He entered the bathroom and stopped immediately. A man stood at a urinal, wearing a Bozo costume, holding the mask in one hand. Carson’s spirits suddenly swelled, as they always did when he cornered prey, particularly when it was an unexpected bounty. “Well, well. If it ain’t Bozo Bobby Borata.”
The man looked over at him in shock, and the color drained from his face. Carson smiled in response. He took up the urinal next to Bobby and slapped him on the back, forcing him into the porcelain. “How’s it hanging, Bobby? I’m here for work, of course, but I don’t imagine you are.”
Bobby dropped the mask and zipped up quickly, almost running out the door.
16 Suspect
Tommy waited impatiently while Carson reviewed the papers he’d taken out of the folder in front of him. Sitting still for a long period in the uncomfortable chair was exacerbating everything going wrong inside of him. The constant cold and weariness from his disease and treatment were growing, and he had nothing to distract himself from them.
He became aware that he was picking at the cuts that had appeared on his fingertips, making them bleed, and working his tongue over the sores that had developed in his mouth. His stomach was roiling, burbling, and he felt his nausea growing. He was well aware from his long experience that this was all done for a purpose. The waiting, the thermostat adjusted to make even a healthy person uncomfortable.
“Can we get on with this, Carson?” he asked. “It’s late, and I like to get to bed early.”
Carson ignored him, continuing to flip through pages of notes and casually drinking a cup of coffee. Finally, he put the papers back in the folder and looked up. “Thanks for coming in, Mr. Borata,” he said in an official tone.
“Cut the shit, asshole,” Tommy replied. “I don’t have all day, so get to the point. I’m a sick man, you know.” He looked around the interview room, familiar with it from the many times he had sat on the other side of the desk, or behind the one-way glass on the wall.
“Not too sick, right?” Carson said, now looking him directly in the eyes. “You and your friend, Moses, the um, n...”
“Don’t say it, I’m warning you,” Tommy cut in.
“Right, the black guy. African-American. You two were getting around pretty good for a couple of sick dudes. I’ve got a dead priest to show for it.”
“I got nothing to do with that. Moses went rogue. You saw his confession.”
“I’m still not convinced. I think you two had a plan before he ‘went rogue.’ That’s conspiracy on your part, Borata. But hey, guess what? You’re sick, and medical care is free in prison. Bonus.” He laughed, to accentuate his point. “And now, you’re running around with some crazy one-eyed gook—Molletier, right? Now that you’re heading for your judgment, you’re all about loving the freak show out there, aren’t you? Do you think that’s going to make a difference after all the shit you did when you were a cop? And you’re judging me, Borata?”
Tommy recognized the tactic. Carson was trying to get him to lose his cool and say something he’d regret. He ignored him and tried to find a comfortable position. “You had to go after the kid, right, Carson? Lukas? He’s a good kid—doesn’t even drink or do drugs. You’re a fucking disgrace to that badge for what you did. He’s twice the man you are, and so was his uncle.”
Carson looked up and offered a smirk. “Yeah...that was just an oversight. Defective buckles in that old piece-of-shit paddy-wagon. You know that. You’ve been there before, right? Taken a few perps for a rough ride yourself, haven’t you, Borata?”
“Let’s not wander through the past, Carson. I’m not feeling well. You don’t want a shitload of puke to clean up in here, do you?”
He had Carson’s attention. Tommy had gauged him as the kind of tough guy who would have trouble with that sort of thing. He realized that he was suppressing flatulence, holding his cheeks together out of habit, and wondering why he was bothering. He released it.
Carson disregarded the question. “You ready to talk to me about the priest thing? I can cut you a good deal. Your buddy did the heavy lifting. Plead guilty to the conspiracy, we’ll dumb it down, you get off easy, being an ex-cop and all. Case closed, we all go on to other things. I’ll leave your ghetto friends alone. They’re young, they’ll be around a lot longer than you so it would be heroic of you to do it for them, right?”
