by Thomas Scott
I sincerely hope you’re happy and well, though I doubt either of those things are true, and that fact saddens me to no end. I really do wish you nothing but the best, but please stop trying to find it at the expense of me and my wife. By the way, a mailbox is a poor substitute for a relationship. In other words, don’t bother waiting for the check to clear. It’s already in the trash.
Your son,
Sam
p.s. I’m profoundly ashamed of myself that I didn’t have the courage to say this to your face, or at the very least stand before you as you read it, but it’s the best I can do right now. The hypocrisy of leaving this letter in your mailbox isn’t lost on me either. My only excuse is it’s not wrapped in a Walmart bag pretending to be a gift.
Sam folded the letter, tucked it into an envelope, and drove the half-mile over to his father’s house. Once there he stuck the letter in the box and went back home. He hadn’t seen his father since.
So…two years gone now, and his brother Don calling to say the old man was running out of time. Was he telling the truth, or was it the counselor in him trying to manipulate his older brother into doing something he really didn’t want to do? Only one way to find out.
He picked up the phone, called his editor, and asked for a three-day extension. The editor said it wouldn’t be a problem. “Is everything all right over there?”
Not really…not when the old man is involved. “Yeah, I’ve just got some family issues I’m dealing with.”
“Not Danni, I hope.”
“No, no, Danni is fine. And so am I.”
“Okay, I won’t pry, but Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“This one is going to be your breakout novel. I can feel it, and I don’t want anything to get in the way of that. So…three days. And that’s taking it right down to the wire.”
“No more than that,” Sam said. “I promise.”
With that done, he grabbed his truck keys and headed for the door. At the last second, he quickly detoured into the kitchen and vomited into the sink.
Danika heard him retching, came over, and put her hand on his back. “Sam, what’s the matter? Are you okay?”
Sam turned on the faucet, cupped his hands under the water, and rinsed out his mouth. Then he splashed his face and asked Danika for a towel.
She handed him the towel, and said, “Sam?”
He wiped his face, then turned to his wife. “Don called. He was practically in tears. He’s asked me to go see my dad. Said he doesn’t have much time left.”
“Oh, sweetheart, I don’t think—”
“I know,” Sam said. “I don’t think it’s the best idea, either.”
“Then why go?”
“Because while it might not be the best idea, it’s probably not the worst. What if he really is sick?”
“You know what your brother is like,” Danika said. “He lies and manipulates to get everything he wants, so he can feel better. I’m not saying you shouldn’t go. I’m simply saying that if you do, make sure you’re doing it for yourself. Not your dad, and certainly not for Don.”
Sam nodded at his wife, gave her a quick hug, and said, “I won’t be long.”
Chapter Ten
When Sam arrived at his father’s house, he found him in his usual afternoon spot—sitting in his garage, a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Dick Whittle looked at his son, set his drink on the workbench next to him, crushed out his butt in the tray, then stood up. “Wondered if you were ever going to come and see your old man.”
“Nice greeting,” Sam said. “Especially from the guy who didn’t even bother to show up for my wedding.”
Whittle ignored the comment, then he did something that surprised Sam. He walked over and gave him a hug. When he let go, Sam noticed his father’s eyes were rimmed with moisture.
“You want a belt?” Whittle said.
Sam thought, What the hell…why not? He felt like he might need it. “What do you have?”
“Name your poison.”
“I’d take a beer, I guess.”
“You guess? Do you want a beer or not?”
“Yes, yes, a beer. Jesus.”
Whittle walked over to the refrigerator he kept in the garage, opened the door, and handed his son a beer. Sam noticed that his father had definitely aged since the last time they’d seen each other. His hair was thinner and had turned from gray to white, and he didn’t really walk…he sort of shuffled. Tiny, feeble steps that made him look like he could topple over any second.
“Let me get you a chair,” Whittle said. He reached for a lawn chair that hung on the back wall, and couldn’t seem to free it from the hook.
