by EJ Knapp
“Remember what’s said about fear.” She was whispering, her face close to mine. Her hair smelled of lavender. “‘False Evidence Appearing Real’. Fear. You’re not here to drink. You needn’t fear that you will, because you won’t. In your heart you know you don’t want to. It’s your head that’s confused. You’re here to see Albert. So come along.”
She took my hand, led me into the bar. I kept my eyes averted from the bottles lined up along the back wall.
“They’re only glass,” she whispered. “Inanimate objects that can’t hurt you anymore. Look at them. By looking at them, you remove their power.”
I turned my head and stared at the line of domestic and foreign beers that lined the top shelf. My heart didn’t stop as I expected it would. And I didn’t vault the bar and start grabbing them one by one, pouring them down my throat. They weren’t even tempting, which surprised me. Surprised my fear, maybe. Disappointed Buster Booze. They were just bottles. Different shapes. Different sizes. Different colors. But just bottles. Not dragons. I turned back to Felice. She was gone.
There was a light burning in the far corner. I moved toward it. Albert was sitting at his usual table, his usual hand of solitaire laid out in front of him.
“How’s it going, Albert?” I said, surprised that my voice wasn’t shaky. I looked around as I pulled out a chair.
“Looking for something?” Albert said.
“Felice,” I said. “She was just with me and now she’s gone.”
His eyebrows arched. “Felice? She’s upstairs. Hasn’t been down yet this morning.”
“But ...”
He held up his hand. “Scared you a little, coming in here,” he said. “First time since you got back.”
I looked down, feeling sheepish. “Yeah, well. I guess.”
“There you are,” he said, as if that explained everything. “So what do you need?”
I gave him the Reader’s Digest condensed version of what I’d learned from Philo on Tuesday, ending with Jim Gjerde.
“Tom Philo,” Albert said. “Single malt. Gjerde was a bourbon man, Wild Turkey, straight up, never more than two shots.”
“You know him? Knew him, I mean?” I said. “And Philo, too?”
“Tom? Sure. Plays poker here Sunday afternoons. Gjerde? He’d come in once in a while. Never ate here. He was a vegetarian. Not much here for an herbivore.”
“He’s dead, you know,” I said. “Gjerde, I mean.”
“Duh!” Albert said. “You’re the one who just got back to town, remember? I never left. Of course I know he’s dead. Insulin overdose. Simple enough. Some people think too simple. Or too complicated. Depends on your point of view.”
“Some people?” I was thinking of Philo’s odd behavior while talking about him. “Would ‘some people’ include the cops?”
“Nah.” Albert laughed. “Half of 'em wouldn’t recognize a crime if it bit them more than once. One cop, though. Chambers. He didn’t like the feel of it. Sniffed around a bit longer than anyone thought was necessary. But he has a show to run, not like the old days when he was just another detective. So he dropped it. I think it still nags him from time to time.”
“Why do you think that?” I said.
“He’s been in here once or twice. Asking questions. And you know how much he loves to come in here. Ask me anything. And I’ve heard he’s been out to Gjerde’s house a few times. Tied up in an estate battle, I hear. What he hopes to find there now is anybody’s guess.”
“Feeling it,” I said.
Albert gave me a strange look.
“Marion doesn’t like to admit it,” I said in answer to that look, “but he suffers from an acute case of intuition.”
“Hmmm, well, that explains it then,” said Albert. “Intuitive hits would be about all he’d get from that scene, then or now. It was clean. Too clean.”
“What do you mean ‘too clean’?” I said.
“Gjerde had a top-of-the-line insulin pump. Those things do not malfunction as a rule, so why was he shooting himself up? His Medic Alert bracelet and his candy supply were in a drawer. I’ve heard suicide bantered about, so maybe that was the reason. I didn’t know the guy that well, so who knows? But, from what I heard, there were no fingerprints where you would expect at least his fingerprints to be.”
