Rest for the Wicked

by Ellen Hart

  On her way out the door, Georgia called, “Tell him from me that he should come out of the freakin’ closet—because everybody already knows.”

  Avi doubted that Dorsey would welcome the comment. She strode down the hall, relieved to be away from Georgia for a few minutes, and tapped lightly on Dorsey’s door. “Oh, hi,” he said a few seconds later, opening the door a few inches. “What’s up?”

  Now that the dog was no longer an issue, she couldn’t understand his need for secrecy. “Can I come in?” He shrugged and stepped back, but not so far that she could get more than a few feet inside. “Are you still hiding something?”

  “Me? Nothing but that intercontinental ballistic missile.” He smirked.

  “Georgia and I were wondering if you’d like a lift to the club tonight?”

  “I bought a car, so I’m good.”

  “You did? When? What kind?”

  “A couple of days ago. It’s an old Chevy Camaro. Not as cool as your wheels, but it suits me just fine. Hey,” he said, continuing to smirk. “You and Georgia seem pretty tight. Has she moved in for good?”

  “She’s a roommate, Dorsey. Nothing more.”

  “Right. Right.”

  Disgusted by the smirk and the attitude, she left him to his opinions and returned to her apartment, where she found Georgia in the kitchen gazing intently into the refrigerator. “Quick question,” she asked, standing in the kitchen doorway. “Do you always sleep this late?” It would make life kind of awkward, especially if Avi wanted to get up early and bang around making herself something to eat. Or listen to music. Or watch TV. The only TV set was in the living room, which was where the couch was.

  Georgia didn’t reply. Instead, she moved over and rested her arms on Avi’s shoulders. “If I slept in the bedroom, I wouldn’t bother you as much.”

  “Where would I sleep?”

  “With me.” She nuzzled Avi’s neck.

  Feeling suddenly way too warm, Avi said, “What are we doing?”

  “What do you think? I’ve had a thing for you ever since you came to work at GaudyLights. Never thought somebody would get to you before I made my move.” Her hand dipped under Avi’s sweater.

  “Your … move? You’ve done nothing but make moves.”

  “I kept asking myself, why can’t I get you out of my head? Now I don’t have to.”

  “I’m not sure this is such a good idea.”

  “You think too much.”

  “I do?”

  “You and Lawless. Same problem, simple solution.”

  “This isn’t—”

  “Come on,” said Georgia, tugging Avi’s hand, pulling her toward the bedroom. “Let’s have some fun.”

  35

  Emmett slumped at his kitchen table, coffee cup in hand, gazing dispiritedly at the article in the morning paper about Vince’s murder. He was next. He didn’t have the money to hire a bodyguard, as Vince had wanted to do. Maybe a hired thug could have saved Vince’s life, though the point had been rendered moot. Emmett figured his hangover made his thinking sluggish, although he’d felt this way for days. Even getting up to pour more coffee seemed to require superhuman effort.

  Hearing Roddy shamble into the kitchen, he glanced up and saw that his son was still in his pajamas.

  Roddy removed a carton of milk from the refrigerator. “I’m thinking I might go over to the mall. All I do here is sit around and stress out.”

  Gavin Rand, the lawyer Emmett had hired to help Roddy, had set up a meeting with the police for three thirty Tuesday afternoon. It would be Roddy’s first interrogation.

  Pulling the box of Oats & Honey Granola off the cupboard’s top shelf, Roddy poured some into a bowl and topped it with several glugs of milk.

  “You okay about Tuesday?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  Gavin had spent several hours prepping him last night. They’d gone over the questions the police were likely to ask. Emmett could see by the strain in his son’s eyes the toll this was taking on him. Roddy was finally beginning to see that he’d done something wrong. As a dad, Emmett wanted to protect him, to shield him from the worst of it, but there was no way he could. Roddy would have to walk through fire to get to the other side. At least he wouldn’t have to do it alone, as Emmett had.