Carson suddenly stopped and waved his hand in front of his face. “You son of a bitch,” he said, getting up out of the chair. He left the room, standing outside for a few minutes to let the air clear.
Tommy enjoyed the laughter he heard from behind the one-way glass on the wall. He smiled and waved to whomever was behind it.
Carson came back in and regained his seat. “Do it again, Borata, and you’ll be sorry. I promise. Anyway, what about it? Do you want to cop a plea to save your young friends?”
“Bullshit, Carson. You want a big score for your promotion. You don’t have anything on me, and you know it. That priest was hurting kids, good riddance. Get out and do some real work. There’s plenty of bad guys out there. Unless you’re afraid to get out on the street, picking on kids and old, sick men instead.”
He had hit another soft spot and enjoyed seeing Carson begin to flush in anger.
“I’m out there every day, asshole. Unlike your kid, who sits on his fat ass behind his desk. Maybe I need to bring him out with me once in a while,” he countered.
Tommy thought his tone was threatening. “You know he doesn’t have experience on the street. Leave him alone, Carson. I’m warning you. He’s not involved in any of this—he never hurt anyone.”
“Maybe that’s his problem. Can’t get out from under daddy’s wing and be his own man. Maybe you’re responsible for his, ah, shall we say, effeminate side.”
With that, Carson had won the battle of taunts. Tommy lost control and rose, grabbing the front lip of the desk and tipping it over toward his nemesis. Carson stood as well, grasping the desk and easily halting its progress.
Tommy, overcome with sudden dizziness and nausea, was forced to sit back down. He felt short of breath, and tried to speak but couldn’t. He became terrified he was going to have another seizure.
“Pathetic,” Carson said at Tommy’s attempt. “Now, back to the business at hand. What say you, Tommy Borata? We have a deal?”
Tommy felt his nausea worsening. He thought of things to help bring it on. Worms. Fried in olive oil, greasy fried worms, with sardines and vanilla ice cream...
He leaned forward, and projectile vomited across the desk, the hot red bile shooting across its smooth surface, splattering over the folder of papers and spilling onto Carson’s lap.
Carson jumped up. “Son of a bitch, you fucking asshole,” he shouted, yanking the door open and running out.
Tommy stayed in the chair, satisfied and smiling, vomit still dripping from his chin. A few minutes later a young cop entered with cleaning supplies and mopped up the mess, staring warily at Tommy.
Carson returned a short while later, wearing a change of uniform from his locker. “You think that’s funny, don’t you, Borata?”
“We better wrap this up—if you think the gas was bad, I’ve had a lot of trouble with diarrhea lately,” Tommy responded, smiling. “And I’m too sick to clean up after myself.”
“Yeah, smart guy? I’m going to consider that assault on an officer. Let’s try this. Stand up, Borata.” Carson pulled a pair of cuffs from his belt.
Tommy complied, turning and placing his hands behind his back, wrists together. “You got no case, Carson. I’ll have my lawyer on the horn and be out of here in an hour.”
“Maybe. But it’ll be a productive hour.” Carson stood and grabbed Tommy by the chain in the center of the cuffs, shoving him roughly out the door and down the hall. “I have someone I’d like you to meet. Maybe he can convince you to be more open about your role in killing that priest.”
He pushed Tommy at a fast clip into the detention area. It was empty, except for a man who was
alone and raging in a cell at the end of the row. “This guy’s a real winner, Borata,” Carson said over the man’s loud rantings. “Brought him in a little while ago. Very crazy—drunk and jacked up on PCP. Seeing as how we’re pretty full here, I thought you guys should share a cell.”
Tommy remained silent, strategizing and watching the man bounce around the cell as Carson unlocked the door. Don’t show fear; don’t give him the pleasure.
Carson quickly pulled the cell door open and shoved Tommy in. He closed it and stood back to watch, folding his arms over his chest and smiling.
Tommy backed into the corner as the man stopped and sized him up, like a zoo animal that had just had something foreign thrown into its cage. “What the fuck do you want?” he shouted at Tommy. “Get the fuck out!” He moved nearer, throwing punches wildly in the air, still too far away to make contact.