“Which means someone wiped down the place.”
“You got it.”
“Philo mentioned the bracelet and the candy,” I said.
“He would know. They were tight, those two.”
“So you think he was murdered?”
“I think it’s a good possibility.”
“Can you think of any reason why someone might want him killed?” I said.
“Well,” he said. “He was a politician. And a lawyer. Right there you have two strikes.”
“Two strikes aren’t enough to take him out of the game,” I said.
“True enough.” He picked up his cards and began idly shuffling them. “There’s been some talk, whispers really. I haven’t paid much attention. I tend to choose my battles closer to home these days. But, for you, I suppose I could pay a little more attention.”
“Don’t do anything that’ll get you messed up, Albert,” I said.
He gave me an incredulous look. “Give me a break, Teller. I was swimming in dangerous waters long before you were a gleam in your daddy’s eye.”
“Right,” I said. “What was I thinking?”
He laid out a spread of cards, looking past me into some dark part of the bar.
“You know, that reminds me of another much too clean death. And, come to think of it, another one Chambers was overly interested in.”
“Oh? Who?”
“Give me a minute to pull it all in,” he said. “This was a couple of years back, three, maybe four.”
He started sliding three cards at a time off the deck and turning them over. About half way through, he stopped.
“Forest Forrester ... that was his name. Didn’t know him well. He never came in here. Nice enough guy if you ran into him on the street. Older fellow, early sixties.”
“What happened to him?”
“He was one of those pre-dawn power walkers; lived out by the springs and exercised by walking up and down some of those back roads out there. He was hit by a car; hit and run, or so the story goes.”
“So what made it too clean?” I said.
“Accidents are messy, Teller,” he said. “Not this one. Just one dead body, lying in the street. There were no skid marks, no glass or paint chips or bits of chrome on the body or anywhere around it, nothing. Do you have any idea of how unusual that is? You really have to wonder what went down out there.”
“So you think he was murdered?”
“I think it’s a good possibility.”
“What did the cops think?”
“Ruled it a hit and run accident. But I don’t think Chambers bought that. As with Gjerde, he kept going out to the scene, checking it over. The interesting thing is it wasn’t just where the body was found that he was checking out.”
“What do you mean?”
“This isn’t in any report that I know of, except maybe the one in Chambers’ head, but about a mile down the road, there was a spot where the ground was all torn up as if a car had swerved onto the shoulder.”
“And maybe ran over some old man in the process?”
“Maybe.”
“And moved the body to disconnect the scene from the evidence?”
“Maybe, again.”
“But why? Why move it? Why run that risk? Why not just leave it where it fell?”
“Don’t have an answer to that one. Maybe the guy used his own car, saw the opportunity and took it without thinking it through. It’s a mystery. But here’s another thing you might find interesting. Like Gjerde, like de Whitt, Forrester worked for the city.”
“Really? In what capacity?”
“He was the head of the DPE.”
“Damn, this is curiouser and
curiouser.”
My Baby She Sent Me A Letter
I pulled the Altima into the driveway and killed the engine. My thoughts were a cyclone of discordant information. Curiouser and curiouser indeed.
I stepped out the car, keyed the lock and headed for the door. I was halfway there when I froze. Someone was sitting on the porch. And there was a familiar scent in the still air. This was a week for smells. First, the smell of Jaz in the pawn shop ... and now? It couldn’t be. I hadn’t smelled that scent, except in my dreams, for years. L'Air du Temps. The perfume most favored by Robyn.
I shook my head, clearing it. The someone on the porch stood up. It was Lynn Ford, head of the research department at the paper and Robyn’s best friend. Or at least she used to be her best friend. From what I knew, Robyn hadn’t stayed in touch with any of the old crowd.
I’d been avoiding Lynn outside of work, though she had called several times when I first moved back to town. Those few times we had run into each other at the paper had been, for me, embarrassing and awkward. I felt there were questions hovering in the air that neither of us wanted to ask or answer; though, from all appearances, I’m not sure Lynn felt the same way.