Sam walked over and said, “Here, Dad, let me.”
Whittle brushed him away and said, “I’ve got it. This is my goddamned house. You think I can’t get a lawn chair off the wall?”
Sam backed away and let the old man struggle. After a great deal of effort, he finally freed the chair from its hook and shook it open. He pushed it toward Sam, following it along like it was a walker. When he sat back down, his breath was ragged, his face flushed from the exertion. He lit another cigarette, took a drink of his vodka, then said, “Got your letter a couple years back.”
“Yeah? What’d you think of it?” Sam said.
“Not much. Read it once, wiped my ass with it, then flushed it down the bowl. Probably didn’t help my septic system, but it ended up where it belonged.”
Sam actually laughed, though there was no humor involved. “You know what? That sounds almost exactly like something you’d do.”
“I worked you hard growing up. Don’t think I don’t know that. Tried to turn you into a real man, like your brother, Don. I must have failed though. Any puss can write a damn letter, but a real man would have told it to my face. I’m surprised you didn’t show up here in a dress and high heels.” Then, as if two different people lived inside his skin, Whittle said, “Book sales going okay?”
Sam knew it was one of his father’s favorite tactics; throw out an insult or two, then pretend to show interest of a personal nature before anyone could respond to the way they’d just been disrespected. But Sam wasn’t playing. “You didn’t just work me hard, Dad, you abused me. You abused us all. Want to think of me as a puss for putting my thoughts in a letter? Go ahead. Like I told you, they’re your feelings, not mine. I’d have told it to your face if I thought you would have listened.”
“You gonna answer my question, or not?”
Sam shook his head. “Yes, book sales are going well. I’m finishing up my fifth manuscript right now.”
“Waste of trees, you ask me,” Whittle said. “I tried to read one of your so-called novels and didn’t get past the first chapter before I tossed it in the trash. Hated to do it, mainly because I was embarrassed for the rest of the garbage in the barrel. Can’t believe you make any money off that crap. You and Danni doing all right?”
“Yes, Danni and I are fine.”
Whittle made a rude noise with his lips. “Danni. What kind of a name is that for a woman? Sounds like a man’s name. She one of them weirdos or something? I could see you marrying someone like that.”
“Her name is Danika, Dad. You know that. And, as for your previous question, not everyone is going to like what I write. Art is subjective.”
Whittle let out an old man’s cackle. “Art? You call that art? More like fart, you ask me. I’ll tell you what you need to do…you need to go out and get a real job, like your brother, Don. My pride and joy, that young man. Want a smoke?”
“I quit after mom died. I told you that.”
Whittle nodded and seemed to be lost in his own thoughts. “That woman, your mother, I loved her with my whole heart. Maybe if she would have quit smoking, the cancer wouldn’t have got her.”
The cancer is sitting right in from of me, Sam thought.
“What was that? I don’t hear so good anymore.”
“I said the cancer isn’t what killed her. Someone sucked t
he life out of her.”
“Any thoughts about who that might be? Maybe if you’d have done your job as a child and been a better kid, like Don, she might have lived longer, or at least she might have been happier. What do you think of my car?”
Sam glanced at the car. “Yeah, nice. Mom told me a story once about the time when she told you she was pregnant with me. She said you hit her so hard she lost a couple of teeth.”
“Nice? Nice? Do you have any idea how much money that thing cost? Damned near a hundred grand. Reminds me of all the money I spent on everyone during Christmas. Christ, if I had that money now, I’d be living large. I’ll bet I dropped over fifteen grand every year for nearly twenty years. What’s that? Three hundred K? I’d like to have that back, I’ll tell you that. You know what it was? It was wasted money on a waste of flesh. You and that wife of yours going to spit out a grandchild for me before I croak?”
Good God, I hope not.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Whittle said.
“Are you sick, Dad? Don seems to think that you haven’t been doing very well lately.”
