by Joe Clifford
“Um, I live in my car.”
“Where?”
“In. My. Car.”
“I mean, where do you park it?”
“What do you care?”
“We’re almost in Canada. It’s cold as hell out there.”
“No shit.”
“I don’t understand. I thought you were staying with an uncle? On break from college?”
“I’m not on break. I flunked out. I’m broke. I owe about a hundred grand in student loans. And I was staying with my uncle—who’s not even my uncle, he’s my aunt’s husband, and she’s dead. I got tired of Uncle Bob getting drunk and playing grab-hands.”
“You’re homeless?”
“I can go back to New York, crawl home to my parents and admit I can’t make it on my own, but until then, yeah. I park at rest stops, shower in sinks, eat my breakfast from a vending machine and why do you give a shit, Jay? You want that photocopy? Fine. You can have it. Then leave me alone.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t even know I had the goddamn thing!”
“No, I mean, that you have nowhere to live.”
“Why? So I can move into your house with your wife and kid? Rent a spare bedroom. Gonna save me from the streets?” She scoffed. “Just tell me where you want to meet.”
I felt like an asshole. How could I have known?
“Jay?”
“Remember the diner from last night? Meet me there. How long?”
“Give me an hour.”
“See you then.”
“Wonderful. Can’t wait.”
I lay on the filthy bed, flipping through stations on a tiny TV, settling on a rerun of My Three Sons, killing time until I had to meet my connection. How many times had my brother done the same thing? Maybe even in this same room. I almost climbed a chair to search for initials carved in the rafters.
The Olympic Diner rested down the Turnpike, in the opposite direction of Duncan Pond. I hadn’t broken any laws. No major ones, anyway. I’d popped the tire of the town sheriff, and taken Charlie’s car without permission. My friend would never file a stolen car report. No one was scouring Ashton looking for me, my frantic flight at dawn the by-product of an overactive imagination and sleep deprivation. But those Longmont cops . . . If they did find Charlie’s car, they’d start to check the motels on the strip. Given personal histories, the Olympic might not have been the smartest choice, either. But Charlie wouldn’t tip off Turley. Would he?
Waiting for grass to grow, time dragged. When everything you want is right in front of you, perspective skews, objectivity wanes. I ached to pay back the hurt.
Hour almost up, I put on my tee shirt, now crispy from overcooking on the radiator. I was about to walk out the door when Nicki rang back and said she needed more time.
“Loose distributor cap. I got it fixed. Leaving now. Give me another sixty.”
“No problem.” I wanted to scream.
After a few minutes, I couldn’t take the solitude any longer. I decided to walk over to the Olympic early. If they were looking for me I wasn’t any safer inside the motel room than I was at the diner. Besides, I’d take my chances with Turley and Longmont PD before I suffered another hour alone with my thoughts.
The diner was ten minutes away on foot. Fifteen, tops. I didn’t sprint there, but I didn’t drag ass either. Slushing through the parking lot, I could see Nicki already waiting in a booth by the window. How much time had I lost?
When I stepped inside the diner, the front bell dinged. For some reason, I flashed on It’s a Wonderful Life, that queer bit about an angel earning his wings. A bizarre connection at the strangest time, which made me laugh out loud. Nicki stared up from her seat, along with the pair of factory boys perched at the counter, all eyeing me like I was about to ask for change because I’d run out of gas with my family freezing in the car. I grew hyper-paranoid, scanning blind spots. What did I expect? Someone to spring from the shadows and throw a black hood over my head? Pull it together, little brother.
“You look like shit,” Nicki said when I sat down.
“Long night.”
The waitress—Greek, gorgeous, eighteen if she was a day—asked if I wanted coffee. I nodded. She filled my cup. I waited until she left before I spoke.
“You bring it?” I whispered.
Nicki leaned over. “Why are you whispering?” She nodded out the window at her car, butted against a telephone pole in the farthest corner of the parking lot. I must’ve looked nervous, because she added, “It’s not going anywhere. Chill.”
