Pot Shot

by Gerry Boyle

  A man answered.

  “This is Jack McMorrow. Boston Globe. I have questions regarding the autopsy performed by your office on a man named Robert Mullaney.”

  I didn’t say pretty please.

  He put me on hold. I waited. Roxanne stirred but still slept.

  “This is Joan Jackson; can I help you?”

  “This is Jack McMorrow. Boston Globe. I have a question about the Robert Mullaney autopsy.”

  “Oh?”

  “A source has told me there might have been something amiss in the identification of the body. That there is still some question as to whether the body really is Mullaney’s. Is that true?”

  “Umm, what’d you say your name was?”

  “Jack McMorrow.”

  “You’re a reporter?”

  “Right. I’m doing a story for the Globe on the events leading up to Mullaney’s death. But now I’m told that your office may have made a mistake.”

  “Well, first I’ve heard of it. I can check and call you back—”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “It may be a few minutes.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll wait right here.”

  “Do you have a deadline, Mr. McMorrow?”

  “Very much so,” I said.

  The phone clicked. I waited. It was 2:46. At 2:50, the phone clicked again. I hadn’t flinched.

  “This is Dr. Bayross,” a man’s voice said sternly. “Can I help you?”

  I gave him my pitch.

  “What source?”

  “I can’t divulge that.”

  “So you’re out to blindside this office on some anonymous tip?”

  “No, I just have a question. If you can’t answer it, I’ll ask somebody else.”

  “Well, there is no somebody else. I performed that autopsy. I made the identification. There was no question. It was a hundred and one percent positive.”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary? Dental records?”

  “Perfect match. Those were the teeth of the guy we named.”

  “Mullaney.”

  “Right.”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary at all? Nothing?”

  “Nothing you need to bother yourself with,” the doctor said.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but the only thing even remotely out of the ordinary was that the X-rays were backward.”

  “Backward?”

  “Yes. You have four pictures. Right, left, up, and down. Except right is left and left is right.”

  “It’s supposed to be that way?”

  “Yes. That’s how the dentist views your mouth. Your right is on his left.”

  “And these were backward?”

  “Right was right and left was left. The way you would think they go.”

  “If you weren’t a dentist,” I said.

  “If you were a layman,” the doctor said.

  “These X-rays permanently stuck to something? Or can they be taken out?”

  “They come in standard sleeves. Four to a strip. Somebody probably slipped them out to look at them more closely and screwed up when they put them back in.”

  “Somebody.”

  “But that has no bearing on the identification of the body. If you write anything, you’d damn well better make that clear. The teeth in that body were the teeth in the X-rays.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” I said.

  “Then what’s this all about?”

  “Good question, Doctor.”

  I took notes on the medical examiner. The basics, and three or four good quotes. Roxanne stirred and this time she opened her eyes. I went to her.

  “Whatcha been doing?” she murmured.

  “Working.”

  “Did you go out?”

  “No, I was here—on the phone.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t leave,” Roxanne said.

  I looked at her. Rubbed her shoulder.

  “You’re worried, aren’t you?” I said.

  “A little.”

  “Maybe more than a little?”

  “Maybe a little more than a little.”

  She smiled. I leaned down and kissed her cheek. At that moment, the nurse came in.

  “No hanky-panky,” she said brightly.

  The nurse had an electronic thermometer. She snapped a disposable cover on the wand and held it out to Roxanne.

  “I’ve got some more calls to make,” I said. “I’ll be out by the desk. It’s the older policeman now. He’ll be right outside the door.”

  “We’ll be here,” the nurse said brightly. Roxanne stuck the thermometer in her mouth.

  I went down the hall to the pay phone, but wished I could keep on going, down on the elevator and out the door. The hospital was starting to seem surreal. The hum of the lights. The patients in their dragging slippers. The silent world seen only through the thick-paned windows. I needed to go for a walk but I couldn’t leave. I wanted to be there if Mommy Dearest came through the door.

  So I faced the door as I called home again and listened to my messages. Detective Martucci said she wanted to talk to me. Detective Martucci said she really needed to talk to me. Detective Martucci said to call her ASAP because they’d picked up Paco.

  “He says he never heard of you or Mullaney. He’s never been inside that church. Call me.”

  The next call was just a dial tone. And the one after that. And then I heard Melanie Mullaney’s voice.

  “McMorrow, I gotta see you. Something unbelievable has happened. My God, I can’t believe it. Oh, man, just call me as soon as you can.”

  “McMorrow. Melanie. Call me.”

  “McMorrow. Call me, goddamn it.”

  I did. Melanie answered in one ring.

  “It’s me.”

  “Friggin’ A, I’ve been trying to reach you. Something’s happened. I mean the story, it’s all changed. My life is totally—a guy called me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Some insurance guy. McMorrow, Bobby had insurance. Life insurance. Bobby.”

  “How much?”

  “Three hundred thousand.”

  “You didn’t know that?”

