Good to the Last Kiss

by Ronald Tierney

  ‘This is Vincent, Mickey. I’m coming in.’

  This time, Gratelli heard a sound.

  ‘Shit.’

  He heard a thud on the floor, the scraping of furniture and then the knob turned. But the door didn’t open. ‘Shit.’ There were some clicks and the door opened to reveal a half-steady, bleary-eyed McClellan. He still had on his suit jacket, but was without pants and shoes. His dress shirt was open. The tails hung down over the boxer shorts.

  ‘What the fuck is this?’ McClellan asked.

  ‘Welcome wagon,’ Gratelli said. ‘I’ve been asked to officially welcome you to the neighborhood.’ Gratelli looked over the slouching McClellan to see the Irish cop’s gun on the table beside the bed. ‘You got company?’

  ‘You. Don’t I see too fucking much of you during the day, you gotta haunt my nights as well.’

  ‘Yeah, well . . .’ Gratelli stammered. He’d forgotten what excuse he’d thought up on the way over, the one he’d use when called upon to explain his presence.

  ‘Yeah, well what?’

  ‘I wanted to talk about that kid, what’s his name? Falwell?’

  ‘Earl,’ McClellan said.

  ‘Yeah, Earl Falwell. You gotta minute?’

  ‘No, no, no,’ McClellan said. ‘You never wanted to talk about a case . . .’

  ‘I’m spooked. I’m afraid we didn’t search his place all that well.’

  McClellan ran his hand through his hair. ‘There was nothing in his room except a few fucking muscle mags, Gratelli. Zero. Zilch. I don’t even think he reads those magazines, just looks at the pictures. The kid’s got to be the dimmest bulb on his family tree. He hasn’t got the smarts to snap these little girls’ necks and not leave at least one fucking clue. We talked about it. OK? Goodbye. Sweet dreams.’

  Gratelli was relieved McClellan bought the story about coming over to discuss Earl Falwell.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ Gratelli said.

  ‘So you thought I shouldn’t sleep either. Nice of you.’ McClellan turned to go back toward his bed, sitting down on the edge. Gratelli followed. There were two pint bottles of Jack Daniels. One was empty. The other was nearly so. The pistol bothered him. So near the bed could merely mean that McClellan was too tired, too lazy to take off the holster and simply wanted the weight of the piece off him. Or it could have been so close because McClellan was thinking about doing something with it.

  ‘That’s it, huh? You come over to talk about a case even though in fifteen years you never did this?’

  ‘Seemed to bother you too,’ Gratelli said.

  ‘Not any more. Nothing fucking bothers me.’

  ‘Why don’t you put your pants on?’ Gratelli said, getting up and grabbing the pants that had been carelessly tossed on the floor. As he handed them to McClellan, the wallet fell out.

  ‘Why?’ McClellan said. ‘We going somewhere?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The President going to pay us a visit?’ McClellan tossed the pants on the other side of the bed. ‘I spilled something on them.’

  ‘Then take off your coat and tie, for Christ sakes,’ Gratelli said.

  McClellan smiled big. ‘What’s this to you.’

  ‘You look silly,’ Gratelli said.

  McClellan laughed. ‘I am silly. Fucking silly.’

  ‘Your kid?’ Gratelli said, picking up a small, faded color portrait of a young blonde teenage girl. An old photo.

  ‘No, I bought it in a museum. Who the hell would it be?’ McClellan said, his big grin getting smaller. ‘Look, what is this?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Gratelli said. ‘Just seemed like you needed somebody to talk to.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Things.’

  ‘I can go to confession.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Gratelli said. ‘I don’t want you doing anything stupid.’

  ‘That’s the way I do everything,’ McClellan said.

  ‘You want to talk about it?’

  ‘It?’ McClellan shook his head. ‘It? It what? What it?’

  ‘Your life. Your marriage. Something’s going on.’

  ‘I haven’t paid attention to my wife in fifteen years. She decides to leave me and I’m all fucked up about it. Figure. I got two kids, moved out of the house long time ago. I’m not even sure I said goodbye or good luck. I feel deserted, sad. Figure that! I ignore my entire family forever, and I feel deserted because I’m not close to any one of them. I don’t know them. I got nothing. I got no life.’

  ‘Wait a . . .’

  ‘No you wait. It gets better. I make good money. There’s people in India begging. I got more than enough to eat. There’s hundreds of thousands of people starving in Africa. I’m healthy. There are people sick all over the world. Name it. Cancer. AIDS, diseases they ain’t even got names for. I’m fucking sorry for myself. Why? What right . . . ?’

  ‘No, you’re angry because you can’t do anything about it.’

  ‘I can’t do anything about anything. We got this killer. Seems like we got killers all over the place.’

  ‘Do what you can.’

  McClellan stood up, went to the window. ‘It’s a dump, Gratelli. A fuckin’ dump.’

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘You thinking of leaving now? I had a perfectly good drunk going on and you come in here, get me sobered up. For what? There’s this world and then there’s nothing. Do you know how fucking frightening that is?’

