by Tim Maleeny
Oliver took a deep breath through his nose, braving his disappointment. “That’s too bad.”
“But even that was pretty gruesome,” said Sam. “Clumps of flesh on tree branches. Blood everywhere.”
Oliver took another breath, this one more shallow. “Everywhere?”
Sam nodded. “You couldn’t get the stench out of your nose for hours, even after you left the scene.”
Oliver sighed like a man who’d just eaten too much dessert.
“Thank you, Sam.”
Sam shifted from one foot to the other, letting Oliver have his moment. It took a while before the M.E. focused again.
“Did you want something, Sam? Is there something I can do for you?”
“Yeah,” replied Sam. “Are you gonna run the usual battery of tests on the body?”
“There wasn’t much left of the body to work with.”
“But you did the blood work?”
Oliver shook his head. “Not unless someone tells me to. It’s a suicide, right?”
“Absolutely,” said Sam, too quickly. “So, no tests?”
“Not the full run,” replied Oliver. “I just hold the corpse until the police give the final word, suicide or murder. Should come down in another day or two. Why?”
Sam rolled his shoulders. “He was a neighbor, Ollie. And a lot of the other neighbors, they knew him, you know, and were just wondering—”
Oliver nodded his understanding. “Was he on drugs? Or drunk. Some outside agent to explain his behavior, a focus for their anger and grief.”
Sam was glad he wore the dark glasses. “Something like that.”
Oliver leaned in close and spoke in a conspiratorially whisper. “For you, Sam, I’ll run the tests. A-to-Z.”
Sam held out his hand. “Thanks, Ollie. And you won’t tell anyone? Not even Danny.”
Oliver spared a caustic look toward the door. “Especially not Rodriguez.”
Sam squeezed the other man’s hand, noticing how cold and clammy it was. “Thanks, Oliver.” He pulled a card from his wallet. “That’s my home phone, ok?”
Sam pushed through the doors to find Danny looking at him suspiciously as he jammed a Kleenex into his right nostril. With a nasally twang he demanded, “What was that about?”
Sam shrugged. “A hunch.”
Danny switched to the other nostril, using a backwards twisting motion.
“I thought you didn’t believe in hunches?”
Sam smiled. “I usually don’t,” he said. “But cops do.”
“You ain’t a cop no more,” replied Danny. “That’s what you told me. You’re retired.”
“You got me into this,” said Sam.
“So?”
“Maybe it’s time for me to go back to work.”
Chapter Thirty-two
Jerome was high on life.
That bullshit expression had never rung so true. Jerome sat next to Tamara at her kitchen counter, finishing his breakfast. Shayla was in the bedroom, getting ready for their next webcam broadcast. Two beautiful women, a home-cooked meal. Jerome smiled shyly as he took another bite of his toast.
It was perfect.
Tamara had made the toast herself, wearing an apron over a t-shirt and shorts, the perfect curve of her breasts visible on either side of the shoulder straps. As she spread the butter lovingly across the finely browned surface of the bread, Jerome made a mental note to mark this as the most erotic moment of his life.
Jerome had always done well with the ladies. They liked his laid-back style, his loopy grin. Most didn’t even mind that he was stoned most of the time, treating him like a wayward pet in need of their care and affection. For his part, Jerome fed their need to be needed, playing up his hapless role for all it was worth.
But with Tamara, it was different. It had been several hours since Jerome’s last hit, but he wasn’t missing the ganja one bit. He wasn’t tense at all—in fact, he felt more relaxed than when he was high. He took a deep breath, his eyes bright. There was definitely more oxygen in the air when Tamara was in the room.
“So what’s keeping Larry so busy?” she asked. “He seemed…tense.”
Jerome felt a twinge at the sound of his brother’s name, an electric jolt across his temple. A sharp pain that was here and gone as quickly as the mental image of Larry’s scowling face, replaced by Tamara’s beatific smile.
“You OK?” she asked. “Jerome?”
He blinked. “Sure, why?”
“Thought I’d lost you there for a second—I’m not boring you?”