  “I’m leaving in a few minutes,” said Emmett. He’d already showered and dressed. He’d put on his best suit and tie, hoping he could hide behind the image of a well-dressed man.

  “Okay. Whatever.” Roddy shuffled quietly out of the room.

  Emmett felt tears burn his eyes. A mere two weeks ago he could have honestly said that his life was good, that he was a blessed man. Now every part of that life was in chaos.

  Half an hour later, after slipping into his heavy topcoat, he grabbed his wallet and his car keys and made his way down the outside steps to his car. He’d parked on the street yesterday afternoon, too enervated by his conversation with AirNorth management to even open the garage door. Popping the trunk, he reached in to retrieve the window scraper and snow broom. It was really coming down, big fluffy flakes floating onto his face and hands. He’d left his gloves inside and had no desire to return to the house to get them.

  He tackled the back window first. The snow was light, easy to remove. As he stepped around to the front, he glanced down and saw that his tire was flat. When he bent over to get a better look at the pocketknife shoved into one of the grooves, his knees almost buckled. The stalker had sent the same message to him that he’d sent Vince: You’re next.

  Returning to the house, Emmett stood in the living room and called Roddy’s name. “I need your car keys. My tire is flat.”

  “But … the mall—” came Roddy’s voice.

  “You’ll have to walk. Or wait until I get home.”

  Grudgingly, Roddy appeared and handed over his keys.

  Shortly after two, Emmett drove into the parking lot of the Fellowship Baptist Church, the one he used to attend regularly when his wife was alive. He and Roddy attended only sporadically these days, although Emmett still considered himself a committed Christian.

  Standing in the first-floor outer office, waiting for Reverend Willie Young, Emmett broke out in a cold sweat. He nodded to the receptionist, hoping she hadn’t noticed.

  “Emmett Washington,” said Reverend Willie, coming out of his office with a big grin on his face. He pumped Emmett’s hand. “Didn’t see you at services this morning.”

  “Yeah, well—”

  “Come on in, man. Come on in.”

  “You sure you’ve got the time?”

  “All the time in the world for you, my brother.”

  Willie Young was a few years younger than Emmett. His hair was still dark, though his once muscled body had gone to seed. He looked as if he’d eaten too many cookies at his parishioners’ homes. Looks aside, Reverend Willie was one of the kindest, most positive, most spiritually centered men Emmett had ever met. It seemed only right that he should come to him now.

  The reverend’s desk was covered with books and papers. Neatness wasn’t one of his strong suits. Instead of sitting behind it, he ushered Emmett over to two wingback chairs next to a series of windows. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” said Emmett.

  “So. What brings you here on this wintry afternoon?”

  Emmett drew his hands together in his lap. “Before I get into that, can I put a question to you?”

  “Of course.”

  He cleared his throat and then asked what the reverend thought about UFOs.

  “Do you mean, do I think they’re real?”

  “Yeah.”

  He laughed. “No, I’m afraid I don’t, Emmett. Do you?”

  “So you think people who say they’ve seen them are lying?”

  “Well, I guess I’d say it’s more on the order of a vivid imagination.”

  Emmett should have expected the answer, and yet he’d held out hope that it might be different. “But, I mean, wha
t if they were real? What would that do to your faith?”

  “It would do nothing to my faith, Emmett, because they’re not real.”

  “But if they were.”

  “Listen to me. God has a plan for us. Humans are special. In the entire universe, this is the only planet that’s filled with intelligent life. The Great Creator God chose to create man in his image on this earth, and only this earth. That’s what the Bible tells us and that’s what I believe. Don’t let yourself get sucked into any of these crazy ideas. Stay on the godly path. ‘For strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life.’”

  “Thanks,” said Emmett.

  “Happy to help. So what is going on?”

  Emmett fidgeted, changing positions in his chair. “My son.”

  “Roddy? How’s he doing? I always admired that kid. So much going for him. Smart. Athletic. He’d be in high school now, right?”

