by Marcus Sakey
The girlfriends who tried to steer her away from the guys she liked had never understood that it was precisely the fact that they were bad that drew her to them.
Still, as the waitress plunked their burgers down on the Formica table, she fought a wave of guilt. “We should hurry.”
He reached for the Tabasco and began to drench his fries in the stuff. “Why?”
“You know.” She cut her hamburger in half, then in quarters. It didn’t taste right otherwise.
He shrugged, seeming to lose interest in the conversation before it began. “Proud Mary” played in the background, the volume way too soft. If you were going to do Ike and Tina, you had to be able to feel it. Otherwise, what was the point?
“So this is going to be a big score, huh?”
A waitress swayed by, a tired-looking bottle blonde with a nice figure, and she watched his eyes follow her ass before he answered. “Sure.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“For what?”
“Jesus, ease up, okay? I’m trying to eat.” His voice barely rose, like she wasn’t worth getting annoyed at.
She shrugged, picked up a quarter of her burger. Overcooked but still yummy, and she ate quickly, glad to have a break from microwave dinners. When she finished she leaned back and tossed her napkin on the plate. He shook his head. “You really are in a hurry, aren’t you?”
She shrugged. “The Rockford Files are on at two.”
“So?”
“I told Tommy we’d watch it together.”
“What, are you playing at motherhood here? You want to adopt him?” He had a thin-lipped grin that she didn’t like, that made him look like a school-yard bully. “This is a job, Deborah.”
The name made her grit her teeth, and he knew it, so she stopped herself from correcting him. “I know. That’s why I want to get back.”
“So you can watch The Rockford Files.”
“No. Because Danny’s plan-”
“Whoa. Danny’s plan?”
“All I mean is, shouldn’t we be there, just to make sure nothing goes wrong?”
“Jesus fucking Christ. You and he sound like the same broken record.” Evan pitched his voice girlishly high. “Oh geez, I hope nothing goes wrong. Oh gosh. Things could go wrong.”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s more like it.” He laughed, leaned forward to stub out his cigarette. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“To make a phone call.” He threw money on the table and got up, grabbing his leather jacket in one hand. She stood and followed him through the half-empty diner, the music now “Papa Was a Rolling Stone,” still too low. They walked past the chrome-trimmed counter, the short-order cook behind it scraping at the grill, metal rasping on metal. Between the bathrooms, the phone hung on shabby brown paneling, the cheap kind that felt cozy only at 400 A.M., waiting for the caffeine to counter the alcohol enough that you could see yourself home. The restaurant was quiet here, just an old guy at the edge of the counter twenty feet away. Evan took a matchbook from his jacket pocket and opened it to a phone number.
“Who’s Dick?” Debbie asked.
“Danny’s boss.”
He fished for a quarter and stabbed it in while she processed that, it coming on her in a rush. “Wait a second. You mean Tommy’s-”
“Yeah.” He started punching numbers.
“You aren’t going to call him from here, are you?”
“Why not? Something could go wrong?” Before she could reply he held up a finger for silence. “Dick. You know who this is?” His voice into the receiver was slow and menacing.
Jesus.
She looked around, fighting rising panic. The old man at the counter seemed to be reading his newspaper. The hostess faced the other way, slumping across the register with her arms folded. It looked like they were clear.
Evan continued. “That’s right. You have the money?” He paused. “Half the money, you get half your son. You want the top or the bottom?”
She hadn’t wanted to hear this part. It brought it all home, changed it from babysitting a kid to something a million times more awful. Falling for bad boys was one thing. This was something else entirely.
“By tomorrow. We’ll call later to tell you when and where.”
Putting on blinders and pretending it was an innocuous job was non sense. She knew that, always had. But sometimes you went along to get along. Now, she was wondering how big a mistake that had been.
“And Dick, you know what happens if we even suspect you’ve called the police? We shoot your little boy in the head.”
Beside them, the door to the men’s bathroom swung suddenly open. A chubby guy in a Bears jersey came out, not looking at Evan, his eyes on her for a second, just a second, but something weird in them, like he’d caught something he shouldn’t have. Then he was past them, taking a jacket from a booth near the door.
She looked at Evan, his eyes narrow as he watched the fat guy at the register, the hostess asking if everything was all right, the man nodding, reaching in his wallet.
“Good. Wait by the phone, Dick.” Evan hung up, gesturing her closer. “That guy heard.”
His tone scared her more than anything she could remember.
“No,” she said. Tried to smile. “I don’t think so.”
She could see him calculating, and suddenly realized that if she couldn’t convince Evan, then that guy was going to get hurt. Or worse. She remembered Danny telling her about the gun Evan had brought when they took Tommy.
Then the right answer came natural as anything. She knew just what to say. “Nah. He was too distracted.”
“By what?”
She smiled. “My tits.”
He looked at her, steady for a moment, then breaking into a laugh. “All right. Let’s go.”
Relief boiled sweet through her, leaving her skin hot and hands tingling like a thousand needles. She’d done it. Part of her wanted to hoot for joy, but she had to stay calm. So she just started for the door, putting an extra sway in her hips to cover the trembling.
