by David Levien
They walked a small distance over black rubber flooring to a reception desk, where they faced a squat man with a neck tattoo. He worked a battery of screaming blenders, mixing pink and brown protein liquids. Another man, deeply tanned, in workout clothes, waited for his beverage.
“Membership cards?” the squat man said loudly over the blenders, revealing a hint of an Irish accent.
“We ’ re not members,” Behr answered.
“Single workout pass is six dollars,” the deskman said, his voice dropping as he cut a blender and began pouring a drink for the tanned lifter.
“We ’ re not here to work out,” Behr tried to explain.
“Hell, it ’ s not a fooking bathhouse — ”
“Close enough,” Behr snarled back.
The man cut another blender and a bit of quiet crept over the counter.
“What do you cunts want, then?” The man folded his arms, trying to maximize his biceps, which were fairly maximal. Still, in Behr ’ s shadow, the man seemed shrunken. Paul wondered how handy Behr was with his fists or if he was merely a size-reliant big man.
“Us cunts” — Behr leaned forward over the counter — “want to know if you have a member here who goes by the name Rooster.”
“You ’ re the cops?” The man wilted a bit, rubbing his neck tattoo. It was a spider or tarantula on a web, as far as Paul could tell. All black. Badly done. There was a matching one on the man ’ s elbow, too.
“You want the police? Because that ’ s where we ’ re headed if you don ’ t stay with me. Rooster. He ’ s supposed to work out nights,” Behr said, his voice flat and uncompromising. He put his hands down on the counter with a meaty thud. Several of his fingers were bent and gnarled, his punching knuckles raised like acorns under the skin. The gym monkey crumbled some more at the sight of them. He finished pouring the drink and handed it to the tanned man, who hurried away.
“Look, I ’ m usually not on nights. Do you have his proper name?” The man rubbed his neck tattoo as if it would come off.
Behr nodded once at the new demeanor and backed off the counter. “No. He ’ s not tall. Red hair, longish. Wiry.”
“I dunno. You can check the member profiles. But they ’ re just names and addresses. We ’ re going to photo cards next month, but — ”
“That ’ s all right. Mind if we look around?”
The man waved a hand toward the gym, giving them the run of it, relieved to be done with them.
“Some attitude on that guy,” Paul said as they stepped onto the floor.
“You run into all kinds in my business. The ones having bad days are real generous about sharing ’ em with you.”
They stopped near a rack of barbells and scanned the area. No one fit the description they ’ d been given. And then their eyes landed on someone familiar. Coincidence stopped them cold.
“Hey, that ’ s — ” Behr began. He was looking at a bearded guy wearing baggy Umbro shorts and a knee brace, grinding out a set on the leg press.
“Bill Finnegan,” Paul said. It was the soccer coach. Behr bee-lined for him, but Paul was with him stride for stride. They were making their way across the gym, picking their way through equipment and burly men, when Finnegan saw them. He slammed the weight home, hopped off the leg press, and half ran for a door marked Exit on the far side of the dumbbell area.
They went after him, picking up their pace to a fast walk. When Finnegan hit the door and disappeared down the stairwell, they broke into a run. Paul considered himself fleet of foot, he ’ d been a runner for close to twenty years, so he was stunned to see Behr burn by him and reach the door first. Behr took the stairs, which were divided into switchbacks every sixth step, a full landing at a time. Paul covered them in threes and hoped he didn ’ t break an ankle. He reached the ground floor in time to see Behr cuff Finnegan in the back of the neck and send him sprawling into the door to the street. The coach ’ s shoulder and elbow echoed off the hollow metal door.
“Ah,” Finnegan said in pain, but managed to keep his feet.
Behr caught him by the collar and spun him around. Finnegan raised his hands, closed his eyes, and turned his face away. Paul was relieved he didn ’ t resist and that Behr pulled up short of beating him. He was now satisfied with the answer to his earlier question of the detective ’ s physical proficiency.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Behr asked, speaking the question in Paul ’ s swirling mind.
“Nothing. Nothing.” Finnegan breathed, high and reedy.
“Why ’ re you running?” Behr snarled at him.
