Fresh Kills

by Bill Loehfelm

  “When did you find this out?” I asked.

  “Last night,” Waters said. “That’s why I missed the wake.”

  “You were arresting the shooter?” Julia said.

  Waters stared at his hands again. “All I’ve got is information. Like where to find the shooter’s body out at the Dump.”

  “Another accident?” I asked.

  “He won’t be missed,” Waters said.

  “You said it was a hit,” I said. “That means somebody gave an order.” I stepped to Waters, Jimmy grabbed my arm. “What about him?”

  Waters looked dead at me. “It’s being looked into. It’s being taken care of. It may have been already.” He looked away from me, at Julia. “Look, there are people out there who feel real bad about this. You know how some people are about family. You two won’t have any trouble selling the house, for a good price. Scalia’s gonna get paid. You give me an okay to pass along, Julia, and I don’t think you’ll need to worry about your school loans. With your permission, there are a number of things that can be done, easily, to help make your loss a little easier to endure.”

  “I don’t want anybody’s blood money,” Julia snapped. “You tell your friends I said that.”

  “They’re not my friends,” Waters snapped back. He paused, gathering himself. “For the record, I demanded the guy who gave the order be handed over to me.”

  “And?” Julia asked.

  “And I got laughed at. Quietly, gently even, but I got laughed at. These people are way beyond my reach. I’m lucky I got what I did.”

  This was a humiliating conversation for him, I realized, playing message boy for charitable gangsters. That was why he had wanted to have the conversation alone. I felt bad for making it harder on him than it already was.

  “I appreciate the effort,” I said.

  Waters didn’t acknowledge me. He just stared at the floor, looking disgusted. “There’s no debts incurred with any of this,” he said. “You don’t have to talk to or deal with anyone. All the choices are yours.” He dabbed again at the sweat on his brow. “Including how this ends.”

  Molly brought him a cup of ice water. He thanked her. She sat on the edge of the couch, Jimmy on one side of her, Rose on the other. Julia walked to my side.

  “Walk me to the car,” Waters said to me.

  I looked at Julia.

  “Give me five more minutes of your time,” he said.

  I squeezed Julia’s hand and followed Waters into the hall, closing the apartment door behind me. His eyes looked everywhere but at me.

  “So, you’re gonna sell the house,” he said.

  “As soon as possible,” I said. “We want to sell it cheap, to a family with a pack of kids that needs a break.”

  “That’s a kind gesture,” Waters said. He coughed into his fist. He still couldn’t look at me.

  “C’mon, Detective,” I said. “You didn’t ask me out here to talk about real estate.”

  “There is one more thing,” he said. He reached under his jacket. I heard him unsnap his shoulder holster. “What happens next will never leave this hallway. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  He held out my gun. “My returning this to you is in no way connected to what I’m about to tell you.”

  “Understood.” I took the gun from him. The weight of it pulled at my shoulder when I dropped my hand to my side.

  “Arrangements can be made,” Waters said, “for you to spend a moment or two alone with the man who called in the hit.” He handed me a slip of paper. I took it in my other hand. “Call this number by ten tonight if you’d like to have that meeting.”

  I squeezed the handle of the gun. I looked at the number. “By ten,” I said.

  “If that’s what you really want to do.”

  I thought of the man who’d made the call, sitting in a room, in a single chair, maybe on the edge of a bed, chain-smoking, guards behind him at the door, counting down the last hours of his life. Would whoever held him let him hear the phone call? I thought of him, sitting there, waiting for me. Not knowing who I was, where I was coming from. Only that I was coming for him.

  I’d wanted so bad, back at the beginning, to put my eyes and hands on the man who shot my father. But that man was dead. Now I was being offered the man who made it happen. Whether or not I made that call, no matter who finally put the bullet in him, that man would never see the sun rise. Both men were dead as my father. I looked at the gun in my hand, wondering if I could really kill a man. I’d sworn to myself a thousand times I wanted to kill my father. But I knew now I’d never meant it. Could I really kill a man? Jimmy had asked me at the beach. I thought, even now, that maybe I could. It made me sick. Was that a question I really needed to answer?

