Reprise

by C. D. Breadner

  They reached the Colorado border around dinnertime, and they passed the Welcome to Cleary sign around seven o’clock. Driving down Main Street Knuckles gave a low whistle. “Fuck, isn’t it Friday night?”

  Tiny had to chuckle. “This is Cleary on a Friday night.”

  “Shit. How did you ever get into trouble in this town?”

  “Bonfires and beer, man. I’m telling you. You missed out not growing up in a town like this.”

  “There’s a place for us to have a beer at some point, right?”

  Tiny pointed it out as they rolled past, his chest constricting. Just a bit. “The hotel bar. Right there.”

  “Jesus. I can’t believe you’re such a square.”

  Tiny laughed again. “Am I?”

  Knuckles grinned at him. “You fucking have to be. I can’t wait to tell everyone what a poser you are.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Where do you wanna go first?”

  Tiny’s smile vanished. “Shit. I guess, to the sheriff’s department.”

  He’d called Wexler before they left so the guy knew of his plans. The Sheriff himself was going to be in Cleary to meet him by around six-thirty. He’d kept the Sheriff waiting.

  “All right. First time I’ve willingly walked into one these.”

  Tiny had to smile again, angle-parking in front of a squat brick building with white trim and the stars and stripes flying out front. No plaque, no sign.

  “This is the sheriff’s department?”

  Tiny opened his door and stepped out, groaning as he stretched his arms overhead. “Yeah, it is.”

  “It looks like the post office.”

  “Half of it is the post office.”

  “Jesus. This place is smaller than Markham.” Knuckles slammed the passenger door and turned in a circle, taking in the view.

  “Yep. And nicer, too. So watch the blasphemy in these parts.”

  “Fuck, sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize to me. You know I don’t give a fuck. Just a word of warning.”

  “Okay.”

  They made their way up the steps to the double doors. To the left, post office with a Sorry, We’re Closed sign up. To the right, Sheriff’s Department outpost.

  He’d only been here once growing up, but man that was a story and a half.

  He pushed on the Sheriff’s Department door and it swung inward. They were expected, after all. No one was at the desk. Tiny tried to peer around the wall behind reception to see behind but the view was good and blocked. “Hello?” he called out, aware of how loud he was compared to the room.

  There was a shuffle, then a man came around the corner with a napkin stuffed in the neck of his uniform, a sandwich in his hand. He was wiping his mouth with a second napkin before putting the sandwich down on the reception desk with his bib. “Harlon Gray?”

  “Yes sir. Sheriff Wexler?”

  “That’s me.” Then he grinned.

  Tiny wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. The voice on the phone matched the voice of the man in front of him; official, sharp and commanding. But in person the guy seemed like a bit of a bumbling fool.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  Tiny frowned. “Umm, sorry. No. You’re from Cleary?”

  Wexler nodded, coming around to the front of the desk. “Yeah. We went to school together, but I didn’t move here until high school. We played ball together.”

  Jesus Christ. Wexler. No one called him by his first name, he was always—

  “Wex,” Tiny breathed, hardly believing it.

  The guy broke into a grin and held out his hand, which Tiny shook. “Don’t feel bad. That was a long time ago.”

  There was only one reason to remember Wex, really. And it was because Tiny had fucked his girlfriend on prom night after the formal.

  Oh, shit.

  Tiny’s face must have given something away because Wex laughed, pointing now. “Shit, that’s a funny look. Don’t sweat it, Harlon. She was bitch of a girlfriend anyway.”

  All this time Knuckles had been watching this back and forth like a ping pong match, half-smile in place. Now Wex addressed him. “He snuck off after prom with my girlfriend. Fucked her noisy and senseless with all the senior class within earshot.”

  Knuckles eyes widened, going to Tiny. All he could do was shrug.

  “Sorry,” Tiny sputtered, remembering himself and desperate to change the subject. “This is my pal Knuckles. Knuckles, Sheriff Wexler.”

