by Brian Lawson
“Just my thinking,” he said. “Why not stay?”
“Where, here?”
“Why not? You and me, we could set up a private investigation business. Sons of Sam Spade, or something.”
“I don’t think so. I’m not very good at this.”
“Don’t know about that. You set out to solve a mystery damn near old as me and did it in, what, under two weeks? Took on one of the big guys and got him.”
“Don’t think I could say that. Two men are dead, no three if you count Chuck. You got kidnapped and your arm broken, and they damn near had me in a body bag.”
“Yeah, but the good guys survived. That’s what counts,” he said, waving his cast again.
Danny could hear the need in the old man’s voice. Their little adventure had either added years to his life or brought him closer to the end. He was moving noticeably slower than when Danny had first met him, the clothes a little more rumpled and seemed to hang more loosely. And there was the broken arm. But he was tough, there was no question of that. He shook his head, trying to avoid Johnny’s gaze.
“I’ve got a good, easy gig up there,” he said. “Well, maybe not there. Somewhere. I like teaching. Or I like the hours. I don’t know. That’s what I do, now.”
“Why not go to newspapers, or maybe this Internet thing? You’ve got the knack. What’s it, the nose for news?”
He shook his head. “Not that. It’s a young man’s game. I’d rather teach it than do it.”
“Still and all, never going to be the same, I bet,” Larkin said. “Seattle’s a good town but it ain’t Frisco.”
“I thought nobody called it that.”
“Nobody who doesn’t have the right to, that’s for sure,” he said. “And what about this waitress?”
“Doris?”
“Yeah, this Doris. Maybe that’s something worth sticking around for?”
He shrugged, yeah, maybe, but not right now. He could imagine what her reaction was to seeing the attempted murder on television. How close she’d come to being part of it. He’d call her, once he got back to Seattle, at least let her know how much it meant, her help. Or maybe not, maybe she didn’t care, maybe she was just grateful to be out of the whole mess.
“Well, maybe, I’ll think about it. Or maybe I’ll move. I don’t think here, but somewhere. I’m kind of tired of the fog and cold. Maybe I’ll try the Southwest, Phoenix, Palm Springs, somewhere warm,” he said, glancing at his watch. Almost time.
“Time to go, son?”
“Time,” he said, standing up and picking up his carry-on and the laptop case in one hand, reaching out with the other. “Johnny, it’s been a slice. You’ve got my email, my number and everything? Okay, stay in touch.”
He shook the old man’s hand, trying not to notice the tears in his eyes. “You too. Stay in touch.”
They were walking out of the lounge when something stopped him. A voice, a word, something.
“What’s that?”
“What?”
Danny turned and looked across the small bar, toward the dark corner where the television was showing a serious looking woman, a pretty talking head. Her mouth was moving but Danny only caught the one word that had stopped him in his tracks, “Skelley.”
“What’s that?”
“Wait a second, I heard her say Skelley,” he said, turning and walking a few paces toward the bar, making a twisting motion to the bartender to turn the volume up….
“…and following the elder Skelley’s death this morning from the gunshot wounds court observers were stunned by the younger Skelley’s confession…in court for arraignment hearing on open murder charges for yesterday’s bizarre shooting in Union Square of his well known lawyer and political power broke father, the younger Skelley apparently blurted out the confession to four murders in a bizarre plot to frame his father for the murders…more news at eleven and now back to our regularly scheduled programming….”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Johnny whispered somewhere behind Danny.
Danny felt a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach and his hands began to shake.
“Sit down, son, sit down,” Larkin said, and he felt himself being steered to a chair where he landed heavily.
“He okay?” the bartender said.
“Yeah, sure. Nothing to worry about,” Larkin said. “Give us a glass of water, huh Mac?”
Danny stared at the screen that had shifted into some strange game show he couldn’t identify, something that involved a number of people all running around at once. The bartender muted the sound so they shouted in eerie silence at each other. Johnny slid a glass of water in front of Danny and dropped into the chair across the small table from him. “I don’t believe it. You going to make it? You look like hell.”
He nodded, feeling a cold, empty place growing inside, taking over his chest and moving down his arms and into his legs like a rotten fatigue. He took a long, slow drink of tepid water. It seemed for a minute like he couldn’t talk. Not that there wasn’t any sound, just that me couldn’t physically make his lips and tongue and throat work. He swallowed and the icy lump in the chest and throat began to melt.
“I, I don’t know what to say.” His voice seemed to be coming from somewhere outside him, maybe from the television, or floating in from a neighboring table. “He did it. Him. It was Patrick, all along. And I just sat there.”
“How would you know?”
“I sat there, drinking his fucking brandy and talking to him. Like some kind of asshole. Just talking, like I’m talking to you, and I never guessed.”
“Son of a bitch, son of a bitch,” Larkin said. “But you couldn’t know.”
“What was he thinking? What was all that about? Some strange, twisted game of get Daddy. He killed my father and I sat there with him while me played me like a fool.”
He looked at Johnny Larkin. The old man needed a shave; maybe he only shaved once a week, with the same double edged Gillette Blue he’d been hoarding for years. It was a strange thought in a week of strange.
“Jesus, Johnny what am I going to do?”
Larkin shook his head and shrugged, the tired windbreaker working over his thin bone shoulders. “I don’t know. There’s nothing for it, I don’t think. I mean, what do you want to do? Go down there and remind the cops you told them there was a murder and they didn’t do anything? Or maybe let them get their hooks into you and drag you through a trial for months. I don’t think so. What’s the point?”
“He killed Chuck.”
“Yeah, and he’s going to pay. They’ll get him for killing his old man. He can’t beat it. One way or another, he’s going away for a long time.”
“What if he gets off? He’s got the money.”
“Naw. Even if he changes his story about killing Chuck and the other guys, he still shot old man Skelley. It’s San Quentin or the funny farm, one way or another, he’s out of the picture.”
“But maybe not for killing Chuck.”
“Maybe not. But the bad guys lose and the good guy wins. You can’t ask for more than that.”
And maybe he couldn’t. He reached for the water, surprised his hand wasn’t shaking. The cold had sunk down to a small, hard lump in his stomach but that was okay, he could handle that. He stood up and reached out his hand. Larkin stood up and took it and he could feel the thick, callused fingers and heavy palm. It was a good handshake for anyone, even a guy Johnny’s age.
“Thanks for everything, Johnny. I’ll stay in touch,” and he picked up his overnight case and turned and walked out of the lounge, then looked back. Johnny raised his casted arm and gave him one more wave. His voice carried over the background airport buzz, “It’s the stuff dreams are made of, son.”
END
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