The Next

by Rafe Haze

  “Pick it up,” he growled.

  I stared right into his pupils. All at once I knew how Marzoli did it—how he navigated the channels of another’s thoughts. The secret, of course, was absolute selflessness. No agenda. No prejudice. No expectation. No control. Just a willingness to accept and understand. Yes, Mr. Perfect was a killer, and he still could kill me. But for this split instant, he was an emotional wreck, desperately trying to keep it contained in the shell of an Armani pinstriped suit. Imprisoned like the rest of us.

  I knew the second it dawned on him that I would not kill him. I knew he knew why I would not kill him. I knew he’d concluded he had no recourse but to force my hand. I was in no way surprised when Mr. Perfect suddenly rushed toward me. His knees braced my biceps to the door as his hands wrapped around my throat, and squeezed. Not hard enough to kill me, just hard enough to scare me.

  But was I scared?

  No, I was not.

  No, for I now had the clear recollection of the much more horrific attacks of my past: Graves, the Blond Boy, my Dad. No, I would not be frightened by this. Here this awesomely beautiful and handsome face was inches away from my face, the Old Spice deodorant still wet on his muscular armpits and seeping its way up his collar into my nostrils, his thick strong fingers wrapped around my throat, and I felt nothing but compassion.

  He squeezed tighter, growling. “Pick it up.”

  I put my lips together, inched closer to his face, and pressed them against his rugged, sharp, clean-shaven jaw.

  He stopped.

  The kiss confused him.

  I could see right into his brain. He could not get me to kill him. I watched his resolution fall like Sally’s had once Paul whispered “Stop.” I watched his mortification battle with yearning as Graves had when I first caught him staring at our bodies through the trailer window. I watched his struggle evolve into alarm just as Mom’s had when Paul pleaded for her to snap out of it in the shower. Then my heart froze as I watched him react with a surprising grin just as Grandfather had when he entered his trailer to find the white walls speckled with blood.

  Huh? What had he suddenly become satisfied with?

  I heard the wobbling behind me before seeing it.

  Mrs. Abraham neared us in the hallway. If Mr. Layworth could not intimidate me with the threat of my own death, he would threaten the death of the little old lady with the barking pooch.

  He reached for the gun. I kicked it farther down the hall. He leaped after it. I bounded on top of him, landing with the full weight of my body straddling his, slamming his torso into the floor. The wind knocked out of him momentarily, he recovered and twisted to throw me off. I wrapped my legs around his and wove my arms under his armpits to prevent him from throwing me. He inched like a soldier desperately crawling through the mud on the battlefield toward the gun. I felt his hard buttocks thrust into my groin and I dug into him to force him to drag on the carpet.

  Goddamn it! I could not stop him!

  “Run!” I yelled at Mrs. Abraham, just as I commanded Paul to run. “Run!”

  Suddenly Layworth bucked with the strength of an ox, his body jackknifing. I flew off him, hit the wall, and fell to the floor.

  Bang!

  I knew the sound instantly—sharp, crisp, and loud.

  I knew the sound of the thumping of a fallen body on the carpet like the sound of all the deer we’d shot collapsing to the forest floor. I heard the exhalation of air from his lungs as they collapsed inward.

  Layworth lay dead in front of me.

  Minnie had finally shut the fuck up.

  Mrs. Abraham stood above him, holding the gun.

  “Look, dear,” she pointed to me. “You’re out in the hall.”

  Holy fuck!

  I was fully outside my apartment, lying down on the carpet in the hallway!

  “Congratulations, dear.” She held out a plate wrapped in tin foil. “Have some strawberry rhubarb pie to celebrate. Yes, fruit from jars, but I think it’s rather a success.”

  I looked with amazement at this woman. She seemed absolutely unfazed by having taken the life of another man. I realized I’d no earthly idea what kind of past she shared with her sister. To shoot someone with one hand and not even drop the plate of pie in the other required a background consisting of far more than knitting and cooking. I knew nothing about this wondrous woman—my beautiful neighbor.

