A familiar looking car passed by as the street light changed.
I almost waved.
Tony did.
Exhaust odor cloaked us.
Okinawa’s tropical aromatic blend hid the smog of a million automobiles. Here, one car could choke you out. My thoughts turned to Nansi and my children standing on the green, green grass of the other side of the world. Where I’d left them.
The wind buffeted me sideways.
“Remember my suspension from high school?” Tony said as we crossed the street.
I nodded.
“Dixon backing me, trying to keep my parents from blowing a gasket?”
I watched our reflection walk with us in the hardware store window. “Didn’t you spend that weekend with a hand trowel?”
“Hey, I’m just saying, your dad had a heart for this half-breed Messican kid.” Tony laughed.
“And your folks got a refinished driveway.”
“Could have been the whole art shed.”
“Art studio,” I remembered out loud. All this brick and timber connected with my skin like we had the same DNA. I couldn’t decide whether I should soak it in or run like hell.
“It was a shed, man. Yard tools stored next to Dad’s sculpting iron.” Some of Tony’s glee slid away with the comment.
“Just saying.”
“Yeah, well your old man, he treated me better than some.”
I remembered. Dixon nodding his head at Tony’s parents, understanding how it was to raise a teenage boy, letting them know he’d keep Tony busy enough to stay out of trouble. Dixon the rebel, defying my comprehension. Tony his dissenting sidekick. That affinity had escaped me as a teenager. I just thought Dixon liked Tony better.
We hiked a city block in silence.
Tony spoke again. “He broke up that fight, man.”
“Yeah.” Sixth grade, up against the chain-link fence, facing off with six football players. And Dixon, my anti-hero dad, rolling by in his Toyota Corona, right on cue.
“We’d have been killed. Tag-teamed by those bruisers. Worse than the Central American jungle, Dude.”
The moment felt like I’d never left. Nights of beer and Tony. My guitar and a campfire. And Jasia. Some other girls now and then. Mostly good memories.
We stopped in front of the Montana Bar.
“I think he just didn’t want to lose the help at the shop, buddy.”
Tony hooted. “Good point. Hadn’t thought of that.” He did an about face and strode inside.
I blew a white breath at the world. I had run off. Left them all behind. Not Tony. Everybody knew Tony would be back. I never planned to return to this two-horses-and-a-wagon burg, where my best hope was the E-Z Deals Auto legacy. I didn’t fit into those stories of Dixon Pierce the way Tony told them. It chafed me that I’d often plotted my father’s death, while Tony saw him as the best part of America.
Tony stuck his head back into the wind. “Coming?”
I stood for a moment, the frigid Montana air slicing into my bones. I had wanted Dixon Pierce out of my life. Now he was out. The icy wind reminded me of my heart, my selfish heart, and how it had led me down a narrow corridor of egotism. The same hallway my dad had taken. If I didn’t find a doorway out of there, I’d be on a morgue slab at fifty-six with nothing left behind but a family of strangers and a worn pair of boots.
I tramped into the bar after my friend, Johnny Law.
Tony did the talking. I held back near the entrance. The bartender slash landlord peeked over at me, then nodded to my friend. Tony came back like a soldier on a mission.
We headed outside to a side door leading upward to the apartment where Dixon Pierce had died an early death.
CHAPTER FOUR
Back In Time
Stepping into my father’s death scene roiled my breakfast.
A red and green oval rag-rug served as a welcome mat. I planted myself on it and let my head settle on its hinges. The place smelled too old for use, dank with the beginnings of mold. Clouds of breath punctuated my survey of the mundane and deadly scene.
Tony moved toward a worn, jade green couch, keeping one eye on me.
Mortality clasped its hands around my neck, restricting my breath. The soles of my shoes felt woven into the handmade rug.
My friend investigated the neatly arranged, dark wooden coffee table. “You want to try this another time?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
I took a labored breath. “I’m sure,” I said, creating a cloud of vapor that covered the scene.
It dissolved like a stage curtain lifting for the second act.
