Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller

by Phillip Wilson

  ``I don’t have a lot of time, so let’s just get to it. You got a name for those two men?’’

  ``I’ll get in a lot of trouble. They’re our best clients.’’

  ``High net worth, eh?’’ Clatterback asked, smirking childishly in the process.

  ``Screw you, freak.’’

  Chua grimaced, bringing her hand to her cheek and the mark left by Shorty.

  ``Was Allison involved?’’ Brant asked.

  ``Involved in what?’’

  ``I’m assuming by client relations, you mean prostitution?’’

  Chua said nothing, her attention suddenly turning to the grapefruit the waitress had placed in front of her.

  ``What are you afraid of?’’

  Chua shrugged. Her face had grown hard.

  ``Who’s Meredith Financial?’’

  ``What do you mean?’’

  ``Who’s behind Meredith Financial?’’ Clatterback asked.

  ``What relevance is that to anything?’’

  ``Could be very relevant,’’ Brant said as he drained his coffee and signaled to the waitress for the bill.

  ``It’s not an easy situation,’’ Chua said, her voice wavering slightly. ``You have no idea. And those two men. Leave them out of it, okay. It was a play act. They like it rough. It’s all theater, okay. No one was going to get hurt.’’

  ``I think I’m getting the picture.’’

  ``No, you aren’t.’’

  ``Enlighten me.’’

  Chua pursed her lips but said nothing. An icy look took hold.

  ``It’s not what you think. And, besides, Allison was clueless about any of it.’’

  ``I don’t believe that,’’ Brant said.

  Chua shrugged in defiance. So confident, so misguided, Brant thought to himself.

  ``This isn’t over,’’ he said, standing to leave. ``Come on, Junior. Ms. Chua’s got some thinking to do.’’

  ``I haven’t had breakfast yet,’’ Clatterback said, his voice plaintive.

  ``I’ll buy you a McMuffin on the way home.’’

  ``Call me if you want,’’ Brant said, directing the comments to Chua in the hope that she’d see reason.

  The young woman slumped deeper into the embrace of her seat and smiled weakly at the two police officers. Brant threw a twenty dollar bill to the table.

  ``I can pay for my own breakfast,’’ Chua said, spitting the words in his direction.

  ``I know you can.’’

  ``So take the money.’’

  ``It’s for a cab. Go home.’’

  ``My Bimmer’s parked around the corner.’’

  ``Take the money,’’ Brant said, forcing the point.

  Chua pocketed the bill without saying a word.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Breakfast at the IHOP off Soldier Field Road. The day had turned out clear skied and bright with the feeling of summer, beaches and the ocean in the air. A carpet of shriveled American elm leaves scattered the ground separating the restaurant parking lot from the neighboring asphalt highway. Passing cars and trucks stirred the foliage into riotous clouds. Ben laughed as he stretched his tiny arms out the back window of Marcellus's Mercedes in an effort to capture one of the leaves.

  ``Careful Ben,'' Brant said. ``Don't want to get your arm cut off.''

  Chastened, the young boy pulled his hands back into the car, inspecting them for good measure. The smile on his small face quickly turned to a pout.

  ``Now why would you say that?'' Marcellus turned to her brother in the passenger seat. ``Do you always have to be the cop?''

  Brant glanced out the window. They were in a parking space at the back of the building well away from the traffic and any dangers.

  A dust-covered Chevy pulled into the space next to them. Silver duct tape held the car's front bumper in place. The driver's side door was scratched and dented. The driver, an obese middle-aged woman wearing blue stretch pants and a thin brown t-shirt, climbed laboriously from the front seat, three glum-faced children in tow.

  ``Can we just get breakfast?''

  ``You think the car'll be safe here?''

  Brant turned to take in the parking lot.

  ``Stop being a snob.''

  Marcellus turned to her nephew in the back seat. Ben had shifted his attention to a packet of crayons and a coloring book -- a present from his aunt earlier that morning.

  ``You alright back there, Benji?''

  The boy smiled without saying a word. Marcellus reached for her handbag as she took the keys from the ignition.

  ``Let's go get some pancakes.''

  ``Can I get chocolate chip?''

