In Plain View

by J. Wachowski

  Too bad, I was right.

  “Where’d you find that?”

  “The little one stays in the linen closet. The big one was in the garage. Mom kept it in the car for emergencies.”

  Hunkered down beside me, Jenny started digging through the tubs, passing right by the latex gloves, bottles of pain relief and piles of unlabeled foil-blister packets. I tried to keep my voice nonchalant as the supplies appeared: one box of princess band-aids, rubbing alcohol, three ace bandages, a stethoscope and a rubber tourniquet.

  “Make sure we have an engineer tonight, College.” I spoke very deliberately into the phone. “And I’ve got a new list of pick-ups we should go after. I want to go back to Jost’s apartment and try his partner Pat again. See if we can catch him off-duty.”

  “You got it, boss.” I could hear him fluffing his pillow in preparation for another few hours of sleep. “I’m yours to command.”

  Jenny took a rubber strap between both hands.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “This will stop the bleeding by cutting off your circulation.”

  “Anything else?” Ainsley asked.

  “These are for pain.” Jenny held out the giant bottle of acetaminophen and a foil-blister pack. “Or maybe it’s these?”

  The only words stamped on the back read: SAMPLE NOT FOR RESALE.

  “I’ll stick with the usual.” I tossed the packet back into the bucket. Jenny shook out two tablets. “Get me some water would you, kiddo?”

  “I’ll meet you at the station tonight,” Ainsley said. “What time?”

  “I need you earlier, but don’t panic. It involves food. How’d you like to go picnic with the sheriff today?”

  “Uh…”

  “Great. Pick us up at noon.”

  1:02:59 p.m.

  Socializing at a garden party after stitches in the emergency room is like eating brussels sprouts after army-issue MRE’s. Some improvements aren’t worth the wait. Unfortunately, the Curzon family picnic wasn’t a meal I could skip.

  It took forever to haul ourselves less than ten miles through small-town traffic to the old neighborhood where the Curzon family manse was located. We got caught behind two freight trains going opposite directions. The old Subaru wagon I’d inherited had a cassette prey-er, no tape ever ejected with its guts still intact, so Ainsley and Jenny sang to the radio Top 40 countdown. I was safely insulated by the meds they’d given me for the stitches.

  According to Ainsley, the houses in Curzon’s neighborhood were built back in the days when middle-class families hired architects who would build-to-suit. We passed cottages and castles, Tudor beside Victorian, and the occasional practical brick bungalow, all on lots big enough to require gardeners. From what I’d heard, the area was mostly interchangeable old-money Protestants and new-money Republicans. Broad lawns and narrow minds, as the saying goes.

  Ainsley parked the wagon at the back of a line of cars half a block away. The house was a big faux-French cottage built of yellow midwest limestone. Tall windows. Iron fence. A string of Curzon for Sheriff signs across the yard. And a cement duck dressed in a pumpkin costume.

  Jenny took my hand as we wandered toward the front door. As we came around the cubist shrubbery, I could see the garage door and hear the sounds of battle. The Curzon men were engaged in our local blood-sport: man-on-man driveway hoop.

  Worth watching.

  The sheriff’s face was dripping sweat. The younger guy-I knew he must be related, same coloring-wasn’t as sweaty but blood marked his face, from nose to cheek. In Chicago Land, backyard basketball is nothing like the long-court ballet of the NBA. Whether it’s cement playgrounds with chain nets or blacktop driveways with acrylic backboards, the game is played rough and up under the net-hustle, push, hip-check. Make that elbow connect! Whip the ball around your opponent, bounce once, shoot, grab, twist-do it again. No blood, no foul.

  Jenny, Ainsley and I stood there admiring the action for a while.

  An older guy with a face that made you think basset hound was watching from the raised bluestone patio that surrounded the house. Waving a crystal highball glass in one hand, he leaned out over the wall to shout at the players, “Come on, you old fart. Can’t you do better than that? That’s it! Ooh, Nicky, you gonna take that?”

  The sideline razz didn’t seem to bother the guys too much. Nicky might have youthful speed working for him, but Curzon had experience and attitude. He played like a son of a bitch.