  Knuckles took the offered hand and shook, smiling. “Good to meet you.”

  “Jesus. The rumors are true then?” Wexler asked, releasing Knuckles’ hand and lifting an eyebrow.

  “What rumors?”

  “Last I heard you’d gone and fallen in with a biker club in California. And you two got trouble written all over you.”

  Shit. Not the bumbling idiot after all.

  Knuckles froze, but Tiny kept it in mind that they weren’t here on suspicion of anything. And he had the card to play to move things along. “Wex, it’s been a long day. I really want to take care of the business at hand.”

  “Right. Of course. Just follow me, sorry.” Wexler seemed honestly sorry as he led them around reception and to the back. They followed him past a half dozen workstations to a stairwell that led down.

  It was dank here, the cinderblock walls seemed to be sweating. The overhead florescent lights had an off-putting hum, but they trudged on to a room marked morgue. That’s where the Sheriff stopped them.

  “I’ll go in and set up. You won’t be able to identify by his face. I’m sorry, Harlon.”

  Tiny nodded, taking a deep breath. “It’s fine.”

  As the Sheriff went into the dark room Tiny took another deep breath and felt Knuckles at his back.

  “How are you supposed to ID him if you can’t look at his face?” Knuckles mused softly.

  “He’s got ink,” Tiny replied numbly. “Both arms. My mom’s name on one, a pinup girl that looks a lot like my mom on the other.”

  Knuckles didn’t say a word. When the door opened again Wexler waved him forward and Tiny followed, then turned to Knuckles. “It’s okay, man. You don’t have to see this part.”

  “You sure?”

  Tiny nodded, and then wondered at how relieved the guy looked.

  “Okay. I’m right here if you need me.”

  The morgue had very specific lighting, probably installed just for this purpose. There were only three drawers in a vertical row, the rest of the room occupied by stainless steel equipment he didn’t spend time looking at. The middle drawer was extended, the white sheet pulled back over a man’s arms, both sides, as Tiny had expected.

  The room was hot and thick, or maybe that was just him, and even as his legs moved him forward he fought the need to turn and run. That was his dad. The man who’d raised him and taught him and given him shit, and now he was hunk of meat in a metal tray waiting for disposal.

  Fuck. He couldn’t do this. If he didn’t look, the old man might still be alive. He wasn’t dead until Tiny knew for sure—

  And then he saw the pin-up girl and he knew. Time had faded the ink and stretched the skin, but that ink had been there since before Tiny was born. A hot blonde in a one-piece dress, the front whipped up in unseen wind showing some leg, biting her fingernail like she’d meant for that to happen.

  Tiny had to smile. So unlike his mom, at least, the woman he knew as his mom. If she’d been a little vixen before having him he was glad. She’d always been beautiful.

  Without realizing it, he’d been nodding. When he caught that Wexler was waiting for him to say something he cleared his throat. “Yeah. That’s...uh. That’s Dad.”

  “The weapon he used was a mid-century Luger. Any idea where that came from?”

  Tiny cleared his throat again and swiped at his eyes. Fuck, he was leaking. “I had an uncle killed in the second world war. Some friend brought his personal belongings home, and the grandparents didn’t want any of it. But
mom kept it.”

  “That included a German Luger?”

  Tiny was still nodding. “Yeah. Some kind of kill trophy.”

  Wexler was adjusting the sheet over the arms carefully, wary of the top edge. Tiny turned away, his skin starting to feel like it was shrink-wrapping around him. This room was small to begin with. Suffocating under his own flesh made it unbearable.

  “...funeral home has already been contacted.”

  More blinking, then a squeak. When he turned Wexler was pushing the drawer closed again. “What was that?”

  “Maude at the funeral home has been contacted. Your father left clear instructions, so there’s no need to worry about any of that stuff.”

  “They’ll still do a service, even though..?”

