by Dave White
“Don’t be scared of him. It’s not worth it.”
“I’m not.” I sounded like the angry, stubborn child I tried to play in the interrogation room.
She shushed me. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”
It was hard to stand up, but I did. We walked back to my apartment slowly.
Chapter 37
Bill Martin got off shift late after Donne was bailed out. He couldn’t get the smile off his face. No way was he getting any sleep. Hell, it wasn’t even about the kid going to trial. Just the fact that he was put away for the evening and left to stew felt great.
He decided to stop at a coffee shop. The one he used to always stop at. He ordered a large to go and turned toward the counter to fill it with cream and sugar when he finally allowed himself to look at the booth. An empty plastic booth, stained with coffee and covered with crumbs, the corner of it chipped away. One morning, years ago, she’d sat there crying when Martin came in for the first cup of the day.
He sat across from her and offered her a napkin to dry the tears. “What is it?” he asked. When he worked as a narc, he would have worried about being late, but now who gave a shit?
“Jackson’s gone,” she said. “I don’t even know if he knows what’s going on, he’s so coked up. But he left with a girl. Another addict. And—oh my God. I can’t do this.”
“It’s okay,” he mumbled. Martin reached across and squeezed her hand. He wanted to tell her that Donne wasn’t worth it, but somehow he knew she wouldn’t believe it. “He’s fucked up, Jeanne.”
“I know. I don’t know what happened. Even after the trial, he doesn’t stop. He drinks, smokes, snorts. Goddamn him.”
“You need to get away from him. Even if it’s just for a while.”
She nodded. “I know. But what if I see him tonight? What if he comes home?”
“You won’t be there,” Martin said. “I’m going to take you out to dinner. We can talk—about anything. Get your mind off this. Keep you away from him.”
Jeanne stared at him through her strawberry blonde bangs.
***
Most of the night revolved around Donne. Just hearing his name prickled Martin’s skin and made Jeanne cry. So he made a rule.
“From here on out, we don’t talk about him. He screwed us both over, and he doesn’t deserve our attention.”
Jeanne agreed.
Then, to brighten the mood, he said, “What’s the difference between roast beef and pea soup?”
She shrugged.
“You can roast beef, but you can’t pee soup.”
She didn’t laugh. “I’m leaving. You don’t take anything seriously.” Jeanne stood to leave and he grabbed her arm.
“Wait,” he said.
Martin didn’t expect her to whirl and slap him as hard as she did. His cheek stung, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he pulled her closer.
And that’s when he noticed her. The glimmer in her eyes wasn’t sadness anymore, but anger. She tried to hit him again, screaming at him to let go. The people in the restaurant were staring, but he didn’t care. He pulled her even closer, fending off her blows with his free hand.
He leaned in and pressed his lips against hers. She tried to pull away at first, but slowly, he felt her posture change. She relaxed and let him kiss her more passionately.
***
The first time they slept together they’d both had too much to drink. Up until that point Jeanne kept referring to Martin as a good friend. They never talked about Jackson Donne; they never talked about the night Martin shot someone to save her either.
They went out for dinner, and after for drinks at one of the bars on George Street. Afterward he walked her home. Every time he looked at her, all he saw was her eyes. They sparkled, they glittered, they lit up her entire face. “You’re beautiful,” he said.
Jeanne thanked him.
He leaned in and tried to kiss her, smelling her perfume. She pulled away.
“No. We can’t,” she said. “The other night was a mistake.”
“It’s not,” Martin said. “This feels right.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Just give me a shot,” Martin said. “If it’s wrong, I won’t ever call you again.”
He leaned in again and she let him. They kissed for a while on the porch. Eventually they made their way to her bedroom.
Martin called in sick the next day and spent it with her.
For the next month, they were together all the time. They had dinner, saw movies, played pool, had sex. They were a couple. Martin loved spending time with her. For the first time in a long time, the job wasn’t the most important thing. She was.
In late January, he sat at the bar of Harvest Moon waiting for her. He waited two hours and four beers. She didn’t show up. She didn’t call.
After another hour, he tried to call her. No answer. He rang the bell at her home. No answer.
There was a message on his answering machine when he got home.
Jeanne’s voice sounded tinny and mechanical. “Bill, what we had is over. It wasn’t real. It never was. I’m sorry. Don’t call me again.”
He didn’t believe her. It was real. It was just a matter of time before she realized it. But he listened to her wishes and didn’t try to see her again.
When Bill Martin looked back on it all, sitting in the coffee shop booth, that was what killed him. He never looked for her. Never tried to hold on to her. And with everything that happened, everything he knew, he should have.
He drank the last drops of coffee, then crushed the cup in his hand.
Chapter 38
It’d been a long time since I’d been able to sleep in. When I woke up, the pit of depression returned, and I just wanted to go back to bed. But Tracy was messing around in the kitchen, so I decided to get up. I’d slept on the couch; she took my bedroom. We weren’t at the point, yet. In fact, I didn’t know what point we were at. I just knew she had been there for me last night.
