Artistic License

by Julie Hyzy

  “If there’s anything we can do . . .” he continued. “Please feel free to call on us.”

  “Yeah, honey, you do that.”

  “Thank you.”

  Richard DeChristopher sat down at the head of the table. “So, was it an attempted robbery? A carjacking?”

  “Dickie? What’s up with that? Why are you asking her so many things?”

  Richard’s head swiveled his wife’s direction and though his words were gentle, his eyes blazed. Annie didn’t understand. Had they had a fight earlier? Anything Gina said this morning seemed to set him off. “Sometimes it helps, dear, to share things about our loss. Helps us cope with the difficult grieving process.”

  “What is with you today?”

  DeChristopher ignored her. “Since you and I never had our meeting about your divorce, I never had the opportunity to meet Mr. Callaghan.”

  Annie shook her head. “Not Callaghan. That’s my maiden name. I took it back when we separated. His name was Gary. Gary Randall.”

  Mr. DeChristopher stared at her a minute, then nodded. “As I said, I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  “Yeah,” Gina sighed, “and I met him. He brought Annie some paints last week. Nice-looking guy, too. You know, I really thought you guys were gonna get back together, honey. I really did.” Gina leaned forward and patted Annie’s hand. “Weren’t you two tryin’ to get back together?”

  “No,” Annie said, shaking her head.

  “But didn’t he say you ‘forgot something at home’ that one day he came here?”

  DeChristopher asked, “He was here? Inside?”

  The conversation was taking a turn Annie didn’t want to go down. She stretched a bit, in an effort to look like she was ready to start work. “Yes,” she said, reluctance in her voice, “he’d been staying at my place temporarily. It wasn’t my idea.”

  Richard stood up, walked over to the desk in the working part of the kitchen, and rummaged through it for a few seconds before he looked back up at them. “I’m sorry. I just remembered a commitment for this morning.” He looked at his watch and pulled a cell phone out of his pocket as he began to leave the room. Turning back, he looked at Annie. His lips curled into a smile, but his eyes were cold and distant. “You’ll be working here all day, I presume?”

  “Yep. Just about done. A couple more days and I’ll be through.”

  “Splendid.

  ”

  * * * * *

  Through the dings, whirs, and digitized sounds of three busy video poker games and the heavy layer of smoke settled above the heads of those playing, Pete watched the rest of the patrons at the bar

  He sat in the same booth he’d shared with Gary last time they’d come here. A little busier today, a majority of the stools were occupied, the backs of the mostly overweight men lined up one after another, with elbows leaning on the bar, their faces turned toward the baseball game on television in uniform rapt attention. Today was the Crosstown Classic, the unique annual contest between Chicago’s White Sox and their northside nemesis, the Cubs. The southsiders had beaten them handily for the past few years, and it looked as though there was no danger of ruining the streak.

  The men cheered together, their shoulders rising upward to express non-verbal delight at a play on the screen above them. Pete missed it, but the replay would be shown again, at least three times from three different angles. What he saw was one of the young players, a kid practically, jogging and high-fiving his teammates, a grin on his face.

  It wasn’t fair. These kids nowadays had everything handed to them on a silver platter, getting private lessons in batting and pitching when they were six years old. No wonder they got these multi-million-dollar contracts. It was the poor fools that had to work for a living that paid for it. So you had to grab for the brass ring whenever you saw it and hope to hell you got a good hold, and do whatever it took to make your own breaks. For guys like him, anyway. And when a shortcut came his way, Pete knew he’d take it. It’s just that things got so screwed up sometimes.

  He lifted his empty beer glass to his lips. He had only about forty bucks to his name till next week when his unemployment check came in. Still, he needed time to think and to plan. Gary had blown this one big time, the poor son of a bitch.

  And so had he.

  It should have been clear sailing when Annie had headed out for Gary’s funeral, but some idiot had put in new locks on her doors. Good ones, expensive ones that he couldn’t pick fast enough. And then that damn old broad had seen him trying the window.