“Bye now,” the hostess singsonged as they stepped through the glass door. The air was fresh and sharp, the cold welcome. They walked around the restaurant to the parking lot in the back, by the Dumpster and the big air conditioner. The lot was bare, only a couple of other cars. The chubby guy walked ahead of them, toward an SUV parked beside the Mustang. She wondered if he’d ever know that she had saved his life. Did that karmic debt tie them in some way? She didn’t exactly believe in reincarnation, but energy was energy, and you never knew.
“See?” Evan said, fishing in his jacket pocket for the car keys. “I told you there was no reason to worry.”
She smiled over her shoulder at him. “You’re the man, baby.”
“Maybe I’ll take you back to the trailer and fuck you up against the other side.”
Even after her earlier panic – or because of it – that sent a flush of heat through her, and as they reached the passenger side of the car she turned, her tongue flicking her lips, starting to lean back, ready to give him a kiss that would send lightning down his spine and back up the other side – only he kept going, pushed past her, and opened the driver’s side of the SUV, the engine already running, the fat guy yelling as Evan leaned in and grabbed him by his shirt front and yanked him right out of the truck, slamming him up against the side of the Mustang like a rag doll, the guy grunting, his arms raised, Evan holding him with his left hand and using his right to punch the guy in the throat, not like the movies where men hit each other on the chins and their heads and hands snap back, no, Evan’s fist continuing too far, and when it pulled back coming out bloody, the ring of keys still in his hand, two of them braced between knuckles dripping scarlet, and then winding up again, and again, three times, the guy not making a sound anymore, everything that fast, and Debbie still standing there, frozen in a vamp pose, her lips and her legs open, as Evan let the body drop to the cement, b
lood pouring from the neck.
He turned, his face a brutal mask. No longer the soap-opera bad boy of her imagination, but a wild-eyed beast kept too long in a cage. Then he thrust the bloody keys into her hand and ducked down to grab the man’s feet.
“Open the trunk,” he said.
She took one look at the brass keys shining and wet in her palm, turned sideways, and booted her burger all over the pavement.
30
Gone
Half of Detroit burned down every year on the night before Halloween. Or it used to, back in high school, when Karen had lived downriver. In Wyandotte the pranks had been more on the level of blowing up mailboxes than torching warehouses, but she’d always hated Devil’s Night anyway. Maybe because of her brothers; they’d always go out, prepared like commandos, dressed in black and packing duffel bags stuffed with eggs, toilet paper, M-80 firecrackers, spray paint, God knew what else. They always let her paint camouflage makeup from the drugstore on their faces, but when she would beg them to let her come along, David would laugh, and Brian would ruffle her hair and say that it was guy stuff. Then they’d leave on their adventures and she’d sit home stewing.
Now here she was, the day before Halloween. Thirty-two years old and still being excluded by the man in her life.
After storming out the night before, she’d come home, taken a bath, and gone to bed, waiting for the sound of the front door. Expecting Danny to come after her, ready to be honest abut what was going on and put her worst fears to rest.
She was still awake at one o’clock, when he crept in and tiptoed past their bedroom to the kitchen. She heard the answering machine beep, and then the sound of the message. Then heard it twice more.
By the time he finally came to bed, she’d fallen into sweaty dreams of her brothers setting their condo on fire and laughing as she leaned out the window and begged them to stop.
When she woke up, Danny was gone.
She went to the gym and attacked the elliptical for an hour, then hit set after set of crunches, trying to use the fire in her muscles to burn away the suspicions that had grown since she’d heard the detective’s call. She showered under blistering water, and treated herself to breakfast out. Sat in a booth and read the front page of the paper five times without absorbing a word.
Then she came home, replayed the answering machine message, and dialed the number, as she’d known she would since she woke up alone.
On TV, the cops sat at desks piled with papers. There were oscillating fans in steel cages, and the telephones were always old rotaries. Karen wondered if that was what it really looked like, and doubted it. They probably sat in cubicles like everybody else.
“Detective Nolan.” His voice sounded gruffer than on the machine.
“This is Karen Moss.” Her heart thumped against her ribs so loudly she was afraid he might hear. “You called Danny and me yesterday.”
“Danny Carter?”
“Yes.”
“Is he there?”
“No. He’s been busy lately, so I thought I’d see if I could help.”
“I’d really like to speak to him. Do you have another number?”
“Not really. He’s in construction, you know, and he’s away from his desk a lot.” He had a mobile, of course, but she didn’t say that. She’d indulge her curiosity, but not to the extent of putting Danny in an awkward position.
“I see. What about when he gets home?”
“I’m not sure when that will be.”
There was a pause. “Ms. Moss, does Danny know you’re calling?”
Her heart hammered louder. “No.”
Another pause, then a sigh. “You don’t happen to know a guy named Patrick Connelly?”