“No, not at all,” Jerome shook his head emphatically. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”
Like my obsessive-compulsive brother, he thought.
In a rare moment of mental clarity, Jerome realized why he smoked such epic amounts of weed. Sure, he liked the high and the perspective it gave you, but after so many years that was getting harder to sustain. It was wearing thin. Even though he was on track to be nominated to the Bob Marley Hall of Fame, lately he was just getting by, the clouds of smoke barely managing to obscure the details of his maddening existence.
His brother was driving him crazy. Subconsciously Jerome knew his incessant smoking was designed to return the favor and annoy the living shit out of Larry. Keep Jerome too fuzzy for a serious conversation. Too stoned to be an equal partner in Larry’s codependent enterprise of angst.
“Busy at work, huh?” Tamara nudged him back into the moment.
Jerome shrugged. “Makin’ sandwiches.” And selling weed to every middle manager in San Francisco. The thought used to give him a thrill, but now it seemed so…mundane. Make the sandwiches, sell the pot. Day in, day out. Larry ran their operation like a coal mine, never a break in the routine. It was another epiphany for Jerome, finding the cause for his cancer if not the cure. He was feeling more enlightened by the minute—just sitting next to this babe was elevating his IQ.
“That must keep you busy,” said Tamara. “Doesn’t it get boring?”
He and Larry might not be stuck in cubicles anymore, but Jerome was bored out of his mind. He shrugged again, saying, “All those mouths to feed.”
“What about your mouth, Jerome—still hungry?” Tamara stood up as if to move around the counter.
Jerome looked at his plate, clean except for a handful of crumbs. “No, I’m good.” And he was good, and getting better. He thought of Larry, but this time the image didn’t stress him out. He imagined his brother back in their apartment, vomiting from the stress. Jerome had just polished off a huge breakfast without a hint of a stomachache. Walter was dead, and Jerome was OK with that.
He had assumed Larry killed their landlord, got into some scuffle with Ed over their deal and the asshole fell off the balcony. Maybe, maybe not. But Jerome didn’t really care. It was his third revelation of this remarkable breakfast. Eat some toast and discover your moral compass.
Those guys were assholes. Crooks. Stealing from two hard-working boys. Well, sometimes there is justice in the world.
Fuck them.
Jerome felt suddenly light-headed, emboldened by this new moral treatise. He was one of the good guys.
Tamara had moved to the kitchen and was washing dishes, her hips doing a silent samba as she soaped the plates. Jerome breathed through his nose and nodded his head. Life was good, too good to waste in a cloud of smoke. His puppy dog days were over. Time to act like a man.
“Hey,” he said. “Tamara.”
She turned at the waist, looking like a sculpture of the letter S.
“Yeah?”
“You want to go to dinner with me sometime?”
Tamara turned completely around, hands braced against the counter. Her smile almost blinded him.
“Damn, Jerome.”
“What?” he asked, momentary panic on his face.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Chapter Thirty-three
Sam made a U-turn when he spotted Buster on the corner of 29th and Mission.
The b
est thing about driving a vintage Mustang convertible was it made Sam feel younger, if not young. But the worst was the turning radius. Buster was stepping out of a bodega onto the sidewalk when Sam jumped the curb and almost took his foot off.
“Maricon!” Buster leapt backwards, hands raised in panic as Sam punched the brakes, rocking the car. He took off his sunglasses so Buster could see his face.
“Sorry Buster.”
Buster squinted, flipping through his mental Rolodex until he landed on Sam’s card.
“Hola, officer Sam,” he said with forced joviality. “What brings you to my neighborhood?”
“Can I give you a ride somewhere?”
Buster shook his head. “I got nowhere to go, thanks.”
“Good.” Sam killed the ignition, leaving the car on the sidewalk. He slid across the front seat and climbed out the passenger side before Buster could bolt.
Buster’s dreadlocks shifted nervously, but he kept his eyes focused on Sam, his expression one of studied calm. “Been a long time since I seen you in this part of town.”