I needed something to hydrate myself.
“Hey,” Tracy said as I opened the fridge, the cool air touching my face.
“Morning.”
“Afternoon.”
I smiled, pulling out some lemon-lime Gatorade. I took a swig.
Tracy gave me a kiss on the cheek. “How are you feeling?” she asked. “I’ve been better.”
“Rough night?”
“Rough week,” I said.
Tracy moved slowly through the cabinets, looking for something. She had Taylor ham and eggs out, so I guessed a frying pan. I couldn’t believe I had Taylor ham and eggs in my refrigerator.
“I’m going to start cleaning out my uncle’s apartment. What are you going to do?”
I didn’t feel like doing anything. “I guess I can help you out.”
“You guess?”
“Well, if it’s still a crime scene, it might be tough to get in there.”
“Why would it still be a crime scene? He didn’t die there.” She opened two more cabinets. “Do you have a frying pan?”
“Under the sink.” I finished off the Gatorade. “The stuff we found in Gerry’s house. The batteries, the Sudafed—Martin thinks that’s circumstantial evidence. He hasn’t bagged it yet, that I know of, but he’s not going to let anyone in.”
“There’s no proof Gerry made that stuff. Maybe he just liked having batteries or Sudafed. Maybe he was obsessive-compulsive.”
I nodded, not believing her. “But if they find proof or if they have found traces of crystal meth, they’ve got more evidence.”
“So you believe he was making drugs?”
“I don’t know what he was doing.”
She found the frying pan and set it on the stove. Cracked two eggs into the pan, listened to the sizzle for a minute.
Tracy took a deep breath. “What do you think? Honestly.”
Tossing the Gatorade bottle into the garbage, I turned my back to her. “I don’t have an opinion. I didn’t look into the case enough. But ev
ery time we found something like this when I was on the police force, it led to drugs. We didn’t find it often, but we found it enough for me to form an opinion. If Gerry was making drugs, I don’t know where he would have done it, but the evidence—”
“Why would he do that?”
Now I turned her way. “Money. He was retired. He didn’t have much income. Back in the fall he asked me to find out why his landlord was raising his rent.”
“But why wouldn’t he ask for help? Why wouldn’t he call us?”
“He was a proud guy. He didn’t like to talk about his problems. I don’t even think he wanted to ask me for help.”
“So he became a drug maker?”
“It doesn’t make sense, you’re right. But you never know with people.” To me, it did make sense; Gerry could be that type of guy. He would do whatever it took to make his way in life. And if he had a drug background, nothing would surprise me.
The eggs were starting to burn now. Tracy directed her attention toward them. I took note of her ass in the tight jeans she wore.
“Listen,” I said. “After lunch we’ll go over to Gerry’s and see what we can do.”
“What if the police are there?”
“We let them do their job.”
“Will you get in trouble?”
“If Martin’s there, he might give me a hard time.”
“Do you think he will be?”
“I don’t know.”
She put some Taylor ham on the frying pan and found some English muffins to toast.
“It’s worth a shot,” I said. “It’s something you’re going to have to get done anyway.”
“Cleaning out the house?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not the only reason you want to go over there, is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“You want to take another look for yourself.”
“There’s nothing I can do. I don’t have a license anymore. I’m going to be put on trial. I can’t look into it.”
She smiled. “You want to look anyway.”
I didn’t. Hell, I didn’t even want to risk going over there and seeing Martin. But this wasn’t about me; it was about helping Tracy.
Maybe I was getting ahead of myself.
***
A Taylor ham, egg, and cheese sandwich later, we walked along Easton Ave. Tracy was quiet, and I didn’t want to interrupt her thoughts.
The sun was out, a warm spring day, mid-seventies. Leaves were on the trees, wisps of clouds in the air, and tighter clothing on the coeds.
My hands jammed in my pockets, I finally said, “Are you okay?”
“There seems to be a lot of that going around,” she said.
“A lot of what?”
“Asking if everyone’s okay. You. Artie. Now me.”
“I guess you’re right,” I said.
We crossed at the corner and proceeded onto Hamilton Street. I felt the weight of my gun in my holster. My secondary piece, taken from my bureau when I got dressed. It was force of habit, and I didn’t even realize I’d taken it with me until just now.
“Back when we were both coked up,” she said, “did you love me?” I hesitated. “Tracy, I was not a good person then.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“We kissed. We weren’t together. I loved the woman who was my fiancée. I cared about you.”
A flash of Jeanne with Martin crossed my mind.
“The other night, when we kissed, how did it feel to you?”
“It felt right at the time.” Now I felt like everything was wrong.
“I think there’s something between us,” she said, and looked away.
“But?”
“But, I love my boyfriend. Probably like you felt about your fiancée.”
I spread my hands. What could I do?
We got to Gerry’s house and didn’t see any police cars. A good sign. But looking at the front door, there was crime-scene tape covering the doorway. I knocked on James’s door.
“What do you want?” he growled through the mesh of the screen door.
