When One Man Dies

by Dave White

“And you are?” I wanted to stand up, or at least make it to my knees.

  “You’ve been looking for me, I understand. You’ve certainly got my attention.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Michael Burgess. You injured two of my men, hospitalized. Probably won’t ever work for me again. You took five thousand dollars of mine.”

  His outline in the chair was slim; I could see his face, but not clearly, as it was in shadow. I could see the trim of a goatee and big hair.

  “What do you want with me?” he asked.

  “Nothing. Not anymore.” I spit blood onto my carpet and wiped my mouth.

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

  “I’m not looking into you anymore. I don’t care about you or Rex Hanover.”

  ‘You’ve done your homework if you know he’s involved with me. What do you know?”

  “I know bits and pieces. But it doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve retired.” it.”

  He laughed and stood up. “Too bad you won’t be able to enjoy And with that he left the room. Closed the door. Seconds later it swung open again and Rex Hanover filled the frame.

  Chapter 40

  I wasn’t hurt enough to miss the contradiction.

  A few days ago Hanover had shown up, beat the shit out of me, and told me to tell Burgess not to look for him. Now he was here with Burgess. But before I could get my thoughts in order, a right hook connected with my jaw.

  The world tilted again, but I didn’t black out. In fact, I found myself getting to my feet.

  “Dumb move,” Hanover said, stepping inside my stride, catching me with a jab to the stomach.

  Gasping for air, it struck me that this wasn’t a fight, it was a boxing match. Or at least Hanover was treating it like one. I decided it was time to fight dirty, make it a street fight. Already bent over, my legs pushed as hard as they could and I wrapped Hanover up like a linebacker. Caught off guard, he toppled over, crashing to the ground.

  I rolled over and tried to connect with a right cross of my own. It worked, knocking Hanover’s head back into the paneled floor. He grunted.

  I got off him and stepped back, leaning against my desk. I expected him to get up again, but he didn’t. He lifted his head up, glared in my direction.

  “It’s over,” I said. “Fuck you, it’s not.”

  “I mean, I’m not investigating anything anymore. I’m done. I came up here to call my client.”

  Hanover sat up. “Who is it?”

  “You know who it is.”

  “I know who it isn’t,” he said. “It’s not Burgess.”

  The world tilted again. I hadn’t recovered yet, and needed to find the corner of my desk to brace myself.

  “You told me to tell him to stay away from you,” I said. “Things changed.”

  He found his way to his feet. The way my knees were wobbling, I was pretty sure he’d do me in.

  “Your wife,” I said. “I was going to call Jen.”

  “Damn it. You stay away from her.”

  “It’s over. I’m not a private investigator anymore. Get the fuck out of here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly what I just said.”

  “I don’t buy it,” he said. “I don’t give a shit.”

  “I could kill you.”

  “At this point,” I said, “I know it.”

  Running my arm across my lip, I felt blood. Hanover was doing the same. We mirrored each other. He didn’t find any blood. My punch wasn’t as powerful as I’d thought.

  Hanover’s teeth were gritted, and he paced back and forth. “What did you tell my wife?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Until the other day, I didn’t know shit. In fact, I’m not sure I know anything now.”

  “I’m going to kill you.”

  I forced a shrug. “You can. I’m in no shape to fight anymore. But I’m done with this case. With all cases.”

  “You were going to call her tonight?”

  “Now,” I said.

  “Do it. Put it on speakerphone. Tell her you couldn’t find me. Tell her you can’t work the case anymore. Call her now.”

  “I have to find the number.”

  “I know the number,” he said, and repeated it to me.

  I pressed the speakerphone and dialed. “Mrs. Hanover, this is Jackson Donne. I have to end the investigation.”

  She didn’t respond.

  I looked at Hanover. He rolled his hand telling me to go on.

  “I am no longer a licensed private investigator. I had some trouble with the police, and it ended with me losing my job.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Jen sounded like she didn’t know what to say.

  “You and me both. I’ll write up a report and mail it to you with my expenses.”

  A pause. “Were you able to find Rex?” I looked at him. He shook his head. “No,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  The only response was a click. Jen had hung up.

  Hanover smiled. “Good work. If I see you anywhere near her or Burgess, you’re a dead man.”

  “I understand,” was the best I could come up with.

  ***

  The Olde Towne Tavern was my next stop. I didn’t know where else to go, and I didn’t have anyone else to call. Might as well throw a few beers back to go with my likely concussion.

  Late afternoon and the bar was empty. Behind the bar, flipping through a Sports Illustrated, Artie looked like he’d had a lot of Jack last night as well. Dark circles rested under his eyes, his hair out of place. If I were to guess, I’d say he just woke up. He glanced at me when I opened the door, but didn’t say a word, went back to the magazine.

  Taking a stool at the bar across from him, I said, “Swimsuit edition?”

  “No.”

  “Baseball preview?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Say anything interesting about the Yankees?”

  “Season already started. What does it matter?” I shrugged. “Just curious.”

  “Says on paper they’re champions. But that you don’t win championships on paper.”

  “Kind of clichéd.”

  “Guess so.”

