by Joel Goldman
The lights were off, but there was enough daylight to illuminate narrow aisles of canned goods, cereals, snacks, detergents, lightbulbs, toilet paper, and toothpaste. Refrigerated and frozen cases lined one wall; meat, poultry, and produce the other. Three abandoned check-out lines stood at the front. Powerball tickets offering billion-to-one odds against turning a dollar into fairy dust were looped around spindles next to the registers alongside packages of cigarettes and copies of the National Enquirer. I tried the front door, pounding when it wouldn’t open.
A man appeared at the back, his head visible over the top of a swinging saloon door, a fluorescent ceiling fixture shedding cool light behind him. He hesitated before easing one side half open, his arm tucked under the apron hanging from his neck. He edged into the store like he was testing thin ice, taking his time getting to the front, his hidden hand gripping something at his waist as he turned the lock and opened the door a crack.
“Looking for Nick Staley.”
“That’s me, but I’m closed.”
He was an older, battered version of his son.
“We saw the sign. You’re out of business?”
“You saw the sign. What? You think I’m kidding?”
“Not kidding, just maybe not yet. We don’t want to buy anything.”
“Neither does anyone else. Not enough, anyway. If you’re from the bank, tell them I’ve got a guy coming to give me a bid on the inventory and fixtures. Tell them they’ll get some of what I owe but not all of it. They want to come after me for the rest you tell them they’re wasting their time. I’m walking away from here without a pot to piss in. There’s nothing they can do to me that hasn’t already been done.”
I tried pulling the door open, and he raised the hand under his apron, the barrel of a gun outlined against the thin fabric. I stopped, the hard cast in his eyes telling me he was willing. The iron bars testified to the rough neighborhood and hard times, so it was no surprise that he was cautious. The surprise was that he felt threatened by Kate and me.
“You won’t need that. We’re not from the bank, and we’re not armed.” I opened my jacket, lifting it above my waist and turning around. “My name is Jack Davis. This is Kate Scranton. We’re working with a lawyer named Ethan Bonner. He represents a friend of yours, Jimmy Martin. We’d like to talk to you about him.”
He took his time, chewing his lip, making up his mind before motioning to the rear of the store. “We’ll talk in the back.”
Half-empty shelves confirmed that Staley was going out of business. What merchandise he had wouldn’t last a week. I could guess what happened. As his customers got laid off, they stopped buying as much, making it hard for him to stay current with the bank. Roni said he’d diverted rent money from his real estate, but it wasn’t enough, forcing the bank to cut off his credit and his suppliers to cut off their shipments and his mortgage lender to foreclose. No customers, no credit, no groceries, no future, a personal pandemic of economic ruin repeated all across the country.
There was a small warehouse on the other side of the saloon door, empty wooden produce crates scattered on the floor, a folding table and chairs butting up against a sloppy pyramid made of overturned cardboard boxes. A calendar hung on one wall advertising a different power tool each month, and a radio sat on a three-drawer file cabinet tuned to an oldies station, the volume low, music mixing with static.
Staley turned the radio off, settled into a chair, and folded his arms across his chest. He had a fighter’s face, his forehead layered with scar tissue, his nose crooked and squashed, the look of a man who’d given as good as he got, the split decision written in his washed-out eyes.
“I don’t know nothin’ about Jimmy’s trouble.”
“Which trouble?” I asked him.
“What d’ya mean?”
“Jimmy is in a lot of trouble. Which trouble are you talking about?”
“I heard he got busted for stealin’ some copper off a construction site. I don’t know nothin’ about that, and if he’s got his tit in the wringer some other way, I don’t know nothin’ about that neither.”
“But you do know Jimmy.”
“I know him.”
“How?”
He shrugged. “He’s from Northeast, I’m from Northeast. Both of us were in the Marines. You live here long enough, you know people. “
“You guys asshole buddies? Get drunk, chase women, play poker?”