  The last shot went into the air and Nicky jumped to block half a second too late. The ball tipped the rim and dunked. Nicky cursed.

  “Hey-watch your mouth, you. There’re ladies around,” the old guy snapped.

  “Sorry,” Nicky replied automatically. He dropped his hands to his knees, bent over to suck in air.

  Curzon looked around, saw Jenny and me, gave Nicky a friendly smack upside the head, and hustled over.

  “You’re here,” he said, a little surprised. “You met my father?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  The old guy stood up and leaned over the wall to shake hands. He had gold wire-rim glasses so thick they magnified those tabby-cat Curzon eyes to new dimensions. His scalp was as ruddy as his droopy face and he wore a short sleeve button-down and ironed shorts. We got through introductions and Nicky went off to clean his bloody nose. Curzon Senior called one of the younger females, just old enough to be equally dazzling to Jenny and Ainsley.

  “Tria, sweetheart, show these two where they can get a Coke and a hamburger, eh?”

  “Sure, Grandpa.” The girl wore a Notre Dame sweater and a neat French braid. She held out her hand and smiled at Jenny, and it shocked me how easily the kid went for it. “We’re all gonna play touch football as soon as my brother’s done with his food. You want to play?”

  “Sure.” Jenny tried hard to sound casual.

  Ainsley gave a modest shrug of agreement, and as soon as Tria looked away he shot me a fox-in-the-henhouse eyebrow.

  Just like that, I was deserted.

  “So, now, tell me about yourself,” Senior said, as he waved a cheerful goodbye to my chaperones. “Jack tells me you make television shows.” It didn’t take me long to realize he thought I was there for non-professional reasons. If I’d have been a guy, he’d have asked what my intentions were regarding the sheriff.

  A little crowd congregated around us. Most everyone else at the party was family. Sisters, uncles, cousins, even the grandma was there. Donna, Curzon’s mother, introduced herself. Grandma didn’t bother.

  “This the girl you invited, Jack?” White-haired, hawk-nosed and wearing a velour pantsuit, Curzon’s grandma was sharp-of dress, of mind and of tongue. I liked her.

  “This is the one, Nana.”

  “She’s not as skinny as the other one.” Sounded like that was the nicest thing she could think to say. “Get me an ashtray, would you, Jack? Your father thinks I’m gonna flick my ashes on the patio like a tramp.”

  Curzon went inside to find Nana an ashtray.

  “You like my Jack?” she asked.

  “Seems like a good guy.”

  “You two work together?”

  “Not exactly.”

  She puffed a cloud of smoke off to one side. “What’s that mean?”

  “I’m a reporter. We kind of,” I tried to finesse it with my hands, “work against each other.”

  That got a laugh. “Good. That’s what he needs. Girl who’ll come straight at him, not stab him in the back like a damned sneaky-”

  “Damned sneaky what, Nana?” Curzon crossed the patio in three long strides. He wasn’t hurrying but he plopped the glass ashtray into her hand with obvious irritation. Curzon Senior laughed.

  “Damned sneaky yourself, Jack-over. Give me that ashtray. And I don’t want to hear any of that ‘you shouldn’t be smoking at your age’ crap. Damned few enough pleasures left at my age, I oughta know.” There was a patter to it, like a comedian’s routine. Everybody seemed to have heard it before.

/>   “Nana,” Curzon’s mother chided. Donna Curzon struck me as one of those round, settled women who read sad novels in their spare time and always wore the wrong color lipstick.

  “Keep it up, Ma. Jack’s gonna buy you a case of cigarettes for your birthday.” The old guy laughed at his own joke. I saw one hand reach for his wife’s ass, give her a squeeze.

  Donna didn’t seem to mind. She shifted her weight toward him, leaning until her shoulder touched the whole length of his body. His hand popped into view at the small of her waist, holding her close.

  That seemed to be the cue for Donna to take charge of the conversation. Had I ever met Barbara Walters? Was Peter Jennings handsome in person? In between the small talk, I nudged the sheriff twice about talking to his cousin. He continued giving me the brush-off. To make matters worse, I could see Jenny across the way, smiling and talking with some of the older kids. Even though I was itching to get the interview and get out, I wasn’t looking forward to dragging her away, now that she seemed to be having fun. I couldn’t remember ever seeing her have fun.