  What I knew or didn’t know, did or didn’t do, wouldn’t change anything. When that guy died, or even if he somehow lived, nothing would change. I looked over my shoulder, at the apartment door, and then at the gun in my hand. Staring at the gun, I could feel Julia, and Molly, and Jimmy and Rose, waiting for me on just the other side of that door.

  We’d made our way to the end of this thing. It was over. The old man was dead and buried. Jimmy was with me. Molly was with me. Julia was with me. The war, the violence, was over for good. Unless. Unless I started it up again. Unless I embraced it again, now in a way maybe worse than ever. Unless I picked up the violence and all that came with it again and carried it all with me, where it would find its way into Julia’s life, and into Molly’s and Jimmy’s life, and Rose’s. Until they, one by one, were all gone. And what then would become of me?

  As it had been all along, the choice was mine. I held, as I always had, the answer in my hands.

  “Detective, if you speak with your associates again, tell them Julia and I appreciate their generosity, but we decline.” I crumpled the paper in my fist and dropped it at my feet. I handed him back the gun. “I politely decline all their offers.”

  Waters took the gun, tucking it under his jacket. He nodded.

  “Tell them that we’ve made our peace with our father’s passing,” I said. I backed toward the door. “I gotta go. My sister and my friends are waiting for me.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  THE LIST OF PEOPLE who helped this book and its author into their present state could go on for quite a long time. I can’t mention everyone, but there are some who cannot go unnamed. Apologies to those whose names I have omitted.

  Big love to the families McDonald, Murphy, Loehfelm, and Lambeth; especially to my dad for taking me to those Saturday-morning writing classes; thanks to Barbara Baracks, my first writing teacher, and to Stevie D’Arbanville, my first muse. Props to Doug Bailey for always being there, no matter what. You are a great man.

  Thanks also to Jerry and the staff of Rue de la Course, where I wrote most of this book. Thanks to Bruce, Sue, and the mighty crew at Lucy’s Retired Surfers Bar for coming home and sticking it out. Make it rain. To Darrin, Cali, Sarah, Jeff, Justin, and Kevis—live the dream.

  Love to my New Orleans tribe: Joseph and Amanda Boyden, for support, advice, and vacations, and for keeping the faith when mine wavered; Jarret Lofstead, Joe Longo, and everyone at nolafugees.com and the International House of Jolson for a voice, a lot of laughs, and a healthy dose of perspective; the UNO MFA crew, including but not exclusive to Arin, Dave, Chrys, Sarah and Simon, Jen and Jeremy, Neil, Matt and Rakia, Adam and Ashley, as well as Rick Barton, Joanna Leake, and the late Jim Knudsen for giving us a place to let the freak flag fly.

  A raised lighter to Vince Booth, for helping me keep my head on straight and for the gift of music.

  Deep, deep gratitude to Matt Peters, a fine writer and reader whose input was invaluable in my writing this book. Thanks also to Barb Johnson and Dr. John Cooke for great advice.

  Thanks to Parkview Tavern, Balcony Bar, Pals, and Handsome Willy’s for putting up with us. Fine establishments all.

  A toast to my home, the invincible city of New Orleans, Louisiana, and her
brave, fierce people. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be. Geaux Saints.

  Sláinte to the members of U2. Thanks for twenty-two years (and counting) of hope and Big Ideas.

  To Chris Pepe, my editor, and the staff at Penguin, and to Barney Karpfinger, my agent. All a man can ask for is a shot— thanks for helping me take mine.

  Last but not least, all my love to my great treasure and the best writer I know, AC Lambeth, my extraordinary wife. You are my strength and inspiration. You are my great love. My soul bows, humble, grateful, and joyous, before you.