  ``You can get whatever you want. Your daddy won't mind.''

  Marcellus looked at her brother for support. Brant sat, impassive and determined, unwilling to yield an inch. Not today. Not while he dreaded the hours that were to come. It would be a long day.

  An hour and a half later they were on the road again heading south on the Southeast Expressway, the landscape framed by squat low-rise buildings of red brick on their right, the open waters and tree-lined shores of Old Harbor on their left. Traffic was light as Marcellus shifted with ease from lane to lane, pushing the Mercedes. The car, heavy and solid, ran smooth over the cracked and pitted expressway. The Mercedes rocked slightly in the wake of passing trucks, forcing Marcellus into the slipstream of the passing vehicles. Twenty minutes on the expressway and they’d put the city behind them.

  ``You may want to take it easy,’’ Brant said. ``We aren’t in a race.’’

  ``Yes, sir.’’

  Marcellus smiled as she teased her brother. She’d turned on the radio, guiding the station selection from the steering wheel. Duran Duran played from the back speakers. The sound was immaculate. Deep and resonant in places, sharp and crystal clear in others.

  ``Do you mind? Ben’s hearing is sensitive.’’

  ``Jesus, Jonas. What crawled up your ass and died?’’

  Marcellus glanced at her nephew’s image in the rearview mirror. Ben sat in the child’s seat, transfixed by the ever-changing scenery of passing trees and wood-framed houses.

  ``You okay back there Ben?’’

  Ben beamed. ``I like it when we go fast. Can we go faster?’’

  ``We can,’’ Marcellus said, continuing to speak into the rearview mirror. ``I don’t think your Dad would like it though. We’ll be there soon. You looking forward to seeing your gramps?’’

  The smile on Ben’s round face widened in anticipation.

  Marcellus pulled the Mercedes into the exit lane and onto Granite Street. The scenery changed yet again. The peaked roof of South Shore Plaza rose up from the barrier of shrubbery separating the side roads from the highway. For a moment, the sun disappeared behind a passing cloud.

  Ben rocked in his restraints as he signaled out the window at the approaching yellow and white wood-framed building. Marcellus pulled the car into the driveway, stopping in front of an entryway topped by a pitched roof of green aluminum sheet held up by thick white columns. A red banner hanging from the entryway moved lazily in the soft breeze. After putting the car into park, Marcellus turned to look into her brother’s face.

  ``Don’t be like him,’’ she said, nodding in the direction of the lobby. ``I can’t take two of you.’’

  Once she’d parked, Marcellus joined her brother and nephew in the lobby where they sat waiting to speak to the nursing home’s director. The tables were set for lunch; cooking smells filled the room. Mozart played through unseen speakers.

  ``Not as bad as I expected,’’ Brant said, surveying the room. His back was stiff from sitting in the passenger’s seat. The pancakes and bacon he’d had for breakfast sat heavy and solid in his stomach, making him feel sluggish and slow. No wonder he’d snapped at Marcellus.

  Origami cranes lined the borders of a bulletin board.

  ``Some of the residents make the decorations themselves.’’

  Brant turned in the direction of the voice. A woman approached from the kitch
en where she’d been overseeing lunch preparations. Brant and Marcellus rose to shake the outstretched hand she offered as greeting.

  ``Dad do any of this?’’ he asked, indicating the paper cranes affixed to the cork board. The woman smiled nervously.

  ``Errr, no. Your father has other interests I’m afraid.’’

  ``How has he been?’’ Brant asked the director. The woman had taken a seat at their table.

  ``And who is this handsome one?’’ she said, ignoring the question for the moment. Ben gazed at the woman, a look of mild irritation on his face.

  ``Ben. And I’m not handsome.’’

  ``A feisty one, eh. Just like your grandfather.’’

  ``He’s being difficult?’’

  The director turned from Ben so she could better direct her comments to Brant and his sister. A few of the residents had begun sauntering into the dining room. A white-haired man, crooked and stooped, gripped a walker as he stood at the threshold of the entryway.

  ``Define difficult.’’ The woman laughed nervously.

