by Alan Lee
“Good God,” she said, staring at the staircase. “Who the hell is that?”
“My roommate.”
“He’s gay?”
“He is not. Though he does sleep in my room,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because even straight dudes are drawn to me.”
“What?”
“Nothing. His sleeping arrangement is a long story. Full of violence and woe.”
Kix started babbling at us.
“What’s he want?” she asked.
“To be known.”
“How do you make him stop?”
“I’ve never wondered. Or tried.”
“I’m going to be the worst parent. If I have kids they’ll be so screwed up,” she said. Her beer was half gone and she swirled the thick liquid at the bottom of the glass.
“You? With your fancy human behavior degree?”
“I studied human behavior. Doesn’t mean I’m a good one.”
“How do you like your steak?” I asked.
“Medium well.”
“Yikes. You are a bad one.”
“Are you still working on the case with the abusive father?”
“I am and I’ve avoided tearing his ears off. Thanks for the advice.”
“You’re welcome. What kind of case is it, anyway?” she asked. She tipped her head back and consumed the rest of her beer. Set it down on the table with a thunk.
“I’m searching for someone.”
“A missing person?”
“More of a hidden identity. Think of it like the board game Clue. The killer isn’t missing, we just don’t know who it is,” I said.
“Oooo, is there a Miss Scarlet?”
“Indeed, and even a Colonel Mustard.”
She started drawing lines on the table with condensation from the beer glass. Kix watched, confused why she didn’t pay more attention to him. “How do you discover the killer?”
“I aggravate people and investigate relationships.”
“That’s it?”
“Everything is connected. The mystery person has hidden his or her tracks with painstaking care but it’s impossible to erase all connections. Eventually I’ll stumble over one.”
“Like how,” she said.
“Maybe a husband covering for his wife will slip up and he’ll say the wrong thing. Maybe when I get close to the truth someone will start to get mad and defensive. It’s hard to predict how the truth will surface. But surface it shall.”
Manny went out for dinner and Kristin gaped unabashedly after him. She and I ate steaks and potatoes and salad, and I put Kix to bed. I came back and she had two beers out of the fridge. She gave me one and we sat on the leather couch in the front room of the house. Through the windows we could see a cool rain had begun falling, turning the lawn to winking crystal beneath streetlights.
She said, “I like your digs. Tall ceilings. Good woodwork.” Her legs were tucked under her and she sat tall and erect.
“Someone told me it smells like cologne and masculinity and leather.”
“Someone has an overactive imagination. Should we begin undressing?”
“Manny won’t be gone long. And my old man is due soon. They come through that door sometimes and I’m positive they’d approve of your nakedness.”
“And you?”
“I’m doing my best to avoid intimate congress,” I said.
“You said this before. In the car. Is it a religious thing?”
“More like a survival thing.”
Her face was close to mine and her eyes were narrow and piercing. “You don’t want my body.”
“Of course I do. But it’d be better if I didn't partake.”
“Better for who?”
“Both of us, I imagine. Certainly for me,” I said. “To thine own self be true. That kind of thing.”
“You cannot hide from yourself behind platitudes.”
“It’s no platitude. I’m not a moralist. I’m simply broken.”
She asked, “But you feel the urge? I’m desirable?”
“Absolutely. I want you twice. But. Have you ever snorted cocaine?”
She reeled back. “Of course not.”
“I have. It’s great. Don’t let the anti-drug commercials fool you. Cocaine is the best. Drugs aren’t addictive because they’re boring. I still want to snort blow. But I haven’t in years.”
Her lips screwed up in a wry smile. “In this analogy, I’m cocaine.”
“No. Sex is cocaine. You’re the hot coke dealer.”
“With great tits?”
“Better than any coke dealer I ever saw.”
She set her beer bottle down and took my hand in both of hers. “Yeah but with sex there’s no crash.”
“For me there is. I felt awful.”
“Why? Your performance was exemplary, Mack.”
“Goes without saying. A sensational fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen minutes you wish. More like six.”
“You were counting too fast,” I courteously corrected her.
“Why the crash?”
“I think it’s accumulated residue from old failed attempts at relationships. You’re the one with the degree in human behavior, you tell me.”
“How do you know ours will fail?” she asked.
“Mine always do. I’m a mess.”
“Then let’s not have a relationship. Let’s just fuck.”
“Wow. Such language and no maiden’s blush to bepaint thy cheek.”
She blinked. Twice. “What?”
“I’m misquoting Shakespeare. You saw me at the baseball game. With another woman.”
“I did.”
“It bothered you.”
“So?” she said.
“If you and I are only physical, it wouldn’t have.”
“I got a little jealous. Get over it. Who is she, anyway?”
“A girl I’m smitten with.”
She released my hand. “Smitten? What the hell.”
“I know. I’m practically a Jane Austen character. But I’m not dating her so I don’t know what to call it.”
“Is she smitten with you?”
“She is.”
She didn’t appreciably move but her entire being seemed to bend away from me. “Then why did you invite me over?”