“The police letting anyone up there yet?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “And I got in a shitload of trouble the last time I let you in.”
Tracy said, “What about me?”
“No.”
Tracy swore and James said to me, “What’s her problem?”
I smiled at him, my best smile. The one I used to use on cases. “She wanted to clean out some of Gerry’s stuff.”
James looked at her, then back at me, and for a minute, I thought it would work.
“I can’t do it, Donne. Sorry.”
“No chance?” I knew he was right. Deep down the cops were doing their job, and deep down I didn’t want to fuck up whatever evidence was up there. But I still had that itch. It was tough to give up the license that easy.
“Why? So I can end up in prison?”
Through the screen, James looked small, his face shadowed. Martin intimidated him, too. There was no way I could blame James for not letting us upstairs. We had the same motivations. I just wondered if I looked as small and as intimidated as he did. I thanked him and took Tracy by the arm, led her down the steps.
“We’re going to leave? Just like that?” Tracy looked over her shoulder at the house.
“I don’t want James to get in any more trouble. What were you going to do up there anyway?”
“I told you,” she said. “Clean up.”
“That can wait,” I said, still holding on to her arm. I worried that if I let go she’d run back to the door. “But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?”
“What are you talking about?”
“We can go back anytime.”
“I have to get this done.”
“I know. That’s not what I’m saying. What I am asking is why are you so determined to go in there today?”
She stopped walking. “I’m not. I—”
“You’re tense. You’re pissed off. What’s the matter?”
“I’m worried about Gerry. I’m worried about what people are going to think about him.”
“What do you—” It all clicked suddenly. The batteries, the Sudafed. “You wanted to get rid of it?”
“No, I—”
“Why?”
“I don’t want people to think of him that way. And if you’re not looking into it, then no one should. The police, they’ll ruin him, ruin his memory.”
“What do you think I would have done? I would have looked at the whole picture, too.”
“No. You would have been careful.”
“So you’d rather save his memory than know what happened?” I shook my head and started walking again.
“Please, Jackson,” I heard her say. “You can’t stop. You promised me. You promised Artie. Please.”
I didn’t look back.
Chapter 39
My apartment still smelled of fried ham and eggs, although the cooking items had been cleaned and put away. I opened a window, and then sat. I flipped on the TV and couldn’t find anything to watch. I couldn’t get into a book. I didn’t want to call my lawyer.
But I didn’t know what to do. I felt much the same as two nights ago, sitting in the interrogation room, nowhere to go, nothing to do. Stir-crazy. I had to do something, get out of the apartment.
Clients. Jen Hanover had to be notified I was no longer on her time. I could close her account, collect my money, and fill out the last of my paperwork. She wouldn’t be happy, and I wouldn’t be able to tell her the whole story. But it had to be done. I was not getting caught on a technicality because she was still supposed to be paying me. Somehow, I thought, Martin would be checking up on me.
It was finally starting to set in. No longer a private investigator, I left my apartment, leaving my gun at home for the first time in years.
The key to my office slipped in the lock easily, and the door swung open without my having to turn the knob. That was
not a good sign. My instinct was to blame the New Brunswick Police Department. Martin had gotten a couple of guys to come and search my office and send a message. But through the small opening between the door and the jamb, I could see nothing had been moved. I tensed.
Pushing the door the rest of the way open with my foot, I paused for a second behind it, waiting to see if someone jumped out. He did, coming around the door and swinging a right hand my direction. I snapped my head out of the way just in time, trying to step inside the arm, but the guy hit me with a left hand directly in the gut. I gasped for air, but remained standing.
I couldn’t make out a face, just a shape and clothing. Wide shoulders, dark leather jacket, jeans, muscular. I took a swing at him, feigning a right and jabbing him in the ribs with a left. The guy grunted, but otherwise didn’t flinch. I tried to put him down with a hard right, but it was blocked and I took the guy’s own right flush on the chin.
I went down to my knees. My legs were jelly as another punch landed on the back of my head. My office circled, spun, and tilted on its side before my eyes like I was on some sick roller coaster. Again I tried to push my way to my feet, almost subconsciously, as if my limbs had a life of their own. This time a foot to my side put me down.
My joints were stiff and my bones ached as I tried to roll over onto my back. A copper taste settled in my mouth, a good sign I was bleeding.
“Oh fuck,” I heard myself mumble.
The lights were out in my office, the blinds closed, and I had no idea what time it was. The door opened and closed, and someone was standing over me. Not the same build as the guy who’d beaten the shit out of me. He backed away and sat behind my desk.
“You got the shit kicked out of you,” the man said. His voice was gruff, the way someone who’d survived throat cancer would speak.
“You should see the other guy.” I managed to sit up. “I did,” he said. “You took a hell of a beating.”
I turned my head slowly, trying to get a feel for the room. Other than the man behind the desk, I was the only one in there.
“Where is our huge friend?” I asked.
“Outside. I want to talk to you alone before he finishes the job.”