“Tell me what happened.”
Tony half-turned and pointed at my feet. “Well, they found his body on the rug there, where you’re standing.”
A shot of adrenaline expanded my chest. Here? Blood rushed into my brain and forced my eyes wide open. I sucked a lung full of the stagnate air, jumped sideways onto the bare, white tiles and banged into a 1970s almond colored, thirteen inch television perched on a rickety bookshelf. Grabbing for balance, I latched onto the TV by one antenna, accidentally preventing its crash to the floor while balancing on the edge of my foot.
Tottering, a drunken acrobat in a macabre three-ring act, my vision blurred with the unstable environment. Water stains on the ceiling blended with the earth tones of the television, swirling into the greens and reds of the floor rug. My perspective slipped from the definite to the boundless. Stomach acid primed for vomiting.
Tony was speaking. “Detective Frieze had weekend duty that Sunday morning.”
The room began to steady at the sound of his voice. My leg rocked into balance.
“He gets a call.”
I got my other foot on the ground, and used the improvised TV stand and tiny viewing appliance to make the third leg of my triad. A hard swallow restrained the rising bile.
“Akira, mechanic from the dealership, says he found Dixon Pierce lying on the floor of his apartment and he looks dead, but he’s not going to touch him.”
“Sounds like you memorized the report.”
“Guilty.” He walked over and squatted beside the rug, peering into it.
I lifted my hands gingerly from the little television, and squatted next to him, placing one palm on the floor. Its cool temperature calmed my stomach. “Looking for clues?”
“There’s some kind of stain here.” He bent closer for a sniff of the discoloration. His head popped back. “Damn! Smells like dog shit.”
I leaned over a bit. The strong odor sent a spasm into my gut. I choked it back. “You’re right. Dog shit.”
I steadied my crouch with one hand on a record collection Dixon had arranged below the stereo turntable. My fingers became aware of them before I recognized their essence.
A vinyl library. Dixon with a record collection.
The idea of it surprised me. Music appreciation was too cultured for the man I knew. Realizing this part of my father twisted my emotional temper a tiny bit. I pulled a cardboard sleeve free and ran my hand over the aged cover.
“Seems like he was a pretty clean guy,” Tony said. “But this stinking oil stain. Anyway, I’m always in trouble for complicating a simple—”
“Check out these old records.” I slipped the one I held back into place and flipped through the others. “Hank Williams, the senior, Johnny Cash, the Carter Family, and some Tennessee Williams. Wow!” I pulled one out to double check its cover. “A Coltrane album. This is an odd bird, jazz saxophone mixed with cowboy stuff.”
Tony cleared his throat. “You wanted to hear this, right?”
I jerked my head up. The room went wonky. “Huh?”
“The discovery? You want to know what the report says?”
Focusing on Tony’s scowl helped settle the angry stomach fluids. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry. It’s just weird is all. This mixture of styles.”
“Frieze gets here,” Tony continued, shunning interest in anything artistic. “Calls the coroner, the sher
iff actually, who says it’s probably a heart attack from the looks of things, maybe around midnight to 2 a.m. They cover his naked body. And then they call the squad up to move—”
“Whoa!” An image of a nude, bluish-white Dixon hurtled into my visual cortex. Cold fingers clapped over my shoulders sending a shiver up my spine and into my ears. “Naked?”
Tony’s eyebrows lifted and his mouth became a perfect O. “Whoops. Sorry, dude. They probably didn’t mention that to the family. He was ah, lying here naked when they found him.”
Another shudder of disgust wracked my torso. Suppress. Suppress. “Alright. Forget it.” I concentrated on the next record in the stack of albums. Porter Waggoner. “I probably don’t want to know any of that junk right now.” I used my fingers to trace the sweep of Porter’s hair. “What did they say about this Akira finding the body? Seems an odd name. Indian?”
“Frieze checked it out, far as I know. He’s generally pretty thorough. I can ask, but the guy worked for your dad and just happened to be the one to find him. Think he’s Asian. You know, for the image at the dealership.”
