by Joseph Flynn
“Yeah. I think it’s time I learned to control my temper.”
“You want to run that past me again?” Zeke asked Paulette Mallory.
“My Aunt Pamela was murdered and her killer was never caught,” she said.
“And your aunt had recently broken her engagement to marry Jonas Dawson?”
“Yes. She said he’d made the mistake of letting her find out who he really was, before she married him, and she didn’t like it. She broke off her engagement. A week later she was found dead, a victim of manual strangulation.”
Zeke said, “And you know all this because you heard the story from your late mother?”
“Yes. I was born after my aunt died.”
With the flip of not one but several switches, the racket outside Zeke’s office stopped. He glanced at his cell phone recharging on the music dock on his desk. Lunch time. Zeke leaned forward and spoke in a gentle tone he was trying to master.
This was the part he had trouble with, needed to hear a second time.
“You truly think you’re the reincarnation of your Aunt Pamela?”
Paulette took four 3X5 photos out of her purse. She arranged them in an order meant to prove her point. Zeke looked at them and thought: Okay, maybe she has a point.
His prospective client told him, “In each pairing, my aunt is on the left and I’m on the right.”
The first two photos showed baby girls about a year old, by Zeke’s guess. The second pair featured two high school yearbook photos, glamour shots of teenaged girls. In both cases Paulette Mallory and her aunt looked like identical twins. Only the hair styles, period clothes and the yellowing of the older prints differentiated them.
“Sometimes family resemblances just happen,” Zeke said, not ready to concede yet.
“Other things have also happened.”
“Such as?”
“When I was little, five years old, I think, my mother was going to ask my dad to cut a lock off an old steamer trunk that had belonged to my aunt. It had been sitting up in our attic for years and Mom thought it was finally time to see what was inside. I told her I could open it, and I dialed the right combination first try. I had never opened that kind of lock before.”
“Were you able to read at five?” Zeke asked.
“Maybe just a few words, if I remember right.”
“Did you know how to count?”
“Only up to ten. I’m pretty sure about that.”
“And the combination numbers were?”
“Thirteen, thirty-six, twenty-six.”
“The memory is still that clear?”
“Yes.”
Zeke sat back in his chair. “So what was in the trunk?”
The question caught Paulette by surprise and left her dumbfounded. “I … I don’t know. Thinking a bit more, she added, “I remember my mother edging me aside, as if she didn’t want me to see. I don’t think I ever saw what was inside.”
“But wouldn’t you know anyway?” Zeke asked.
“What do you mean?” she replied.
Zeke held his hands out, as if the answer should be obvious.
Paulette frowned at him. “It’s not like that. I don’t know everything that happened to me when I was …” Seeing the skepticism on his face, she collected her photos, left his headphones on the chair and got to her feet, tears appearing in her eyes. “I’m sorry I wasted your time, Mr. Edison. I’ll find someone else to help me.”
Zeke had to admire the way she didn’t let her disappointment get the better of her.
Tell him to go fuck himself. It seemed there were people who could keep their good manners intact even when they had a right to be disappointed. Angry, even. It was her grace in the face of adversity that won him over.
He said, “I’ll help you.”
That stopped her at the door. She turned and looked at him, her tears now rolling down her cheeks. “But you don’t believe me, do you?”
“I believe you truly think you’re in danger. That’s good enough for me.”
She nodded. Apparently, that was good enough for her, too.
“Thank you. I really don’t want Jonas Dawson to kill me twice.”
Chapter 2
George A. Black said, “You want me to do what?’
“Paulette Mallory thinks this guy Jonas Dawson is going to kill her. If she’s right, she’s going to need protection while I check things out,” Zeke told him.
The two of them sat on the terrace behind their house. It had been power-washed, furnished on a scale comfortable for big people and was ready to be enjoyed. Paulette Mallory, her shoes held in one hand, was walking barefoot along their private beach, almost at the waterline. The lake was still too cold in early May for most people even to dip a toe into, but the sand was warm and pleasant to the touch.
“Man, this isn’t part of our deal,” George said. “I’ve got my own plans. I’ve got two interviews and an audition taping today.”
George’s post-NFL career plans were aimed at sports broadcasting. Local stations first, then a broadcast network or ESPN. He had the looks, the charm and the patter to make it happen. The irony was, he had to pursue his goal while the same TV people George wanted to impress had come after Zeke with job offers the moment he’d been released from the hospital.
He’d told them no, go see George, which some of them did.
George was grateful, but only up to a point. He continued to plead his case.
“C’mon, man. Don’t try to make me feel guilty here.”
“Didn’t say a word about guilt,” Zeke said.
“No, but you’re thinking I owe you.”
“Maybe it’s your conscience talking.”
“Shit.”
“Look,” Zeke said, “you’re still an offensive lineman at heart. It’s your nature to protect people. Punish anyone who tries to beat your block. Ms. Mallory told me this Dawson guy who’s scaring her is sixty-three years old. I figure you can handle him.”
George rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you think?”
“She’s a sweet person, too, and not exactly a chore to look at.”