  Jerry Brant’s room was on the second floor at the rear of the building with a view of the parking lot and the expressway. Brant climbed the stairs with Ben in tow. At the top of the landing, they turned right and headed toward the nurse’s station. A group of men and women dressed in white and pale blue nodded and smiled when they saw Ben.

  ``Is he in?’’ Brant asked one of the nurses, nodding in the direction of his father’s room.

  ``In his usual place,’’ the nurse said in response.

  ``Okay if we go in?’’

  ``Sure.

  Brant took Ben’s hand in his. ``Let’s go see your grandpa.’’

  The room was dark, the curtains drawn. Jazz played from a receiver sitting atop a lacquered credenza. Jerry Brant, wrapped in a shawl, sat in an oversized chair by the window with a book in his lap and a mug of coffee in his left hand. They paused in the doorway long enough for the old man to sense their presence.

  Brant felt momentarily guilty and ashamed for how he and Marcellus had carted their father off to this place without a second thought. They’d rationalized it by telling themselves it was for Jerry’s own good, that he’d become a danger to himself and the other residents in the condo complex where he’d been living when they’d found out about the cancer. But that wasn’t really the case. Brant knew it and so did Marcellus. Jerry suspected it, too.

  ``Well? Are you just going to stand there?’’

  ``Can we get some light in here?’’

  ``That better?’’ Jerry Brant reached across his lap for the lamp switch. The book that had been in his lap spilled to the floor, losing the old man’s page.

  ``Ah, fu…. Now see what you’ve done.’’

  Brant crouched to retrieve the book before his father could shake free of the shawl. Marcellus remained standing by the door.

  ``Sorry about that.’’

  His father shook his head and muttered to himself, his voice low and muddled. Ben, sensing his grandpa was angry at his father, smiled nervously.

  ``You’ve come. You’ve done your duty. Now why don’t you fuck off and take your sister with you.’’

  ``Jesus, dad. Can you watch the language. Ben’s here with me.’’

  ``Ben? Here? Where is the little bugger?’’

  Ben peeked out from behind his father’s legs. The old man’s face brightened when he caught sight of the young boy. The room seemed to lighten as the mood began to turn.

  ``Hi grandpa. Daddy says we’re going to play cards.’’

  ``Is that so?’’ Jerry Brant looked up at his son. ``Well, maybe we’ll do just that.’’

  ``Ben’s been talking about visiting you all week. Isn’t that so son?’’ Brant placed his father’s book on the bedside table. Ben smiled at his father’s comment.

  Jerry sighed as he settled back into his chair. In the light, Brant could see his father had aged since their last visit. The full head of hair, so black and thick in youth, had turned white and was now thinning to almost nothing at the crown. Bushy eyebrows, a crooked nose and sagging jowls punctuated the old man’s face.

  ``There’s a pack of cards over there,’’ Jerry said, pointing in the direction of the credenza. ``I think there may even be a full deck, unlike your old grandpa, eh Ben?’’

  Ben, unsure how to respond, looked to his father for guidance. Brant’s smile was wan and full of sympathy.

  ``So Marcellus, how are you? Left that husband of yours yet?’’

  Marcellus stepped from the shadows as she edged into the room.

  ``Hello, dad. Nice to see you.’’

  Jerry Brant harrumphed a response.

  ``Over here, Grandpa?’’ Ben had reached the credenza and was sifting through the drawers.

  ``Lower drawer, I think. The left…or some other damned place. Who knows these days, eh?’’ Jerry took a gulp of coffee and placed the mug shakily back onto the nightstand. ``You were saying, Jonas?’’

  ``Nothing, Dad. I wasn’t saying anything.’’

  Jerry had shuffled the deck and was dealing between himself and Ben. ``You want to join us or are you going to mope around all day? And if you are, can you do it sitting down. You make me nervous standing there. You too Marcellus.’’

  Brant and his sister pulled armchairs up beside their father. The smell of talcum powder and day-old cigarette smoke filled the air.

  ``This is a rare treat. Both my children in the same room.’’

  Jerry’s voice seemed laced with bitterness. In truth, Brant couldn’t blame him. Aging was a messy process. It was nothing but loss. Some took it gracefully. Their father had never been one to accept the inevitable.