Of course. This must be all about Patrick. Relief flooded through her, and she almost laughed at herself, at her foolish worries. Some part of her had actually started to imagine that Danny was the one in trouble, that Danny had done something irreparable.
“Sure, I know Patrick. Is something wrong?”
“Well…” He paused, one beat that stretched to two, and then three, and she felt spiders of dread crawling back up her arms. “I’m sorry to have to tell you. He’s dead.”
Her fingers went cold, and she felt like she was going to drop the phone. “That can’t be. He was just here for dinner.”
“He was?” Nolan sounded surprised. “When?”
“I don’t know. A week and a half?” What had happened? Some accident on his bike, maybe? She knew he didn’t wear a helmet half the time. Unbidden, an image rose in her mind, Patrick splayed and broken across the hood of a car.
“So he was a friend of yours?” Nolan asked.
“Of ours, yes. Will you tell me what happened?”
There was another pause. “He was killed last week. Maybe Monday or Tuesday.”
“Killed?” She tried to think of another way Nolan might have meant the word. “Do you mean – what do you mean?”
“He was shot.” He paused. “I know that’s hard to hear. But I think it might be good for us to talk in person.”
Her mind felt numb, woolly. Patrick murdered.
“Ms. Moss?”
“Sorry. Now?”
“You live up near Wrigley, right? I can be there in an hour or so.”
“No.” The word came out fast, unplanned. She didn’t want the detective in their home. “I’ll meet you somewhere.”
“Where?”
She gave him directions to a restaurant on Belmont, and promised to meet him in an hour. When she hung up the phone, the quiet stung her ears. Thoughts came quick and chaotic. Who would shoot Patrick? He was just a boy, more mischief in him than evil. She knew he stole cars, that he robbed people, but still, she more easily pictured him in a tree house than in a coffin.
Then the next thought. Danny. This would tear his heart out.
She wandered into the bathroom, took off her clothes and started the shower, thinking it would give her a place to cry. While it heated, she sat on the bed, staring out the window at the brick wall three feet away, thinking about the detective and feeling dread tighten her stomach. Detective Sean Nolan. She tried to put a face to the name, imagined a young Pacino, eager, a cop on the make. Why had she agreed to meet him? It felt like meeting a plague bearer. He lived in a world she and Danny had left behind; what if the traces that lingered on him infected the life they had built for themselves?
And she had called him. There was cruel irony there. Some part of her had been afraid that maybe, just possibly, Danny had involved himself in that old life again. But it turned out she was the one who had opened the door to let it in.
Get a grip, Karen. Patrick would be dead either way.
In the end, she spent forty minutes going from the bed to the couch, the couch to the kitchen, pacing and anxious, before finally turning off the water in the shower, putting her clothes back on, and walking out to meet the detective.
Ann Sather was a Chicago institution, a cavernous Swedish restaurant filled with the smell of coffee and echoing with noisy conversation. She would have known Nolan even if he hadn’t described himself. It wasn’t the buzz-cut hair, the silver tiepin, or the brown leather golfer’s cap. It was an air of confidence, like he’d been tested in ways most people would never face, and felt good about the way he’d scored. She recognized it easily. Danny had the same thing.
“I’m Karen Moss.”
“Sean Nolan.” His eyes were a watery blue, at once kind and hard. “Thanks for coming.”
She let the hostess guide them to a table, wondering what she was doing here. They sat in awkward silence as the waitress weaved between the tables to take their drink order. Karen asked for an orange juice she didn’t want. He ordered decaf and a cinnamon roll. She laughed, the pitch nervous.
“What?” he asked.
“Not exactly what Serpico would’ve ordered.”
“Pacino never had to fill out offense reports or try to remember the abbreviation codes for the vehicle database,
either.” He smiled. “But I see why you and Danny get along.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that he’s a smart-ass, too.”
He said it lightly, smiling, and it disarmed her enough that it took a minute to catch the obvious. “Wait. You know Danny?”
He nodded. “A little. We grew up in the same neighborhood.”
She groaned. “Of course. I should have guessed.”
“What?”
“‘Sean Nolan.’ It’s as Irish as ‘Danny Carter.’”
He laughed. “Guilty. I still think of the South Side more in terms of parishes than neighborhoods.”
He gave and took shit casually, in a bantering way that made her comfortable. It must be crucial in his business, the ability to win people’s trust. She realized that she was starting to like him, and the thought brought her up short. She didn’t want to like him. She didn’t want to know him. Detectives had no place in their life.
“So.” She leaned back and crossed her arms. “What can I help you with?”
He sensed the change in her tone and met it, his voice becoming more official. “Well, first, again, I want to say that I’m sorry about Patrick.”
“What happened?”
“We’re not sure yet. There’s not much I can tell you at this point, except that we’re working hard on it.”
“Not much you can tell me or much you will tell me?”
“Both.” He said it matter-of-factly, without malice.
The waitress arrived and plunked their drinks in front of them. His coffee slopped over the rim and spread a thin brown stain on the paper placemat.
“Where did you find him?” Karen asked, a catch in her voice.
He hesitated. “His body was in the river.”
