Gently, I thought, and my stomach burned.

  I wished that were true.

  No Good Deed

  I recognized that cholo bastard as soon as I walked into the McDonald’s, but what was I supposed to do? Rebecca and her kids were already inside. I didn’t have my gun with me, but I wasn’t about to run away from any piece of shit.

  The guy was standing in line to order, wearing his baggy jeans, blue flannel shirt over the wife-beater T-shirt and a blue bandana. He was right out of a gang movie.

  I would’ve recognized him by his face, his wispy goatee and the smart-ass look on his face. But it was the bloody cross tattooed on his neck that nailed it for me. You don’t forget a tattoo like that.

  I stood at the doorway for a few seconds, debating how to handle things. I’d been a cop for fourteen years and this wasn’t a new experience. In a city this size, you always run into the losers that you’ve arrested in the past. Usually, thankfully, I see them first and avoided them.

  Maybe he wouldn’t see me. Or recognize me.

  I pushed my bicycle in and walked it toward Rebecca and the kids. If I stood in the fucking doorway, he’d make me inside of five seconds for acting so strange. I greeted Rebecca with a brief kiss on the cheek and, as always, the shock of smelling her skin flustered me. I turned to the kids and said my hellos.

  “Uncle Conner!” Anthony Junior yelled as he hugged my leg.

  I tousled his hair as I felt Rebecca’s smile upon me. The seven-year-old boy was his father through and through. Same hair, same face, same eyes. I loved him like he was my own, but his features haunted me.

  I kissed Maggie on top of her head and she grinned. “Hi, Uncle Connor. We already ordered. You’re late.”

  “So I am,” I said. “Lucky for you, I’m not hungry.”

  “I’m hungry!” said Anthony Junior. He dove under the table, past his mother and into his seat, where he attacked his Happy Meal.

  I pointed out the window. “What’s that?”

  All three looked. I snatched one of Maggie’s French Fries and stuffed it in my mouth.

  Maggie looked back in time and caught me. “Hey!”

  “Keep your eyes on your fries,” I half-sang and slipped into the booth next to her.

  “I thought you weren’t hungry,” Maggie said.

  I shrugged. “Don’t have to be hungry to eat fries.”

  “Keep yoah eyes on yoah fwies,” sang Anthony Junior.

  I heard Rebecca laughing softly. I glanced up at her and caught her eyes. She looked at me and that sweet, seductive softness was there again. It had begun appearing more frequently sometime earlier this year. I don’t think either one of us was ready to deal with it just yet. I wasn’t, anyway.

  I gave Rebecca a quick smile and glanced back toward the counter. The shitbird was still waiting in line. I looked around the dining area for his crew. An elderly couple sat a few tables away drinking coffee. A polyester cow and her three kids were sitting next to them eating sundaes. Two kids, probably boyfriend and girlfriend, lounged by the window, munching cheeseburgers and talking on cell phones. Probably to each other, the way they were giggling. But no sign of any Mexican bangers anywhere.

  I struggled to remember this cholo’s name. It’d been about three years ago, I knew that much. Before I left patrol. He and his brother had been in a fight with a couple of Crips outside a downtown bar. His brother had been an asshole…in fact, he’d fought with us. I remembered now. He’d fought like a fucking Tasmanian devil, even though he only weighed a buck fifty. I finally had to nail him in the nose with a blast from my palm and that took the fight out of him. He bled all over the place, too. And once he started bleeding, he started crying and calling for his brother, who was the stocky one at the counter now. The cops beat me up, he said. Come help me. Come help me…Rueben! That was his name. Reuben Gonzalez, Hernandez, some-fucking-dez.

  “We went shopping,” Rebecca said.

  “Were you successful?”

  She motioned at the bags next to her on the bench. I nodded. “A resounding victory for bargain hunters everywhere.”

  “Smart alec. How’s work?” Rebecca asked.

  I watched Rueben out of the corner of my eye. He was talking to the thin girl with bad teeth taking orders.

  “Same as ever, “ I told Rebecca. Nothing ever changes in my office. I deal with the bar owners, liquor licenses, code enforcement, and zoning issues. Over-service at the newest night-spot is the most severe crime I deal with anymore.

  “You always say that.”

  “It’s always true,” I answered. “SPP is not exactly a firestorm.”

  “But it is special,” she joked.

  Special Police Problems. SPP. Ha. Ha.

  Just join right in, Rebecca, I thought. It’s not like every cop on patrol hasn’t thrown in their own little jokester gem about my job. It comes with the territory.

  I grinned at her anyway. She knew I transferred there for the day shift and the weekends off. She knew I did it to be able to see her and the kids and to be there when they needed me. She knew a lot. She’d been a cop’s wife.

  “Uncle Connor id speshal,” Anthony Junior said around the chicken nugget in his mouth.

  Rebecca and Maggie laughed. I smiled and watched that fucking cholo get his food and start walking right toward us.

  Back when I was on patrol, I carried my off-duty gun everywhere I went. My old girlfriend thought it was cool at first, but after a while she’d sigh heavily every time I strapped on the ankle holster or slipped the gun into the small of my back. “Better to have a gun and not need it, than to need a gun and not have it,” I always told her. For her, my carrying a piece ruined the night for her, like the gun somehow invaded our personal life. I couldn’t be her boyfriend while I was being a cop. Ironically enough, that’s what she said when she moved out.

  After Anthony died, I got promoted but after a couple of years on patrol, I managed a transfer to SPP. Around that time, I stopped carrying so often. Now, I couldn’t remember the last time I packed my off-duty piece. Which was stupid, really, because right now I needed a
gun and I didn’t fucking have it.

  Reuben-Fucking-Greaseball walked by without a sideways glance.

  Maybe he wouldn’t recognize me. Or maybe he was playing it off, too. Waiting for the right time to make a move.

  Jesus, police work makes you paranoid.

  “What’s wrong?” Rebecca asked me.

  I gave her a cautious look. I’m sure it looked paranoid. “Client,” I said in a low voice.

  Her eyes widened slightly and she glanced around the restaurant. I watched her until she spotted Reuben, then looked back at me. I nodded to her that she was right.

  “Should we leave?” she asked.

  “Probably.”

  Maggie watched both of us. She didn’t miss a thing. Anthony Junior might have looked like his father, but that little girl acted like him to a tee. Same awareness, same senses, same ability to judge people. Same radar. Anthony’s had almost never failed him. Almost.

  “What is it, Mom?” she asked. She may have been eleven, but sometimes she sounded like she was twenty.

  “Nothing, hon. Just finish up your fries.”

  Maggie wasn’t convinced, but her radar was on and she dropped it.

  Rebecca started gathering her things. “You want to meet us back at—”

  “Hey, pig.”

  His voice was coarse and accented. Rebecca’s eyes snapped over my shoulder and back to me. I saw panic enter them.

  Easy, I mouthed to her.

  I turned slowly in the booth and planted my feet on the floor. Rueben stood almost directly in front of me. His right hand was deep in his baggy pants pocket. His left hand dangled at his side, fingers twitching.

  I felt the adrenaline course through me. I took a long, slow breath to control it and met the greasball’s eyes. He gave me his best I’m-The-Baddest-Motherfucker-In-The-Cell-Bloc look. I tried not to reflect it back at him. The last thing I wanted to do was to start posturing. But I had to show him strength. It was the only thing people like him understood.

  “You beat up mi hermano, ese,” he said, his voice low and singsong. “Broke his fucking nose.”