  The whole scene felt odd as hell. I am not familiar with adjusting my schedule to someone else’s good time. I needed how-to training in standing around watching. Not to mention, the feeling that Curzon was being more than merely helpful by inviting me here. Richard Gatt had it right when he said small-town business wasn’t that different from the Chicago neighborhood politics I remembered. My clan instincts were all a-tingle.

  Across the lawn, a pair of Curzon women were chatting up a pair of guests who stuck out as non-family. The older man was early forties, tall, with a jawline as chiseled as a comic book hero’s. His lanky body contrasted with a head of thick silver hair for that youthful-but-mature look. The other man I knew. Mr. Vegas himself. Pat. Tom Jost’s ambulance partner.

  Interesting. I entertained the fantasy of grabbing a quick interview and crossing him off my pick-up list.

  “Who’s Dick Tracy over there?” I asked Curzon. “The guy with the chin.”

  “That’s Marcus Wilt. We went to law school together. He and my sister are-”

  “Don’t remind me,” Nana interrupted.

  “Law school?” I prodded.

  Curzon shrugged. “Didn’t stick for either of us. Marcus ended up going to work for his father’s construction company.”

  “You guys are friends?” I asked.

  “Not close.”

  Senior hacked out one of those old-man gargle sounds. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

  “Dad.” It was a warning.

  Too late.

  “So you guys are enemies?” I repeated with the same cheerfulness.

  “Marcus is running for sheriff,” Curzon answered in a bland voice.

  “Why shouldn’t he? You aren’t putting up a fight,” his father accused. “Shit or get off the pot, son. If you don’t, the dogs’ll get you with your pants around your ankles.”

  “You want another drink?” Curzon asked me politely. “I’m going to the bar, Dad. You want something?”

  “No.” Senior flapped a hand in dismissal. “Fine. Go on then.”

  “Phaw. You tell me ‘keep it up.’” Nana jut her jaw forward and blew a stream of smoke straight up.

  “Give it a rest, Ma.”

  Curzon took hold of my elbow and walked us toward the patio serving area. Clearly, they didn’t need an audience to enjoy themselves.

  “So what’s Pat doing here?”

  “Pat who?”

  “Pat, Tom Jost’s buddy, who is right now, sidled up to your frenemy Marcus. That’s who.”

  “Marc’s got a contract with the hospital. Those two know each other.”

  I looked back at Marcus Wilt. He was dapper enough to be entertaining a gentleman caller. “Are they like, together?”

  “Christ. I’ll give you twenty bucks to ask Marc that question.” Curson laughed. “No. It was my mother’s idea. She asked Marc to invite the guy. And here’s Nicky. Perfect timing,” Curzon grumbled. “Now you can ferret out the rest of the family secrets. I’ll leave you to him.” Another brief introduction and Curzon marched off in the direction of the bar.

  I tried to think of Nicky Curzon as the bad-cop type, but it just wouldn’t stick. A couple inches shorter and a couple years younger than the sheriff, he had the same width in the chest and shoulder. Cop-sized. He’d changed into a red-on-black Be Like Mike T-shirt which, given his earlier net loss, seemed kind of cute.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting.” He shook my hand-not squishy, not stiff.

  I didn’t want to launch straight into the Jost thing. Rarely does the best stuff flow at the start of an interview. I glanced across the patio at Senior. “Seems like your uncle’s pretty annoyed with the sheriff.”

  Nicky shrugged. “It happens.”

  Occupational hazard of mine-with only a taste of information, I felt compelled to feed him another opening. Something vague and open-ended like, “He doesn’t think Jack’s fighting for it?”

  Nicky shot me a skeptical look. “Jack talked to you about the election?”

  “More or less.” Curzon would gut me with a spoon if he caught me wheedling personal secrets out of his cousin. I smiled, casually.

  “Jack told me to watch myself around you.” Nicky gave me a smug once-over. “Guess that’s because you got to him first, huh?”

  I feigned a little maidenly modesty.

