Corrupted Memory

by Ray Daniel

  Seventy-Nine

  The equinox sun shone down on Boston as I surveyed the city from the Phillips 22 lounge in Mass General. I wished I had a smartphone. I still hadn’t gotten a picture of this view.

  I had stitches and a bandage where Walt’s bullet had cut my side. The burns on my hands and arms had been morphined into submission earlier in the week, but now they were responding to a salve and more bandages. My cough had subsided. I was rested and ready to go.

  “Hey, Tucker,” Bobby Miller said. He had entered the lounge with Lee and Jael. “Jesus. Hell of a view.”

  “Let me use your phone,” I said. Bobby handed me his phone and I snapped a picture.

  Lee said, “The gun from the storage bin matched the bullets from JT and Cathy Byrd. You were right. Walt killed them both.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “There was another gun. A revolver with no serial number. Do you know where that came from?”

  I looked off toward the North End. I said, “I have no idea. Probably belonged to my dad.”

  Lee said, “Because we just can’t get the pieces to fit together.”

  I turned. “Lee, I’m done helping you fit the pieces together.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Done. I’m done.”

  Lee looked from Bobby to Jael to me. He held out his hand. “Of course. Thank you for your help, Tucker.”

  I shook it, wincing, having forgotten my burns. “You’re welcome.”

  “May God be between you and me.”

  Lee pushed his way through the Phillips main entrance door and was gone.

  I asked Jael, “What does that mean?”

  Jael said, “It means that Lieutenant Lee likes you.”

  “Well that’s good.”

  Bobby said, “The evidence that your dad sold those plans was rock solid.”

  “Okay.”

  “We’re turning up more evidence of Walt Adams trying to recruit spies.”

  “And?”

  “And GDS doesn’t want to stir this up anymore. They’ve said, and I agree, that your visit to their facility the other day simply resulted in a misunderstanding. They’re willing to forget about it. In fact, they’re dying to forget about it.”

  “Good. So am I.”

  Bobby stuck out his hand. “I put you through hell, buddy. I’m sorry.”

  I waved my bandage and Bobby dropped his hand. I said, “It’s not your fault that my dad was a scumbag, Bobby.”

  Bobby asked, “You heading out now?”

  “In a while.”

  Bobby left Jael and me alone in the waiting room. We looked out the window across Boston.

  I said, “I couldn’t do it, Jael. I couldn’t kill him.”

  Jael said, “I know. You should be proud. You could not kill him because you are a good person.”

  “I was weak. You would have been able to do it. Back when you worked at—you know.”

  “Good people do not murder,” she said. “I am trying to be a good person now.”

  I said, “You are a good person.”

  “I will drive you home.”

  She turned and headed for the door. I took one last look at Boston, trying to imprint the panorama on my brain, then I turned from the view and followed Jael.

  Eighty

  A week later, Lucy and I sat on my new couch. Lucy wore tight jeans and no shirt. So did I. We were smooching. As we kissed, my hand rubbed her breast in a clockwise rotation.

  “Uh, honey,” said Lucy, “you’re wearing it out.”

  I stopped rubbing. “Oh. Jeez. I’m sorry.”

  We sat, side by side, partially disrobed but indifferent to our nudity. The week had been a long one, full of averted eyes and half-started comments. Lucy stood and retrieved her bra from the floor. She slipped her arms through it and latched the back. She picked up the Red Sox T-shirt I had recently removed, and slid it over her head. I didn’t protest.

  She sat next to me and extended her feet. She had recently taken to wearing socks and close-toed shoes. Talevi was right. She could walk, but that’s not what disfigurement is about.

  Lucy said, “It’s broken.”

  “What’s broken?”

  “Us,” she said. “Whatever it is that two people create when they come together. It’s broken.”

  I said, “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. It was never your fault. You saved me, remember? You were willing to die for me, next to me. You were my hero. I’ll never forget that.”

  “But.”

  “But, I’ll never forget being taken either. I’ll never forget the feeling of my toe when they put those bolt cutters on it. I’ll never forget how afraid I was. I’ll never forget it as long as we’re together.”

  Guilt coursed through me. “I never should have lied about the notebooks.”

  “It had nothing to do with the notebooks, and you know it.” Lucy squeezed my bicep. “Don’t beat yourself up. It wasn’t your fault. I don’t blame you.”

  “Still, you can’t be with me.”

  “I can’t be with you.” Lucy reached down and pulled on a pair of red Keds sneakers. Tied them and stood. I stood.

  “You’re a good man, Tucker. I’m sorry about us.” She kissed me on the cheek. “Please don’t be alone.”

  I blew out a sigh. “I’ll do my best.” We walked to the front door with its new doorjamb and heavier lock. She stepped into the hallway.

