So, was Tennyson coming on to me … no, to Hannah … no … eh? I cleared my throat and downed half my beer.
“Let’s talk about something else.”
He gave me a curt nod. “I understand, and I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Manny it is, then.”
“Yeah, Manny it is.”
Was it?
Don’t get me wrong. We stayed there for a couple more hours, getting to know each other, him telling me what he expected from me from now on, and how, yes, I’d have to go through him with ideas instead of taking them all to Andrew directly — although that kind of flew in the face of our agreement, so Andrew and I would need to talk soon, I hoped — but that he was sure, like earlier in the conference room, that he and I would have a lot of similar ideas. This was just a measure to streamline the campaign, not a major change.
We also talked about where we came from and what we liked to eat, shared stories about brushes with politicians, him having more to say there than me, of course. Much better stories. Obama stories. Ted Cruz, Paul Ryan, Barney Frank stories. Shockers, let me tell you. Senator Barbara Boxer, Nancy Pelosi, Hillary. On and on.
I genuinely liked the guy. And did he reciprocate? Well, it wasn’t often you met someone sort of famous who took an instant liking to you, so I milked it and hoped I wasn’t screwing anything up, like meeting an actor or a novelist for the first time. This was a fanboy moment for me, and I was crushing it.
Then again, maybe that had less to do with my irresistible sex appeal than with the fact that I’d spent the day searching for Dylan, increasingly worried that he might be in serious danger, so I’d come to the bar ready for some drinks, ready to let my guard down. Whatever. It worked.
Tennyson paid for our drinks, even offered me a ride home, but I told him I would walk. It wasn’t far to the townhouse. Barely half a mile. Told him I’d see him tomorrow, shook his hand again, and left.
Feeling a little tingly.
Stop it, now. Just stop it.
Home. The townhouse would never feel like home. Nothing in it was really mine, but I suppose it all was. It wasn’t my style. The suits weren’t my size. The books were all boring, on subjects I didn’t care about — CrossFit, hunting, giant history books about Russia — or ones I should care about but, oh man, so dull — election law, right-wing opinion makers, transsexuality. At least the bed was comfy, the electronics were top notch, and in the basement parking garage, should I want to use it, sat a fully-loaded Lincoln MKS with hardly any miles on it.
And here I was, walking. All alone through the wind, cruel as April. It seemed to enjoy huffing and puffing at me, felt like it cut deeper than necessary to blow the fog of booze from my head. I hunched my shoulders, stuck my hands in my pockets, and hoped Dylan was okay, hoped he was just taking a well-deserved spur of the moment vacation, rather than something—
—I didn’t want to think about it.
No, the plan was to head home, microwave an Amy’s Indian tray, drink a lot of ice water to wash away the taste of craft beer, and search for every last bit of information on Tennyson Washington available online. I wanted to know him inside and out.
Bad choice of words. I cleared my throat. Tried again.
I wanted to know how he worked. I wanted to know his weaknesses. I wanted to know what made him such a successful campaigner that it didn’t matter what the candidate believed. I wanted to know about his wife or, hell, give him the benefit of the doubt, maybe his husband. I even wanted to know about his children if he had any. I’d never heard of any mentioned on TV appearances or in magazine profiles. He was good at keeping that part of his life out of public view.
I wanted to find out if this was a man who would make a play at a transwoman, knowingly. If he was straight, I’d guess yes. If gay, possible, but less likely. That’s right. Shemales were a straight man’s thing. Loads of evidence. Don’t shake your head.
Despite the chill, I started to giggle. There was something, if not funny, then at least faintly absurd about the most recent turn of events. Until a few months ago, no one in the upper echelons of Minnesota society wanted to meet Manny, and now my new boss wanted to meet Hannah? He wanted to see me in her wig, her dress, her shoes, her makeup? It was too much too soon. I needed to work on me. I was still changing, making sense of it all. This was not the sort of thing a person jumped into the deep end over.
Although, surely some checking around couldn’t hurt.