“Guess what, Randy,” Carson said to him. “Remember how you said you hate cops and spit on me earlier when they brought you in? Well, your new buddy here is Sergeant Tommy Borata, lifelong cop.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Fucking cop!” he shouted, rushing at Tommy. He threw a punch at Tommy’s head, and Tommy ducked to the side. The small movement took great effort, as the disease and treatment had atrophied his once-muscular body to the extent that it felt like it was petrifying. Each movement caused the nausea to surge exponentially, making it difficult to keep in check. Randy’s fist smashed into the wall, and he howled in pain, shaking it.
Tommy assessed the damage based on the sound of the impact. Concrete, so that’s probably broken. Down to one hand. The man came at him again, this time grabbing the front of Tommy’s v-neck t-shirt and throwing him to the ground, ripping it down the front.
Tommy turtled and worked to kick off his shoes as Randy rained kicks onto his back from behind him. The force of the blows knocked the wind out of him, and he struggled to breathe. He pulled his depleted legs up into his chest as far as he could, for once thankful about his extreme weight loss. He began working his cuffed hands down over his butt, struggling to pull them over his feet to get his hands in front of him. Thank God he’s not a big guy, and drunk as hell.
“Watch his hands, Randy. Watch his hands,” Carson coached from outside the cell. “Don’t let him get the cuffs around!”
The man was oblivious to the commands as he kicked wildly at Tommy’s head. Stars burst and swam in a sea of momentary darkness, and Tommy vomited again. The cuffs tore at his wrists and hands as he struggled.
Just as Randy moved around to the front to try to kick him in the face and stomach, Tommy was able to pull his hands to the front. Randy swung his leg back to kick again and slipped in the vomit, spinning and crashing down onto the cell’s metal cot face-down. Tommy struggled to his feet and pounced on the man, putting his cuffed hands over his head and tight around his neck.
The man gasped and retched.
Tommy turned his head toward Carson. “Open the fucking door and get me out of here, or you’re going to have to explain why I was in here with this guy, and why he’s dead.”
Carson panicked and swung the door open. “Get the fuck off him.” He pulled Tommy away from the prisoner and shoved him out of the cell, swinging the door shut. He looked back to make sure Randy was conscious and breathing. Then he pulled Tommy back down the hallway toward the exit at the end, unlocked the cuffs, and shoved him out the door and into the parking lot.
“Mark my words, Borata. You’ll be sorry,” he said before slamming the door closed.
17 Dinner at Home
The blinds of the converted bedroom that served as Tommy’s office were drawn, cocooning him in darkness. He struggled to get comfortable on the couch as nausea churned at his stomach. He tried to empty his mind of the thoughts that rushed through it like cars screaming through a subway tunnel.
Above all, he fought the urge to vomit, trying not to think about the plastic-lined trash can at the ready within arm’s reach. He pulled his blankets tighter, not wanting to get up again to boost the thermostat. I can’t take being this sick much longer.
He struggled to get to sleep. Anything to escape this misery. He wanted to be there for his son, to be functional, to make up for everything he had subjected him to throughout his life. He wanted this night to be perfect, and for Bobby to go away from it happy. A little sleep, some more meds, and I’ll be okay.
Through the dim light, he could make out the pictures that outlined his life on the wall. He’d memorized them over the years he’d sat at the desk in this study. He reviewed pictures of himself as a tough young Marine in Vietnam. He scanned past framed commendations. All for what? He lingered on the photos of himself and his young son fishing, camping, hunting. I don’t like to kill things anymore, Bobby had said one day, and it all stopped.
He went through the pictures of himself throughout his police career. Pictures of him and his wife at happy drunken occasions, in better times. He wished for the opportunity to go back to any of those places in time, to be a better father, a better husband, a better cop, a better person. To undo the mistakes, many of them made due to hateful prejudices and too much booze. He had come out of the Marine Corps an idealistic, determined, and disciplined young man, and he’d let all of that get away from him over the following years. I knew better. I thought I was a big shot.
