Glory Days

by Irene Peterson

  “I most certainly do. This one,” he stuck his finger at the blonde on the left, “was Tammy. Tammy Lundquist . . . yeah, that was her name. The two of ’em were sorority sisters somewhere. I can’t think of it now, but give me some time . . . I have a mind like a steel trap.”

  John sipped at his drink. George waved to the bartender. This time John passed his hand over his glass; the bartender nodded but poured George another. After a chug, George brightened.

  “University of Delaware. Both of ’em. Tammy and . . . Tammy and Bunny! That’s her name. This one on the left—her name was Bunny. Bunny something. Bunny, Bunny something. Let me think. Historical. Why am I thinking president? Real WASP, that I know for sure. Give me some more time and I’ll remember.”

  John fumbled for change, hiding his impatience. He’d gotten one name and a small lead and possibly part of another name. Not bad. Suddenly he wanted to get into the Jeep and get back to his computer.

  “Thanks, Geo. I gotta get goin’. Say hi to Beth and thank her for me, okay?”

  As John rose from the stool, George stopped him with a hand on his sleeve. “Beth, she doesn’t know about that summer, you know, Bourbon? She’s a good wife and I love her. She wouldn’t understand about what went on that summer. Hell, she’s given me three beautiful, smart daughters and the woman is a saint. Times have been rough over the years, and I’ve been in and out of work at the refinery, but she’s always been there for me. God, I love her. She might not understand how wild I was, if you know what I mean.”

  John knew. “I didn’t mention anything to her, Geo. The past is past. Look, I’m not even on a case. Just found this picture stuck in a book, can you believe it, and couldn’t remember the names of those women. I had to come down from Newark and figured I’d stop by to see you. That’s all. We have to get together . . . all of us. Maybe stop in and see Dutch some day soon.”

  Realization hit George at the mention of Dutch’s name. He nodded vigorously. “How’s he doin’? Anything?”

  John shook his head. “I can’t tell. It was never very good. Some days are better than others.”

  “Maybe I’ll get down on a good day. Yeah, maybe I’ll drive down this weekend and pay him a visit.”

  John rested his hand on his old friend’s shoulder. “Yeah, he’d like that.” Tossing a five on the bar, he nodded reassuringly at his drunken friend and left.

  Jesus, please don’t let him be Carly’s father!

  Chapter 11

  Linden, New Jersey, has to be one of the ugliest towns in the state. No, John reconsidered, not just the state. Maybe the entire East Coast. What with the oil refineries and the trucks and the chemical plants and the turnpike and Route One. Man, everything looked decidedly dirty and worn out. Even the quickie motels along the highway looked drab despite their neon and thirty-year-old attempts to clean up.

  He’d never understand why there were so many houses in the town.

  He’d grown up less than twenty miles away, but he’d had clean air to breathe and green grass on the lawns in summer. The leaves on the trees stayed green, too, until mid September.

  In Linden, even though the trees were bare now, when the leaves came out, they’d be gray in no time.

  He pulled onto the parkway and headed south. The drive from Linden back to Asbury Park, past the huge steel tanks filled with refined gasoline that fed the East Coast with fuel, took just long enough for John to think, to put things in some sort of order. So far, he’d spoken with three of the five possibles on Carly’s list. Discounting himself because he could, he’d spoken with a priest, an invalid and a drunk. Any one of them could have been the kid’s old man.

  The thought left a bad taste in John’s mouth. A priest. What good would he do as a father? Mike took his vow of poverty very much to heart. Celibacy, too. As far as John knew, Mike didn’t slip away without his collar. If he did, well, it would be easy to understand, but somehow, John didn’t think it happened. Ever. As for how the man handled that situation, that essential drive, Jesus, he didn’t want to think about that at all. A sacrifice of that magnitude ought to guarantee expiation of all mortal sins in a man’s past, present and future. Not getting laid, ever again. The thought boggled the mind!

  No. Mike would keep his vows. But what if he had a child? What would he be able to do for her? Would he be forced to quit being a priest?