He cocked his head, one corner of his mouth turned down and sour. “Shit. I know him, that’s all.”
“How about his wife, Peggy? You know her?”
He shifted in his chair, uneasy coming back to center. “Seen her around. Same as him.”
“You ever see Peggy when Jimmy wasn’t around?”
“What are sayin’?”
“She ever come into the store by herself?”
“Now and then. Most everybody in the neighborhood came through here one time or another. Or they did until everything went into the shitter. Now most of the stuff left on my shelves is past the sell-by date. Nobody’s got any money. I don’t know whose food people are puttin’ on their table, but it sure as hell isn’t mine.”
“Yeah. It’s tough all over. Peggy Martin, you get close to her?”
He laughed. “That’s what this is about? Jimmy tell you I was bangin’ his wife? Even if I was, what’s that got to do with him rippin’ off that construction site?”
“Were you banging his wife?”
He shook his head, smiling. “Not that I couldn’t have if I’d have wanted some of that. Peggy, she gets around. Least that’s what Jimmy said; why they split up.”
“Jimmy told you why they split up? I thought you and him didn’t hang out.”
“We might’ve had a couple of beers now and then. Run into each other at the Jigger, a bar over on Independence Avenue. Lot of the locals get pickled there on Friday nights.”
“When was the last time Jimmy and you talked about his wife?”
He pursed his lips, rubbed his chin. “Hell, I don’t know for sure; probably a month or so ago. What’s this about?”
“Jimmy tell you who he thought his wife was seeing?”
“Said he wasn’t for sure but someone was going to pay.”
“What do you think he meant by that?”
“Christ, who knows what a man means by anything he says when he’s drunk.”
“You say that everybody knows everybody around here. You hear any talk about who might have been Peggy’s boyfriend?”
He shrugged. “People talk a lot, mostly about stuff they don’t know nothin’ about.”
“We could use a name.”
“What’s that got to do with Jimmy gettin’ busted?”
“No one has seen Jimmy’s kids in three weeks. The police think he kidnapped them, maybe even killed them, to punish Peggy. If she has a boyfriend, we want to talk to him, find out if he knows anything about the kids.”
He sighed. “I heard about the kids. That’s tough, real tough. I wish I could help you. All I can tell you is that Peggy’s got a big appetite; you know what I’m sayin’. A woman like that will do most anything.”
“Jimmy’s sitting in jail instead being out on bail because he won’t answer any questions about his kids. You think he’d hurt them?”
“No way. Man loved his kids. Talked about them all the time. Told me he’d never let Peggy have them and that he was going all out for custody.”
I pointed at his belly. “What is that under your apron? A. 38?”
He smiled, patting the gun. “Nine-millimeter, man’s best friend.”
“We scare you that much?”
“These days, mister, getting out of bed in the morning scares me.”
Chapter Forty
“That must be a hard way to live,” Kate said.
He grunted. “I’ve had it worse.”
She leaned forward. “I can’t imagine how.”
“I did two tours in the first Gulf War, made sergeant. When I g
ot out, I joined the Guard, figured to pick up a paycheck for one weekend a month and two weeks in the summer. Got sent back to Iraq after 9/11. Spent a year dodgin’ IEDs and snipers. Watched a lot of my men get blown apart.”
“Is that where you broke your nose?”
He rubbed it with the palm of his hand. “Nah. Did some boxin’, local Golden Gloves and when I was in the Marines.”
She smiled, knowing that most people can’t resist the impulse to reciprocate, the instinctive response building rapport and trust. She made it impossible, using her entire face, eyes lively, cheeks full and raised, mouth wide, framing her perfect gleaming teeth, adding a casual aren’t you something toss of her hair. His smile came in a flash with a soft blush-primal brain circuits picking up the subtle signal she intended loud and clear.
“You risk your life serving your country, come home, build a business, and then lose it because a bunch of greedy Wall Street speculators drive the economy off a cliff. I can see how that would make a fighter like you so angry he couldn’t see straight.”
