by Tom Larsen
He orders a drink as they roll the movie, something Cusack featuring that woman who used to be on ER. What’s her name, Lena would know, can’t really get into it, petty intrigue, office romance or some shit. Cusack going for the cheap laughs, stupid stuff, Hollywood drivel. Harry closes his eyes, thinks of Lena back at the casa. To walk off and leave her, how to square that, left to face the cops and questions, the dirty work, almost all of it. Anyone can kill. Okay, maybe not everyone, but what’s whacking a guy compared to that whole show? Jesus, it’s unconscionable. If they suspect anything they’ll put her through the wringer. Lena’s a tough nut, but who knows what tricks the federales have up their sleeves? Dumping it on her, who would do that? If he could only see what she’s doing right now. See what’s she’s up against and how she’s handling it.
***
“Thank you both for coming,” Morales waves them inside.
“I trust Mr. Santos has been of assistance?”
“He’s been wonderful,” Lena gushes. “I don’t know where I’d be without him.”
“Please, sit down,” he gestures to two chairs facing the desk.
“Mrs. Watts is anxious to make her arrangements,” Santos settles Lena in. “I’ve explained to her the formalities involved here.”
“As the law requires.”
“And the bureaucracy,” Santos nods sagely. “I would take it as a personal favor if we could make it brief. My client has a rough enough road ahead.”
“Of course. What we need to establish is an approximate time of death. I wonder, Mrs. Watts, when was the last time you saw your husband?”
“You mean alive?”
“Yes. Understand it’s just standard procedure.”
“Well, I went to bed around midnight. Harry wanted to watch the ball scores.”
“Ah, baseball, he was a fan?”
“Big fan, baseball, football, you name it.”
“So you heard nothing, a groan perhaps?”
Santos drums his fingers. “I’m sure Mrs. Watts would have mentioned any indications of distress.”
“The memory is a peculiar thing,” Morales counters. “Sometimes one does not realize what one remembers until later.”
“I was out like a light,” Lena tells him. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“You discovered Mr. Watts around 3 a.m., did you say?”
“It was still dark out. I didn’t see a clock.”
Morales looks to Santos then jots something in his report. “So we can estimate your husband died between midnight and 3 a.m.”
“Yes, I woke up and I could hear the television. I thought Harry had fallen asleep. He does that a lot.”
“Did your husband suffer from any food allergies or immune system problems?”
“Like I said, Harry didn’t go to the doctor. He wasn’t allergic to anything that I know of.”
Morales makes a longer notation. Santos clears his throat.
“You were in Puerto Vallarta on vacation, correct?”
“Yes, our first in ten years.”
“Mr. Watts was quite enamored by the area,” Santos interjects. “He expressed great admiration for the climate and culture.”
“Oh, Harry loved Mexico. Wore you out with it.”
“Please excuse the suggestion, but was your husband ever convicted of a felony?”
“Oh no. He was a straight shooter, Harry. Ask anyone.”
“And your marriage, it was satisfactory?”
Lena looks to Santos.
“My client and her husband were childhood sweethearts Serg– Lieutenant,” Santos fumes. “They’ve spent virtually their whole lives together. It’s understandable, your official inquiry, but this is obviously a case of natural causes.”
“Very unfortunate,” Morales concurs.
“And, of course as a guest of our country, an American guest in good standing, I think we can dispense with questions of Mrs. Watts’ marital situation.”
“Forgive me, yes,” Morales wilts. “We can waive that information.”
Santos gives Lena a wink. “An incurable gentleman, my friend Morales, it’s one of the reasons I supported him in his campaign. In a town like this you need someone with a sense of compassion.”
“You’re too kind,” Morales blushes.
“Nonsense. Why I was just telling Victor that the department has an air of professionalism of late. So important for a resort town, very important. And Victor agreed.”
“Who’s Victor?” Lena wonders.
“Jose Victor, our mayor,” Morales explains.
“Let’s do this, Lieutenant,” Santos leans forward. “I’ll take these papers back to my office and go over them. I’ll get Mrs. Watts to comply with everything essential and get them back to you tomorrow.”
“I suppose we could–”
“It would be a shame to waste such a beautiful day on grim details. After all, Lieutenant,” Santos gestures to the window. “It’s what these people come here for, eh?”
“Yes, yes indeed,” Morales shuffles papers into a folder. “There are some forms that have to be signed and the certificate will have to wait for the Medical Examiner’s report. But given the shock of this tragic ordeal I see no reason to delay you further.”
“Excellent!” Santos springs to his feet. “Oh, by the way, given Mr. Watts’ fondness for the area, Mrs. Watts has requested that her husband’s remains be interred here, in the country he loved. I trust that won’t be a problem?”
“It’s an unusual request,” Morales sets the folder down. “But I think arrangements might be made.”
“Very good, Lieutenant,” Santos claps him on the back. “I must say I like the way you get things done.”
“Yes, thank you very much,” Lena fights the urge to hug. “I’ll never forget you, both of you.”
The men stand side-by-side, grinning like idiots.