Cold rains blunted the boulevard, cheap eats and chain retail obscured.
“Did it make any more sense?” I asked.
“The Xerox? No. I told you. It’s just a tally of the underage offenders New Hampshire sends out of state.”
“Drugs?”
“Maybe. Didn’t list specific crimes or names even. Only totals.” She paused. “Y’know—nothing you do fixes the past, right?”
“Huh?”
“All this shit you’re doing, it won’t bring your brother back. Nothing you do will ever bring him back.” Nicki caught my eye. She didn’t seem angry with me anymore. “When all this is over, you should call your wife, do whatever you have to do to make things right.”
“You didn’t seem too concerned about my wife last night.”
“No. But you did.” She stopped. “I’m not a bad person.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
“I mean, I’m better than this. You met me at a weird time.”
How long had it been since that afternoon in Longmont? My timeline jumbled, nothing in order, I inserted Nicki into memories that weren’t possible. I had us hanging out together by the reservoir, at parties in the summertime, drinking beers on the hoods of cars. Jean shorts and bikini tops. Soft kisses in setting suns. Springsteen on the radio. I’d known her less than a week.
“The day I met you,” she said, “that was the day I’d decided not to go back to my uncle’s.”
I didn’t grasp the relevance right away.
“I would’ve been at the house, y’know? When whoever came looking for me. Your friend, Bowman. Whatever.”
“He’s not my friend.”
“But I would’ve been there, see?”
“Not really.”
“I called home. My uncle’s in the hospital. Slipped on a patch of ice and cracked his skull open. More like shattered. Doctors are calling it ‘blunt head trauma.’” Nicki wrapped her fingers around the coffee mug, glimpsing out the glass. “Pretty much brain dead.”
“What are you saying?”
“Nothing. Uncle Bob drank a lot. Maybe he tripped over the steps getting the morning paper.”
She didn’t bother mentioning the next part, that those injuries were also consistent with a good jackboot stomping.
The waitress returned and asked if we were ready to order. I grabbed the menu, prepared to make up for days of dietary neglect, but Nicki glanced at her phone, and asked for the bill.
“You in a hurry?”
Nicki tucked the phone in her purse. “I’m going back to New York.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.” She paused and tilted her head so. “Unless you want to try and make this work between us.”
In that split second I ran through the possibility, wondering what a different future might look like, the separate narrative less about a specific woman and more about the rotating doors of parallel realities. Who would I be there? Would I be any happier, more fulfilled, or the same man, different only in inconsequential ways, still unsatisfied?
“I’m kidding, Jay. Go home to your wife.”
When the waitress slapped down the bill, Nicki snatched it up.
“On me,” she said.
I hadn’t ordered anything.
We walked out of the diner together. I almost took her hand. Not like a boyfriend, but because I really did care about her; I did understand. Behind the tough g
irl front, someone vulnerable lurked, someone desperate to be understood, loved like the rest of us, someone who didn’t want to feel alone. But I didn’t grab her hand. I let the moment pass. The walk to her car didn’t take long. I had no time to regret the decision.
“I’m sorry, Jay.”
The apology didn’t register at first. Hell, I was sorry too. Another life and things might’ve been different between us. I could be honest with myself now, admit the feelings I had for her. But that’s not what she meant. If I’d been paying more attention, I would’ve noticed the fresh set of tire tracks and shiny black car with state plates now parked beside us. Then again if I’d been paying attention, I wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.
The back door pushed opened.
Michael Lombardi patted the seat beside him.
I turned to look for Nicki, but Nicki was already gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
ARMS REACHED AROUND me, hands patting me down. They found the steak knife, of course, Charlie’s keys, too, my disassembled phone parts and cigarettes. They let me keep the cigarettes.
The man pushed me into the back, before joining the driver up front.
I heard the doors lock.
Through the rear window, I saw Nicki sitting in the front seat of her Jetta. Our eyes met. She waved halfheartedly. The gesture came across as sincere.
Her car pulled away, heading south on the Turnpike. We followed out the parking lot, north, toward the mountain.