“Lynn,” I said, stepping onto the porch. The smell of L'Air du Temps was stronger. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry, Cat,” she said, calling me by the nickname I hadn’t heard in years.
“Sorry for what?” I said, starting to feel a little nervous.
She took a deep breath. “I was going to call ... oh, hell. Here.” She handed me a blue envelope. The fragrance was coming from it. My heart did a back-flip and started cartwheeling around in my chest when I spotted the handwriting. A Joe Cocker song began to play in my head.
“It came in the mail today,” she continued. “I think you should read it.”
Reluctantly, I took the envelope from her hand, tipped it and slid out the letter. The paper was pale blue, like the envelope. Of course it would match, I thought, suddenly angry for no reason I could think of, knowing at the same moment that I did know that anger, did know the reason for it. I had felt it often enough over the years, mixed in with all the other things that were tearing me apart. There was a time when I would have given half the blood in my veins, alcohol diluted as it was, for a letter such as this, addressed to me.
I unfolded it and read it quickly.
It fluttered from my hand as I read the last paragraph.
“She’s ...” I looked up at Lynn, “… she’s coming to town.”
“On her birthday,” Lynn said.
I did a quick memory check. “That’s … three weeks.”
“About that,” Lynn said. “She wants ... she wants to know—”
“I read it, Lynn,” I snapped, and immediately regretted it. Lynn didn’t deserve to be the target of my anger. “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to jump on you.”
“I know, Cat.”
I felt her fingertips on my arm. My insides were shaking. I didn’t know which I wanted to do more: Scream or cry. Her fingers tightened.
“I know we’ve never talked about, you know, about you and her,” she said. “I wanted to. I just wasn’t sure, sure of, well, sure of anything, I guess. You two guys were, I mean, everyone loved you two. Most of us envied what you had together. And then it just blew apart. She got married, took off. Never contacted any of us. And you came completely undone. Jesus, Cat, those last couple of months before you left town, I mean, we were on death watch, you know? I mean, we didn’t think you would, like, blow your brains out or anything, but a lot of us thought you were sure going to drink yourself to death. Or end up in jail. And then you disappeared.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Those were some rough months.” Years was what crossed my mind. “But I stayed in touch. Even if just a little.”
“You did,” she said. “And Albert filled us in on the dark periods. You know we still all go to Jilly’s. You turned us on to that place. We don’t party as hard as we did, but you’ll always find someone from the old gang there. I mean, I know you can’t really join us, but ...” Her voice trailed off.
“I know, Lynn, and I appreciate it. I do. And maybe one of these days I’ll be able to hang in a bar and not feel like every bottle lined up along the wall is whispering to me.”
We stood for a moment in silence then Lynn said, “She mentioned something about staying at the Lincoln Hotel. Wanted to make sure I pointed that out to you.”
I laughed, and there was even a hint of mirth to it. “Yeah,” I said. “I noticed that. Some things never change, I guess.”
When I first met Robyn, the Lincoln had been shut down, boarded up for years. It had once been a grandiose hotel, but time and neglect had transformed it into little more than a dingy housing area for the rats and the homeless.
Midway through our five years, someone bought the place and began extensive renovations. That whole area of town was in the throes of gentrification and the idea was to restore the Lincoln to its former opulence. They managed it pretty well. It opened about six months before Robyn and I broke up. Because of internal structural problems, the increased number of rooms and, I’m sure, because it looked cool and elegant, they designed external elevators for the top suites.
Robyn became rather enamored of those elevators. Of making love in them. But why the visit now? What was she up to? What did she want?
“What are you going to do, Cat?”
“I don’t know, Lynn,” I said. “I really don’t know.”