  As straight up as Mike was, he probably would. But how would he support a child? What kind of job would an ex-priest be able to get? Used car salesman? Telemarketer? Jesus! Did Mike know how to use a computer?

  He didn’t want it to be Mike. Mike was one of the good guys, after all. Never hurt a fly. Always did the right thing. Always.

  Would he quit the priesthood for his own kid?

  The Parkway stretched, rutted and black, ahead of him. He grumbled as he guided the Jeep over the Driscoll Bridge that spanned the mouth of the Raritan River. When were they ever going to finish the new lanes? He drove carefully in the middle, avoiding the potholes while also avoiding looking over the side at the murky water far below. He shuddered, hating this part of the trip.

  Okay, okay. Dutch. He didn’t like to think about Dutch too hard. Dutch and his wife had never had kids. In the beginning, his partner had worried that it might be his fault, wondering and afraid that he might be shooting blanks. Idiotic things you talked about and confessed while on surveillance cooped up in a car for hours at a time. But, no, it wasn’t Dutch.

  He stopped at the toll booth and handed the guy a single. The old guy smiled and placed his change directly into his hand. John nodded, wondering what the hell kind of life it was, standing in a booth not big enough to hold a chair and a human being, for eight hours a day, sucking in polluted air all that time. A gas chamber might be bigger. He stepped on the accelerator.

  One night while observing the action coming and going from a small mom and pop store that sold bootleg videos, Dutch had told him that Barb didn’t want children. After one scare, she’d had her tubes tied so she couldn’t get pregnant.

  He’d watched Dutch set his jaw and fight some internal battle but never brought up the subject of children again. Dutch liked kids, he knew that. Dutch was godfather to three nephews. It must have hurt him not to have kids of his own. And Barbara . . . shit. She was a witch. Maybe Dutch would have been better off marrying someone else. But Dutch didn’t believe in divorce.

  He leaned back against the headrest of the Jeep and thanked his own commitment to bachelorhood. Seeing what Dutch went through with his wife, and some of the other agents . . . John had seen enough to know that his life didn’t need the complications of marriage. It was complicated enough with family. A wife would have ruined him.

  Hah! Ruined what?

  No. Look at George’s wife. She was a bona fide doll. And to put up with George’s drinking all these years? Three girls, probably grown up by now. And, even though George was a lush and he’d never even moved out of the house he’d inherited from his parents, she’d stuck with him. Maybe that was love. Maybe she loved him, despite his faults, and kept to her vows. Vows again.

  They kept coming up.

  Dutch had never strayed, or at least John didn’t think so. Dutch was too straight-up to screw around. Wasn’t he? He’d screwed around in college. He’d fucked everything he could back then. But he’d gotten married and, apparently, stopped seeking pleasure with different women.

  Maybe. He’d see if he could get Dutch to wink at him next time he managed to sneak past Barbara’s evil eye.

  Two potential fathers left.

  Stu Cooper up in Piscataway. He could maybe catch him on Sunday when he went to see his parents.

  And Pat DeAngelo. Jesus Christ, not that bastard.

  Traffic was murder and Liz concentrated on keeping the car and its contents from bumping and crashing into the concrete Jersey barriers that lined the highway. Her fingers clutched the steering wheel in a death grip.

  At least Carly seemed to appreciate the situation and
did not talk to distract her. Normally, she liked the gossipy chatter, or any friendly talk, but not now. Their lives were at stake.

  The luncheonette. Her grandmother had okayed the changes last night. They’d talked about it until Flo’s eyelids drooped and Liz helped get her into bed. She’d stretched out in her room, staring at the ceiling and thinking.

  It was a good idea. No, a great idea. Asbury Park might not ever come back to its former glory, but there were going to be changes and they were going to be massive. Money could be made. Construction brought people into town. The curious would follow, and those who were willing to take a chance at being in on the ground floor of the renaissance. And people needed to eat.