  “A senior.”

  “My goodness. Is he planning to attend college?”

  “He was.”

  The smile on Reverend Willie’s face turned uncertain. “Something’s changed?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “That’s the real reason you’ve come.”

  “I didn’t want to just pick some unknown counselor’s name out of the phone book. I felt I needed to talk to a friend.”

  “I’m glad you think of me as your friend.”

  Emmett began slowly, explaining about the loss of Roddy’s mother, how he’d tried to be a good father, even though he sometimes failed. He went on to talk about his son’s football scholarship, his passion for sports, the time he put in at the practice field and the gym. Only when Roddy’s character was firmly established did Emmett move on to his friends, the bad decisions he’d made because of their corrupting influence. Alcohol had been part of the problem. The other guys liked to drink, and Roddy had gone along with it, even begun to like it. Emmett spoke briefly about the bullying, the list, and finally the girl who’d hanged herself. He underscored again and again that Roddy was a good kid, a star athlete, a top student. This was an aberration. Deep down, it couldn’t be who he was. Emmett kept talking, kept making the case that his son had made bad decisions, sure, but they’d come out of a young man’s need to fit in with his buddies. Drinking after losing a baseball game, when you were mad as hell, was nothing new. Everybody did it.

  “This list … it was drawn up after a losing baseball game?” asked the minister.

  “I have no idea when they put it together.”

  “Then … who lost the baseball game?”

  “You’re not listening. My son plays football.” He went on, talking about the girl, how bad Roddy felt about what had happened, about his part in it. He understood now that women should be respected, never called skanks and bitches. Even a woman who had been teasing them, trying to seduce them. “You know what men are like? They have too much to drink—”

  “Men?”

  “It’s just … like I said, he never meant for anything bad to happen. The other guys, they were mainly responsible. They were the reason he lost his bearings. Temporarily lost his sense of right and wrong.” He ran a hand over his eyes. “Sure, okay, so he might have been there with too much beer in his belly. Pissed at the world. You know how it is. It was dark. The beer and the game and his anger got all mixed up. Every guy on the team agreed she was a slut. It was hard to ignore all the rumors. Married and divorced. With a kid out of wedlock. Liked it rough. I didn’t necessarily believe it, but, I mean, she sure enjoyed the flirting. She kept setting ’em up and we kept pounding them back. Suddenly it was closing time and they were telling us we had to leave. None of us wanted to go. I wish I could remember exactly what went down next.” He mashed the palm of his hand against one eye, struggling to see the scene and at the same time resisting the vision. “We got her to walk across the road to the woods. Pretty night, you know? Summertime. Soft breezes. Except I was hot. Sweating. Stumbling. All I know is, I wasn’t part of it. I watched, sure. I should have stopped it. For sure I should have stopped it, but … you know. Things get away from you sometimes. And then … she was just lying there in the grass, so quiet. I thought she was dead. We all ran back to our trucks, drove away from that roadhouse like the devil himself was chasing us.”

  Feeling a hand on his knee, Emmett looked up and wiped the tears out of his eyes. The reverend was leaning toward him.

  “We seem to be talking about you now, Emmett. Not your son.”

  “Me? No. Hell, no. I came here to talk about Roddy.” Rising from his chair, feeling a sudden need for air, he said, “This was a mistake.”

  “Please, don’t go,” said Reverend Willie, standing with him. “I believe it’s important that we keep talking.”

  “I can’t,” said Emmett, patting his pocket for his car keys. “I … I got confused,” he said, turning toward the door. He needed a drink. He had to get home. “I never should have come.”

  * * *

  The Xanadu evening crew was working on dinner prep when Jane walked in shortly after four. Tables were being set, the bar was being restocked, and everything was abuzz. Jane spied the shift manager, Rich Gillett, standing over by the wait station in the main dining room, looking at the POS computer. Without alerting him to her presence, she made a hard left into the hallway that led to the restrooms. Not more than ten seconds after entering the women’s bathroom, she was back out, hollering for him.