***
Harry stares out at the lights of New Jersey. He knows its New Jersey because the pilot just pointed out Newark airport, lit up like Vegas off the starboard bow. Actually called it the starboard bow and Harry makes a note of it. Set to touch down in fifteen minutes. He hears the whir of landing gear, feels the sinking dread as they lean into a turn.
From Newark he will fly to Albany then rent a car for the last leg. Wishes he was in the car already, sealed off with miles ahead of him, time alone to reflect. But that’s still hours away, doesn’t even know why he’s looking forward to it, since brooding makes the bad thing worse. But he’s been around people all day and he’s weary of the contact, the bored detachment of the non-homicidal.
But he couldn’t know about that. Just as likely one, or even several have killed, in passion, for gain, or simply by accident. No, an accident isn’t murder. Accidents are accidents. Okay, so if you divided the number of people by the number of murders you’d get a percentage of murderers to general population. Get a feel for how common it really is, or how uncommon. Harry has no way to determine these numbers, but a ballpark figure is easy to come up with. Twenty thousand US murders a year sounds good. It might be way off but he’d bet its close. Divided by, say, 300 million, to keep it manageable. That would be . . . let’s see . . .
Never Harry’s strong suit, math. Lena would have it down to the decimal in seconds, but he doesn’t want to think about Lena now. What’s happening to her, whether they’ve gotten to her, so he just picks a number out of a hat, one in a hundred, say. Out of every hundred people you get one murderer. Then he forgets why he’s trying to figure it out, what number he was trying to come up with. To get a feel for how many killers are out here. That’s it, the chances of coming into contact with one. How to spot them is the problem. Do they have a look? There must come a time when it doesn’t weigh on you. Eventually you forget, or at least don’t dwell on it so much.
So there’s a murderer on board, according to that equation, possibly two, which doesn’t seem like a lot. Two murderers, all these pe
ople, their combined years on the planet. Turns out murderers are few and far between, when he thinks about it. And now he is one. And then the equally plausible chance he’s the only one, just him.
***
“You’ve been a lifesaver, Carlos. You must let me repay you.”
“I wouldn’t hear of it,” Santos looks up from his menu. “You’ve been through a tremendous ordeal, Lena. I’m just happy I could help.”
“No, really. Your time must be valuable.”
“My duties at the Chamber of Commerce are not so taxing,” he sets the menu down. “Quite frankly, Lena, I’m grateful for an excuse to get out of the house. Since my wife died I’m afraid I’ve become a bit of a recluse.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It is I who should be thanking you,” Santos smiles. “To be quite frank I’ve been feeling fairly useless of late. This will get me back in the swing.”
“I just wish Harry could have met you.”
“I’m quite sure if our positions were reversed, your husband would do the same for me.”
“Oh, in a heartbeat,” she smiles, but has her doubts.
***
“What do you mean you don’t have a car?” Harry fumes.
“They closed JFK yesterday,” the geek in the glasses shrugs. “We had a real run.”
“But I had a reservation!”
“I’m sorry, sir. Regulations require us to make vehicles available in emergency situations.”
“In New York City? That’s 100 miles away!”
“You should have seen it on 9/11. There wasn’t a rental car in the state.”
“I didn’t need a rental car on 9/11. I need one right now.”
The guy shrugs again and Harry wants to rip his head off.
“I’m really sorry, sir.”
“Okay Hotshot, what do we do now?” He feels like Baldini facing a deadline.
“I could call around, see if anyone has something. I wouldn’t get my hopes up though.”
Harry feels the weight of the world come down. The terminal has that slapdash look of renovation and scattered passengers huddle around it like refugees.
“So call.”
“There is a bus that leaves every hour on the hour.”
“I don’t want a fucking bus. Call around Gomer, I’ll wait right here.”
***
The bus is standing room only. Harry managed to grab a seat, but the guy standing next to him reeks of cologne and the one next to him keeps searching through his pockets, over and over in the same sequence. As if his chance of coming up with whatever he’s looking for is related directly to the effort to find it. Harry’s certain something sexual is going on, a way to rub up against something, all that grunting and squirming around. And the cologne guy, Jesus, he’d wring both their necks if he could get away with it.
His eyes throb and his mouth tastes like metal.
He gets off at Hudson. The platform is lit but the station doors are chained and padlocked. He walks to the end of the parking lot, drops his bag and stares down Market Street, 5 a.m., nobody home. A foghorn sounds downriver and seagulls swoop in over the trees. Seagulls? The Catskills? Harry sits on a bench by a row of bike racks. The first step and it’s going badly. Just damp enough to seep through his sweater and cold enough to chill to the bone. He hears the snap of branches in the shadows and seconds later someone stumbles from the bushes. Coming at him from across the parking lot, last guy he wants to see.
“Hey bub, wouldn’t have a buck you could spare, would you?”
Harry looks around for something to smash him with.
“A quarter, maybe,” wino eyes the travel bag. “I gotta eat something.”
“Piss off, ass wipe.”