  Pushing himself upward from the table, he meandered over to the bar, where the men talked amongst themselves, joking and calling to Al the bartender for refills while the commercials were on.

  “Hey, Al,” Pete said.

  The burly man looked up. He lifted his chin toward Pete in acknowledgement. “What can I getcha?”

  “’Nother one.” Pete lifted his glass, tilting it slightly in the air.

  Picking up a red terrycloth towel along the way, Al slung it over his shoulder. “Hey, you remember when you were here the other day?”

  “What of it?”

  “Well . . .” Al said, drawing as he tipped the mug under the tap. The golden liquid caught the scant light as it rippled into the glass. “I ain’t seen Gary around since then. You know where he is?”

  “Why?”

  “He owes me a C-note from a little wager. Hasn’t paid up yet.” He flipped up the tapper and handed the glass to Pete.

  Pete snorted. “Good luck collecting, bud.”

  “Why? He leave town or something?” He moved forward and began to wipe down the bar with the towel.

  “Something like that. The guy’s dead.”

  Al stopped mid-motion. “No way.” He shook his big head, his mouth set in a line, then started wiping again as he looked up. “I just saw the guy. But you know, he wasn’t lookin’ too good lately. Guess he was having some marital problems too. What was it? He didn’t do himself, did he?”

  “Nah, it was sort of an accident,” Pete said, drawing out his wallet to pay. “Real sudden.”

  “Good friend of yours?”

  Pete looked up, sensing an opportunity. “My best friend.”

  Al waved the proffered money away. “This one’s on the house, man. Sorry to hear.”

  Back at the table, Pete took a long drink of his brew, licking the foam from his lips as he considered his next steps. So far as he could tell, those DeChristophers didn’t know he existed. He was safe there, at least. But they probably knew the connection between Gary and Annie. Probably had her place staked out, even now. He’d have to be real careful getting back into Annie’s house. But the chick was home every night nowadays. And the daylight break-in hadn’t panned out.

  He’d have to go in at night, to pick up that crazy drawing. Not that he had any idea how to fence it. Not yet. In his panic, he’d stuffed it away at her house, but had forgotten to hide the jeweled eggs he’d pocketed until he’d gotten back to his room at the YMCA.

  Still, it was the picture that held the promise of big bucks. He had to figure out a way to get in and out of there, hopefully without her knowing. He didn’t want to have to hurt her, but he would if it came down to that. Two million dollars. That Gary had been one crazy son of a bitch. No way he’d get that kind of cash for an old picture of naked women, but he’d done some homework on this drawing and maybe, if he played his cards right and if he could find some high-end fence, he could clear a few hundred grand. That’d be enough to go down to Mexico and retire among the pretty senoritas. He could live like a king on that for a good long time.

  Cheers from the bar area brought him out of his reverie. The southsiders had done it again. Slowly, the men left their barstools and made their way to the washroom, then out the door. With each opening, the bright sunlight spilled in, brightening up a sliver of the dark bar, illuminating the dinginess that stayed hidden as long as the door stayed closed.

  Pete’s beer glass was empty again. H
e played with it, weighing the pleasure of another cold brew against the lack of money in his wallet. Slouched in the booth, he played with the glass, the noise as its base made circles on the table soothing him, letting him think and plan.

  Al came by with a fresh beer in a new glass. “Here ya go, bud,” he said. “Lost a friend of mine ‘bout a year ago. I know just how ya feel.”

  Pete sat up a little, pulling his feet from the opposite seat where they’d been resting. “Yeah?”

  Al still had the red towel draped over his shoulder. He scratched at the stubble on his chin and glanced over to the bar. “You okay there, Emil?” he called out in a loud voice.

  The old guy turned in slow motion, looking afraid that any large movement might cause him to fall off his stool. “Al? Yeah. I’m okay.”

  Rolling his eyes, Al lowered himself into the booth opposite Pete.

  “Now, I know this ain’t none of my business, but I gotta tell you, I see a lotta guys in a place like this. And I get to the point where I can tell who’s got real problems and who’s just passing time here, ya know?”