  “Jane, I didn’t see you come in,” he said, blinking his nervousness.

  “I want those bathrooms cleaned up right now. They’re filthy.”

  “Sure.”

  “That’s all you’ve got to say?”

  “I’ll get someone right on it.”

  “Don’t you check the bathrooms as a matter of course before we open for dinner?”

  “Usually.”

  “So today is … what? Atypical in some rare, anomalous sort of way?”

  “No. I mean—”

  “Get it done, Rich,” she said, brushing past him on her way downstairs to the kitchen.

  The Xanadu’s food was less gourmet than the Lyme House’s. It was a basic turn-and-burn steakhouse. Jane always set high standards, which was what made the difference between her place and all of her competitors. As far as she could tell, that edge had been lost.

  Checking the cold room, she found that most of the tray pans had been dated and labeled. That was some progress. Stepping over to the line, she opened one of the lowboys. “Don,” she said, crooking her finger at the same chef she’d had the conversation with yesterday.

  “Oh, hi, Jane. I didn’t see you there.”

  “This,” she said, holding up a sliced tomato, “is a garnish. This,” she added, holding up another tomato slice, one that looked dry and wilted, “is garbage. Are you able to comprehend the difference?”

  “About that,” he said, adjusting the instant-read thermometer in the pocket of his chef’s coat. “I talked to Barry. He said I should use my discretion.”

  “You’re talking to me now, Don. Clean out this top crap and replace it.”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  “Would you like to be served that piece of tomato on your burger? Those dry-looking chopped onions? That wilted lettuce?”

  “I guess not.”

  “You like your job here, Don?”

  “I love it.”

  “Then try a little harder.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Say, Jane, I hear you had a little”—he sniffed, touched his right nostril, and grinned at her—“problem Friday night.”

  She caught the meaning and the sarcasm. Apparently bad news traveled fast. “Get back to work.”

  Walking through the prep area looking for Luis Ramos, she found him in the corner, his body bent over a deep sink. As she walked up he nodded to her.

  “How’s it going?” she asked.

  He wiped his hands on a rag and turned to face her. “Okay.”

  “Your sister-in-law feeling
any better?”

  “She have … nausea. Is that … right word? Sick a lot. I try to do … to help.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve heard any more from Elvio.”

  Luis spit on the floor. “He is filth.”

  “Because of what he did?”

  “Because of who he is.”

  It was the second time he’d said that. “I don’t understand.”

  “He … faggot. I always know, but don’t say. I take care of Rosa now. I … the man.”

  “I see,” said Jane.

  “Thank you for my job.”

  “Is everyone treating you okay?”

  His eyes flicked to the head chef. “I like you. I tell you truth, yes?”

  “Please.”

  “He trouble.” He nodded at Don. “Un hombre malo.”

  “In what way?”

  “I see him. He sell food to workers from that room.” He pointed to the cold room.

  “Sells food?”

  “And do cocaine. Saw him after we close last night. He chop … um … what you say … lines? On bar top. Offer around.”

  Jane glanced in Don’s direction and saw that he was watching them, a hard look in his eyes. “Thanks,” she said.

  “I go back to work.”

  “Good. Thank you. I appreciate the tip.”

  On her way back through the kitchen, she stopped next to Don, who was talking with one of the line cooks. Without waiting for him to finish, she said, “You fire Luis for any reason—any reason—and I’ll fire you. I find out you’re harassing him, you’re gone. You got it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Clean out the lowboys, Don. I’ll be back.”

  After delivering that last line, she felt a moment of pure Arnold Schwarzenegger as she trotted up the steps to the dining room.

  36

  After putting on the coffee, thinking that once she was done shoveling, something hot would be welcome, Jane opened the back door and stood on the porch, watching the dogs leap through the snow. As usual, with the white stuff came higher temperatures. This time of the year the low twenties felt almost balmy.