Dead Boyfriends

by David Housewright

  “Is that why you went to her house after you got out of the joint?”

  “Who said I went. . .?”

  “Were you looking to thank her?”

  “Fuck you, McKenzie. You think I don’t know why you’re here? I know why you’re here. Merodie killed her old man and you want to jam me up for it. Ain’t gonna happen. No way. Merodie’s goin’ down. And listen to me. Ain’t nothin’ you can do about it. You don’t believe me, just ask my friend the county attorney.”

  Nye placed a fist on his hip, posing for me.

  “You and Tuseman are pals, are you?”

  “Hell, yeah. Me and him, we’re like this.” He crossed his fingers and held them up for me to see. “Fact is, he wants me to testify against ol’ Merodie.”

  “Does he?”

  Nye liked the surprised expression on my face and was disappointed that it didn’t last. “That’s right,” he said. “So back off.”

  “Does he know you were at Merodie’s house the day Eli Jefferson was killed?”

  Nye paused before answering.

  “I was not at—”

  “You were seen.”

  He grinned as if he knew a secret I was too dumb to grasp. “I was nowhere near Merodie’s house the day Eli Jefferson was killed, and there ain’t nobody around no more to say otherwise ‘cept Merodie, and who’s gonna believe her?”

  Ain‘t nobody around no more to say otherwise—how can he be so sure? my inner voice wondered. While I was thinking it over, Nye leaned in close.

  “Besides”—he was still grinning—“I got an alibi.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Not a what. A who. I was with my girlfriend that whole day.”

  “How convenient.”

  “Ain’t it, though?”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Debbie Miller.”

  Nye pulled a torn slip of paper from his pocket and shoved it at me. On it he had neatly printed Miller’s name, home address, business address, and telephone numbers. He smiled when I took it from him.

  “She’s waitin’ for you, too,” Nye said.

  “Is she?”

  “I told you, you was expected.”

  The radio switched off automatically when I shut down the Jeep Cherokee in the parking lot of the small shopping complex at County Road 10 and Round Lake Boulevard. I wasn’t listening to it anyway. Instead, I had been thinking angry thoughts about Richard Nye. Maybe he was involved in Jefferson’s death, maybe he wasn’t. I sure would enjoy sending him back to jail for something.

  I entered the branch bank where Debbie Miller worked. The woman who sat at the desk nearest the door greeted me and asked if she could be of assistance. After a moment’s discussion, she motioned to Miller, who had been watching me from her cashier station. Obviously she had been waiting for me. Nye probably called her the moment I left his apartment.

  Debbie Miller was one of those women that men fell in love with at a distance, aroused like Pavlov’s dogs, not by a bell, but by her shapely figure and lustrous shoulder-length red hair. It was only when they were close enough to plainly see her blemished skin, thin lips, large nose, pointy chin, and eyes that didn’t seem to go together that they had second thoughts. She wore a tight, high-collared dark blue dress that was trimmed from hem to throat with gold buttons that emphasized her generous breasts, thin waist, and narrow hips. Yet there was nothing she could do to flatter her face. It was not even remotely pretty and certainly not helped by the excessive amount of artwork she put in around the eyes and lips.

  Debbie approached cautiously, as if she were afraid of stepping in something. She was smiling, but only out of professional habit. I introduced myself and said I hoped that she would answer a few questions if it wasn’t too inconvenient.

  “Certainly,” she said.

  Debbie glanced about the bank. She spied an empty desk with two chairs in the corner near the windows and pointed the way with her sharp chin. I followed.

  We sat in the chairs, turning them so we faced each other. Debbie’s front teeth were stained with peach gloss from chewing on her lower lip, and her eyes were red and flashing. The rest of her face was pasty white and displayed as much animation as the Pillsbury Dough Boy. She began defending Richard Nye before I even asked about him.

  “He’s a good man,” she said. Her voice was tense and she spoke very low, possibly so her coworkers couldn’t eavesdrop. Or maybe she was embarrassed. Not once did her gaze reach mine.

