The Girl on the Edge of Summer

by J. M. Redmann

  Deprived of his big revelation, he seemed to have no follow-up.

  “So tell me about the friend who told you?” I asked. Mostly because I had another slice to go and didn’t want to sit here silently staring at him. He had asked for this meeting, after all. Time to introduce him to the life concept of be careful what you ask for, you might get it.

  “Um…a friend of mine told me.”

  “A school friend?”

  “Yes…no. A different school. Not this school.”

  “Who is it?” And another bite closer to freedom.

  “I don’t really know. A text message. Only know his screen name.”

  “How did you know it was legit?”

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “How would this friend-on-screen-only know?” I didn’t really care, but Brandon was being skittish about it. I was buying the pizza, so I got to ask the questions.

  “I don’t know. He just did.” He took a big mouthful, followed by a large gulp of soda and then another mouthful.

  “Set up a meeting with this friend for him to tell me how he found out, and that would be worth my while.” I made the offer knowing it wouldn’t happen. Brandon had probably been nerd-boying alone at home, caught it on the news, and wanted to act like a big deal by knowing something others didn’t. It had probably worked with his schoolmates, who would never abandon their social media flavor of the week to follow any real news. He made up a mysterious friend as his special connection. It had worked so well on his classmates, he thought it would work on me.

  Another gulp and mouthful before he finally mumbled, “Not sure he’s into that. May be out of town. But I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Okay, let me know.” I got up, went to the counter, snagged two to-go boxes, took what remained of the half of the pizza I considered mine and left him with the final slice from his half.

  I waved as I headed out the door.

  He was still eating.

  Much as my pizza victory was fun, it still didn’t give me a place to go.

  The phone remained off. I’d turn it on around midnight. That might be safe.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Brandon was hungry. He had counted on having leftover pizza, and one slice wasn’t enough to satisfy him. He told his mother not to worry about dinner; he’d take care of it. But only the tail end of the kind of bread he liked was left, along with that grainy, healthy stuff his mother ate. Yeah, he’d forgotten to put bread on the grocery list, but his mother knew he only liked one kind. She had eyes; she could see when it was only down to the heel ends.

  Kevin had blown him off when he suggested they go out and get something. Kevin now had his older sister’s car. It was nothing more than a beat-up old Honda Civic, but he acted like it was a Corvette, and no one could ride in it except the chosen few. Kevin had claimed he had to run to the grocery store, but Brandon knew it was a lie. Kevin wanted to act like he was popular, not a nerd. But he was, and cruising by the girls in a drab gray dinged-up car wasn’t going to change that. He’d be much better off hanging out with Brandon. Even with Eddie gone, nothing had really changed, just the players, and if Kevin wanted to play, he needed to be nice to Brandon.

  It wasn’t like he’d suggested going out for steak or anything like that. Just a burger and fries. Kevin had a job, and Brandon would pay him back once he got paid for the computer stuff he was doing. Eddie hadn’t paid other than the party invites, but Steve would. He had already asked Brandon to keep doing the computer stuff he’d been doing.

  But for now he was hungry, and there was nothing in the house to eat. Next time he’d order two pizzas to make sure he had enough. That old-lady detective wasn’t smart enough to know how much Brandon could help her. She should be buying him pizza every week. Maybe if Steve didn’t pay him soon enough, he could sell the stuff to her.

  He texted Kevin again. This time he reminded Kevin about some things Kevin didn’t want anyone else to know. Yeah, he’d seen some stuff on Eddie’s computer.

  A few minutes later a text came back: “bring burger / fries for U. 1 / 2 hour.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I parked in front of my house, not even turning the car off while contemplating what to do next. I was even paranoid enough to scan the neighborhood for anything that could be an unmarked car.

  Necessity required me to run in long enough to go to the bathroom and toss the leftover pizza in the fridge. It wasn’t good enough to be anything more than desperate food. Which gave me an excuse to head out and have a few beers until I was hungry again.

  I left my car where it was parked. It wasn’t like moving it a few blocks would make much difference. Plus, Joanne knew well enough that I could walk to all sorts of places in the French Quarter and Marigny from here. My car left here gave no clue to which of those places I was going to.

  I considered being unpredictable and going someplace I’d never gone before, but in the end the comfort of the familiar won out and I was back at Riley & Finnegan again.

  They have good beer and decent food.

  My first beer was just in front of me when a noisy group entered. Alan, Mrs. Stevens’ son, was one of them.

  Then I noticed another familiar face. The Goth girl from the school friends Brandon had assembled. Gay Goth? Was that a thing? Was wearing all black even considered Goth? Or acting like you’d just moved here from Brooklyn? I couldn’t keep up anymore. The butch and femme of my youth seemed so quaintly simple.