  ``So how are the meds? Doctors telling you much or want me to see what I can do?’’ Marcellus asked.

  ``Now why would I want that? I can take care of my own health, thank you. Your mother, she was the same. Always trying to take care of things for other people.’’

  Brant held the cards he’d been dealt in front of him in surrender. Marcellus had crossed her legs. Her face had formed a tight frown as she watched the interplay of father and son.

  ``We’re just asking,’’ she said finally. ``You don’t have to be such a bitter old man.’’

  ``Oh, is that so? And what would you know about being an old man? Huh? Right, no answers to that one. Just like the rest of them.’’ Jerry waved his hand of cards in the direction of the nurse’s station. After searching his hand, he played a card and turned to his grandson. ``What is it that we’re playing exactly, Ben?’’

  ``Crazy Eights.’’

  Ben selected his own card and beamed as he placed it onto the night table that had been moved between them. ``Now you go, Daddy.’’

  ``Crazy Eights? Haven’t played this for dog’s years.’’

  ``Daddy’s a policeman.’’

  ``Oh, I know. He’s always trying to tell the right from the wrong. Always, even when he was a boy. Waste of time being a cop if you ask me.’’

  Jerry played a card, leaving him with one. Play continued with Brant and his son each discarding one from their own hands. When Jerry’s turn came again, he sucked air in through his teeth as he contemplated his next move. Triumphantly, he set his remaining card face up on the pile in the center.

  ``I believe I’ve won.’’

  Brant and Ben threw their cards to the table in response. Marcellus picked the cards up and began shuffling.

  The game continued for some time. Brant and Marcellus grew tired and bored while Ben’s smile grew wider with each passing hand.

  Brant began collecting the cards after a final hand before sneaking a looked at his watch.

  ``It’s getting late and we have to be getting home. It’s a long drive.’’

  ``You’ll come again soon?’’

  Jerry’s face had softened. Outside, afternoon shadows had begun to lengthen as the day wore closer to an end. Marcellus had feigned the need for a bathroom break and had left some time ago, leaving Brant and Ben
to watch over the old man.

  ``I’ve got a tough case going at the moment, Dad. I don’t know when we can come back.’’

  Jerry pouted. He’d retrieved the shawl from the floor and now he pulled it over his lap.

  ``Typical,’’ Jerry said, almost spitting the words. ``You’ve got more time for those scumbags you work with than you do for the old man.’’

  ``What’s that supposed to mean?’’ Brant’s face flushed with anger as he weighed his words.

  ``Well, go on then. Get out of here,’’ Jerry Brant said, filling the silence. Jerry waved his hand in the direction of the door. ``Go on.’’

  ``We came to comfort you, Dad. Not to fight. But you seem to want to pick battles with the world.’’

  Jerry Brant pulled the shawl tighter over his chest, which rose and fell in tune to his shallow breathing.

  ``You’re a real hero.’’

  ``Ben, go and find your aunt,’’ Brant said, sensing the boy’s discomfort. ``She’s just outside.’’

  Brant took Ben’s hand and guided him to the door. A single nurse remained at the station. The nurse looked up from a stack of medical records when he saw Ben enter the hallway.

  ``Do you think you can take my son down to the lobby to my sister?’’ Brant asked the nurse. ``We’re almost done but I still need a few moments.’’

  The nurse smiled. ``I’ll need to call one of the other nurses to man the station. Your son can sit here while we wait.’’

  The nurse nodded in the direction of a small lobby at the end of the hall where Wheel of Fortune played on a television sitting atop an entertainment cabinet.

  ``Go ahead, Ben. This nice man will come and get you when another nurse comes. You’ll be fine.’’

  Ben squeezed his father’s hand before reluctantly letting go.

  ``He’ll be fine,’’ the nurse said.

  ``Thank you.’’

  Jerry Brant was scowling into the dark corners of his room when Brant returned. The volume on the stereo receiver had been turned up. Kenny G filled the room.

  ``Goddamned nurses think this crap keeps me calm,’’ Jerry said, pointing in the direction of the receiver and the illuminated dials on the face of its brushed-metal casing.