  I smiled and took the plate, feeling surreally disconnected from reality yet one hundred percent clear-headed at the same time.

  I hugged her, squeezing Minnie between us gently.

  She patted my back and said, “Now, now, dear. It’s just pie.”

  My cell rang in my apartment.

  “Go,” she ordered me. “And do let me know how it tastes.”

  I entered my apartment and retrieved my phone.

  “What in shit happened? You okay?”

  It was Marzoli.

  Thank you!

  I turned to look across the courtyard. He was standing above the body of Mrs. Perfect facing me. Thank fuck he’d recovered. To face the future without the hope of seeing him again…

  God, I loved him.

  I’d no idea when he recovered, but he’d obviously seen enough of the attack to have the sound of dread in his voice.

  Suddenly he turned.

  Someone was knocking at the Layworth’s door. I watched Marzoli walk out of the bedroom into the dividing hall and open the front door.

  The mattress movers had arrived.

  Too late, boys. Too fucking late.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The feel of Marzoli’s lips on mine was every successful completion of every new song I’d ever put a double bar on, funneled into one moment. Bloody leg, bruised throats, stained clothes…nothing could diminish it.

  Marzoli had been ambulanced right from the Layworths’ apartment to the hospital, where he received a quick couple stitches to his leg in an in-an-out procedure, a set of crutches, and a bottle of antibiotics. He’d requested to return to my apartment rather than his. When he finally stepped through that door, right in front of the police officers in my apartment, even right in front of some of his peers…wham. His lips locked on mine and stayed.

  Our kiss was a rock in the whirlwind of confusion as the police scrambled to understand how one courtyard could be dotted with four dead bodies all at once: Mr. Layworth, Mrs. Layworth, Ruben, and the Little Old Man. Let them ask their questions. Let them pry into the filthiest corner of all of our lives in their investigation. I had Marzoli, and he had me…completely.

  The snow continued to fall even harder as the masses of police wrapped up late that evening, having yellow-taped all they could possibly tape. The stretchers were the last to arrive, and the bodies were the last to be hauled away. That’s when Marzoli and I witnessed a curious, almost incidental moment.

  The Little Old Man’s body was removed, and the plump, short, uptight landlord followed the last tired, supremely uninterested officer out the door, anxiously, verbosely, and uselessly chattering about owed rent and utilities. For a brief moment, the Little Old Man’s apartment was completely empty and still.

  Then there was movement at the door.

  The Beached Whale entered. Her expression was sad but curious. Her emotions seemed raw, as were everyone’s at that point. But as she walked through the Little Old Man’s apartment, her expression was particularly pained. Having lived in the same apartment building all these years, I realized they would have grown quite accustomed to each other’s presence. I’d no idea how many years she’d lived in that building. Perhaps they had even at one point known each other more intimately.

  She paused in front of the gilded painting, whose subject Marzoli and I had still not caught a glimpse of. As she stared at it, her expression went from sadness to…I would not call it happiness. Understanding.

  She lifted the painting from its propped position in front of the television and exited, leaving the apartment empty once again. The landlord
had been too focused on money to notice the painting had been there, let alone that it was no longer there.

  And that was it.

  All stretchers gone. All ambulance lights ceased their flashing. The stir of the courtyard had stilled. The snow fell heavily. The night dimmed. Our long day was finally coming to a close.

  Marzoli whispered, “Aren’t you tired?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “You need to sleep more than you realize.”

  He pushed me toward the bed and collapsed on top of me.

  It would be hours before we managed to catch Z’s.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The sun through the new, uncurtained window woke us up twelve days later on a Sunday. Marzoli had remained with me the entire time, save for a couple trips back to his apartment to collect some 2(X)ists and deodorant. His involvement in the Layworth case was not considered exemplary by the pencil pushers, in spite of the fact that forensic analysis of the Layworth apartment revealed blood droplets belonging to Nathan. Marzoli’s method of catching Layworth’s double-homicide was labeled a poorly documented, unsanctioned sting operation of an unassigned case, resulting in two weeks unpaid suspension.