  A soup bar wouldn’t require too big of an investment and she had her alimony and her trust fund money that was just sitting in the bank. She wouldn’t let her grandmother get in too deep, anyway, though she didn’t know much about her financial situation. Gram had always had sufficient money, but whether there were secure investments other than the building and the business, Liz just didn’t know. But she’d make sure she found out.

  It was a reason for her to stay, though. A project of her own. Something to occupy her mind, challenge it.

  Get it out of the hell she’d been through . . . no, don’t go there. It’s over. You’ve done enough crying. The past is past and tomorrow is what counts. It has to count, she warned herself, or your life won’t be worth anything.

  She pushed away the rush of dark thoughts and bad memories and worries about the future when the car ahead of hers stopped abruptly. Liz slammed her foot down on the brake and let out a little squeak. Carly jerked forward, safe in her seatbelt.

  “Wow ! What a moron!”

  Liz agreed. “Must be a man.”

  Around four o’clock, visitors would show up at the nursing home some days, so John made it a point to come directly after three. He’d cajoled the nurses into letting him visit with Dutch before hours, charming them with his boyish smile and sometimes bouquets picked up at the convenience store on his way over. They loved him and didn’t mind his visits.

  Barbara did.

  She’d instructed them not to let him see her husband during visiting hours.

  Evidently the nurses disliked Barbara as much as he did, so they did not follow her orders. That’s why John was in the antiseptic-smelling corridor at three o’clock. Before he opened the door to Dutch’s room, however, one of the nurses ran up to him and tugged on his arm, pulling him toward the nurses’ station.

  “Not today, Mr. Preshin.” Her indignant tone set his nerves on edge. “What did you do to that woman? Mrs. Van Horne said she went to court to get a restraining order against you.”

  Nonplussed, he turned his smile on the young nurse. “That’s a load of crap! She has no cause. And Barbara Van Horne never stopped me before.”

  “I can’t let you go in there,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I could lose my job.”

  He gently extricated himself from her now insistent grasp. “I’ll look into this,” he paused and checked out the woman’s nametag, “Grace. But, since I can’t see Dutch, will you tell him that John Preshin was here? And make sure everything’s okay? Will you do that, please?”

  She nodded, her eyes downcast. “I . . . I’ll do that, sure. As soon as I can.”

  John left the nursing home wishing he had something to crush with his bare hands. Like a throat.

  How dare she keep him from his partner, his friend?

  The Jeep started up after he tromped hard on the gas pedal. Flooding it would do absolutely no good for anyone; neither would driving off with this fury raging inside him. His hands shook while he fought off the urge to snap the steering wheel in half. Taking steadying breaths, he thought to drive straight to the school where Barbara taught.

  And decided against it. Not in this condition.

  He wanted a drink.

  Jesus, it was only 4:30 in the afternoon. Turning onto the beach road, he followed it down to the break in the chain link fence that had once secured three derelict buildings, parked and turned off the engine. The opening in the fence allowed him to see the Atlantic.

  Time to think.

  Waves pounded the sand, foaming and grinding away at the beach then slurping back into the grayish green water. He stayed in the Jeep, hands still clutching the steering wheel. He’d never really liked Dutch’s wife, disliking her more after his friend revealed what she had done to guarantee she never had any kids. Odd, that, a teacher not wanting kids of her own. And Dutch so keen to be a father.

  He’d kept his mouth shut that night, and even more so after the shootings that had left him with a bum shoulder and Dutch gravely wounded. Kept alive with tubes and medicines, but out of it most of the time anyway. Not able to move much more than his eyelids and some facial muscles. What went on inside his brain? That hadn’t been damaged. Did he think about the past? About him? About the day his life ended in such misery? Did he think about good times? Did he ever think about those blondes in the photograph? About making love to one of them?

  Of making a baby?

  Shit. John flexed his fingers to get blood back into them. Cold wind seeped into the Jeep and wrapped itself around his legs. The old desire for a drink burned in his brain but he denied it. Far better for him to go home and check his answering machine, get back to work, get this off his mind. Sober.