  “He’s been in trouble, I know,” Debbie continued. “That’s in the past. That’s behind him now. He wants to start over. People should let him start over.”

  “Fine with me,” I replied as pleasantly as I could. “I hope he lives long and prospers, or whatever it is that that guy in Star Trek says.”

  Debbie was surprised by my response. “Really?” she asked.

  “Why not?” I opened my notebook and balanced it on my knee. “I’m not looking to cause him any trouble. I just want to dot some i’s and cross some t’s for the lawyer I work for, that’s all.”

  “Oh. But he really is a good man.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “It was—It was about a month and a half or so ago, I guess. He had come in to cash his first check from the printshop where he got a job after . . . after he got out of jail. You know about that?”

  “Yes, I know about that.”

  Debbie seemed relieved that she didn’t have to tell the story.

  “Anyway, he made me turn the twenties into tens and the tens into fives and then the entire roll into twenties again while he flirted with me, asking me if I lived alone, asking all kinds of personal questions while he made the other customers wait in line. I wore my hair up and he said, ‘I bet you look gorgeous with your hair down instead of in that silly bun.’ I’m not gorgeous. Even with my hair down. I know that. But I liked it when he said I was. Richard was the first man to show interest in . . . in a long time. I have to admit—I have to admit I enjoyed the attention.

  “And he never lied to me,” she added quickly. “He invited me to dinner that night and I accepted, and during dinner he told me about. . . about his past, about going to jail. He told me that that was all behind him now and he was looking for a strong, honest woman he could love. A woman who would forgive him his trespasses and help him stay on the straight and narrow while he made something productive of his life. That’s what he said.”

  “No reason it can’t be true,” I told her, although I could think of several.

  “He’s a good man,” Debbie told me again. As she spoke, she pulled absently at the collar of her dress, and for a moment I could see bruises around her neck where someone had choked her.

  “I’m sure,” I said, and smiled my most sincere smile. “I just want to know a couple of things.”

  “Okay.”

  “If you can confirm Richard’s alibi, that’s jake with me.”

  I nearly started to giggle. That’s jake with me? Where did that come from? The phrase seemed to turn the trick, though. Debbie smiled—although it didn’t seem to do her face any good—and leaned back in her chair.

  “Let’s see,” she said. “You want me to tell you . . .”

  “Saturday, August first. Everything from the moment you saw him until the moment he left.”

  “Let’s see.” Debbie closed her eyes and spoke slowly. “Richard stayed over Friday night and didn’t go home until early Sunday morning.”

  “What did you do during all that time?”

  “On Friday night we stayed in—We just stayed in.” Debbie was blushing now. “On Saturday we had breakfast at my apartment and then he built a bookcase for me and then—”

  “Did he bring the materials with him?”

  “Huh?” Debbie’s eyes flashed open.

  “When he came over Friday night, did he have the building materials for the bookcase, or did he get them Saturday?”

  Debbie was seized by a moment of panic and indecision. I guessed th
at she and Nye hadn’t covered that when Nye concocted the alibi.

  “He brought the supplies with him,” Debbie said.

  “Okey-dokey,” I replied, pretending that I was barely paying attention. “Then what did you do?”

  “Umm, we went shopping for clothes. We went to the Northtown Mall because we wanted to buy some clothes. I wanted to buy some clothes. But we couldn’t find anything I liked so we didn’t buy anything.”

  “What happened next?”

  “We decided to stay in again . . .”

  “Sure.”

  “We rented a couple of movies. I don’t remember what. Something with Bruce Willis.”

  “Where did you rent the movies?” I asked.

  “Rent them?”

  “Yes. Where did you rent the movies?”

  “At the mall.”

  “Northtown?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which store?”

  “Store?”

  “Which video store did you rent the movies from?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Well, that’s easy enough to check.”

  “It is?”

  “Sure. They keep records, the video stores.”