“Time?”
Tony glanced at his watch. “Almost 4.”
“They didn’t find him until four? In the afternoon?”
“Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head firmly. “This mechanic discovered the body at six in the morning.”
I looked directly at Porter’s face smiling up from the album cover. “Then why’d you tell me four?” My voice sounded as flat as my brainwaves.
“Hey, I’m sorry, Connor.” His tone was gentle, a near whisper. “I’m just trying to make this as quick and easy as possible for my friend.”
Somewhere out of the confounded warp of my mind it occurred to me that it was about four o’clock in the afternoon at the very point in time we now stood. “Why did I forget that?” I mumbled.
“You alright, Pard?” Tony interrupted. “We can scratch this attempt. Try again later?”
I shook it off, wondering at the same time why I was here, what was the point of it all. Dixon is dead. “No. Tell me what you know.”
“Alright.” More direct now, like the cop he was. “This Akira fella, who worked for your dad, discovered the body at approximately six a.m. on Sunday morning.”
“Naked?” The word tasted bad in my mouth.
“And no longer ashamed.”
The commentary rattled me out of the stupor I’d fallen into. I laughed. “Bit crude, Deputy.”
Tony ducked the tip of his hat. He was a master of coy. “Sorry. Sort of slips out. Dead humor, Sheriff Crandall calls it.”
“So this all happened early on a Sunday morning?” I asked, slipping Porter back into place and fingering through another ten albums. “That seem a little early to you?” I kept Tony in my peripheral vision, both to maintain gastric stability and to make sure he wasn’t pulling some cute cop-keeps-a-secret-thing. My military police friends told me they were trained to act ignorant in order to keep involved parties off guard. How to win friends and hasten evidence discovery. Would Tony do that to me?
“Good point.” He remained bent forward, eyeing the hooks in the rug. His face was twisted with confusion. “I’ll press Frieze on Akira, find out what he thinks. He’ll probably ream me for sticking my nose in it though. You’ll owe me.”
“I’ll buy you a steak.” My stomach spun at the visual image of red meat. I clenched my teeth. “Did they do an autopsy or medical exam or something?” I stood slowly and the room went loose. I leaned my forehead on the stereo cabinet.
“You okay?” Tony was beside me.
“I’ll be aw-ight.” The aging odor of the room reminded me of death. “Give me a minute.”
Tony turned to the bookshelf beside me and fingered several of the ten or fifteen volumes there. “Some car books here. Mostly architectural books. Your dad liked this stuff?”
“Secret passion. Dreamed of building his own Parthenon.” The coolness of the shelf against my forehead was wearing off. “Like the one in Nashville. Wanted to make a tourist trap out of Miles.”
“They’ve got a Parthenon in Nashville?”
“He always talked about taking the family. When we were younger.” I peeked over my arm at the books, recalling Dixon’s fervent planning. “Before Mom booted him.” The acidic memory of dead promises plummeted into my gullet.
“They really have a Parthenon in Nashville?” His eyebrows pinched together and pulled his ears higher. “Where they make records and stuff?”
“I don’t know if they make records there.” Bile threatened to heave upward.
“In Nashville?”
“At the Parthenon in Nashville.” I swallowed the acid back down. “I think it’s like a museum or something.”
“Smart-ass.”
I chuckled like a dying chicken. “You don’t care about art stuff, anyway, Tony. Remember?”
“Oh.” He turned to face the room. “Coroner’s report said he had dinner and booze around 8 p.m., and um, well the alcohol wasn’t the best thing for him… under the circumstances.”
Rancor rose into my throat. “Spit it out, Tony.”
“Amphetamines.”
“Pills?” My finger rested on the forty-five sitting on the turntable. “Dixon Pierce on pills.” I shook my head.
“Could be something else.” His tone sounded hopeful.
I frowned.
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. Thanks for trying, though.”
I absently spun the record on the turntable with one finger, mesmerized by the rainbow colored label. The artist and title came into focus simultaneously.