  Pete nodded, taking a mouthful of beer. He wondered where in that estimation he fell.

  Al continued, his manner friendly, inquisitive, almost like he wanted to get to know Pete. “You got the look of a guy who’s kinda lost. And I know that your buddy’s death has a lot to do with it, but there’s something else about you. Like maybe you had some business with him, and now that he’s gone, that’s gone too.” His beefy arms rested on the tabletop. “That about right?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You say he was your best buddy. And buddies that close share stuff, don’t they?”

  Pete couldn’t figure where this was going. “We shared some stuff, yeah.”

  “Like for instance, he mentioned that he got you guys a place to stay for free.” Movement near the bar caused Al to look up, but it was just one of the guys heading to the bathroom. “Told me a little bit about that setup. I’m guessing that you might be having some issues with income now that Gary ain’t around no more.”

  Sitting back in the booth, Pete realized that the contacts Gary had mentioned might not have disappeared after all. “Yeah,” he drawled, settling in to tell the sad tale that might just make him look needy enough to keep this guy’s guard down, “I got screwed. Big time.”

  Al looked at Pete’s half empty beer. “Hang on.” He lumbered back behind the bar, talked for a couple of seconds with the guys leaning, smoking, and staring into the mirror opposite the stools, then made his way back with a shot of whiskey and a pitcher of beer. “Here ya go. Times like these call for something stronger than a brewski, don’t they?”

  Pete grinned. This guy was a real soft touch.

  Al took a deep breath and looked around again before speaking. “Truth is, Gary and I didn’t have no wager. And it wasn’t for no hundred bucks neither. He told me he was coming into some big money. That jibe with what you had going with him?”

  Downing the shot, Pete made a noise of great satisfaction and smacked his lips. “Maybe.”

  “Listen, bud, I’m thinking we can work together on this one.”

  “What else did he tell you?”

  “Not a lot,” Al’s eyes were watchful, “but he promised me a grand for a couple of things I did for him.” With a half-shrug, as if the information were of no consequence, Al continued, “I set him up with a friend of mine. A guy I know who deals with merchandise. High-quality merchandise, you know? Gary made off like he had something kinda pricey to move. And my friend is a real go-to guy. Would trust him with my life. Believe me.”

  “Promised you a grand?”

  “Yeah. And I set everything up. They were supposed to meet on Tuesday, but Gary never showed.” He made a helpless gesture with his hand in the air. “Now I know why.”

  “Let me guess. You’d be willing to do the same for me?”

  Al licked his lips. “Seein’ as how you’re a friend of Gary’s, I suppose something can be worked out, yeah.”

  * * * * *

  George Lulinski exchanged a look of frustration with his partner, then knocked on the apartment door again. Ringing the bell twice brought no response, but after his first knock someone peered out from the sliding door curtains to his right. George had flashed his badge at the young man whose baleful eyes stared out at him, the kid leaning back in a chair, not exerting more effort than necessary to see who was at the door. At the sight of the two policemen, the curly-headed fellow’s mouth had dropped open, the curtains fell shut, and the scuffling began. Muffled voices raised while the two men stood outside the door, losing patience.

  Several moments after the second knock, the door opened. The same dull-eyed kid who’d checked them out leaned against the jamb, pulling the door close to his other side. “Yeah?”

  Detective Lulinski introduced himself and his partner, Bill Schumann, before adding, “We’d like to ask you a few questions.” He didn’t wait for the fellow to acquiesce, but put his left hand spread-fingered on the door, and pushed. “Can we come in?”

  “Hey, you ain’t got no right to barge in here. You ain’t got no search warrant or nothing.” His eyes bounced back and forth between the two men, his pupils wide. “Do you?”