Sam ran a hand through his hair.
“You kill anybody lately Buster?”
Buster chuckled. “Not me.”
“Maybe that’s why you haven’t seen me,” said Sam. “I work for the dead.”
Buster didn’t say anything but smiled. Gold and silver light shot from his mouth like darts, revealing a custom grill over his top row of teeth. The gangsta prosthetic of choice.
“How about you,” prompted Sam. “You still work for Zorro?”
Buster was shaking his head before Sam finished saying the name, his hair catching the light and shifting from blue to green. The hoops in his left ear jingled softly.
“I don’t believe I know this person,” he said.
Sam nodded his understanding as he leaned in close, careful not to touch Buster but intimate enough to make things uncomfortable.
“We’re on the street, Buster,” he said quietly. “In broad daylight. I can understand that’s awkward for a man in your position. But this is off the record.”
Buster’s eyes narrowed as a cruel smile flashed across his lips. “Sure it is, amigo.”
Sam had backed Buster against the storefront, with no room to reestablish his personal space. “Want me to let you in on a little secret?”
Buster’s eyes shifted right and left, but he kept quiet.
“I’m not a cop anymore,” said Sam deliberately. “I retired.”
Buster straightened. “No shit?”
“The truth.”
Buster pushed off the wall, brushing past Sam as he made to leave. “Then why the fuck am I talking to you?”
Sam caught Buster’s shoulder with his right hand, exerting just enough force to spin him around. He wrapped his arm around Buster’s neck, two old friends getting reacquainted. With Buster’s neck in the crook of his elbow, he squeezed just hard enough to make a point.
“Tell Zorro his soldiers are marshmallows now.”
Buster raised his eyebrows.
“Carlos got cooked,” said Sam. “Along with his driver.”
“You saw this?” Buster asked the question as Sam eased up on his neck.
“I thought you didn’t know these people.”
Buster shrugged. “What people? I’m just making conversation.”
“I saw it.”
Buster waited for the rest.
“It wasn’t pretty,” added Sam.
Buster whistled through his teeth. “That’s too bad, Sam.”
“You ever smell burning flesh, Buster?”
“I got a barbecue at home.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“Must have been very upsetting…” Buster’s eyes clocked the street before turning back to Sam.
“I’ll get over it.”
“…but why tell me?”
“That’s the thing,” said Sam. “I thought you might tell me why two of your crew were hanging around my apartment building.”
“You live there?” Buster seemed genuinely surprised. “It’s a small fuckin’ world, no?”
“You know where Zorro is right now?”
Buster reached into his pockets and pulled out his headphones, carefully placing a small white ball into each ear. Sam could hear the whine of the music coursing through the thin wire that ran from Buster’s jacket.
Sam shrugged and took a card from his pocket, jammed it into the front of Buster’s jacket. “That’s my number, in case you get the sudden urge to confess.” Buster didn’t react, just left the card there.
Sam walked around the front of his car. He climbed behind the wheel as Buster took a step back, head bobbing with the music. Sam raised his voice only slightly, keeping eye contact the entire time.
“Tell Zorro to stay in his hole like a good fox,” said Sam, “because the cops won’t be a polite as I am.”
Buster’s eyes narrowed again, his skin creasing like a desiccated orange.
Sam knew Buster could hear every word, so he added, “Stay the fuck away from my neighborhood. We clear on that, ese?” Sam spun the wheel as he threw the car in reverse, forcing Buster to jump backwards again.
Glancing in his rearview mirror, Sam caught the expression on Buster’s face and knew he’d just started another fire. He prayed he’d see the smoke before the flames crept under his door.
Chapter Thirty-four
“Stay cool.”
Larry ignored his brother’s advice and grabbed the phone on the first ring. He’d been standing next to the counter all morning, staring at the handset as if it were a cobra and he couldn’t tear his gaze away for fear it would strike.
Jerome had not succumbed to its spell. He had taken a shower, gone out for a haircut, and now lay on the couch watching his brother spasm with anxiety.