  Marzoli didn’t care.

  His pals pawed him when they came over to congratulate him, slapping him on the back, roughing up his hair, and boxing him on the shoulders. Each of them assured Marzoli they all had his back. Each in their own way told the pencil pushers who put Marzoli on suspension to go fuck themselves. I was in no way surprised Marzoli was as well liked personally as he was highly regarded professionally. He was obviously an integral part of the clan. Over the course of those twelve days, we quickly learned that maintaining the tight inclusion of the clan was far more important to its members than maintaining its straightness.

  The most moving moment took place during Lieutenant Torres’ visit. Instantly I could tell Torres and Marzoli had a closer working relationship than the rest. Torres had Marzoli’s alpha-male toughness, but he was much less apt to smile or resort to charm. After Marzoli introduced us, Torres shook my hand and looked me squarely in the eye.

  “About time,” he said as he brought his other hand up to cup the top of our grip.

  About time Marzoli came out? Or about time he found someone?

  It touched me to know this stalwart character held his colleague’s personal well-being, fulfillment, and happiness as important. I was grateful for the approval, and so was Marzoli. Marzoli’s hand inched his way towards mine during Torres’ visit, until, by the time the bottles of beer were downed, his hand rested squarely on mine right in front of Torres. Torres smiled in acceptance.

  But I could tell Marzoli’s true satisfaction came from having defiantly face-planted the term “inconsequential” in a pile of shit. Solving Nathan’s murder had consequences. It led to the solving of Ruben’s murder. It led to justice. It proved compassion could run a successful course in this hard metropolis. My esteem for Marzoli grew even greater for him being so proud of this particular element of the success.

  As the sun grew stronger, someone knocked on the door. I left Marzoli in the bed and opened the door.

  Johanna entered.

  She looked around the apartment and smiled. “You’re coming around at last. That’s good.”

  “Johanna…” I hesitated.

  “I assume you’ve given some thought to…” she paused in midsentence as Marzoli entered, a sheet wrapped around his waist.

  He was something to worship in the sunlight—segmented abdomen, the overhanging boulders of his chest, his massive shoulders, his sexy roughed-up dark hair crowning that gorgeous chiseled face with the dark shadow of stubble. The sun bounced up from the floor and made large portions of the sheet somewhat translucent.

  Johanna caught her breath.

  I couldn’t help relishing the bittersweet richness of waiting for her response.

  “You’re all over the news. Both of you,” she said, “but…I…I didn’t realize the investigation was ongoing.”

  I honestly couldn’t tell if she being facetious or just biding time as she acclimated to this new information. She was expressionless, drained of blood.

  “It’s not,” I replied.

  Marzoli mercifully kept quiet. His appearing that ridiculously sexy in a mere sheet was causing enough trouble. Johanna opened her mouth, and then shut it. Opened it again to speak, and then edited herself once more.

  “I…umm…I owe you both a drink,” she finally began, bravely sublimating her emotions. “I’m in the running for Sophie Layworth’s position. I’ll get it. I know too many people in her company not to, and they’re looking for someone…”

  She paused. Did she suddenly become aware of how callous she was coming across?

  “…someone younger. Honestly, a lot of people she worked with want to buy you a drink.”

  She managed to smile, but it strained with disappointment and anger and sadness. She sharply flicked the strap of her purse higher on her shoulder.

  “Let’s talk later?” she asked crisply, refusing to acknowledge that the elephant in the room was, in fact, an elephant with one hell of a trunk.

  She turned and hightailed it out of my apartment, shutting the door behind her so gently that she might as well have slammed it shut. To me, as well as to Marzoli, Johanna’s rising up the ladder by stepping over the body of a woman who’d been killed only twelve days ago spoke volumes about her as well as the industry she elected to devote her life to. Marzoli’s peers came by one-by-one to embrace him even tighter into the circle, while Mrs. Layworth’s peers might as well have pulled the trigger themselves. We were grateful not to be entrenched in any such battlefield, and I was grateful to Marzoli for helping me steer clear of Johanna’s artillery.