George took a look. Paulette was heading back their way.
“You got a thing for her already?” he asked Zeke.
“Aaron told me it would be a better idea to date my mom than a client.”
George grimaced. “Well, I can see how that’d put a chill on things right there. What about me? You know how some ladies find me irresistible.”
“I’ll trust to your sensitivity and good judgment. Your sense of timing, too. If anything’s going to happen, it’d best be after the job is done.”
“Yeah, I suppose so.”
Paulette put her shoes on and joined them a moment later.
She looked at Zeke and then at George. “Will you help me, too?”
George stood and extended an arm to her and smiled. She took it and the two of them walked through the garden at the side of the house. The guys inside were at it again with their power tools. Even so, Zeke still heard George say.
“One thing, Ms. Mallory.”
“Call me Paulette, please.”
“Okay, Paulette. This might sound weird but don’t tell anyone I’m your bodyguard, okay? I have a certain image I’m working on. Say you’re … my wardrobe stylist, all right?”
She laughed and told him, “I can do that.”
The TV station that requested the taping with George was sending a limo for him.
That was a good sign, Zeke thought.
The tinted windows would hide Paulette Mallory’s presence.
Zeke had to do his own drive into town. He wanted to see if Aaron knew anything about Jonas Dawson. There were few people in Chicago who’d achieved any measure of either celebrity or notoriety that he didn’t have a fix on.
He fired up his Porsche Panamera. In his only concession to celebrity, he was a spokesman for a big luxury car dealer in town. The use of a new car every six months was part of the deal. The license plate on the Porsche was Illinois’
bow the Chicago Bears, featuring the team logo and colors. Zeke's plate number was 53, his jersey number with the team.
He usually drove and parked legally, but the city and suburban cops cut him slack when he pushed things a bit. Beyond that, anyone in town who’d seen the video of his last play in pro football, and that was pretty much everyone, knew better than to mess with his car.
“I was trying to kill George, not just tackle the ball carrier.”
Dr. Sandra Gallo, the psychologist the hospital had called upon to respond to Zeke’s request to speak with a therapist, replied, “I assume you’re speaking figuratively.”
They were alone in Zeke’s hospital room. The nursing staff had been informed of the need for privacy. Barring a medical emergency, nobody would intrude.
Zeke said, “No, I’m serious. I didn’t realize it at the time. I was just thinking I was going to run right over George — maybe right through him — and rip the ball away from Larry Monroe. Maybe take his arm with it for good measure. Lying here now, thinking I’m lucky I didn’t paralyze myself, I realize that winning the game wasn’t enough. I wanted blood and mayhem … even the death of my former college teammate.”
Dr. Gallo gave the confession a long moment of consideration.
“It’s possible you’ve assessed your feelings accurately,” she said. “It’s also possible you’re feeling guilt about hurting George and Larry and —”
“And those two guys on the Packers’ sideline.”
“All right, them, too. You’re feeling guilt about what you’ve done to everyone involved, including yourself, and you’ve devised this perception to punish yourself.”
Dr. Gallo spoke in a gentle, unhurried voice.
It was not only soothing, it left little room for a combative response.
Forced to consider the possibility he was only beating up on himself, Zeke said, “Either way, I’ve got a problem. Will you help me? After I get out of here, I mean.”
“I will.”
“I think it’s going to take a lot of work and a lot of time.”
Dr. Gallo smiled. “I’m about ten years out from retirement.”
“Might take that long,” Zeke said.
Sandra Gallo took his hand. Even with Zeke lying in a hospital bed and pumped full of pain-killers, she could feel the enormous strength of his body. That gave her an idea for a possible therapeutic approach.
“Have you always enjoyed sports?” she asked.
Zeke’s eyes brightened. “Yes, always.”
“Just the part that requires strength or for the joy of movement, too?”
“Everything. It’s all great.” He looked at the therapist and recognized something in her. “You know what I mean, don’t you?”
“I used to dance, thought at one time I might have a career onstage.”
“What happened?”
“To put it in sports parlance, I blew out a knee.”
“Damn, that’s a —”
Zeke’s face clouded over. Dr. Gallo had no trouble reading the cause.
“Nobody tackled me,” she said. “It’s all part of the game. Both Larry Monroe and I knew that going in.”
Zeke remained silent.
Dr. Gallo told him, “I think your therapy will need to include a physical component.”
Zeke looked at her with a question in his eyes but didn’t ask for specifics.
She told him, “When you’re up on your feet again, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
The dojo was on the second floor of a retail building hard against the Red Line “L” tracks of the Chicago Transit Authority, opposite the Bryn Mawr station. The street entrance was locked when Zeke arrived, but he had a key. He let himself in and relocked the door behind him.
He took the stairs to the second floor two at a time. The spring in his legs felt as good as it ever had, but what pleased him even more was the way he landed on each step. More like a leaf settling on the ground than a mallet hitting a drumhead. Sure, the stairs still creaked. They were old wood and even having lost fifteen pounds since his playing days, he still weighed two thirty. But the sounds of structural protest were muted.