“I ain’t sick. I’m old.” He pointed a crooked finger at Sam and said, “Let me tell you something, boy, getting old ain’t for pussies like you. Based on what I’ve seen over the years, you’ll be lucky if you make it to fifty. Here’s some advice: Pick out your own funeral dress now. There’s still a few of your mother’s nice things in the closet.” Then he laughed like it was the funniest thing anyone had ever said. When the laughter stopped, he said, “Goddamnit to hell, it’s good to laugh with you again, boy.”
“You mean at me, don’t you?”
“What are you talking about? We’re having a nice visit. Don’t be such a stick in the mud. You see, that’s always been your problem…you can’t find the good in anything. Always bitching and moaning about this isn’t good enough, or that is good enough. I’ll tell you what was never good enough…it was you. Always doing everything half-assed around the ranch. Letting the eggs rot, letting the fox through the hole in the fence, letting the roof collapse that one winter. Want to know how much that set me back? Over a quarter million, and it was all your fault. Sometimes I’m convinced the better part of you went running down your mother’s leg. Either that or the nurse dropped you on your head when no one was looking and didn’t bother to mention it to anyone. How’s that new house of yours holding up? Everything okay there?”
“Never better, Dad.”
Whittle huffed. “Well, I hope you’re keeping it clean. Christ, when you were a kid, it’d take your mother half the night to get the feathers and the chicken shit smell out of the house. About to gag me to death. Every time you walked inside, it was like you were dragging the entire barn in with you. You stunk the place up so bad, I thought I was going to have to kick you out. You get a new haircut? Looks different…like you finally might be trying.”
“Yeah, a couple of days ago.”
“Probably went to Sally’s Perms and Curls, didn’t ya? Get yourself a nice set and a do to finally come over and see your old man? Did you lift your skirt while you were there and spread your legs so they could staple a sack on you? Maybe help you write another letter? You know your mother used to go there back in the day. Different owners, I think. Can’t keep track anymore. Don mentioned you got a dog. Some kind of purse dog or something. One of them ones that always shiver. Since you seem to have forgotten your purse, I’m guessing you didn’t bring it with you. Don’t forget, you’ve got to get it started on the heart-worm meds and all that.”
“I know Dad, I know.”
Whittle waved him away. “Yeah, yeah, you think you know everything, don’t you. Let me tell you something: You don’t know shit about fuck. That dog even looks at you crooked, you got to kick him around for a while, show him who’s boss. And I’m not talking about pointing your finger and saying, ‘bad dog,’ I’m talking about taking the boot to it, hard. You let an animal get on top of you and it’s over. He’s probably pissing on your carpet as we speak. A dog ever pissed on my carpet, I’d put a bullet in him. Say, you never did answer me…When am I going to get a grandchild? I’d sure like the chance to be someone’s grandpa before my time is up.”
“Danika and I have decided to wait until the time is right. I’ve got a book tour coming up, and my agent says he’s got shops lined up all along the east coast.”
“Mister Big Shot, huh? More like big shit. Well, let me tell you something Mr. Big Shit, ain’t no right time to have a kid, that’s for damned sure. When you came along it flat-out ruined my life. Thank god we waited a few years to have Don. That boy was something special, right out of the gate. Did you hear his cross-country team has won the state championship two years running? I’m telling you, I’m so proud of that boy, I could spit. And a counselor to boot. Now there’s a man who knows how to make something out of his life, unlike the rest of my pathetic children, present company included. Say, you want another beer? I’ve got plenty.”
Like that.
Sam went home, vomited in the kitchen sink for the second time in less than an hour, turned to his wife, and said, “What was I thinking?”
“That bad?” Danika said.
“He hit all the highlights, that’s for sure.”
Danika led him into the living room, and after they were sitting down, she said, “Tell me.”