“I enjoy your company. And I told you I would.”
“So this is, like, charity?”
“Not at all.”
“I’m a grown woman, Mack. Not some chaste fifteen-year-old girl, coming over to chat with a boy. I have needs.”
“Me too. But sex no longer satisfies that need.”
“You want to get married.” She snorted. “Live happily ever after.”
“Maybe even put up a picket fence.”
“God.”
“I’m so unenlightened it’s breathtaking,” I said. “I’m not smart enough to know if casual sex is possible. I make no judgements. This is not a prescription on how life should be lived; it’s a description of who I am.”
She took a deep breath and let it out. As though reluctantly coming to terms with the Neanderthal she’d chosen. “So anytime I want sex from you I’m required to ambush you. Take off my clothes so you’re unable to resist. Slide the cocaine under your nose, so to speak.”
“That’d do the trick but I do not advocate that approach. If you’re simply after a physical sensation you could find any number of willing private detectives.”
“I don’t want them,” she said.
“Why not.”
“I want you.”
“I cannot blame you. My heart is pure and I know not fear.”
“That another poem?”
“Yes, though, again, I’ve butchered it.”
“And I’ve butchered casual sex, admitting I want it from you and not from others. I suppose it’s easier said than done.” She was leaning toward me again. The defensive wall had dissipated.
“Much of life is.”
“So you want
to date both me and what’s-her-name?”
“I’m not dating her. Nor will I, anytime soon.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“She’s getting married. To someone other than me.”
“Oh Mack.” She grinned. As though taking pleasure in my character faults. “You filthy tomcat.”
“She and I have not, ahh, been intimate.”
“Really? You fucked me and not her?”
“Not exactly Hallmark phrasing but yes.”
“Okay. I can live with that.” She nodded to herself. “You know, not every college instructor would be willing to bang a guy with a kid. You’re lucky.”
“Because a kid is baggage.”
“Obviously.”
“Not to me. To me he’s pure light.”
“Whatever. You’re going to keep avoiding my sexual advances?” she asked.
“To the best of my abilities.”
“Are you with me only to get your mind off her?”
“I don’t know. I can’t rule out that possibility.”
She shrugged and picked up her beer.
“Beggars can’t be choosers, I guess,” she said.
“Kristin. You’re not a beggar. Have a look in the mirror. Walk into a bar and take your pick of suitors.”
“Gross. What kind of girl do you take me for?”
“The sexually voracious kind.”
“You got that right, Mack.”
Chapter Nineteen
I walked onto the Patrick Henry football field and shook hands with Ricky Alexander, head coach of the Patriots. He was tall and thick, like he played offensive lineman in college and kept the bulk. Meaty hands. Goatee. Friendly voice, strong but held in check.
“Mack, you going to coach my defense or what?”
“Long as you understand. I have a weird job with weird hours,” I said.
He wore a purple and gold windbreaker and a purple hat. School colors. “We can work around that. So you’re in?”
“I’m in. Try it for a season and see how we fit.”
“Excellent. You and I can meet sometime soon. Talk philosophies of winning. What I’m looking for most of all is a defensive-minded role model. We’ll have forty kids trying out for defense. Thirty of them will have unmarried parents. Twenty of them will have no contact with their father or have fathers in jail. Ten of them will have never met their father. You get it?”
“We’re doing more than teaching football. That’s the only reason I agreed,” I said.
“Then you and I are on the same page.”
“Could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
He grinned and smacked a clipboard against my chest. “Don’t get weird on me. Let’s just coach the hell out of this team.”
He moved away and I stood on the sidelines, examining the roster for names I already knew. A black Lexus LS pulled into the parking lot. Marcus Morgan emerged from the driver’s side and Fat Susie lumbered out the passenger. Marcus was dressed in black slacks and a black turtleneck and he walked to me with deliberate and measured steps.
“Your wardrobe,” I said. “Must make for a boring closet.”
“The fewer choices I make in the morning the better.”
“Ah. Limited brainpower.”
“Something like that,” he said. “You the new coach?”
“Defensive coordinator.”
“Excellent. Thank you.”
“Not doing it for you.”
He had silver sunglasses on. The school reflected off the mirrored surface. “I know. Thank you, just the same.”
“You come to all the practices?”
“Many as I can. Not enough.”
“Got time for a professional question?” I asked.
“I do.”
“What will Calvin do with the informant, once I find him?”
“You sure you’ll find him?”
“Seventy-five percent chance,” I said.
“Summers’ll do what he should do. He’ll do what I would do. Or come close.”
“What would you do?”
“Handcuff him. Take an ax to him. Take a chainsaw to him. Make people watch,” he said. Like he was discussing a hamburger recipe.
“Marcus. Perhaps you need to watch less violent television.”
He grinned and fiddled with the silver watch on his left wrist. “It’s not pleasant. But someone sent me to prison?” Shook his head and grunted. “I burn their house down, too.”
“You’ve done the ax thing before?”