He pulled himself up to the table. “You got that right, lady.”
“But I don’t understand how that would scare a man who’s survived two wars so badly he’d go around hiding a gun under his apron.” Staley started to rise, his eyes narrow, his jaw tight as she reached across the table and wrapped her hand around his wrist. “Tell us, maybe we can help.”
He pulled his wrist free, his voice a low growl. “We’re done here.”
“Almost,” I said, keeping my seat. “What’s Brett going to do now that you’re closing?” I asked him.
He stiffened. “How do you know Brett?”
“Met him yesterday at Roni Chase’s office.”
“Roni? What’s she got to do with Jimmy’s case?”
“Nothing, as far as I know. I’m helping her with something else. Where’s your son?”
“What do you want with my boy?”
“Did you know Frank Crenshaw?”
He nodded, dropping into his chair.
“Sure, I knew him.”
“What do you know about his murder?”
He glanced from side to side, breathing deeply, touching his hand to his temple and letting it slide across his jaw.
“Brett called and told me about Roni shooting Frank, and then I saw the rest of it on the news about Frank getting killed at the hospital.” He clasped his hands, setting them on the table, arms extended. “I been telling Brett since he was old enough to listen that those Chase women are nothing but trouble, starting with the old lady, Lilly. No reason why Roni was gonna turn out any different.”
“Did Brett know Frank Crenshaw?”
“Yeah, he knew him.”
“They ever have any problems, get into any arguments?”
He sat up. “Hey, what are you saying? You come in here accusing me of screwing Jimmy Martin’s wife, and now you’re all but saying my boy killed Frank! You got some nerve, mister!”
“Did you know that Brett came to the hospital right after Crenshaw was murdered and that the police questioned him?”
Staley shook his head, dipping his chin. “No. He didn’t say nothing about that.”
“When was the last time you saw your son?”
He let out a long breath, looked away, coming back and staring through us.
“It’s important,” Kate said. “Please.”
“Sunday night,” he said, looking away.
“When?” I asked.
“Late, close to midnight.”
“Where?”
He fell back against his chair, dropping his hands in his lap, resigned. “Here. I was finishing up the inventory, what’s left of it. The bank wanted it last week, but I figured, what the hell, what are they gonna do if I turn it in late, you know what I’m saying?”
“Was he helping you take inventory, or did he just happen to show up while you were here?”
“I should’ve been home in bed, but I haven’t been sleeping much. Figured might as well get the inventory done. Beats the hell out of lying in bed, listening to my wife snore.”
“What was Brett doing here?”
He sat up, reddened again, gripping the edge of the table, spitting his words. “Money. He wanted the cash we use to start the day. Said there was no point in leaving it lying around on account of we were out of business.”
Kate reached across the table, covering his hand with hers. “You walked in on him, didn’t you? Caught him stealing the money?”
He ducked his head again and then lifted his eyes to meet hers, his face twisted, his voice thick. “Yeah.”
“What did you do?” she asked.
“I asked him, ‘What’s the money for? Why didn’t you just ask me for it?’ But he wouldn’t tell me, just said he needed it, that’s all.”
“Did you let him have the money?” she asked.
He looked down and away. “No. I smacked him in the mouth and threw him out. Haven’t seen or talked to him since.”
“Did Brett ever talk about someone named Cesar Mendez?”
Staley spat. “Fucking greaser gangster.”
“You know him?”
“He comes in the store.”
“Where’s Brett live?” I asked.
“Shitty little rental house in Sheffield.”
I handed him the notepad I carried. “Write it down and give me a number where I can reach you. I’ll call you when I find him. Did he say anything about Roni, about buying her funeral dress?”
“Him and that damn dress! Worst thing that ever happened to my family was Vivian Chase getting herself shot. Ever since that night, the Chases and the Staleys been stuck with one another. Roni tell you about that?”