  I sat for ten minutes uncomfortably. Artie didn’t ask if I wanted anything. I didn’t ask about any other baseball teams.

  I looked around the bar, thought about putting some money in the jukebox. Anything to end the icy silence between Artie and me.

  Instead of the jukebox, I opted for, “Can I get a beer?”

  “You know where they are.”

  I stared at him. “You serious?” His turn to shrug.

  “Like we’re fucking married,” I said.

  Around the bar, I found a pint glass on ice and pulled the tap on the Sam Adams seasonal. I filled the glass and took a long pull. I topped it off.

  Back at my stool, Artie finally glanced up at me. He said, “What happened to your face?” But not like he was really concerned.

  I just drank my beer. No need to state the obvious.

  After a while, Artie said, “You’re really not working anymore?” I spread my hands, said, “I can’t. I want to. I can’t.”

  Artie got himself a Sam Adams from the tap and refilled mine as well. He put the glass down in front of me and said, “Bullshit.”

  “What is? I don’t have a license. I don’t want to be arrested.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “Then what are you talking about?” The beer was smoother this time, the bite of the first one gone. I wondered if it was my body adjusting to the alcohol again or the way Artie poured a beer. I’d never thought about why the second beer always tasted better than the first before.

  “That you said ‘I want to.’ That’s bullshit. You don’t want to. You haven’t wanted to since the beginning. You’ve avoided the case. Anything you’ve found, you’ve found by accident. No matter how much we wanted you to look into it, you weren’t around.”

  “That’s not true—tha
t’s . . .” I couldn’t finish my thought.

  “I’m sick of the bullshit excuses. Another case? Why didn’t you work on this one? Why did you stay away from it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Yes you do. It’s the same reason you got your ass into all this trouble.” He took down the rest of his beer. “Bill Martin.”

  “What about him?”

  “You’re scared of him. You tried everything in your power to stay out of his way, and you still got sucked in. You’re a pussy.”

  I didn’t speak.

  “Tracy said it to you. She told me. I’m going to tell you the same thing. You promised us. That’s like promising Gerry.”

  I finished my beer and got another one. Over the years, the alcohol and the laughter had helped my bruises ache less. I looked at the beer. I couldn’t keep my promise to Jeanne. After she died, I never stayed sober. My life was a series of broken promises.

  I thought about Gerry’s wake. I thought about what I said when I knelt at his coffin. That I would find his killer. I did promise him.

  I had a promise to keep.

  Chapter 41

  He didn’t sleep. He didn’t go to work the next day, called in sick. All Bill Martin could think about was Jeanne. A guy he knew back when he joined the force twenty years ago once asked him if he was in love with a girl he was dating.

  Martin said he didn’t know.

  “If you think about her all the time, that’s how you know. If she’s always in your head and won’t leave, then you love her.”

  Bill Martin couldn’t stop thinking about Jeanne. He was in love with a dead woman. And she was dead because of Jackson Donne. That was one thing Martin was sure of. If she hadn’t gone back to him . . . He shook off the thought.

  Martin sat in his apartment, sure he’d done what he’d set out to do. He ruined Jackson Donne. Put him out of commission.

  Now it was a matter of taking down Michael Burgess. That would take his mind off her.

  He picked up the phone and dialed the number he’d memorized. Burgess was probably pissed off about what happened to his thug buddies. But he needed Burgess to stay out of the way. Donne was probably catatonic now with the news of Jeanne. Getting in Donne’s face would only wake him up.

  The phone rang and rang. No answer. That made sense. The convenience store was a crime scene. There wasn’t any way Burgess was there. He let the phone ring a few more times, anyway.

  Surprised, Martin heard, “Hello?”

  The voice was heavily accented. Asian. The Chinaman from behind the counter.

  “Tell Burgess that Bill Martin is looking for him.”

  “Boss not here.”

  “When you see him, tell him I’m looking for him.”

  “Not here. I no see him.”

  Martin swore. “I know he’s not there. But you will see him and you need to deliver a message. Tell him Bill Martin is looking for him.”

  “Cops here.”

  “Just fucking tell him.”

  Martin slammed the phone down and went into his bedroom. If these were the kinds of people Burgess employed, they’d be useless at Donne’s trial. And it was all going to depend on witnesses.

  He opened the bottom drawer of his dresser and reached under the clothes. Pulling out the picture, he realized he hadn’t looked at it in years.

  Jeanne stood, beer in hand, smiling at the lens. Her hair dropped to her shoulders; she wore a long wool coat and a scarf hung loosely around her neck. Behind her were the fountains and the theaters. The good side of New Brunswick. Jeanne was part of that side.

  Maybe Donne hadn’t suffered enough yet.

  Chapter 42

  It was a tricky balancing act. Without my license for just over twenty-four hours and already I wanted back in the game. It came down to how I could find out what happened to Gerry and avoid Bill Martin at the same time. One last deal and that was it. Isn’t that what they say in the movies, on all the television shows? One last go-around and then I’d hang it up and go back to school. That’s what I wanted, why I’d sent the application to Rutgers. Now the opportunity was there.