  Debbie’s face grew even more pale, and she began to tremble slightly as if she were caught in a sudden draft. She pulled at her collar again, and I saw more bruising. I wondered if it was confined only to her throat or if Nye had damaged other parts of her body as well.

  “What did you do after you rented the movies?” I asked.

  Debbie bit her lower lip. “We stopped at Leeann Chin for takeout and went back to my apartment and stayed there together eating and watching movies and stuff until about three Sunday morning.” Debbie spoke as if she were trying to get it all out in a single breath.

  I made a production out of not writing down her answer. I closed the notebook instead and gazed idly out the window while pretending I wasn’t watching Debbie intently in its reflection. I sighed dramatically.

  “You really love this guy,” I said.

  Debbie was surprised by the question.

  “You do, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Debbie answered weakly.

  “Even though he hurts you?”

  Debbie’s hand leapt to her throat. “He doesn’t,” she said.

  “Sure he does. He beats you. What else does he do? Does he embarrass you? Humiliate you? When you make love, is it fun? Fun for you, I mean. I bet it’s fun for him.”

  Debbie turned her head away. The beginning of tears formed at the corners of her eyes. I was sure they were more from tension than sorrow.

  “Yet you still love him?” I said.

  Debbie nodded.

  “Do you love him enough to go to prison for him?”

  “Go to prison?”

  “That’s what’s going to happen if you keep lying for him.”

  “I’m not lying,” Debbie protested. There wasn’t much energy in her words.

  I turned in the chair so I could look the woman directly in the eyes. “Debbie,” I said. “There is no Leeann Chin at Northtown.”

  Debbie’s mouth fell open for a brief moment, and I half expected her to call me a liar. Truth was, I didn’t know if the popular chain of Chinese restaurants had a store in the mall or not. Then, instead of calling my bluff, Debbie closed her mouth and shook her head.

  “Tell me the truth,” I told her.

  Debbie shook her head again; with her lips pressed tightly together, she looked like like an errant child afraid to speak.

  “Are you lying because you love Nye or because you’re afraid of him? Because if you’re afraid of him—” I rested my hand on top of hers. She tried to pull it away, but I held on tight. “If you’re afraid of him, well, that’s something I can take care of.”

  “You?”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  Debbie shook her head.

  “You don’t know him. He’s . . . He doesn’t feel.”

  He’d feel it if I put my hands around his throat and squeezed like he obviously did to you, my inner voice said, but I kept it to myself.

  “I can protect you,” I said. “You have my word.” I removed a business card from my pocket and thrust it into Debbie’s hand. “That has my home and cell number.”

  Debbie took the card but refused to look at me.

  “Listen,” I said. “Listen to me, please. Will you listen?”

  Debbie didn’t respond.

  “You’re making a big mistake helping Richard Nye. He’s no good, and he’s going to hurt you. Hurt you worse than he already has. It’s just a matter of time. I think you know that. Here’s the thing—you can get away from him. Free yourself. I can help. The lawyer I work for can help, too.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “It would be a lot easier now with us than if you tried to do it alone later.”

  I thought I saw Debbie’s head nod.

  “Think about what I said,” I told her. “Keep the card. If you need help or if you just need somebody to talk to, you can call me. You can call me anytime you want. Anytime. Okay? Will you do that? I want to help you.”

  Again, I thought I saw Debbie nod her head.

  “Please, please, don’t lie for him anymore,” I said. “It’s okay if you lie to me. It’s okay if you lie to yourself. No one is going to do anything about it. But if you tell the same lie to the police or the county attorney, you’re going to be in serious trouble. Do you understand?”

  For the first time, Debbie looked me directly in the eye.

  “Yes,” she said.

  Richard Scott Nye was leaning against my Jeep Cherokee, his arms folded across his chest, when I left the bank. He was smirking.

  “How’d it go?” he asked.

  “Get your ass off my ride.”

  I was angry and looking for any excuse at all to pop him one. Or two.