“I…Nothing. Just working out. And I…”
Paul stepped forward and spoke in as even a voice as he could manage. “Hey. Bill. Hey. What ’ s going on?”
Behr let go of him and the soccer coach shifted around uncomfortably. “Hi, Paul. I come here. To stay in shape.”
“Uh-huh.” Behr appraised him.
“It has nothing to do with…anything. Really.”
“Bullshit. Give,” Behr barked. He put a hand forward and held the coach by his throat. He shifted his weight back as if he would punch.
“I ’ m gay. All right? I ’ m a gay man.” Silence fell in the stairwell for a moment as they absorbed the statement. Apparently, Finnegan felt compelled to go on. “But I never touched a kid. Not in my life.” That seemed to be all there was to the bombshell.
“Jesus, Bill, what the hell are you running for?”
“I coach youth soccer, Paul. This isn ’ t New York, you know? People around here wouldn ’ t like it. Goddamnit!” he shouted, his last word reverberating through the stairwell in frustration and humiliation. Paul looked to Behr and shook his head. Behr stepped back.
“I don ’ t want to lose my job.”
“Nobody ’ s gonna find out, Bill,” Paul said with reassurance. The coach ’ s breathing began to calm and he nodded and went out the door into the night. Paul and Behr walked back up to the gym and looked around for anybody fitting Rooster ’ s description, but no one was even close.
Rooster drove too fast and checked his mirrors every three seconds. Those guys at the desk had been cops, clear as day, and they ’ d been looking for him. He didn ’ t know how the hell they didn ’ t find him in the locker room, either. He took his chance when they were jawing with the desk guy. He grabbed a ten-pound plate and slipped inside the locker room, around the corner, next to the urinals, ready to lay out the big one first. But they never showed. He waited two minutes and then booked out the front door, and they ’ d missed him. They hadn ’ t been thorough, or he was damned lucky. He didn ’ t know which. He couldn ’ t imagine how they ’ d gotten on to him for the little visit he ’ d paid to Tad in the first place, but they sure as hell had.
Now he needed to regroup. He needed to chill and get in touch with Riggi. “Wait,” he said aloud. He couldn ’ t just call Riggi, get him rattled, too, or he ’ d be facing his own little visit from someone else. Riggi was always bringing in new help, looking for the proper situation in which to prove their chops. Maybe he ’ d better just keep the whole deal to himself for a while, Rooster thought. A sickening sense of the mundane traveled in the car with him. He ’ d prided himself on being a professional, and now one simple piece of trigger business and he ’ d come away dirty, like a two-bit gangbanger. He coursed through the intersection of June and Prosser, trying to outdistance the damp feeling of failure, the car ’ s shocks bunching as he hit a swale in the road. He caught a glimpse, through the top of the windshield, of the traffic signal going from amber to red.
Officer Stacy Jennings dropped the radar gun, hit her lights, and went after the El Camino doing fifty-seven on June Road. Fifty-seven in a forty. Stacy loved being a cop. She was twenty-four years old and had been on the force for eighteen months. She couldn ’ t believe how right the job was for her. Her friends were all secretaries or worked in banks or were in law school. All that seemed like slow death by boredom to her. Even though nothing beyond a DUI had happened to her
so far, she still got all jacked up on traffic stops, each and every one. She knew that things could turn without warning and stuck to the procedure she ’ d learned at the academy. She ’ d move up on the driver ’ s side, keeping in his blind spot as long as possible, and stop about a foot and a half back of being even with him, so he ’ d have to crane around to see her once he ’ d opened his window. This way, she stayed out of the line of fire if the motorist pulled a gun. She knew danger rode in every car. It was this knowledge that made her blood surge, that amped her up, so that even after a routine shift she ’ d have to put in a hard half hour on the stair-climber her father had given her for Christmas just to wind down and tire out for sleep. Daddy was so proud of her, though he said he ’ d never stop being nervous now that she was on the force.