“I can’t believe I’m back here,” Michael Lombardi said. “Want to hear something funny? When I have to campaign up in these parts, I’ll hit Berlin, Pittsfield, even Twin Mountain. But I avoid this town like a bad habit. Not sure why. I have pleasant enough memories. Still want to forget them, though.” He turned to me. “I remember when your parents died in that car accident. It’s not the same, I know, losing a parent at my age, but I had a difficult time when my father passed last year. I can only imagine how rough that had to be for a boy your age. The rumors of your brother’s involvement. Even if we weren’t close growing up, I felt bad for you.”
Not close? This was the first conversation I’d had with Michael Lombardi my entire life.
“But your brother . . .” He let the somber phrase hang there. “Adam and he were such good friends because of the wrestling team. I’d see him around the house often. I could tell then something wasn’t right in his head. I didn’t learn about Chris’ exact troubles until much later.” He gazed over the Turnpike, the seedy thoroughfare that disrupted the illusion of quaint mountain living. “Maybe it’s not fair to blame this town. Families choose to stay for a reason. I guess I can appreciate the appeal. Country boys, mountain ridges and all of that. Maybe I just hate John Denver.”
Five minutes in the back of his car, I had yet to speak. What could I contribute to the conversation anyway? The scenario had already played itself out. I’d lost. Again.
“How do you know her?” I asked.
“Today was the first time we spoke.”
“What did Nicki give you?”
“Something I wanted.”
“You don’t want to tell me what?”
“Why would I? No offense.”
“I guess you were able to offer her the right price.”
“Any price is better than no price.”
“Bowman said—”
“I don’t care what Erik—the man you call Bowman—said, but I can tell you this about Erik. He’s an angry, spiteful man of limited intelligence. When Adam sold the company to help with my campaign, Erik was left out in the cold. My brother went out of his way—against my counsel—to land Erik a job with Tomassi. That wasn’t good enough for Erik, who felt I’d forced him out. Which I suppose I had. But you know politics. I couldn’t justify ex-gang members on the payroll. I wouldn’t put much stock in the words of a convicted felon.”
The car split off the Turnpike, spiriting along the frontage access of Orchard Road, pressing farther into the forest, swallowed by the dense thicket of rocky evergreen.
“Where are we going?”
No one answered. They didn’t need to. I knew where we were headed.
The mountain loomed large on the horizon. The driver hooked a left, angling up meandering dirt roads toward Lamentation Bridge and the treacherous Ragged Pass.
Michael caught my eye. “You know this is business, right? It isn’t personal.”
I wondered if the men up front were the same two cops who’d beat me senseless last week in Longmont. I decided they were not. Even though I hadn’t gotten a good look at any faces, these men carried themselves as a different kind of security. Whatever waited for me up on Lamentation would not be good, regardless of who sat in the driver’s seat.
The car motored along the rocky terrain, expensive shocks absorbing unpaved roads as we closed in on the southern rim of the mountain and thin ice of Echo Lake.
“We stopped by your motel room,” Michael said. “Didn’t find much. Looked like a transient had been staying there.”
“Didn’t you get what you needed from Nicki?”
“Let’s say I like to be thorough.”
I could feel the air turn thin and cold with the altitude, clouds sinking, skies darkening, heavy curtains drawing on the closing act. For a long time no one spoke, no one made a sound, the only noise the elegant purr of a finely tuned engine hardly inconvenienced by a hostile environment. Higher and higher we rose, until soon we sat parked on the water’s edge, slick sheen glistening off the surface.
The two men in front did not exit the car. This was bad. No secrets needed guarding. Nothing I said would be admissible. Because I wouldn’t be around later to corroborate. There would be no witnesses left behind.
“So those photocopies, Jay?”
“I gave everything I had to the press.”
“Really? You’re going with that one?”