A soft tap sounded at the door. “It’s open,” he said.
Margie opened it, allowing the light in the hallway to flood in. She stood in the doorway, bracing herself against the frame. “They’ll be here soon. Just letting you know,” she said.
“Okay. Listen, take it easy on the sauce today, huh? This is very important for our son.”
“I already know that, Tommy. Please don’t tell me what to do. I can have a few, it’s a social occasion.”
“Yeah,” was all he offered. She backed away and closed the door. As it shut, it blew in the fragrances from the meal she was preparing, which immediately made his nausea worse. He fought it off, lying still, eyes closed, concentrating on nothing, breathing as shallowly as he could manage.
When he felt stable enough, he rose and turned the dimmer up, allowing enough light to illuminate the clothes in his closet. He selected khakis and a button-up dress shirt, then moved gingerly out of the room, trying not to breathe in more of the food smells than he had to. He made his way upstairs to the main bath.
He laid out his clothes, opened the medicine cabinet, and carefully arranged his toiletries on the counter. After undressing, he stood facing the mirror and was momentarily shocked by the image of himself. He looked prepared to play the role of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. He found it surreal; as if his own elderly father had returned as he was just before his own death, and was standing there facing him as a warning.
He lived miserable, he died miserable. His mind flickered between the tanned, muscular body, rigid face and Marine flat-top that he’d always seen in that same mirror, and the pale sagging flesh, heavily lined face and stubbled remains of hair that he now saw. Jesus, I’m fading away faster now. For the first time, he realized and accepted that he was moving rapidly closer to his end.
He cranked the shower hotter than he would normally, to fight off the chills. Steam filled the bathroom, and he was thankful when the mirror fogged. He stepped carefully into the shower to avoid losing his balance and falling.
As he moved his hands over himself with a soaped washcloth, he became even more conscious of his diminished body mass and the chronic pain that lived in each remaining area, accompanied by the damage done by the prisoner’s kicks. He stopped for a moment and let the hot water wash over him, trying to enjoy the moment of peace and pretend that none of what was happening to him was actually real. Just a dream. A very bad dream.
He turned off the water and reached to pull a towel from a hook on the wall. After drying, he stepped from the shower and wrapped it around his waist. He remembered when that same towel would barely make it, having just enough to tuck in and hold in pl
ace. Now there was plenty of slack.
The mirror was still fogged, so he turned on the fan and wiped off a space just large enough to shave. He opened a box of razor blades and chose one to replace the dull one in his old-fashioned safety razor. He held the blade between his fingers and examined it. Such a small thing, but I could use it to solve all of my problems right now. I need to be here for Bobby, though. Not much longer.
As he descended the stairs carefully, he heard voices and laughing. The rest and shower had made him feel better, and his spirits picked up. My son is here. My boy. He started to choke up and remembered the purpose of the dinner. Bracing himself, he promised to make it a success.
“How’s everyone doing? What’s all this racket in here?” he asked as he entered the living room.
Bobby and his guest rose immediately. “Dad, this is Mike. Mike, meet my dad.”
Tommy sized the man up on his way to shake his hand. Seems okay. You’d never guess. Firm grip. Reminds me of me. I guess it’s the same—kids look for partners based on their parents. “Nice to meet you, Mike.”
“Good to meet you, sir. Thank you for your service in the Marines and as a police officer. I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said, glancing toward Bobby.
“Yeah, I bet. Don’t worry, none of that is true. Just an old persona. I’m a sheep in wolf’s clothing, especially now.”
“Don’t buy it,” Bobby said with a laugh.
“What do you do, Mike?” Tommy asked.
“I run an auto body and repair shop.”
“Good, a man’s work,” Tommy responded, wondering if the comment was appropriate. I’m still figuring out how this all works.
Margie was in and out of the room, bringing in snacks and refreshing their drinks. Tommy watched her carefully to gauge her level of inebriation. The signs were there—a wobble in her step, a slight slur—despite her skill at concealing them. He started to worry.
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