Yes, it could, and given my luck, it would.
No, no, it was harmless. It was the way people did things these days. Meet a person, like em, Google em. See what comes up.
Exactly.
Not that all this hair splitting mattered. If I had paid attention during those past few months, hell, if you had paid attention, you’d know that some clown always, always managed to throw a wrench into the works when I was trying to figure shit out
This time the clown’s name was Joel. He was sitting on my front step, conspicuous as, well, a clown on a front step. I slowed down as I approached, made him wait. Hadn’t heard a word from him for weeks, and now he shows up twice in one day. He was a different sight than in our cop days. Dark jeans over cowboy boots. Checkered shirt with big front pockets, like an outdoorsman, but a leather jacket over that. He’d been a slob before this security job, always in fatigues, sweatshirt, and a farm coat. But at least he was nice back then. I blamed Robin for the change in style and attitude.
“Where you been?” He stood, slid his hands into his back pockets.
“Out. How long you been waiting?”
“Hour. Two.”
“Could’ve called. You already forgotten my number? Seems like you have.”
“No hissy fits tonight. Let’s go.” He didn’t move.
“Hissy fits?” Always trying to provoke me. He wanted to give me a reason to hurl insults, then he would have a reason to turn up the tension. “Says the pussy-whipped soldier.”
“Marine.”
“Fuck you.”
A grin. “Come on.” He started for the end of the block, where he’d parked his Tahoe. He’d traded in his truck to get a new car for his younger brother, since we’d left the kid’s old one, borrowed while we were keeping a low profile from the police, totaled behind a convenience store in Minneapolis. Instead of getting himself a new truck, Joel just borrowed a Tahoe from the Marquette campaign, which was probably against some sort of law, but who cared? The paperwork said it was leased to yadda flim flam, and Joel was going to drive it until either the campaign was over or he totaled it. I was betting on the latter.
“You coming or what?” Tossed the question over his shoulder, charming.
“Can’t I get changed first?”
He kept on. “No, it’s Manny time. Manny comes along. Leave the bitch in her box.”
Why did I let him get away with that?
Probably because he was one of the biggest reasons I was able to be Hannah in the first place. He saved my life twice over.
So I followed.
No idea when Joel took up smoking cigars. Maybe he’d always chomped on those bad boys but just hadn’t had the opportunity around me, but now that he had a bad-ass Tahoe, black with reinforced windows, some cool new threads, a sound system streaming that album David Allen Coe made with Pantera, well, the giant cigar seemed right at home in his broad grin.
I waved the smoke from my face, coughed. You know the pantomime I’m talking about, the international gesture of You’re killing me.
I let my window down, but that just made all the smoke pass across my face.
“Would you stop it with the cigar? Please?”
“I’m driving.”
“Please! You’re the one who picked me up out of the blue. I don’t have to … give me that.” I grabbed for the cigar, but he was faster. Ash flicked off and onto his jeans, though. He swatted and swatted again and it just made more ash come off. The Tahoe swerved way left, then back into our lane.
“Shit, dude!”
> “Shit yourself.”
He lowered his window, though, then pointedly held the cigar out into the open air. Didn’t so much as glance at me. The only acknowledgement I got was a slight shake of the head. Millimeters. But I could tell. I noticed his hair was a little shiny, too. Robin had him using product. Ha, ha.
“Where are we going?”
He took another drag from the cigar, blew smoke. “You doing all right?”
“Why?”
Shrug. “Just asking. Just being polite.”
“Where are we going?”
He turned towards me, dead eyes. “I found something.”
“You found something?”
“It’s not good.”
Chills. “You’re not taking me to … like, see a body or something, right? Dylan’s body?”
“No, not that.”
“This isn’t a joke, either?”
Another cloud of smoke, out and away in the night air. He had us on a ramp up 94, which meant a longer than expected trip. Fine by me. I slumped in the chair and stretched my neck, listening to the wretched bro-metal.
“Robin doing good?”