  “Bobby? Life insurance? He didn’t even believe in paper money. I’m friggin’ blown away; I mean, Bobby? Went and did this? I still can’t believe it. It’s like somebody you think you know completely has this totally different side. I mean, what’d he do? Sneak off and sign all these papers?”

  “Who gets the money?”

  “Well, that’s the thing. I mean, that’s why I’m—”

  “Who, Melanie?”

  “It goes to a guy named Bernard Begosian.”

  “Coyote?”

  “Coyote,” she said. “McMorrow, I think Coyote must have killed my husband.”

  30

  Melanie said she had never known Coyote’s real name. She said the insurance guy told her Begosian was in Pennsylvania, staying with friends in Pittsburgh. She talked fast, blurting the words out.

  “How’d he get there so fast?” I said.

  “I don’t know. I never even knew his name. McMorrow, do you think he killed Bobby?”

  “No.”

  “Then who did?”

  “I don’t think anybody killed Bobby.”

  “But he’s dead. They said so.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then where is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You think he’s alive?”

  Her voice quavered with hope.

  “I don’t know. I just don’t think he was in that car.”

  “Well, Jesus, McMorrow. What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know yet.”

  “Don’t know yet? What is this shit? You can’t just tell me that much. Is my husband alive or not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You can’t do this to me. This isn’t right.”

  “None of this is right.”

  “Do you know what I’
m going through? I mean, do you know how this feels? I feel like I’m being ripped apart.”

  “I’m sure it’s very hard.”

  “Has my husband left me? Is he dead? What the hell is going on? You owe me an explanation, McMorrow.”

  I turned. The nurse was listening closely.

  “It’s kind of hard to explain over the phone.”

  “I’ll come see you. Where do you want to meet? You name it. Do these cops know? I’ll talk to them. I’ll talk to anybody. Come on, McMorrow.”

  I hesitated.

  “Well, I’m in Portland right now. I really can’t—”

  “I’ll come to Portland. The truck’ll make it.”

  My gut said no, keep the two worlds apart: yours and hers.

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea. How ’bout—”

  I paused.

  “I don’t mind. I’ll go to friggin’ Pennsylvania if I have to, to find out what that bastard’s done. I never trusted him, never talking, pulling Bobby away from me and going off like they had these important secret things they did. Bernard Begosian. Jesus. After that insurance guy called, I went up and ripped his room apart; I mean, I had to find out something about the bastard. Son of a bitch. I got pictures of him. Old ones. You want ’em, McMorrow? Put those in your friggin’ story. Coyote without the hair. He thinks he’s so spooky, screw him, that bastard. You know he was in prison? Federal prison in Allentown, Pennsylvania. It was in his papers.”

  “What for?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t read all of it. You can have it, McMorrow. A whole box of it. I just want to know what he did this time. I want to know what he did with Bobby. What the hell did he do, McMorrow?”

  “I’m not sure. I just think it may not be what it’s set up to be. The drug-dealer hit, and all that.”

  The nurse looked up, eyebrows up around her temples.

  “I can be in Portland in two hours,” Melanie Mullaney said.

  “No, I’ll meet you. It’s three thirty-five. You’ve got a box full of stuff on Coyote?”

  “He had it in this hole in the floor. I knew it was there but I never touched it before. It’s, like, his personal papers. Pictures and stuff.”

  “Can you bring it?”

  “Sure. Put his skinny face on the front page. This bastard . . . well, whatever it is he did. You really think Bobby might be alive? Really?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Where should I meet you?”

  I thought. I couldn’t leave Roxanne alone, even with the cop.

  “Maybe I should just give this stuff to the police,” Melanie said. “They’d know what to do with it. You could get the pictures from them.”

  “No, I’d like to see it. Let me think for a second.”

  I could meet her halfway. Gardiner? Augusta? Livermore Falls?

  “I’ll call you back. You’re home?”

  “Yup.”

  “Give me a minute.”

  I hung up. Dialed again.

  “Hallo,” Clair’s voice rang out.

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  “Jackson. I’d given up on you. Figured you’d succumbed to the siren call of the big city.”

  “There are sirens. You hear ’em all night. Mary back yet?”

  “Pick her up tomorrow noon. Down there.”

  “How’d you like to come down early?”

  So at six-thirty, before visiting hours, Clair arrived with four jars of Mary’s preserves—blueberry and raspberry—and a shock of nasturtiums. He left his rifle in the truck.

  I said I’d be back by nine, ten at the latest. Roxanne’s eyes told me to be careful. Sitting in the chair by the bed, Clair came right out and said it.

  “Watch yourself now,” he said.

  “Will do.”

  “Where in Madison?”

  “The restaurant right on Main Street.”

  “Call when you get there.”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “And call when you’re leaving.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I am, too,” I said.

  On the way out the door, I nodded to the cop.

  I’d told Melanie seven o’clock. Out of there by seven-thirty, I’d be back at the hospital by nine to relieve Clair. And Roxanne.