  Nicky plopped down on the bench beside me and stretched his legs out in front of him, making himself comfortable. He had the blunt body of so many cops. Not clumsy, but stiff. Made to be in motion, they never seemed quite happy at rest.

  “I have to agree with Uncle Mike. Jack’s not trying very hard. I think he wants to lose.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Don’t know. I do know the work’s a part of him. Being sheriff, law enforcement, all of it. Part of his heritage. You can’t just walk away from that.”

  “Not easily.” I took a stab. “Do you think the divorce had something to do with it? It’s not uncommon. Guy splits with his wife, wants to make some changes across the board.”

  Nicky stared hard at me. “Jack talked to you about that, too?” He exhaled as if he were blowing off steam. “It’s been two years since the She-bitch left. Guess it depends on whether the change improves things or makes it worse. He’s a good sheriff. He knows the job. Marcus-” The look I saw was long-suffering and skeptical. “I don’t want Jack to lose. None of us do. Some good press would help.”

  Ah ha. My invitation to the party suddenly made sense.

  “Good press can be hard to come by. Tell me about your letter to Jost’s commander at the fire station.”

  Nicky was ready for my question. “Maybe I was trying to keep things from getting worse.”

  “Tell me.”

  There was no camera running. There was no one to hear but the two of us. Sometimes, guy has a problem, all it takes is someone asking nicely.

  “What did the girl say to you?” he asked.

  “Rachel Jost said you interrupted a clinch. She sounded ashamed and worried for Tom.”

  “For him? Jesus. Why?” He shifted around, aggravation coming through in his body language. “She didn’t have a thing to be ashamed about. He was the one acting like a dick.”

  “How so?”

  “They’d already steamed up the windows when I rolled up on them but Jost must of opened something to keep the air circulating, because I heard her ‘No,’ clear as you and me talking right here. More than once she said it. ‘No, please no.’” He said it quick and rough and absolutely flat, in a rumbly baritone. On his face, it was clear that wasn’t how he’d heard it.

  I pulled in a deep breath and let it out slow.

  “And I heard his answer, too.” Nicky upended his beer bottle and chugged like he was washing out his mouth. “‘Stay,’ he told her. ‘Stay!’ Like he was talking to a dog.”

  He was lost. He asked me to stay, I turned him away.

  “An
d then he says, ‘If we do it, you’ll stay with me. I know you will.’ Word for word, my hand to God, that’s what Jost said-right before I dropped on his ass,” Nicky added, grim and satisfied.

  “You think he was about to rape her?”

  “Girl said no.”

  “Fuck,” I said softly.

  “Exactly.”

  “More ‘paraphilia of a sacrificial type.’” I sighed. Tom Jost was desperate enough to pressure Rachel physically in order to coerce her into marriage. He knew Rachel was conflicted enough about her feelings and conservative enough about sex that losing her virginity to him would seal the deal. She’d marry him.

  “What?”

  “Rachel was Tom’s sexual sacrifice. Tell me about the memo.”

  “They were gonna let him walk. No record. No report,” Nicky confessed. “Firefighter. One of the brotherhood. Nobody got hurt; no real crime. You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Sure.”

  “I seen guys like that before. Goes right back to his life. Eventually, it’s gonna happen again. You know it. I know it. He’s gonna hurt somebody. Some woman probably.”

  He was playing for my sympathy and I was having a hard time resisting.

  “Maybe.”

  “I kept thinking about her and what Jost had said in the car. I made a couple calls. The guy was no angel. I decided somebody ought to know.” He sucked back another quick swallow of beer. “I wrote his chief and put it on the record. I knew there was a chance I’d take shit for it.” He looked me in the eye and shrugged. Nice eyes. Curzon eyes.

  “They reprimanded you for sending the letter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about the guys at the firehouse? Did they give you a hard time?”

  “Let’s just say, I better hope nothing near me catches fire anytime soon.” Nicky smiled that feral, humorless grin that stands for bring it on.

  Police and fire service are boy gangs-for-good. They may fight the bad guys, but they live the same code. Fuck with a brother, get fucked back. No firefighter ever had to fear a speeding ticket in his hometown. No cop had to carry out a dead body, even if he made it dead. Especially if he made it dead.