As if the stairs were telling him, “We still caught you, but not by much.”
Zeke pushed open the door to the practice floor. The boards were made of oak, immaculate and gleaming. On the wall across the room hung two flags: American and Japanese. He bowed to them. Not bothering to use one of the four guest chairs, he removed his shoes and socks and carried them into the changing room.
He wasn’t there to practice that day, though.
He went to the utility closet and took out a dust mop. He covered every square inch of the practice floor with it. When that was done he sat lotus fashion facing the sunlit windows on the north side of the room. He closed his eyes just as a southbound train roared into sight on the nearby “L” tracks.
He pushed the sounds of the train and the passengers exiting and entering it out of his mind. He did his best to leave the whole outside world behind. His moments of meditation were far from perfect, he knew, but he was making progress. The sense of peace he felt and the diminution of his normal ire made his heart slow and his mind feel light.
He knew he was young and, except for the damage he’d done to his neck, healthy.
But he could imagine at some indeterminate time in the future. sitting down to meditate, closing his eyes and simply letting his soul float away into whatever came next.
As a sign that time was still distant, his meditation was disturbed, not by the clangor of another passing train but the gentle fragrance of steaming hot green tea. He opened his eyes, rose to his feet and saw a delicate cup resting on the reception desk. Sensei Sugiyama had come and gone, leaving the tea he’d brewed for Zeke behind without making a sound.
Sugiyama-san knew the spots on the stairs that didn’t creak.
Zeke drank the tea, washed the cup, put on his socks and shoes and locked up as he left. His own office was just across the street. When he looked up he saw Aaron Levy in a window looking down at him.
“You told Zeke all this?” George asked Paulette in the back of the limo.
Traffic had been surprisingly light and they’d arrived early for George’s audition taping. The driver had been happy to take George’s tip and give his passengers a moment of privacy.
“I did,” Paulette said.
“This guy, Jonas Dawson, choked you out when you were your Aunt Pamela?”
“Yes, he caught me from behind.” A shiver ran through Paulette.
George engulfed her hands in his. “There’s a way you can defend yourself against that. I’ll show it to you.”
His words were meant to reassure, but they made Paulette nervous.
“You’re not going to protect me?” she asked.
“Of course, I am. I told Zeke I would, and I keep my word. I’m just talking about, you know, some time in the future. You don’t want a big lug like me around all the time.”
In truth, she did. At least for the foreseeable future. George had trimmed down from his playing weight, too, losing twenty-five pounds. But that left three hundred more, all lean muscle. Add that to his imposing height and few people would try to give him a hard time. Paulette found that comforting.
As did George’s easy acceptance that she’d lived and died before.
When she questioned him about that he told her a bit about his own life.
“My mama and daddy are … passionate people. I never saw two other people who loved each other as much as they did or fought as hard as they did. And I mean with fists, feet, elbows and knees. It wasn’t just mama getting beat on either; she gave as good as she got. It scared me bad until I got bigger than both of them. Then it stopped when I told them if they kept on I was going to join in and neither of them would like that.”
“They took you at your word?” Paulette asked.
George nodded. “They could see I wasn’t fooling.”
“But how does all t
hat help you accept what I told you?”
“When I was smaller and still scared, I used to run to the house of the lady across the street. She always took me in and made me feel better. She was a lady who’d moved up to Georgia from Jamaica. She’d read to me and, later, give me books to read on my own. She was the one who made me always do my best in school. I also learned she knew how to do magic. She was an obeah woman. I asked her to cast a spell or something to make my parents stop fighting. She said she couldn’t interfere with them because … Well, what she said was they were working out problems from an earlier life.”
Paulette leaned in and kissed George’s cheek.
“So you do know I told you the truth.”
“Let’s just say I can sympathize. But when I put an end to my parents’ fighting I told them they’d had enough time to work things out. If they kept on, I was going to show them what a real whupping was not only in this life but in any more to come. That settled them right down. They get along fine these days.”
“So you will protect me? While Mr. Edison sees about Jonas Dawson.”
George nodded. “Anyone tries to bother you, they’ll get a real whupping, too.”
Aaron Levy was the child of diplomats, an Israeli father and an American mother. He had dual citizenship and as a young man had fought in the Six Day War, helping Israel to a lightning swift victory as a tank commander and losing his right leg below the knee in the process. He stayed in the service rising through the ranks of military intelligence. When he had irreconcilable differences with a commanding officer appointed by the newly elected Menachem Begin government, he took a long-deferred medical discharge and pension and moved to his mother’s hometown of Chicago.
There he started his private investigations agency, the tradecraft he’d learned as a military spy being invaluable. His mother’s many connections to the city’s political power structure didn’t hurt either. For all the violence of American society, Aaron found the level of little more than the occasional exchange of small-arms fire to be easily tolerated compared to what he’d experienced back home.
Having personal understanding that a missing limb or other so-called disabilities did not limit the effectiveness of a smart investigator, Aaron believed in hiring the handicapped from the start. That included those with emotional challenges, Zeke Edison among them.