  Now I had a moral dilemma. Did I rat her out as underage? If I did, they’d leave and I’d lose any chance to talk to Alan. If I didn’t and, not likely, but if someone decided this was the night to do random ID checks, Mary could get in a lot of trouble. I got it; I had done the same when I was too young to legally go (but tall enough to look like I was). But what had I just been musing about youth? Not thinking through the consequences. I certainly hadn’t back then, although at least that was when the drinking age was eighteen and bars were more likely to be raided as gay than underage. (This was the South, after all.) Still, this was a safe place for all the young queer folks to hang out, bathrooms had signs that said “Whatever—just don’t pee on the toilet,” and Mary was likely to run a tab or even give you a bar T-shirt for free if you needed it.

  But I did want to chat with Alan.

  I made a moral compromise. After a sip of my beer—my first—I got up and headed toward them, desperately trying to remember her name from our one encounter.

  “Sophia,” I said, hoping I was right.

  She looked up at me. At least I’d hit close enough to her name for her to react to it in this noisy bar. Then stared as she recognized me. Looked a little panicked even. Was it just that I knew her as a high school kid who shouldn’t be in this bar? Was that worth the expression I saw on her face? Was she selling drugs? If so, she needed to be much better about being cool.

  But I’m not a cop, and my only interest was making sure she drank beverages of the non-adult kind here where she could lose Mary her license.

  “What are you doing here?” she blurted out.

  “I live around here. Come here often. Am a good friend of Mary.”

  Her eyes darted around the bar. “Yeah, well, good to see you here.” She started to sidle away.

  I put a hand on her arm. “I am a good friend of Mary’s, and I’d hate to see her lose this place because of being busted for serving alcohol to underage kids. So I need to see you drinking only soft drinks or soda water. Got it?”

  “Did my parents hire you?”

  “What?” Then I answered, “No, I have no clue who your parents are.”

  “Yeah, right. So why are you here?” The fear had given way to anger. They’re always so close together.

  I repeated, “I live close by, I come in here often. Ask Mary.” Or ask any of the other bartenders, I almost added, but that was more true than I wanted it to be. I didn’t want to think I came here so often every single employee could pour my drink of choi
ce before I even asked for it. Then I added, “Look, I’m queer, too. It wasn’t always easy when I was young. I don’t care about that. Just stick to drinking what’s legal.”

  Alan had seen me and joined us. Sophia used that as her excuse to pull away. I let her.

  “How do you two know each other?” I asked, before considering the obvious. Sophia was a friend of Tiffany’s.

  But he answered as if it was a reasonable question. “She and my sister are—were—friends. I think we kind of recognized each other, you know, gaydar. So I’ve tried to help her get through when I could.”

  “She seemed worried about her parents,” I said. I was slowly moving back to my table and away from the crowd.

  “Oh, yeah. You know that big church out near the lake?”

  I nodded as if I did.

  “Her father and mother run it. He’s even got a local radio show. One of those hellfire and brimstone ones. Sof needs to hang on until she’s old enough to get out of there. They want her to go to some Bible college in the hinterlands of Mississippi. A dry county, no less. They don’t know their only daughter is a queer, and they won’t be happy when they find out.”

  We were close enough to my table for me to snag another sip of beer.

  I reminded myself I could not solve Sophia’s problems. I was a private detective, not a social worker. Besides, I had enough of my own.

  I motioned Alan to join me. He did so easily, as if he liked talking to me.

  “How’s your mother doing?” I asked ever so innocently.

  “I don’t know. Sometimes she seems okay, but too okay, if you know what I mean. Like too chipper, like she’s faking it.”

  I only nodded, leaving a silence for him to fill.

  “And other times, she seems like she’s falling apart, like she’s lost in some wilderness.”

  To hide the venal purpose behind my questions, I asked, “How are you doing?”

  I signed Mary for a beer for him.

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “The days pass. Sometimes things seem okay, then I remember my life’s a shit storm and then it’s not okay. You know what I mean?”

  Now was not the time to tell Alan that constantly saying “you know what I mean” was a bad habit. Again I nodded. Then said, “You’ll be okay. It’ll take time, and it’ll never be what it should have been. You’ve got a big, wide life in front of you.”

  “You think?” he asked slowly.

  “I know,” I answered as I paid for his beer.

  He took a long sip. “But it’s still a shit storm at the moment.”

  “Are you worried about your mother?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How about your father?”

  “Yeah, I guess. But he’s off with his new girlfriend. She’s nice, I like her and all, so he’s got someone to help him through all this. My mom doesn’t have anyone, and I don’t have anyone.”

  I did not sigh. I did not point out that his self-pity wasn’t helping, nor was his Prince Right fantasy solving everything a realistic one.

  “Yeah, it’s nice to have someone love you and to come home to, but that’s outside you. You need to find what’s inside you, the places you’re strong. That’s what gets you through. No one can give that to you, even the love of your life. What about your friends here? Other friends? Teachers? Preachers—the good ones? What about the things you care about?”

  He took another sip of his beer. The hair on his chin was a bare wisp, as if it, too, was struggling into adulthood.

  “You can be strong for your mother, and that can help you find the strength in yourself.”

  “Yeah, I guess. What do I do for her?”

  “Do you think she did it?”