  “At the home’s chapel, yeah. Or graveside, your choice. Non-denominational.”

  Tiny nodded. For his entire life his parents had shunned religion and he had no idea why. He didn’t think he was even baptized, and it had never occurred to him to ask.

  “Maude’s father will just say a few words, and anyone else who wants to can talk as well.”

  For the first time Tiny was hearing the name. “Maude’s running the funeral home?”

  Wexler chuckled softly, like he knew doing it outright would offend someone. “Took over when her dad retired. Yeah, I know. Kind of a weird development.”

  The Graham family had always run the local funeral home. They were loaded since there was no competition in town or the surrounding trade area. Maude Graham had been the most popular girl at school, likely the prettiest, and she’d known it. But she hadn’t been all bitch. In grade school she’d been teased mercilessly for her family’s creepy business, and her old-lady first name hadn’t helped things, but it made her a somewhat decent person. Hell, she’d taken Tiny’s virginity one week and then taken the captain of the football team to prom the next.

  Well, wasn’t this going to be interesting?

  “I’m going to head to the folk’s place,” he said, his voice sounding foreign. Gruffer than usual. “If anyone needs me.”

  Wexler nodded. “Your old man listed the place with Dax.”

  Tiny frowned.

  “Dax Beverly. He runs the only real estate office in town. He went to school with us too.”

  “Daxton?” Tiny clarified, and Wexler nodded as he pushed the door open, leading them back to the slightly less-stifling hallway. “Daxton Beverly is a real estate agent?”

  Fuck, Tiny had hated that guy. On the high school football squad Tiny had been a defensive lineman, naturally since he was built big and always had been, but he’d been fast in the day, too. Daxton was a receiver, nowhere near as talented as his loud mouth might lead you to believe. No one on that squad thought they were going to be playing in the NFL one day. Only Daxton thought himself destined for greatness, which was a laugh. He was a fast runner but his hands hardly made him clutch, and once the season was over senior year Tiny had the pleasure of knocking out a few of the guy’s teeth after a few beers at an after-prom party.

  “Don’t be surprised if he comes by in the next couple days. He was telling me he wanted your dad to fix the fence and remove the carpet in the front room to make the house sell faster. Which you can take to mean for more money which means a higher commission.”

  Tiny shook his head. “The guy says one fucking word to me about that—”

  “Don’t finish that statement,” Wexler requested with a wry grin. “That makes it premeditated.”

  And just like that Tiny was reminded he was in a hallway, heading up the stairs with an officer of the law.

  “Thanks for the warning, Sheriff,” he said instead, grinning back.

  “Just let me know when the service is. I’ll come down for it.”

  Tiny shook his head as they returned to the desk farm and made their way back to reception where Knuckles was waiting. He must have wandered back up here on his own. “You don’t need to do that. It’s a fair distance—”

  “Not at all. And it’s good to see you again, Harlon.” Wexler shoved his hand out there and Tiny was shaking it before he thought about it.

  Then Knuckles and Sheriff shook, and Tiny was back behind the wheel of the Ram in under a minute.

  “So where to next?”

  Tiny turned the key. “Parent’s place. There’s a spare bed there. Not much else but—”

  “What else does a guy need?” Knuckles finished, covering his yawn. “I wanna see where you grew up.”

  Chapter Eight

  The truck coughed and wheezed as Mallory put it in park outside the old folks’ home. She pulled the key free and stepped out into the lot, reaching behind the seat to pull out the arrangement of daisies she’d picked up at the market. Her dad liked fresh flowers in his room. He also liked the chocolate croissants from the bakery she lived overtop of, so a pink box of them was also tucked into a reusable grocery bag. Enough for her dad and the nurses on shift.

  She made her way past the common area, giving smiles to the residents she’d known for a couple of years now. No one stopped her. The staff she saw all recognized her, said their hellos.