“She did. Said your father was the one who delivered Vivian’s funeral dress to the funeral home.”
“My old man,” he said, shaking his head again, “he’s what they call a real romantic. Loved to tell how he fell for Lilly Chase that night, right on the spot, but she wasn’t interested in him or any other man as far as that goes. But Pop kept after her, sending flowers, writin’ her poems, waiting for her after school until she took a shot at him one day and he finally got the message.”
“He ever get over her?” I asked.
“Pop was the kind of man who fell for pretty girls, especially if they were in trouble, and, if they were in enough trouble, they’d fall for him ’cause he was as loyal as a puppy dog, stick with them through thick and thin. Lilly had plenty of trouble, but she was the kind who handled it on her own, just like her mother. Now my mother was a different story.”
“How’s that?”
“When Pop fell for her, she said yes, but she spent the rest of her life convincing him he was a fool to have asked her ’cause she was more trouble than Pop bargained for.”
“How’d things work out?”
“They’re both gone now, so I guess it don’t matter talking about it. She was a lot like Peggy Martin in her day. Tore Pop up, her running around on him, but he kept his mouth shut all them years, looked the other way. Not me, boy. First fight I ever got in was over somebody calling my mom names. Now Brett, he’s got a lot of his grandpa in him. Been telling me he’s in love with Roni since he learned to talk, but she treats him the same way Lilly treated my Pop, only difference is she hasn’t taken a shot at him.”
“What about your son? Can you think of any reason he would take a shot at Frank Crenshaw?”
“No, sir. That’s one thing I can tell you for sure. Brett would never have killed Frank.”
“Why not?”
“Because Frank was family. My mom was Elizabeth Crenshaw, Frank’s aunt. He was my first cousin and was like a father to Brett when I was overseas. You find Brett, you tell him to come home, tell him I’m sorry. Tell him we’ll figure something out.”
Chapter Forty-one
Nick Staley let us out, locking the door and retreating to the back of the grocery. He’d lost his business, and now he was scared he’d lost his son, learning the
hard lesson that sometimes the only thing that makes you feel better about bad news is worse news and the news about his son was not likely to get better. Brett’s relationship with Frank Crenshaw was as likely to be proof of guilt as proof of innocence. Murder in the family was the oldest of crimes.
There were a lot of reasons Brett could have needed money badly enough to steal it from his father, but there was one at the top of my list. He wanted to get out of town, hopefully before he fitted Roni for her funeral dress. Unrequited love is no match for the survival instinct. If Brett thought Roni made a deal with the cops to pin Crenshaw’s murder on him, love would turn to rage in a heartbeat.
I called Roni, but she didn’t answer, meaning she was probably screening my calls. I left her a message warning her again to stay away from Brett, knowing she’d ignore that too.
I surveyed the block, taking the pulse of a neighborhood on life support. Traffic was light, a handful of cars passing, no one stopping, no foot traffic going in and out of the cleaners, liquor store, or shoe repair shop that occupied the rest of the block, the storefronts on the other side of the street dark.
We were still on the sidewalk when a tricked-out Lexus, with gold-rimmed wheels, windows tinted midnight, slid to the curb behind Kate’s rental. A lanky brown-skinned kid stepped out, hands in the pockets of his jacket, the collar turned up. Even with his tattoos covered, I recognized Eberto. He slammed the car door, looked at me like I wasn’t there, and tried the grocery’s door.
“Read the sign, Eberto,” I told him. “They’re closed.”
He looked at me, this time remembering what happened on the bus, glancing over his shoulder at the Lexus, caught between a locked door and a middle-aged white guy who’d punked him once already, and whoever was behind the wheel, no-man’s land for a would-be gangster. He rattled the door a second time, pressing his face against the glass. I followed his eyes. The light in the back was off. I couldn’t see Staley but was certain that he was watching from the shadows, the reason he was hiding a gun beneath his apron now clear.