We chatted for a while and after she left, I went inside to record what I could remember of my conversation with Albert. Despite the turmoil Robyn’s letter had caused, I managed to complete a blistering piece for Sunday’s editorial page and fax it off. When the ‘sent’ confirmation appeared, I called the news desk to make sure it had gone through. I don’t trust technology and, on top of that, I wanted to make sure the copy was proofed before going to print. Several of the letters on my old Underwood were beginning to look more like Egyptian hieroglyphics than alphabet.
Once everything was settled, I sat back on the couch and stared at the powder blue envelope sitting on the coffee table. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to sleep with the smell of that perfume in the house so I got up, grabbed a book off the shelf, put the letter inside it and carried the book out to the porch. I would deal with that bridge when I came to it.
Right now, I needed sleep.
I Don’t Make Love To Boys
A man was jogging down a dark, tree-lined street, dressed in a grey, three-piece suit. Robyn and I were driving down the same street in a red sports car that looked very much like my old Fiat. The top was down. I was sitting in the back seat. Harrison was sitting next to Robyn. Jim Gjerde was sitting on the other end of the seat from me. The Cars were playing on the radio, the words floating from the speaker and brushing my face like feathers. Fast cars, double lives; where in the end do they go?
The man turned while still running and stuck out his thumb for a ride. Robyn swerved, hit him full on, and swerved back onto the street. He flew end over end in the air and landed next to me. Smiling, he stuck out his hand. “I’m Forest Forrester,” he said. “I’m dead.” He looked over at Harrison and Jim. “Hey there, you two, I see they got you as well.”
Robyn turned around in her seat, the car continuing on by itself. The seat became the elevator outside the Lincoln Hotel. It rose and swept her away into the night. When it returned, Jaz was in it. Jaz smiled, kissed Harrison on the cheek and blew kisses at Jim and Forrest. Plucking a blue envelope from the air, she handed it to me.
“This came for Lynn but it’s for you,” she said. “I think it’s important. I think you should throw it away.”
I reached for the envelope but the wind caught it and blew it out the car. I looked at Jaz. She reached out, touched my face. “Why do I even like you?” she said. “You’re a boy. I don’t make love to boys.”
That was when I woke up.
I rolled out of bed and hea
ded for the kitchen, a swirl of thoughts in my head, a swirl of hungry cats at my feet. Coffee, cat food and cleaning the litter boxes consumed the first thirty minutes. I tried to get a handle on the previous day while I worked. There were several questions nagging me, not to mention the turmoil Robyn’s impending visit caused. By the time I made it to the porch, I pretty much knew what I needed to do.
I made several phone calls, disturbing more than one person mid-breakfast. Harrison had been a well-respected, well-liked guy about town because, though some were annoyed at the disruption of their morning meal, all agreed to find the information I needed as soon as they got to work.
Now there was a last person I needed to talk to and it wasn’t something I could do over the phone.
When I walked into Marion’s office an hour later, he was standing with his back to me, exactly where he’d been standing the last time I’d visited, watering his plants. He stiffened and turned, looking at his watch.
“You again,” he said, setting down the watering can. “I expected you a half an hour ago.”
“I guess that means my informants are working both sides of the street,” I said, seating myself.
“Make yourself at home,” Marion said, sitting down himself.
“I will, thank you.”
This warm-and-fuzzy between us was starting to make me nervous.
“So,” I said, “now that we have the pleasantries out the way, I understand you’re not exactly happy with the verdict on Forrester’s and Gjerde’s causes of death.”
“Where did you hear that from? No, never mind. Forget I asked. I already know the answer to that one.”
He looked off in the direction of Jilly’s, then back at me, his gaze stern and penetrating.
“On the record or off?” he said.
I closed my notebook and said nothing.
He took a deep breath. The corners of his mouth twitched. From long experience I knew this was as close to a smile as Marion was capable. I had a sneaking suspicion he was actually looking forward to this.
“The track suit they found Forrester wearing wasn’t his,” he said.