“It’s the truth.” If this was game over, I had nothing to lose. Or hide. “Spoke to Jim Case this morning. Reporter for the Monitor? Went to his house in Pittsfield. Talked over coffee. He has it all. Selling kids to North River. Paying off Judge Roberts. The HUD projects your office pushed through. Shipping kids out of state. Inflating numbers. UpStart’s stake in erecting a new private prison. Everything. You and your brother are done.”
Michael smirked. But it wasn’t mean or filled with hate. I couldn’t place the emotion behind it until he shook his head, as if in admiration. “I told Adam he was wrong about you.”
I wasn’t sure which of the two had been defending my honor.
Michael stared out the window. I followed his gaze over the thin ice. This time of year, no one had to cut a hole. You walk far enough out on the ice and the ice would break, swallow you up, swirling black waters bringing you home.
“Your folks had their accident around here, didn’t they? And wasn’t this where you ran your brother and his drug dealer off the road?”
“Don’t you think it’ll look a little funny? I speak with a reporter at the Monitor, then go missing later that morning?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Jay. I’m on good terms with everyone on the Monitor staff. Including Jim Case. Nice guy. Solid reporter. You want to go around repeating the hearsay of a disgruntled former employee with confirmed gangland ties and a long criminal record? No one is taking that seriously.” He stared back out the window, casually carrying on pleasant conversation. “After what you went through last winter, would anyone really be surprised if, in your distraught state, you wandered up to this particular spot to grieve? I’m sure your doctor will confirm the pills, how much you’d been drinking, your wife leaving you, the final straw. Wandered too far from the safety of the shore. Misgauged the danger. Happens all the time.”
A car pulled behind us. Michael craned over his shoulder. I knew the news was only getting worse.
Doors opened. Arms reached in. I was pulled out. Michael Lombardi didn’t bother with goodbye. Like a slab of meat passed off
at the butcher’s. I wouldn’t be around to vote in November.
The men who walked toward me now did not wear uniforms, dressed in regular civilian clothes, expressionless. Though I hadn’t gotten a good look that night in Longmont, hadn’t logged a single distinguishing characteristic, I knew those cops had returned to finish the job. I remembered Chris telling me about waiting for “the Man.” How he’d keep looking, checking every pair of headlights, measuring the weight of footsteps. Pointless. When the Man comes around, you know.
Transaction completed, Michael’s security detail slipped back in the car, and the black, state-issued vehicle U-turned, exiting the way it’d come. Like they’d never been there at all.
“You’re all kinds of stupid, ain’t you, boy?” one of Longmont cops said.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said. “You can drive away, forget you ever saw me. I won’t say a word.”
“No. You won’t.”
“You guys are cops. You can’t just kill a man in cold blood.”
“Yeah. We can. Don’t you watch the news? And besides, we aren’t cops anymore. Not after today. This settles a debt. Then me and Bernstein here take a long trip out of state.”
“Seems to be a reoccurring theme,” I muttered.
The other one, Bernstein I guessed, told his partner to shut the fuck up. Or maybe that was meant for me. Not like anyone was bothering with introductions.
“He doesn’t need to know our travel plans.”
“Who’s he gonna tell?”
Bernstein appeared to be in charge, so I’d direct my plea to him. Soon as I opened my mouth, though, he unleashed a quick rabbit punch, short, compact, concentrated, just below the rib cage, a precision shot to the kidneys. My legs buckled, forcing me to a knee, gasping.
“Don’t waste your breath,” Bernstein said. “We told you to drop this. You didn’t listen. That’s on you. Let’s go.”
I winced up from the ground, wicked stitch in my side, sucking air. The sonofabitch had managed to find the same exact spot, reopening whatever internal wound he’d ruptured the first time. Just trying to breathe hurt.
“You have two choices,” Bernstein said. “One, you walk out onto the ice. Voluntarily. Like a man. Two, you stay on your knees like a chickenshit and I shoot you in the stomach. Then I drag you out on the ice, let you bleed out. No one’s coming up here. The ice will break. Eventually. You ever get shot in the stomach? You know what that feels like? You won’t die right away. But you’ll wish you did.”