“Hey, you got no right to talk to me that way,” Wino taps himself on the chest. “I’m a human being you know.”
“No you’re not.”
“Am too.”
“Are not.”
“You’re talking to Jake Spitzer,” like he expects an argument. “There was a time I could buy and sell you.”
“Here,” Harry throws some change on the ground. “Now beat it.”
“The hell with you,” Wino backs away. “This here’s a free country, by God. I go where I please.”
“Yeah yeah.”
“I don’t know what made you the way you are Mr., but it ain’t nothing compared to what I been through.”
“Tell it to the seagulls, Sparky.”
“Had me a nice house and a good woman,” he looks around as if they must be here somewhere. “It was the devil that done me in.”
“Look at me,” Harry frames his face with his hands. “Do I look like I give a fuck?”
“Something bad is gonna happen to you, buddy. You’ll see.”
“It already has,” Harry holds out his arms to include everything.
Wino squats and scoops up the money. “Yessir, got a real strong hunch about you, pardner.”
“No you don’t.”
“Do too,” Wino heads back the way he came. “Feller like you always comes to a bad end.”
“Have a nice day.” Harry waves.
An hour later he’s sitting in Eva’s Place, got your truckers, guys in bib overalls, fat-ankled waitresses schlepping chow. Harry wipes a hole in the sweat-smeared window and watches school bus kids lined up across the street. Real shithole this Hudson, houses crumbling, streets puddled over, businesses boarded up. The lot behind the bus stop is choked in weeds and littered in car parts. No high-end, nothing much to brag about, as far from Mexico as you can get.
“More coffee?” his waitress chirps.
“Thanks, yeah.”
“The special today is SOS. Gus just made up a bucket.”
“Sounds tempting.”
“Oh, he’s known far and wide for it.”
“I’ll take the eggs over easy with ham.”
“Suit yerself.”
The guy in the next booth leaves without his newspaper and Harry grabs it when nobody’s looking. He pages through from cover to cover, pausing at the tit bar ads, settling on sports. Seems odd to see the same old names in the Phillies’ lineup. The same world hotspots, the same movies playing, calming in a way, like nothing really happened. Time still passing. Life going on like it’s supposed to.
Dead for a day now, almost two, the grim hereafter well under way. Not yet sunrise in Puerto Vallarta, Lena sleeping who knows where. What will she face in the coming days? Why the 1st of the month to call? Here he’s going bonkers and it’s just the 15th! Lena was right. He should call her. Who cares if they can trace it? Why would they trace what they’re not even looking for? How did he think he’d be able to stand this?
Must get in touch. Must be a way.
But Harry can’t think of one. He could call the hotel or the Mexican police, but he’s not sure of the risks and knows he’d never dare it. He could call one of the numbers in Stevie’s wallet but what good would that do? Whoever answered wouldn’t know a thing unless it all went wrong. He could just fly back, who’d be the wiser? Then he flashes on Chico’s barman and it scares him silly.
“Here you go, hon.” The waitress sets his eggs in front of him.
“Do you know if there’s a hotel nearby?”
“Motor Lodge right up the road,” she nods at the window. “The Sleepy Hollow, can’t miss it.”
***
By the time he pays the check the mist has turned to drizzle. Pickups pass in a steady rush, faces set in the rustbelt light. No sidewalk so he takes the shoulder, dragging the bag along, teeth chattering until his jaw aches. Six blocks, it turns out, past Mickey’s Brakes and Mufflers, a sad stretch of row homes, two laundromats and a Christian Science reading room. The woman at the motel desk doesn’t hear him come in so he stands there jiggling change in his pocket.
“Goodness! I’m sorry,” she clutches at her collar. Wattles hang like draperies, pushing eighty if she’s
a day.
“Any vacancies?”
“Oh my, yes. Only one room taken, in fact,” she pats at her bun. “Off season, you know.”
“Right,” Harry signs in. “And the season would be when?”
“Why summer, of course. Come July the place is all a-bustle.”
“I’m sure.”
“Well, folks don’t come like they used to, but we still get the campers and the Jesus crowd.”
“Is there a phone in the room?”
“Yes, but you have to use a credit card. Will you be with us long?”
“That depends, a few days maybe.”
The room faces out on a trio of dumpsters, the walls paneled in woodgrain, the furniture early American seedy. There’s a badly framed print of a schooner between the windows, a bedside Bible and a desk calendar from 2012. Harry cranks up the heat, checks the phone for a dial tone and turns on the television. Soaps, Oprah and on into the afternoon. He lies on the bed smoking and thinking. Rain rattles down just like in the movies.
***
Santos signs the voucher and hands the tickets to Lena. “So your flight leaves at 11 a.m. on Thursday. I’ll have a cab come for you at your hotel.”
“Seems like all I ever get to say is thank you.”
“Don’t be silly. I wish there was more I could do,” he guides her past the sidewalk vendors. Voices call out in greetings, hands reach to take his hand.
“Thursday. That gives me three days.”
“Time enough to arrange a service for your husband. May I make a suggestion, Lena?”