The El Camino neared Clairmont before she ’ d reached speed and for a moment it pulled away from her. She felt her pulse hum and her stomach elevator-dropped halfway before she caught it and stepped on the gas. She wondered if she had her first runner and grabbed for the radio to call for backup. But she began closing ground on the El Camino and its speed dropped below fifty, almost as if its will had flagged. The driver made a show of drifting into the right lane, as if carefully looking for a good place to pull over. At least she knew he ’ d seen her lights. Growing impatient, she fluttered the siren, two crisp chirps, and he finished pulling over. She stopped about ten feet back of him and put it in park. Her patrol car was rigged with a dash-mounted video camera that automatically taped her traffic stops after the flashers were activated, for her safety, for a review of her performance, and to protect motorists ’ rights. She focused her mind for a moment, then got out.
Inside the El Camino the feeling of failure was gone. What replaced it was a bubbling lava river of self-disgust. Rooster was acting like a teenage redneck stick-up man on a losing streak. Now he faced a license check and worse if they put together who he was and that other cops were looking for him. He sat stone still and peeped his side mirror as the officer drew close. The cop stopped a few feet back of him, and he could see that it was a woman. She was pretty. Young. She had sandy blond hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and not a stitch of makeup. Her coat collar had white fleece lining that rode up around her chin and she looked cute in it. She tapped his window, which he lowered, then craned around for a straight-on look at her.
“License and registration, sir.”
He made her name tag in the glow of the streetlight. Officer Jennings. He felt his stomach quiver. She was a beauty.
“Aw, come on now, that light back there was yellow all the way,” Rooster said. He smiled. The smile came easy, clean and fresh as she was.
“License and registration,” the cop repeated, her voice flat.
Rooster half moaned in frustration but kept it low as he reached for the glove compartment. He handed over his papers. They linked him to a long-gone address with no forwarding information. The car itself was pristine, too, nothing — no weapons or substances — in it that could get him hauled in. His problem, however, was twofold. He had a hell of a lot of old parking tickets he hadn ’ t paid that had poof turned into bench warrants, and if she punched in his name, it might come up that her brother officers were looking. Can ’ t let that happen, he thought, shifting around again, trying for another look. She checked the license against his face, the registration against the car.
“Any chance of a warning on this one, Officer?” Rooster tried.
“You were going pretty good there, you know,” she said back. A little humorless, he thought, but he kind of liked it.
“I guess.”
“What ’ s the hurry?”
“Nothing. Just coming from the gym. I ’ m all jacked up after my workout, ya know?”
This penetrated her shell. She became present for a moment. “Yeah,” she said. For a moment he could see her racing a mountain bike or running, covered with sweat, like in a sports ’ drink commercial. Then the job came back into her. “But still.”
“I ’ ll take it slow from here. You can bank on that,” he offered. He tried to put some friendly in his eyes, unsure of how it came across.
She narrowed her eyes and looked at him for a moment. She didn ’ t say yes or no to the ticket, just stared. He felt unable to stop himself from drifting. It was the sight of her patrolman ’ s shoes; shiny cap toes that were small, barely sticking out from under her trousers. This Officer Jennings, this pretty young thing, is the kind of girl I should be with, he said silently to himself. Could be, too. Why not? It wasn ’ t a great way to meet, but there ’ d been worse.
He imagined them together, a few months in. Long enough so that they were comfortable, not so long that it had become routine. He pictured her coming home after work. She ’ d toss her cap at him on the couch and pull out the ponytail doodad that held her hair back. She ’ d walk up to him and he ’ d unclip her gun belt, removing it from her slim hips. He ’ d begin to unbutton her pants, revealing a flat, hard stomach and the top of her fine white cotton underwear. He would ’ ve just gotten home before her, too. Because unbeknownst to her he ’ d have followed her on her patrol, making sure nothing bad had befallen her. He ’ d lay back and scout her patrol area for threats. He ’ d be her invisible backup. He pictured himself living clean. He ’ d drop the “Rooster” and go by “Garth.” Garth Mintz and Officer Jennings. Damn, what was her first name? It brought him out of his reverie just in time to hear her speak.
“Wait in the car, please, sir. It ’ ll be just a minute.”
A sense of gloom came down on Rooster like a heavy wave crashing over him. His movements felt thick, distracted, as if he were swimming through gelatin. He swung his car door open and put his feet on the ground. Officer Jennings, on the way back to her car, stopped. He stood and stretched, as if his arms and legs were tight. And they were tight — with disgust, for where he ’ d ended up and for what he had to do.