Patsy Cline. I Fall to Pieces.
I gasped. Lifting the needle with one hand, I pushed the power switch.
The words disappeared in a blur of red, green, and yellow.
I placed the needle in the first groove.
The sound system crackled for a second. The metallic slide of steel guitar opened the room.
I slid with it. The sound caged me. Closing my eyes, I let Patsy’s whiskey rich tones begin a gentle ride through the first stanza. I… fall… to pieces…, each time I see… you… again. Her voice locked me in time, tracing the melodic crumbling of her heart. You want… me to act… like we’ve… never kissed. You want me… to forget.
The lyrics tugged at my own loss, reaching beneath the brash facade to dredge a memory. Dixon on a sandbar. Smiling brightly, his day-old whiskers warm and rough against my cheek. Strong arms guided my first cast across sparkling water. The bobber bounced and settled, sunlight glittering off of the ripples it created. And something else, another feeling even deeper, that I couldn’t quite capture.
“What’s up?” Tony leaned over me, peering at the twirling disk.
His breath on my cheek brought me out of the reverie. “A surprise.” Patsy’s lyrical lament nearly drowned my words..
I’ve tried… and I’ve tried…, but I haven’t yet… You walk by… and I—
I bumped the power switch off and placed the needle in its armrest.
“Sad song,” Tony said.
I lifted the record, dangling it by its edge. “Unbelievable.” Four impossible words echoed in my brain. I fall to pieces. “This is what killed him,” I said, staring at the mystical title curving around the label. “He hated Patsy Cline more than he hated Richard Nixon.”
“What’s it doing here, then?” Tony reached around me to steady the disc and verify my discovery. His arm rested on my shoulder.
The move should have secured the room. Instead, my head reeled. An incomprehensible vision of my old man, sprawled naked on the floor, with some young what’s-her-name from The 600 Café or the bar downstairs dancing seductively to the hated Patsy Cline song dominated my thoughts. The edges of the world faded to a dark blur. “I think I’m going to be sick.” I dropped the record and began to slide south.
Tony reached beneath my armpit and dipped under my opposite arm. He grabbed my coat’s cuff and lifted me.
We turned gently away from the stereo. “In here,” my friend commanded.
A small opening appeared beside the bookcase. Reaching blindly, I stumbled forward. All of space stretched before me and I was tumbling into it.
Tony’s grip tightened. “It’s the bathroom, dude! Calm down.”
I leaned on him for another step.
“Easy, bud.”
We rode an elevator to lower ground. Light broke through and revealed the shape of a toilet in front of me.
Tony released me.
I crumbled beside the porcelain chin rest. My vision cleared, even as vomit prepared for launch. I tipped up the seat cover.
Black stains lined a bowl filled with murky brown water.
“Crap!” I shoved off with hands and toes, managing a rising turn to the sink behind me even as I wretched in its tiny bowl. Stomach clenched and heaved. Partially digested coffee, toast and eggs gagged me, burning their way up my throat and into my nasal passages.
The grotesque concoction coated the sink.
I coughed and choked.
“Just like high school, eh, bud?” Tony said.
Catching a breath, I grunted my remaining civility as I turned on the faucet. Holding each nostril in turn, I blew hard to clear the sting from my nose.
Tony chuckled. “You are disgusting, brother.”
An icy splash of water onto my face sent a shudder into my upper back. It seemed to release me from the nausea. “That was nasty,” I managed.
Tony tucked a stiff towel under my arm.
I scraped my face with it. Using my free hand as a makeshift cup, I rinsed the residue from my mouth and spit into the bowl. “No drain plug. I wonder if my party-monger father modified the sink for this very purpose.”
“Man!” Tony stood beside the toilet. “This is pretty gross.”
“Nobody mentioned that?” I asked.
“Not to me. But it wouldn’t be my business, anyway. Especially with Frieze working the case.” He turned around and looked me over. “You’re good?”
“I’ll make it.”
Murder of the Prodigal Father Page 4