  George didn’t enter the apartment, but he noted that there were two other males present, both of whom panted as though they’d just run a marathon. They sat in positions of relaxation, but their attention focused on the conversation at the door rather than on the large-screen television in front of them. One sat on an old sheet-covered couch, the other on the floor next to him, his hands behind his back. None of the three could be older than twenty-five, and while the fellow at the door had dark curly hair and brown eyes, the other two were blond and fair, looking as though they could be brothers. Thin, haggard, and going prematurely bald up front, they sported duplicate extra-high foreheads.

  A coffee table, its wooden surface scratched and dented, but nonetheless shiny, stood out from the clutter of the room by being the only surface completely clean. Knowing in his gut that only moments before they’d knocked, this one had been covered with drug paraphernalia, George looked over to Bill, who chomped on a wad of gum and smirked. They’d be sure to mention this apartment to some of the guys back at the station, but right now illicit drug use wasn’t high on their list of priorities.

  “What’s your name?”

  The curly-haired guy’s eyes jumped from Bill to George and back again. He squinted at the sunlight, even though it wasn’t all that bright right now, then wiped at his nose. George knew that Bill would follow his lead. They didn’t want to antagonize these guys any more than they had to. Two cops trying to come across to some doper as unthreatening made the task more difficult. “Listen, buddy, I don’t really care what you’ve got going in there. I’m looking into a homicide and I need some answers. Now, you can make this easy or we can make it hard.”

  Bill narrowed the space between them, bringing himself up to his full six-and-a-half feet. When he wanted to, Bill could look tough. The tall, hefty guy was twenty years younger than George’s fifty-six, and had the kind of build that people backed away from. He’d been promoted to the detective division just six months before, and George thought he showed promise. If only he’d give up the gum-chewing.

  George was bluffing. He had no probable cause to be able to enter this apartment, nor did the kids have any reason to cooperate with him, but he counted on their fogged brains not to put that together. A long minute passed as decision worked its way across the muddled fellow’s face. The two guys inside the apartment sat open-mouthed, watching him.

  “My name’s Ethan,” he said at last. “Homicide, huh? That means somebody’s dead?”

  “Yeah,” Bill said, cracking chewing gum as he spoke, “somebody’s dead all right. And somebody else killed him.”

  “Hey, it wasn’t me!” Ethan said, his eyes growing wide.

  “Yeah, we figured as much,” George said, “but you want to make
us go away, you gotta answer a few questions. How does that sound?”

  Ethan half-turned to the two guys in the room who looked at each other and shrugged. Turning back, his face registered a change, as if he’d just remembered something. “Hang on,” he said, then pushed the door nearly closed so that only a sliver remained open. They heard him stage-whisper, “Kyle!”

  A moment later, he reopened the door. Gone was the guy who’d been sitting on the floor, but they heard noises from the adjacent bedroom. George scowled at the combination smells of body odor and something sweet, like perfume. He looked around the dark room shaking his head, though he’d experienced worse. The older of the brothers still sat on the couch, but he shifted to one side, as though to make room for the two detectives to sit.

  Bill declined for both of them.

  Kyle came back, rubbing his hands on the sides of his jeans. Except for different sayings on their dirty white T-shirts, the three were dressed almost identically in faded baggy jeans with rips in the knees. George took down their names for the record. He addressed all three with his questions. Ethan, Kyle, and (he’d been right) Kyle’s older brother Ryan settled themselves on the couch, all three looking up at the two policemen with the appearance of mischievous schoolboys, their elbows resting on their knees, hands folded.

  “You guys know a Gary Randall?”

  They shifted, moving legs and arms and eyes all at once. Ethan spoke, “He usedta live here. We got the apartment when he moved out.”

  “You rented it from him?”

  “Yeah. Him and his buddy.”

  “You met them? Both?”

  “Yeah.”

  Bill moved to lean against the wall, chewing his gum slowly, making loud popping noises, showing perfectly even teeth. “What’s the other guy’s name?” George started to rethink his gum aversion. Even the cracking sounded menacing.

  More shifting. They looked at each other as though someone had just asked them to divulge state secrets. Ethan shrugged, “Pete.”

  “Last name?”

  “Don’t know it.”