“Only once. I was twenty-six. Haven’t been betrayed since.”
“Still. Seems excessive.”
“You don’t got the heart for it, do you,” he said. “You’re balking. Don’t want the responsibility on your shoulders. Blood on your hands. I told Calvin maybe you weren’t the right guy for the job.”
“But a chainsaw? No way. That only happens in Scarface.”
“You want in the underworld? This comes with the territory.”
“Who said I wanted in the underworld?” I asked.
“Too late now, August. You’re in. And you’re in thick.”
“I should have been consulted first. I decline the invitation.”
“On the bright side, we pay good.”
“You pay in chainsaws,” I said.
“Only those who betray us. You got nothing to worry about.”
Was I one degree less masculine, my hands holding the clipboard would have trembled. Because I planned on betraying Calvin. “Does Fat Susie know about the axes and chainsaws?”
“Course. Who you think will hold the handle?”
“Poor Fat Susie,” I said. “He’ll have PTSD.”
“Don’t feel bad for Fat Susie. Feel bad for the informant. Motherfucker’s gonna have a rough spring.”
Chapter Twenty
Motherfucker’s gonna have a rough Spring.
He’s going to be tied up and killed with axes and chainsaws while others watch. Because he betrayed the Mafioso.
And I was supposed to deliver said betrayer to the ax-wielding lunatics. If I quit or if I found out who it was and I kept my mouth shut then I became a betrayer too.
And I hated being killed with chainsaws.
These were the pleasant thoughts keeping me company as I did a job for Moseley Law Firm. He needed statements taken by a third party and that’s exactly what I did. I took them so good, well into the evening. Timothy August picked Kix up from Roxanne’s and I worked late.
I swung by my office on the way home around nine that night. On warm nights like this, downtown Roanoke felt more like a step backwards in time than a modern city. A safer and simpler time, when couples held hands under the streetlights and live music spilled out of restaurants. Which was exactly what I saw on the corner of Campbell and Market — a live band inside the hookah bar and couples leaning into each other.
Star City of the South indeed.
I creaked and squeaked up the stairs. Unlocked the door. Flipped the light switch. Went in.
A man stood to my right. I detected him in my periphery. The intruder’s back was flat against the wall and he was hoping I’d pass him by unnoticed.
I elbowed him. Violent and sudden, driving my hard ulna bone into his solar plexus. He made a noise like a confused gasp and he doubled over.
His face looked familiar.
His eyes flickered to someone behind me.
I spun away. A heavy something caught me on the left shoulder, instead of catching me in the skull.
It hurt. But I remained conscious. Like Achilles would have.
Another man was there. A man even more pathetic in appearance. Unfamiliar and looking unsure what to do.
I put a fist into his throat and heard the wretched crunch of cartilage. He gagged.
Scott. That was the first guy’s name, the superintendent of Happy Hills trailer park. Scott came up holding his chest, which hurt like everything. In his other hand he held a heavy revolver. I took the revolver in my fist
and bent his wrist inward until the barrel was aimed at his own chest.
Neither man wanted to kill me. Not really. Perhaps they’d been sent here to do that but they didn’t want to. They weren’t trained or hardened to the task. If so it could have been done easily when I walked in. Killing a man requires a lot of work, most of it emotional.
The unknown intruder kept gagging. He scrambled out of my reach. He had a gun too. A Glock.
I kept steady pressure on Scott’s revolver. He squirmed helplessly. With my other hand, my left, I withdrew my pistol and aimed it at the gagging unknown intruder.
He aimed at me.
I aimed at him.
Scott aimed at Scott.
“Call it a truce?” I asked. Politely.
“Jesus,” the intruder said. His throat was damaged and he sounded like a dog straining and coughing against a leash. He twisted, feeling vulnerable and scared under my gun. “Don’t shoot, man!”
Was I scared?
Not I. I felt no fear.
Mostly because I thought his safety was still engaged.
“Put your gun on my desk and I won’t,” I said.
He fired. A shocking blast in my enclosed office.
The bullet punched a small hole through the drywall to the left of my head. He’d missed.
So I was wrong about the safety.
My ears rang and Scott shouted something.
I aimed — with a steady left hand — and returned fire. Another ear-splitting pop.
The bullet grazed the acromion bone, adjacent to his clavicle. Pulp misted from his shoulder. The shot only nicked him, drilling another bullet hole in my office, but the impact spun him 180 degrees and his legs gave out. His pistol landed in the corner.
“I’m hit!” he cried.
“You shot him!”
“Scott,” I said. “Release your revolver and tend to your friend.”
“You shot him,” Scott told me again.
“Indeed. Now he needs steady pressure on that shoulder. Let go. And help him.”
“What?” said Scott. Poor thing, he was overcome by my aim and strength and general masculinity.
“Let go,” I said.
He did.
“Now take your shirt off.”
“Why?”
“A bandage.”
He complied.
“Now press it firmly onto the wound.”
“You ain’t gonna kill us?”