  One more awkward peck on the cheek. “Goodbye.”

  “Bye.” I closed the door behind her and turned to Click and Clack.

  “Easy come, easy go, right, boys?”

  They clung to their log. I reached into the cabinet and took out my new bottle of Lagavulin. Cracked the seal, got some ice, and poured a glass. I toasted Click and Clack. “Here’s to plenty of fish in the sea.”

  They stared at me.

  “Right. You’re land crabs.”

  The apartment creaked. Outside, a car started. I looked into my bedroom but knew what I’d find there: a perfectly made bed and plenty of nothing. I rattled the Scotch in my glass and looked at my new Droid. Considered a rousing game of Angry Birds. Perhaps watch the Sox on my new TV.

  Click and Clack folded into their shells and slept. “What? Am I boring you?”

  Nothing.

  “I’m boring myself,” I told them. A dog barked outside. Now there was a pet that could fill a room.

  My eyes rested on a pair of Red Sox tickets on the counter. Tomorrow was the last game of the season. Lucy and I were going to go together, but now it looked like I’d have an empty seat next to me. I considered not going to the game. I wasn’t certain that I could make it through a whole game alone.

  Unless … A disused memory bubbled into my consciousness. I picked up my phone and dialed.

  “Hey, happy birthday. Listen, are you free tomorrow?”

  Eighty-One

  The game was meaningless. While I was chasing my father’s ghost, the Red Sox had been losing their grip and were out of the playoffs. The Blue Jays had been out of it since August. A bunch of kids from the minors struggled to play major league ball so the managers could evaluate them. The play was sloppy, the players were lazy, and the season was over. Yet Fenway Park was as loud as ever.

  I stood in the aisle, a beer in each hand, waiting for the inning to end. The late September sun was cool and bright. The blue sky beyond the Green Monster provided a backdrop to the CITGO sign.

  I remembered my dad griping about the burned-out neon bulbs on that sign. He hated the idea of a broken landmark. It made no sense to him. In his world, there was working and there was broken. He hated broken things. Today the neon has been replaced with LEDs and there are still burned-out lights. I wondered if they had been intentionally disabled for the sake of tradition.r />
  The Red Sox pitcher, a new kid just up from Pawtucket, laid into the Blue Jays. The speculation was that he might be The One. He had the chunky, leg-heavy look of Roger Clemens, a nasty fastball, and a diving splitter. The future looked bright for him as he struck out the last Blue Jay batter of the inning and the crowd roared its approval. I excuse-me’ed my way down the row, careful not to spill my Sam Adams or the Bud Light.

  I reached my seats. Sal took his Bud Light and said, “Thanks for calling me, little cousin. How’d you know it was my birthday?”

  I said, “I remember from when I was little. My mother took me to every birthday party.”

  Sal said, “These are fucking great seats.” A mother in the row in front of us turned, scowled, and pointed to her son. Sal said, “Sorry.”

  I said, “Glad you like the seats. My dad did at least one thing right.”

  Sal raised his plastic cup. “Here’s to having you back in the city.” We toasted and drank.

  I said, “Next year we’ll go to a Yankee game.”

  “Fu—Eff yeah!”

  We watched the Sox rookies batting. The first kid grounded out. The second flew out.

  I said, “Sal, I want to apologize for the other day.”

  Sal reached over and patted my back. “Forget about it. I’m sorry I hit you. Sometimes I lose my temper.”

  The third rookie struck out and the teams changed sides.

  Sal drank his beer. “Hey, what are you doing Sunday?”

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “You want to come over for Sunday dinner? My ma will be there. She’s been asking about you. Also, Maria says that she misses her first cousin once removed. That’s you, right?”

  “I’d love to see Auntie Rosa and Maria.”

  “You know, it’s nothing fancy. We’re just having spaghetti and meatballs.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “My wife’s gravy is almost as good as Ma’s. Don’t tell Ma I said that. She’ll get all pissed off.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  The Sox played on in the September sun. Autumn was here. It would bring with it another cycle of winter and holidays. Thanksgiving was coming. Christmas would follow. Sal and I sat shoulder to shoulder, sipping our beers, watching the season end.

  the end

  © Lynn Wayne

  About the Author

  Ray Daniel is the award-winning author of Boston-based crime fiction. His short story “Give Me a Dollar” won a 2014 Derringer Award for short fiction, and “Driving Miss Rachel” was chosen as a 2013 distinguished short story by Otto Penzler, editor of The Best American Mystery Stories 2013.

  Daniel’s work has been published in the Level Best Books anthologies Thin Ice, Blood Moon, and Stone Cold. Corrupted Memory is his second novel, sequel to Terminated.

  For more information, visit him online at raydanielmystery.com and follow him on Twitter @raydanielmystry.