  But I had the itch; I had the promise to fulfill. Where to start? Martin seemed to have pinned his hopes on me. He didn’t have anything, which meant I had less. Martin thought it had to do with drugs, and I was inclined to believe the same. But what did Martin know that I didn’t? What could Martin have done that I hadn’t? And what could I do that he wouldn’t?

  Walking down Easton Ave., back toward my apartment, I began to check off the investigation tactics Martin and I practiced years ago.

  I tried to figure out which ones he would have done first, and what he was left with now. It was tough. The narcotics division acted differently from homicide. But best I could figure it’d be witnesses, evidence, interrogating suspects, and informants.

  Informants.

  Jesus.

  I realized that Jesus Sanchez had yet to call me back to set up a meeting with Burgess. That didn’t mean that Jesus hadn’t attempted to get a meeting. I felt a pang of panic. Jesus could be lying in a gutter on Church Street, dead. But it didn’t make much sense. Why would Burgess take out Jesus?

  I kept going on Easton Ave., past the turnoff to my apartment, and turned right on George Street. I vaguely remembered Martin telling me once Jesus worked on George or one of the side streets off it. It was his beat, so to speak. But not just off Easton, that was the area Johnson & Johnson along with Rutgers had earmarked to remake.

  Between Easton Ave. and the theater district, as I walked, I noticed the cobblestone sidewalks and roads, extending out from the college like strains of a virus. As I reached the theater district, however, the tenor of the city began to change. A fountain had been knocked down, and a construction site was fenced off, where a convention center would eventually rest. But past that, there were run-down houses, bodegas, and a supermarket. The paint was chipped on the buildings, the roads littered with trash, and the streets now conventional cracked asphalt. The area the city forgot. But Jesus hadn’t. Neither had the addicts, the homeless, and the poor.

  I saw him from a block away, standing on the curb next to a homeless guy. He watched the campus buses pass by, and I wondered if he was trying to make eye contact with some of the students trying to get to the Douglass campus. Some business venture for him, a night of partying for them.

  He didn’t see me coming and I got right up next to him before saying, “Jesus, what’s up?”

  He jumped briefly, but got control. “Hey, Jackson, what’s goin’ on?” Reached out and slapped me five.

  “Not much.”

  “What happened to your face?”

  “I fell,” I said, smiling.

  He grinned, too. “That’s what I tell my bitch to say.”

  “You get in touch with Burgess?”

  “Yo, I tried. Man, I was talking to everybody puttin’ out the word, but I ain’t never heard from him.” He took a look at two kids walking past. They stared at the ground as they passed by. “Hey, I heard some shit about you, though.”

  “Yeah?”

  “No more PI stuff?”

  “Word travels fast.”

  “Man, what you gonna do? I can hook you up.”

  “And do what, sell for you?”

  “Buy, sell, whatever you want, man. I remember back when you were with Martin, wow, you were into the shit. Now’s the perfect time to come back.”

  I tried to smile like it was a joke. “You hear anything about Gerry Figuroa?”

  “Who that?”

  “Guy got run over outside of Olde Towne about a week ago.” Jesus put a hand on my shoulder. “You ain’t got a license, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So, why the fuck should I talk to you?”

  “Because you came to me first.”

  “Fuck no. There ain’t anything in it for me. You still owe me for trying to get in touch with Burgess.”

  “Well, that didn’t work out.”<
br />
  “And now that you’re not on the case, what you give a shit about the old man?”

  I didn’t say anything about an old man. Jesus obviously knew something. “He was a friend of mine.”

  “Who took your license away? The cops?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You put two guys out of the game.”

  “Two guys that were competitors of yours, I believe.” He laughed. “Hell yeah.” Slapped my hand again. “Help me out.”

  “I don’t know shit.”

  “You aren’t fucking with me, are you, Jesus?”

  “Nah, man. The cops really took your license away?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No jail?”

  “No.”

  “Fucking racist, man.” I shrugged.

  “Sorry I can’t help you out. But it’s time for you to retire anyway. Maybe move to Florida.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  I turned away. He knew something. I knew he did. But why not tell me? Probably because he was Martin’s boy, not mine. He’d come to me. Most likely because Martin sent him.

  I walked back toward Easton Ave. Next to me, buses rumbled as the sun began to set.

  ***

  Tracy’s cell phone rang a few times, and then her voice mail picked up. I left a message to call me, but figured she recognized my number and was screening. It wasn’t likely she’d call back.

  I wanted her to know I was back on the case. I wanted her to know I was going to fulfill my promise. Turned right onto Church Street and walked under the parking deck. Across the street a couple held hands, whispering in each other’s ears. They were probably heading to one of the newer restaurants for a romantic evening. It had been a while since I’d taken someone out for more than a drink.

  I turned on Albany and made my way toward the Hyatt. Maybe Tracy was in her room. She needed to know.

  The Hyatt was a tall white building with a parking deck, green grass, and a fountain. Out front of the lobby, someone was unloading their luggage. I went straight to the elevator, remembering Tracy’s room number.

  Two minutes later I knocked on her door. She must not have looked through the peephole, because she swung the door open quickly. When she saw me, she tried to shut it again, but I put my arm on the wood to hold it open.