“Yep.”
“Still poisoning you against me?”
His lip curled. “You did that all on your own.”
“For the record, I did not. I never turned on you.”
“I don’t care. Just shut up and let’s get this over with.”
“If that’s the way you feel, why didn’t you just text me? Or, shit, tape a note on my door.”
“Our phones? You think they can’t listen in on our calls?”
“Paranoid. Who’s they, anyway?”
“Our own campaign people. Thorn. The new one, the black guy. Andrew himself.”
I thought about it. “I don’t buy it.”
“I wanted to keep this off the radar for now. You can tell me if it’s worth making a fuss. If you say it is, then we do. If not, we keep it between ourselves.”
“Why not tell Thorn?”
He took in more toxic smoke, blew out a gray stream that spilled out the open window like exhaust fumes. Definitely some funky tobacco rolled up there. Finally, a quick sideways glance, even met my eye for a split second. “He doesn’t like me. I almost killed his partner.”
“But we explained that—”
“Doesn’t matter. His partner’s still having a hard time, nearly bled out. Arm is all fucked. And now Thorn has to work with me. He’s getting on with the job, but I watch every word around him. And I try never to have my back to him.”
“Seriously?”
A curt nod. “As for you, I fucking hate you. Doesn’t matter what gender you end up picking, you just manipulate the hell out of people. You use your friends. You’re a sociopath.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Even then, I still trust you. Especially when it comes to this sort of thing.”
“What sort of thing?”
He went quiet. Another minute or two of David Allen Coe and Pantera, the soundtrack from hell, and I don’t mean that in a good, AC/DC kind of way. But fuck him and his music. I stared out the window. The dark rolling by. Planes descending into MSP. I finally realized where we were going.
Started to say it, but Joel raised his hand. “Never know who’s listening in company cars.”
A warning as veiled as they come, but paranoia is a contagious disease, so we rode the rest of the way to the Mall of America in silence.
It’s huge, this mall. Four stories, not counting the basement levels that shoppers weren’t allowed to access. Plus all those huge corner department stores, and every type of shop in-between, as long as you want upscale brand clothing. Or an expensive watch. Look, it’s a mall. A big mall, but a mall. It just happens to have a roller coaster in the middle of it.
But we weren’t headed towards the stores or the thick flow of humanity clogging the arteries between them. Instead, we were circling the parking ramp on the north side, upwards and upwards, until we reached the second to last floor, only sporadically filled at this time of night.
And there it was, all by itself against the outer wall, not far from the elevator, Dylan’s 2002 Volkswagen Jetta. It was spotless, rustless. Dylan had taken care of this baby — looked like it had just left the showroom that same day. I had barely noticed it before, but now, under the dim parking garage lights, the polished forest-green paint job shone like a work of art. We parked a good ten spots away, because of course there were cameras everywhere and we didn’t need to rouse suspicion. We sat in the Tahoe and watched for a good ten minutes, maybe more.
“How’d you find it?”
“I’m a fucking genius.”
“No, really.”
Both of us kept our eyes on the rear and side view mirrors, in case Dylan came back for it.
“I found some receipts in the kitchen. I think he likes it here. Some ticket stubs for the rides. Tiger Sushi. Another sushi joint. The guy liked sushi.”
“And Thorn doesn’t know?”
“I grabbed a pile while he was in the bedroom; you were standing there with a thumb in your mouth.”
“Hangnail.”
“Whatever. I have my reasons for not sharing everything with my partner.” Spat the word out like it was dirty.
I nodded. Easy to guess what those reasons were. Like he’d said, him and Thorn were a forced partnership. Funnily enough, so had ours been at first. Or the whole time, yeah, depending on your point of view. As long as he kept his mouth shut and let Thorn lead him, Joel was a sure thing. But if he started thinking on his own, Thorn might well see that as a threat. Anyway, what did that have to do with him finding Dylan’s car? I asked him.
“Found it a few hours ago. Watched it for a half-hour. Then came to get you.”