  “Isn’t this one of those soccer-mom cars?” Nye asked.

  I grabbed a fistful of his shirt and yanked him into the neutral zone between my vehicle and a Ford Taurus. The smile stayed on his face.

  “Touchy,” he said.

  I unlocked the door.

  “Wait, don’t go,” Nye said. “I want to ask you something.”

  I turned toward him.

  “What did Debbie say?” he asked.

  “She said exactly what you told her to say.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You should know that when you make up an alibi, people automatically figure you have something to hide. It’s better to have no alibi at all.”

  “I didn’t do nothing. I ain’t got nothing to hide.”

  I moved to the open door of the Cherokee. Nye stopped me. He spun me around and gave me the look—unblinking eyes burning with their coldness, a run-or-die expression on his face.

  “Listen, bitch,” he hissed.

  I pushed him away and stretched my arms, giving myself room to maneuver.

  Nye kept smiling while he took a few steps backward. His eyes found something behind my left shoulder. I knew what it was before I turned to face it: the gentleman from the Regis Center for Art.

  “Meet my little friend,” Nye said, trying hard to sound like Al Pacino in Scarface.

  “What did I tell you, shithead?” the big Hispanic said. I could see it in his expression—he kicked my ass before and he was going to do it again. “Didn’t I tell you?”

  I remained still and waited. He approached rapidly, without caution, without fear, his head and shoulders leading the way, his fists clenched but hanging loosely at his hips. I tried to look scared. I didn’t speak. I didn’t move. I didn’t so much as take a deep breath for fear that he might see it coming. As soon as he was in range, I raised my right leg and snapped a front kick to his groin, putting my heel where it would do the most damage. I kicked him as hard as I could. The force of the blow caused me to lose my balance and I had to reach for the Cherokee to keep from falling.

  A lig
htning bolt of pain caused the bad guy to halt in his tracks. His legs locked. His hands moved to cover his groin. His mouth fell open, but instead of screaming he gargled like a seal. While he was immobilized, I stepped forward and raised my leg again. This time I brought my foot down hard against his kneecap. It snapped like dry kindling, and he collapsed against the dirty asphalt.

  I glanced behind me. Nye hadn’t moved an inch. He stood there with his mouth open, watching as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  I grabbed a handful of my attacker’s dirty hair and pulled up. His eyes turned toward me and I hit him with a closed fist. I hit him in the face again and again, remembering with each punch how he had pummeled me. I hit him until my knuckles were rubbed raw and began to swell. His blood dripped from my hand.

  “Look at me.” I didn’t mean to shout. I just couldn’t help it. “Look at me.”

  His eyes turned toward my face.

  “If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you.” I hit him again just to make sure he was paying attention. “If you ever go near the lawyer again, I’ll kill you. Do you understand? Nod your head if you understand.”

  He nodded.

  “Don’t make me tell you again.”

  I released him and stepped toward Nye. Despite his prison muscles, he wanted nothing to do with me. He brought his hands up to fend off my blows and lowered his head. I hit him anyway, the heel of my fist catching him under the nose.

  Blood spurted. Nye’s hands wiped frantically at it. Like the Hispanic he refused to whimper or cry out. Probably something you learn in stir, I decided. I pushed him hard and he splashed against the asphalt.

  “Yeah, you’re tough,” I said. I slid behind the steering wheel of my vehicle and started it up. I backed out of the stall. Nye saw it coming just in time to roll out from under the rear wheels. When he looked up, I gave him a wink.

  “Bitch,” he said, but not too loudly.

  As it turned out, Leeann Chin really didn’t have a restaurant in the Northtown Mall or anywhere close to it. Which was good news because it blew Richard Nye’s alibi all to hell and bad news because it was already late afternoon and I hadn’t eaten lunch. I had my stomach set on Peking chicken with fried rice and had to settle for a chili dog with fries on the side at the Hot Dogs ‘R Us stand.