  Marzoli and I looked at each other, walked to the window, and absorbed the warmth of the sunlight. We looked across the courtyard. Our neighbors seemed so much closer to us in proximity than ever before. Both Couch Potatoes sat on the sofa, spooning large bowls of Honey Nut Cheerios into their mouths, eyes glued to Sunday television. I couldn’t help but smile in relief. They sat no closer together on the couch, nor farther from each other. They behaved as if no massage table had ever been thrown into the courtyard; as if their passions had never rocketed to operatic melodrama. Did the comforts of their routine erase the drama? Or merely neutralize it? I no longer viewed their relationship as ideal, but neither did I view it disdainfully as domestically slothful either. Their partnership survived. Did the band-aid they selected to repair it really matter in the end?

  Beneath them Schlongzilla slept in his bed, flanked by what appeared to be one woman with long blond hair and one muscular ginger with a military buzz. If I had my guess, the fucker picked up a couple last night. Gotta love walking coat hangers doing what they do best. Gotta love this island.

  The Broadway Dancer carefully and slowly chewed on highly specific portions of protein, carbohydrates, and fiber. He sat upright on his couch, voraciously studying passages of a script. Obviously he’d gotten into a show. Congratulations Twink-Twink Toes. You can pay the rent without Daddy and Mommy’s help. You can keep chasing that dancer dream this month.

  The Layworth’s apartment was still roped with yellow police tape. After all that bustling family life, salacious sextastics, and red-splattered violence, the rooms now sat in sad vacancy. We’d not seen the children once. We assumed child services had called Hunter and Felicity to the principal’s office on that deadly day and whisked them to a relative’s home…for good.

  In our race for justice, it never occurred to me that we’d have to leap over two small people who’d never reap its rewards. One could assume that parents who had the capacity to kill and plot a cover-up could never have the capacity to raise children properly, and thus the children were saved. But then, one could also pray that, in spite of any parents’ faults, they still had the capacity to raise children properly. The Layworth children were a handful, but, ultimately, good kids. Wasn’t the pro
of in that rambunctious but well-adjusted pudding that good kids can come from killers?

  One of the Layworths’ windows had been left open a crack, and a breeze caused the yellow tape and curtain to flap in a silent wave. That chapter for that Architectural Digest apartment was over. In the trial it would be revealed that, after being asked to resign from his law firm, Nicholas Layworth’s involvement with the Tea Party Fundamentalist Coalition not only provided him a half million annual salary, but that amount was about to be tripled. In addition, Sophia Layworth’s conservative classic designs were causing a mutiny within the company, and her tenure was looking more and more tenuous. The prosecution for the state used these two possible eventualities to present a convincing scenario for their motivation to hide any of the husband’s homosexual indiscretions by murdering Ruben and Nathan.

  Mrs. Abraham was, of course, vindicated entirely for her actions, as was I. But as I watched the Layworths’ curtain blow irregularly in the breeze, I realized how reactive the Layworths’ crimes had been. Unpremeditated. Driven by the moment and fueled by passion, lust, jealously, and, ultimately, self-preservation. Unforgivable, but totally relatable. Evil had landed across the courtyard like a flitting, opportunistic bird, and then flown off with the next draft from the sky, looking for its next brief perch. There were seventy-two thousand blocks of apartments in this city. Which would it choose next?

  The Princess pulled open her curtain. In her bed was another woman—tattooed and largish with cropped strawberry blond hair. I was slow on the uptake, but I realized as the Princess dressed herself in Levi’s and hooked that chain to her belt loop that Marzoli had known exactly what cropped hair and a long metal key chain signified. Was she biologically attracted to women, or had her experiences with men put her on any course that led to comfort? It probably made no difference in the end. We shared a similar story, and I could only hope that the Princess’s switch gave her the same relaxed bliss that I was feeling right now as Marzoli wrapped his arms around my chest and stomach in the sunlight.