  “Did it? You mean killed him?”

  “Yes. Is it possible?”

  “No, no way. I can’t see her taking a gun and hunting him down. Just no.”

  “Could she hire someone to?”

  He hesitated. “No, I don’t think so. Not enough money. It’s tight now with the divorce.”

  “Did you tell she about the cops coming back out to her house?”

  He looked puzzled. Then worried. “What for? Do they think she did it?”

  “They were looking for the bullet I fired when I scared him off.”

  “Why would they do that?” He seemed genuinely confused.

  “Your mother didn’t mention this?”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “She seemed really upset to find the police back at her house. She told them to leave.”

  “Well, that seems to be her right, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. The problem is they left before they found the bullet.”

  “Why does the bullet matter?”

  “You know they can tell if your gun was fired recently?”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. The problem for me is that the cops took my gun—this is a murder investigation, after all.”

  “Yeah, they took guns from us, too. We haven’t gotten them back yet.”

  “And they can tell I fired it. They’re wondering if I fired it into the lawn or if I might have fired it at him. So I need to prove it was fired into the lawn.”

  “Oh, but you did, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, of course I did.”

  “Wasn’t my mom there? She must have heard the shot.”

  “I would think so. But that day she was so upset, she told the cops she couldn’t remember. My guess is that she was too stressed out to talk to them any more then, so blew them off. She probably thought they’d find the bullet and she wouldn’t need to talk to them.”

  “Oh. Yeah, that makes sense.”

  Not really, but it was his mother, and I had to soft sell this as much as possible. I continued, “I don’t want to upset your mother any more than necessary, but it would help if you could talk to her. She can just send a statement to the investigating officers, doesn’t even need to talk to them, just to let them know that I did fire my gun as a warning to protect her.”

  “Yeah, I can do that.” He finished his beer and got up.

  Mine was getting warm. I’d had no time to drink it.

  “That would really help me,” I told him. I walked him back to the bar and bought a pitcher of beer—and one of soda—for his table. I hoped it was subtle enough of a bribe.

  I ordered another beer for me and a burger and fries. They did good ones here, and it would make me full enough that the leftover pizza could go where it belonged, into the garbage.

  As I was walking home—yes, walking, not stumbling, I’d had only three beers, including the first half-drunk one—my phone chimed. A text message.

  Not from a number I recognized. “Brandon gave me #. Can give you info on Eddie. Tell me what it’s worth and we’ll talk.”

  I sighed. Young, amateur. It was from Brandon, and he wanted a whole pizza for himself. I almost sent that as a return text but decided he needed to wait. In the age of instant communications, waiting was the hardest part.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  It couldn’t be this easy. Like a switch had gone off.

  She looked again at her phone. Nothing.

  He’s dead. Ghosts can’t text.

  She remembered his staring face.

  The blood.

  The taunting message still on her phone, demanding she come see him.

  Be careful what you ask for, she thought. You might get it.

  She started laughing, then buried her face in her pillow so no one would hear.

  The laughing turned to crying.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I’d let Alan have time to speak to his mother. Then I’d talk to her. Pour ginseng down her throat to help with her memory problems. Her lack of recall could put me in jail.

  It would also give me an excuse to go back to F&R again this evening on the pretext that I might run into him. And the more realistic hope that I’d get to drink uninterrupted beer.

  I had been considering going out to the suburbs
this morning, so that left me with no plans that required being away from my office.

  I still hadn’t answered the text message from last night. Maybe I could demand he meet me for brunch; that would rule out going back to the same dismal pizza place.

  It was a beautiful, spring day, a mix of dramatic clouds and sun.

  Take a walk, Micky. There was no pressing reason I needed to go to my office. I could walk into the Quarter, hit a coffee shop I liked.

  And contemplate how to avoid being charged for murder.

  The walk was pleasant, the coffee good. Maybe the caffeine would give me inspiration.

  I hadn’t killed Eddie.

  Someone had.

  Someone who was trying to make it look like I’d done it. The bullet was missing, and Mrs. Stevens had conveniently forgotten about firing the gun. Someone claimed seeing a car the same make and model as mine with the sticker of the gym I went to on its windshield.

  The cops knew my gun had been fired. They also knew I’d had a fight with Fast Eddie.

  Because, honest me, I’d fucking told them.

  Only the caffeine and the clouds made this morning better.

  I started to cross Burgundy Street, then quickly stepped back when I realized a car was far too close for me to do that. I hadn’t been paying attention.

  It was a late-model Subaru.

  A brief glimpse of the driver, through the reflections of the car windows.

  No, she doesn’t live here anymore.

  It can’t be her, only an image of memory brought to mind by a hint of resemblance.

  The license was out of state.

  Then it turned the corner.

  I started to run after the car.

  Then stopped myself halfway down the block.

  It couldn’t be her.

  And even if it was…

  I trudged back home.

  I wondered at how all my friends—all our former circle of friends—were so coincidentally not available the same weekend.

  Don’t be that kind of jackass ex where you demand all your friends pick either you or her.