  Her father’s room was dim, and a quick look confirmed that he was taking his midday nap. The blinds were drawn most of the way closed. In the half-light she tossed out the lilies that were starting to droop in the simple cylindrical vase and replaced them with the daisies, then she opened the box of croissants on the small table under the window. One of those deals you could wheel over and it sat across the lap of the person in bed.

  That done, she settled into the recliner, the last piece of furniture left over from her childhood home, and studied the man sleeping in front of her.

  This was good. He was always introspective and thoughtful when he first woke. He didn’t always know who she was but she just played along like she was any old visitor.

  Before long her eyes strayed to the bottom of the window, where she could see glimpses of people walking by out in the courtyard—

  “...he shot himself in the head. Out in that campground, south of town.”

  “I knew he’d been sick, but I had no idea it was that bad.”

  Mallory got to her feet with a frown and moved to close the door. Whoever was outside the door was discussing a pretty upsetting topic. No need to hear more.

  “Harlon Junior’s apparently back in town already.”

  “Really?” Now the voice was less shocked. More...giddy?

  “Jessica saw them going into the Sheriff’s last night. He’s got some friend with him. She said they both look like ex-cons.”

  Now she paused, hanging onto the knob and trying to hide behind the open door, ears peaked.

  “Did she happen to notice the fit of those jeans?”

  “I’m sure they still fit just as good.”

  “I doubt it. He must be sixty by now!”

  “His dad was a well-preserved man, too.” Then there was a stunned silence. “May he rest in peace, of course.”

  Mallory frowned. Tiny’s dad? He wasn’t the one they were talking about—

  “I can’t imagine getting to the point of offing yourself. But like you said, he was sick.”

  “Harlon’s going to need some comforting, I bet.” Now the first one was giggling again, and Mallory had to shut the door. Gossiping drove her nuts, but that wasn’t the main reason. No, the Gray family had always been so wonderful to her. Better...better than her own blood, come to think of it.

  -oOo-

  “What are you doing here?”

  Mallory lost her words. The big, important speech she’d rehearsed dissolving under the pissed off look on the face of the man in front of her.

  “I asked; what are you doing here?”

  She couldn’t tell him that her friend had told her where he lived. That she had been thinking of him for the last three weeks straight following their tryst in the cab of his rig. No, thinking all that over now she saw how pathetic and ridiculous it all was.

  Down the
hall from his apartment a door opened, laughing voices ringing down the corridor as his neighbors were apparently headed out for the evening. With a curse he caught her elbow and pulled her into his apartment, slamming the door behind her.

  “What do you want?”

  Jesus, Harlon sounded angry. And he looked furious. His brows were drawn together, lips a tight line. His shoulders looked tense, hands cranked into fists. It was then she noticed he was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, unbuttoned. Chest, stomach, and feet bare.

  She licked her lips.

  “Mallory?” he growled.

  Well, at least he still remembered her name. “I wanted to see you again.”

  “Why?”

  She swallowed. “I...I just wanted to.”

  “Look honey, we had fun. All right? It was good. I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. But that’s all I’ve got to offer, okay?”

  Her mouth hung open, shocked.

  “Fuck. I knew it was too good to be true. You let go like that and then just leave, no attachments? I should have fucking known better.” He pushed a hand through his hair and turned away, stalking into what must have been a kitchen going by the vinyl flooring, off to the left.

  What the hell just happened?

  Starting to get rankled, Mallory followed. “What the hell is your problem?” she asked, stopping under the kitchen arch and crossing her arms.

  He was shoving a carton of milk back in the fridge. “I’m on the road a lot. I don’t need a fucking woman chirping in my ear over how she hates being alone, blah blah blah. I don’t need a woman period. You meet me and then an hour later we’re fucking in my truck. That doesn’t lead to anything permanent, honey. That’s a fuck, nothing more.”

  “What if that’s all I want, too?”

  She could tell he hadn’t expected that, but his recovery time was impressive. “You say that now, but in a week you’re trying to pick out curtains.”