They spent the next hour talking about the visit, and Sam’s past, most of which Danika knew, some of which she didn’t. As they were winding down, Sam’s phone rang. He looked at the screen, then at his wife. “It’s Don…again.”
“Let it go.”
“He’ll just keep calling until I answer. Might as well get it over with.” He punched the Answer button and said, “What?”
Don sounded elated. “Sam…man, I don’t know what you said to Dad, but I just got off the phone with him. He sounded happier than ever. He kept saying how good it was to see you, how you guys talked and laughed, and what a great time he had. I can’t thank you enough, man. Really, you’re a hell of a brother, you know that? Sam, hey Sam…are you there?”
“Yeah. Listen, Don, I gotta go. I’m in the middle of something. I’ll catch you later, okay?”
“Sure, sure. I just wanted you to know how happy you made Dad.”
And Sam thought, Yeah, once again, at my own expense.
Chapter Eleven
PRESENT-DAY:
The MCU was located inside an old post office building just south of the city’s not-so-infamous Spaghetti Bowl, a series of never-ending loops, on-ramps, exits, and city streets, that in years past when viewed from above, looked like an actual bowl of spaghetti. It didn’t look much like a spaghetti bowl anymore, but everyone still referred to the area that way.
On Monday morning, Virgil walked inside the building and made his way to his office. He took the morning to get caught up on paperwork, clearing out his email, then spent some time going over the reporting that had been generated while he and Murton had been in Jamaica.
Ross and Rosencrantz were working a cold case out of Kokomo…a teenage girl had gone missing over three weeks ago, and no one had heard from her since. He made a note to himself to check on their progress when they got back to the shop. The father of the girl was a longtime acquaintance of Mac’s, so…
He called his business partner, Rick Said, and asked if everything was going well with the sonic drilling units down in Shelby County.
“It’s going just fine, Jonesy. How are you?” Said said.
“I’m well, Rick. Just got back from a week in Jamaica.”
“I heard. Nichole said something to Patty, and she told me you were down there. Have a good time?”
Virgil wasn’t exactly sure how to answer the question. “Good enough, I’d say.”
Said, who was a businessman at heart, got right down to business. “Listen, Jonesy, we’ve got a new set of geological reports that came in while you were gone. There’s a section of land that sits right on the border between the
old Graves and Mizner properties. I’d like to get a couple of drill units positioned over there and see what we can see. The reporting looks very good.”
Basil Graves and Angus Mizner, former owners of the land, and minority shareholders of the gas extraction business owned by Virgil and Said had been murdered during Virgil’s last case. It was the same case that killed Ron Miles. “That seems a little…premature, don’t you think?”
“Look, Jonesy, I know what you’re thinking, but the fact is, neither Graves nor Mizner had any heirs. You, me, and Johnson have all agreed to donate what would have been their proceeds to the cultural center, so I’m asking myself, why not?”
“What’d Carl say about it?” Virgil said. Carl Johnson was their other partner and acted as the de facto foreman of the operation.
“He said it’d take a day each to cap two of the wells, then another four or five days to reposition and get everything set up.”
“So we’re looking at a week of downtime,” Virgil said.
“Yes, but only for two of the units. The rest will remain operational. In fact, if we boost the output—Carl and the engineers all agree the pumps can handle it—then we shouldn’t see any drop in productivity over that period.”
“Okay, you want to get with Carl, or do you want me to call him?”
“I’ll handle it,” Said said. “Just wanted to get you up to speed. Hey, speaking of up to speed and all things Shelby County, did you hear that the mobile voting app is going to get a trial run?”
“No, I didn’t hear anything about it.”
“Probably because you were too busy sunning yourself down in the tropics. Anyway, after Ron’s, uh…well, after Ron, the county decided to hold a special election. Ed Henderson is running for sheriff, and the app we’ve built is going to handle the votes. The whole thing is happening in less than a month.”
“No kidding? That’s great, Rick. Congratulations. I hope it goes well. Who’s he running against?”