“I said, wait in your vehicle, sir.” He heard Officer Jennings ’ s voice, tight, come back at him.
“Just grabbing a smoke,” he said, bashful, making a show of looking for his cigarettes.
She took a few steps back toward him, reaching for her radio as she came. “I ’ m gonna ask you to place your hands on the side of the car.” Now her voice was commanding. If she had any fear, she ’ d put it down and locked it away.
He began to comply, turning toward the El Camino, stretching his hands out toward it. As he turned he saw her key her radio, readying to use it. He took a sip of night air, the gelatin hesitation gone from his limbs, and spun back the way he had turned. He threw a lead right with everything he could put on it that would still allow him to retain good balance on the tail end.
What ’ s he doing? Stacy Jennings wondered to herself when Mintz, the traffic stop, climbed out of his car. It was her last clear recollection. The rest she got from the dashboard videotape. Months later, after the surgeries, she ’ d watched the tape and could hardly comprehend it. She couldn ’ t believe the way the first punch landed, dead solid, that she didn ’ t slip it at all. She pretty much walked into it, in fact. She ’ d been a damn good boxer at the academy, and before, when her father had taught her. She could trade with any of the male recruits, and often got the better of them because of the way she could bob and move in the ring. But that was in the ring, with headgear and mouth guards and gloves and rounds. She could hardly believe the way she went down on the street: like a bag of beans. The first punch broke her jaw. She still couldn ’ t process the weird distance, the remove she felt as she watched the man kneel on her chest and begin pounding her face. Even though she recognized herself on the tape, acknowledged the face she used to know, the one she ’ d never have again, it seemed the whole thing was happening to someone else. The back of her head hit the pavement with each blow, blows that messed up her teeth, cut her cheeks, smashed her nose and orbital bone on the left side. Blood, dark and colorless due to the video wash, ran back and soaked her hair, blackening it. She saw
the man jump up once she was unconscious, look around, pause oddly over her, then climb into his car and drive away. She lay still for just under a minute, her cap sitting in the lower left edge of the frame. Then her hands began to move, touched her face, then found her radio, and a low gurgling voice called in, “Code one-five-four. Officer down, past intersection of June and Prosser,” before the radio, shiny and slick with blood, fell from her hand.
TWENTY-TWO
There were home movies on videotape, more than ten years old, but Paul found them. It had been years since he ’ d seen them, months since he ’ d even considered watching them, but after returning from his night with Behr, he felt he had the strength to look. He sat downstairs in the living room in front of the television and slid a tape into the VCR. He kept the volume low, more for himself than out of concern for Carol. Jamie ’ s first day home from the hospital, his first bath, his first solid food, oatmeal spread all over his smiling face, an episode of him objecting to being on the changing table. Two minutes of tape, his stupid narration over his own bad camera work. The subject: a tiny faultless being who gurgled and cooed in a language that spoke pure happiness. There were other special moments to come — Jamie crawling and then walking, using finger paints — all too exquisitely painful to watch as they were now, preserved within digital grain and the impossibility of time. Paul rolled forward out of his chair, landing on his knees in the thick carpet. He stabbed at the VCR stop button, causing the image to vanish and the plastic tape to croak out of the machine. He knelt there staring into the blackness of the screen and drew on the dead air for breath.
Carol lay in bed. Through the darkness she heard Paul enter downstairs. She felt the electric hum of the television being turned on, a palpable high-pitched whine. She heard the muted sound of voices, the poor-quality audio, and couldn ’ t tell what he was watching. Then Jamie ’ s cry reached her in the night. His cry as a baby, an abject bawl like the rest in the hospital nursery, was distinct and piercing to her then, and was familiar even now. That cry had instantly brought her to a new understanding of love. It made milk weep from her breasts. The response was nature in all its force and glory. That cry no longer caused her to weep. She seemed to have cried her final tear some months back and now there was hardly even feeling, just emptiness. It was then she realized there was something even more horrible than the agony caused by the cry of one ’ s child — and that was a total lack of sensation at that same cry. She turned on her side and tried for sleep.