“Why? Why didn’t you just—”
He opened his door, slid a slim jim from under his seat, and got out. “I’m going to unlock it. You’re going to get in like it’s yours.”
“Why bother? There’s cameras, right? Someone’s going to see us do it.”
“What are they going to do? Come on. Minimum-wage security guards. They’re probably watching porn on their phones.”
He slammed the door. Walked off again without waiting for me. I took a few deep breaths. Closed my eyes. Muttered, “S’okay, s’okay, s’okay.” Giggled. But then I got out like a good little helper.
Windier and colder up here than on the ground. In another month it would be seasonable, halfway through spring. I tucked my arms together and watched Joel jimmy the lock, easy, and open the driver’s door. He leaned in, then recoiled. Waved me off. Nearly threw up, then managed to mutter, “Oh, shit.”
I had a look myself.
First thing that registered: the smell.
Second thing: all that blood.
3
“So now we know the Mall isn’t monitoring its cameras, at least not tonight. Told you so.” Joel had a flashlight, leaning in the passenger side, checking the backseat, trying to keep away from the blood that had pooled across both front seats. The papers scattered on the floorboards were soaked, curled up into faded sponges. The blood was everywhere. On the seats, the floorboards, the steering wheel, the center console, the dash, the windshield. And now in my nose. “I’m going to be sick.”
I pulled out and took a deep breath, retreated to the half-wall that overlooked the parking lot. At the far edge, I caught a glimpse of the giant IKEA store. Another plane landing across the way at MSP. The smell from the blood, pungent. Even at a distance. I had to huff through my mouth a few times to get the smell and taste out. It hadn’t congealed yet. More watery than blood should be, but that was blood. I was sure of it.
Joel joined me at the wall. “How much should we be, like, touching stuff in the car?”
“Not at all. Not one thing. We’re already … no, no, no.” Hung my head, rested it on the cool concrete. “I’ve got to call him.”
“Marquette?”
I was about to say yes, then remembered the
most recent reshuffle of his campaign team. “The new guy. Tennyson. Everything goes through him now.”
“Like fuck. That wasn’t the deal.”
“Oh, please. Did you really think he’d stick to the deal? Not all of it, surely?”
“Listen.” He turned towards me. In my personal space. “This isn’t the sort of deal he can back out of. We’re the worst thing that could happen to him in this election. Call Andrew. And do it now. You’ve got his number. You think he won’t answer?”
Of course he was right. Of course. Andrew Marquette had a reason to take any call I made to him. I was one of the few people to know what actually happened to his brother Hans, the few who knew that she had actually been his sister Hannah. I was the one he asked to murder the chief officer of the Duluth police department, and I had promised to keep quiet about all of it as long as he stuck to the deal.
So I dialed the Senator.
Within ten minutes, we were swamped with police, ambulance, fire-rescue, and forensics. They’d pushed us off to the edges of the crime scene, behind the tape. Not a word was said about our breaking into Dylan’s car. It reminded me of the time my own car had been rifled through, Paula taking a receipt from my backseat to write me a cryptic message that, once deciphered, led me to her. Without her, we wouldn’t have found Hannah’s killer. But we also wouldn’t have gotten fired from the Duluth police, and Joel wouldn’t have shot Thorn’s partner. Neither of us would be working for the Senator. Chances are we’d have still been on traffic duty, still hating each other’s guts, and I would most likely still be Manny — confused, repressed, and unexposed to the doc’s photos of post-op vaginas.
Sitting in the back of the Tahoe, doors wide open, Joel and I were getting sleepy in spite of the spinning squad lights. My clothes, a sweaty mess. My face, I could just feel the crud of the day drying across my cheeks. There was nothing for us to do except answer the same questions every time a new officer or detective found their way over to us. I wasn’t sure if it was just some interrogation technique to make sure our stories stayed the same, or if they really didn’t bother coordinating their questioning because each one wanted to take the lead on the case.
Castle Danger--The Mental States Page 3