Larry’s skin stretched across his knuckles as he gripped the phone. “Yeah, Buster, is that you?”
Jerome waved from the couch. “Tell him I said hi.”
Larry ignored his brother. “Yeah, tonight. I understand. Sure, we can—” He startled as Jerome leapt from the couch and grabbed the phone away from him.
“Hey,” barked Jerome. “Hey, Buster, it’s me, Jerome. Yeah, I heard Larry saying something about tonight? Yeah, well—” He cut himself off and listened, nodding.
Larry leaned against the kitchen counter and stared at his brother, eyes wide with disbelief as Buster’s disembodied voice rattled the plastic handset.
Jerome cut in again. “Yeah, well, that’s not gonna work, Buster.”
Larry heard the buzzing of Buster’s voice grow louder, a hive of angry hornets about to spew from the phone.
Jerome continued unabated. “You see, Buster, I got a date tonight.”
Buzz, buzz, buzz.
“Yeah, a date.”
Larry dry swallowed.
“So tell Zorro we’ll meet with him another time,” said Jerome pleasantly. “How about tomorrow, say about noon?”
BUZZ, BUZZ, BUZZ.
“Hey, Buster,” said Jerome. “Get fucked.”
BUZZZZZZZZZZ.
Jerome held up a hand for silence, as if Buster was in the room with them. Amazingly, it worked, causing Larry to wonder if his brother had mastered The Force.
“Tell Zorro his guys were a pair of fuckups,” said Jerome, “so me and Larry, we did the job ourselves.”
Dead silence. The buzzing had suddenly stopped.
“You still there, amigo?” sneered Jerome.
Larry heard a slight rattle through the plastic casing of the phone. Barely a whisper.
“Tell Zorro that whatever he was paying spooky Carlos, now he’s gotta pay us.”
Silence.
“Comprendé?” Before waiting for an answer, Jerome added. “See you tomorrow at noon.” Then he punched off on the handset and handed the phone back to Larry, who clutched it to his chest and slid slowly down the wall as if he’d been punched in the gut.
Larry’s mouth opened and closed sev
eral times before any sound came out, a fish out of water. “What,” he began. “What the fuck? What the fuck did you just do?”
Jerome rocked his neck back and forth until it cracked, then let his eyes settle on his brother. “Nut up, Larry.”
“What?”
“Grow a sac, bro,” replied Jerome without malice. He reached down and squeezed Larry’s shoulder. Larry noticed for the first time how clear Jerome’s eyes looked, deep brown and placid. Larry realized he hadn’t seen his younger brother smoke all day. He considered the possibility that he’d been teleported to another dimension, where Mister Spock had a goatee, Captain Kirk was a scumbag, and his brother Jerome was the responsible one.
He shook his head to clear it. “What on Earth did you just do?”
“Relax, Larry,” said Jerome. “Zorro thought he was driving this situation? Well, I just put us behind the steering wheel.”
Larry stared at his brother.
“We’re behind the steering wheel?” he repeated lamely.
“Abso-fuckin-lutely,” replied Jerome.
“And what do you expect me to do?” Larry asked.
Jerome smiled his big loopy grin.
“That’s easy, Larry,” he replied. “Get in the back seat where you belong.”
Chapter Thirty-five
“You mind sitting there?”
Jill shook her head. “Not at all.”
The Tadich Grill was packed, a common occurrence this time of night, couples stacked two or three deep at the bar. The restaurant didn’t take reservations, so Sam and Jill could either wait an hour for a table or take two of the stools at the bar reserved for people who wanted to eat and not just drink.
“Some women don’t like sitting at the bar.”
“You’ve brought a lot of women here?”
Sam flushed red. “That’s not what I—”
Jill put her hand on his shoulder. “Kidding.”
Sam nodded. “But I’m not. There’s a reason so many people are waiting for tables. A lot of people don’t like it. You’re looking across the bar, not facing each other. Rubbing shoulders, bumping into each other, depending on which hand you eat with.”
“I’m right-handed.”
“Me, too.”