  As he restarted the Jeep and backed out of the space by the yawning gap in the fence, his stomach rumbled. He’d only had an egg and pork roll sandwich he’d fixed for himself before going to Linden. That was hours ago. With nothing else in his stomach, hunger hit hard. Growling beneath his breath, he pulled into the lot of the Park and Shop, determined to pick up some thick, red meat to throw on the grill back home. It had to be thick and it had to be beef.

  He hated this place almost as much as he hated hospitals and nursing homes. The dull interior colors depressed the hell out of him and, no matter how many times it changed hands, the store always looked dirty. Not that he was some kind of clean freak—but this place creeped him out. This was the best place in the immediate area to buy meat, though, and the butcher was still on duty.

  “Give me a T-bone about this thick,” he said to the man behind the overflowing glass display case. With his thumb and forefinger he indicated just how much steak he wanted. The butcher, swathed in bloody white apron and work coveralls, smirked.

  “Gonna cost ya,” he laughed.

  Shrugging, John gave the man the go ahead. “Right now I could eat it raw.”

  The other man paused, knife in midair. “You sure you want this much? That’s a hell of a cut of meat.”

  John gave a curt nod, his mind already wandering, contemplating whether he had the patience to wait for a potato to bake. He could always nuke one.

  A girly laugh made him turn his head.

  “Well, look who’s here!” Liz Atwater, looking a little worn and harried but definitely sexy with her red hair tumbling around her shoulders, drawled to her companion—Carly.

  The kid gave a little start, almost as if she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

  “Hi!” Brilliant conversationalist that he was.

  Liz looked him up and down, much as he’d looked over the meat in the display case. He hoped she liked what she saw.

  “Are you planning on cooking that for yourself or cloning a new cow?” She watched with him as the butcher slapped the enormous steak onto the white paper and wrapped it.

  “It is my intention to fire up the outdoor grill and burn this magnificent steak on the outside while keeping it mooing in the inside.”

  Carly gasped.

  Liz laughed at his corny joke, her guard down for once, a light, healthy, genuine laugh coming out. Had she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him on the lips, he’d have felt it the same way. Straight to the groin.

  He adjusted his stance, reaching up to accept the package from the butcher when he sensed someone else had joined their
happy little group.

  “Bourbon John.” The brittle, cigarette-rough feminine voice grated against every nerve in his body.

  He looked down to see a small, hard-looking woman, hair dyed a brassy blonde, dressed in tight jeans and a thick jacket, staring up into his eyes.

  Hers were mean.

  “Yes, I’m John Preshin. Do I know you?” Going through his mental Rolodex, he could not put together this woman’s face with a name. He couldn’t say he’d ever seen her before.

  Her eyes surveyed the scene.

  “Oh, isn’t this just peachy?”

  Her hand came up and slapped him on the left cheek so fast he didn’t have time to move away.

  Turning to Liz and Carly, the woman spat out, “If you can’t keep a better hold on your man, at least try to keep him away from us decent women!”

  The blonde spun on her heel and stormed off, leaving John to put his hand on his cheek and Liz and Carly open-mouthed.

  Carly recovered first. “What was that all about?”

  John rubbed his offended cheek. “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  Liz’s brow furrowed and she looked at him with an expression of extreme pain on her face. “You don’t know that woman? She sure seemed to know you.”

  He muttered, “Must be a case of mistaken identity. Happens to me all the time. Maybe I just have that kind of face. People see me around, think they know me. But they don’t.”

  “Right,” Liz demurred. But her expression did not lighten. Evidently she did not think too highly of his explanation. “She called you by name.”

  With one last quick rub at his cheek, he said slowly, “She called me by my nickname. Half the people on the East Coast know me by that name. She may have been introduced to me ages ago, but I swear, I don’t know who she is.”

  Liz cleared her throat. “Carly, we’d better get the rest of the stuff on the list for Grandmother. Or would you prefer I finish up here and you ride home with your . . . guardian?”

  “I’d rather you took her with you, Ms. Atwater. I have another stop to make before going home. If you don’t mind, that is.”