  All the way up the interstate, I pictured the story, composed headlines in my mind.

  Who killed Bobby Mullaney? Or did they?

  The short happy life of Bobby Mullaney. Is it over?

  Bobby Mullaney: a life gone to pot.

  It wasn’t the story I’d set out to write, but they never were. This one was going to be especially tricky, because it could be breaking as I wrote it. In the morning, I’d call Martucci. I’d call the insurance investigator. I’d tell them both about the X-rays and all the rest. They could go to the dentist, talk to my old man in Valley, the hooker’s buddy. When Bernard Begosian came to collect his cash, he’d have some talking to do.

  I got off the interstate in Waterville and headed northwest, the shopping center lights a dim glow behind me. I took the back road through a little town called Norridgewock, where the lights had been turned out, and crossed the Kennebec River on a rickety one-lane bridge. The road was empty and the woods were black, and the truck was the only spot of light. After five miles, there were scattered houses and I was coming into Madison from the south instead of the east. I made one pass down Main Street, turned around, and came back and parked.

  Right out front.

  I knew the restaurant was open because the front door wasn’t locked. Inside it was harder to tell, but country music was playing, and I sat down at a table by the front window and waited. After a couple of minutes, the kitchen door banged and a waitress, a small woman with big glasses and big hair, came out with a rack of glasses. She put the glasses down behind the counter and looked up and saw me and jumped.

  “Oh, my God, you scared me,” she said, slapping her hand on her chest.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  She hurried over with a menu, napkin, and utensils.

  “My heart’s still pounding.”

  “Mine, too,” I said.

  “Coffee, dear? Cocktail?”

  “Tea, if you’ve got it.”

  “You want anything to eat?”

  “I’m meeting someone. I’ll wait.”

  So I did.

  Cars and trucks passed every few minutes, the tractor-trailers lumbering over the railroad tracks. A couple of drivers came in and sat at the counter, giving me a quick sideways glance as they mounted their stools. The waitress called out, “More tea?”

  The truck drivers glanced over again. I waited.

  An old woman came in and picked up an order to go in a white paper bag. The truckers looked at me one more time and left. It was 7:10 and no sign of Melanie. Florence time was probably a little slow.

  At 7:20, I went to the men’s room. At 7:30, I decided I’d better call her. I was on my way to the pay phone by the coatrack when a phone rang somewhere else.

  The waitress appeared.

  “You Mr. McMorrow?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Phone call for you.”

  The phone was on the wall by the kitchen door and the receiver was swinging slowly on its cord. I picked it up.

  “McMorrow.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I flooded the goddamn truck, goddamn piece of junk. I just tried it again and it flooded again, and now I’ve got to wait ten minutes and try it again. Carburetor’s junk. Sorry. Are they getting ready to close?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “They close at eight, but if it’s slow, a little earlier.”

  I looked around. I was the only customer.

  “Well, I can wait a little longer, I guess. What are the chances of the truck starting?”

  “I don’t know. Once it floods, it’s a bitch to get it started again. I’m sorry. It almost caught and I was in a hurry and I pumped it a couple times and that was i
t. I knew it, too. I said, ‘Oh no. Of all the times.’ I’m sorry, you come all the way up here.”

  I thought. I wanted to get back. Clair was waiting.

  “You have the stuff?”

  “Coyote’s stuff? Yeah.”

  I thought some more.

  Fifteen minutes out there. Ten minutes on their goddamn road. An hour made eight-thirty. Hour and a half back made ten. I’d said nine.

  “Listen, McMorrow. I’ll wait ten minutes and I’ll try it again. I’m sorry, I really am. Or I can mail it to you. I could mail it tomorrow and—”

  Two days in the mail. A day or two to write. I’d be another week.

  “Listen, I’ll come out and get it. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “You’re sure? I mean, this thing might start. You never know.”

  “No, I’ll just get the stuff and go.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah. I’ll see you.”

  I left two dollars for the tea, went out to the truck, did a U-turn, and headed across the bridge. I drove fast, wasn’t happy. I’d had enough of bouncing around Florence. I was ready to write. I was ready to get the hell out of there.

  There was no moon and the woods were a black-walled canyon along the road. It dipped and swerved and I followed the faint stabs of the headlights all the way to Florence, where the crossing that was the center of the town was dark and still. I rolled on through, took a left, and wound the truck through the gears up the hill. The cemetery showed on my left and I slid to a stop in the gravel along the road and got out and locked in the front hubs. In four-wheel-drive, I started down the Mullaneys’ road.

  It was like driving in a cave, and the headlights jounced up and down like the lamp on a spelunker’s helmet. The trees were yellow and pale, twitching in the light, but beyond them was blackness. I clenched the wheel and lurched over the rocks, down the pitches, winding along in second gear.

  A bird flitted across in the lights. A rudderless moth veered into the front of the truck. Eyes reflected red, low on the edge of the road, and then disappeared into the woods.

  Skunk? Cat? Possum?