  ‘I thought you were Catholic.’

  ‘Thanks a hell of a lot. That helps. Something worse than nothing. You find it.’ He turned. He was grinning. ‘Gratelli, you’re a real pisser. What in the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘You want to grab a bite to eat?’ Gratelli asked.

  ‘What are you doing here. You don’t even like me.’

  Gratelli winced.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What do I mean? That’s a laugh.’

  ‘I know you are trying to do your job.’

  ‘You don’t like me.’

  ‘There’s a lot about you I don’t like,’ Gratelli said. ‘That’s true. But I’m here aren’t I? Doesn’t that count for something? Maybe I don’t want to go steady with you Mickey, but since I’m here, do you want to go out for a bite to eat?’

  McClellan came back to the bed, shaking his head. He seemed amused.

  ‘No. What I’d like to do is get on with my drunk. Short of that . . . forced to accept your Boy Scout efforts to help an old lady across the street whether she wants to go or not, I’d like to sober up, shower, change my clothes. I could use a pack of cigarettes. I’ll put some coffee on,’ he said. ‘I wonder if you wouldn’t mind going out and getting me a pack of Camels?’

  Gratelli thought his partner looked relaxed for the first time. Oddly, he seemed suddenly sober. Suddenly lucid.

  TWENTY

  Earl Falwell woke up for the third time that night. For a few moments after each, he thought he was still in the cell with Cobra. The little asshole had got to him. More ways than one. Each time Falwell woke, not sure he was out of the dream, he sighed in relief, letting his head drift back into the pillow. He’d glance at the tiny but constantly burning night light for reassurance and close his eyes.

  But this last time he couldn’t get back to sleep. Earl was troubled by the idea that the cops connected him to the girls’ deaths. Those thoughts put other thoughts in his head, starting with the girls. The killings. The time after the killings. Earl searched his mind for better pictures. Clearer pictures.

  He had the same problem in prison. He could not bring them into his mind clearly. The faces were no longer distinctly separate. He felt empty. There was nothing to feed his fantasy. He wasn’t ready to go out; but he was ready to settle his mind – to reconstruct, to excite himself, to satisfy himself, to sleep. To make all of these confusing thoughts go away. To stop all of this from eating him alive.

  There was nothing he could do tonight. He hadn’t been able to pick up his
Camaro. Tomorrow was the earliest. If he could get the bucks.

  He would try harder. He lit the candles, put on the CD. He slipped off his underwear and slid into bed, uncovered, trying hard to clear his mind. He didn’t like the feel of his body. It was softer. Too soft.

  Earl Falwell could tell. He couldn’t get it, couldn’t get the thing going that would bring him rest. Must be because it’s his first day out. The cop questions. Got him all jumbled up inside his head. Got him thinking about things he didn’t want to think about. He got to thinking about his sister and about what his dad did to her. And what he did to him. About jail. About Cobra. Earl didn’t want to think about this shit. If he couldn’t get it off his mind lying there, he’d have to get out.

  He slid over the edge of the bed, dressed. It would be cold outside. He couldn’t remember a warm, San Francisco night. And there had been precious few dry ones.

  Even so, he wasn’t prepared for the hard rain.

  It was still dark in San Francisco. Five a.m. Earl Falwell had not yet slept. He dressed in the near dark, faced the dark outside when he opened the front door. He walked north on Stanyan, past Haight and the entrance to Golden Gate Park, to Page Street, then headed east. It was cold. The rain angled at him. Pellets stung his face. It felt good. He walked through the darkened street.

  Most of the homes and buildings were dark; but there were lights on here and there. Earl wondered what was going on in all those rooms. He attempted to imagine all the rooms in the city, in the country, in the world and how many different things were going on. People eating, sleeping, pissing, bathing, working, watching TV, fucking, killing. He wondered if anyone was being killed now. He was sorry he did not have his car.

  He cut over to Oak Street, then headed east again. He saw someone on the grassy strip known as the Panhandle, which, if you looked on a map, was a kind of rude finger of Golden Gate Park sticking back into the city between Oak and Fell. Earl moved toward the figure. It was hooded and hunched against the rain, but facing Earl as he approached.

  At first Earl thought it was a girl. The figure was slight.

  ‘What’s up?’ Earl asked.

  ‘Not much. How about you?’

  ‘Bored. Just walking.’ The face was young, male. So was the voice.

  ‘Yeah, me too. Bored.’

  ‘And lonely?’ Earl asked.

  ‘Who isn’t?’

  Earl wasn’t sure how the guy meant it. ‘So, enjoy the night, huh?’ Earl moved past him.

  ‘Wait,’ the guy said. ‘You have to be somewhere?’

  ‘No,’ Earl said, turning back around.

  ‘Why don’t you come to my place?’

  ‘Why?’ Earl said.

  ‘We’ll figure out something,’ the guy said.

  ‘I’m not into drugs.’

  ‘We don’t have to do drugs.’

  ‘What are you into?’ Earl asked.

  ‘What do you like?’ The guy lit a cigarette.

  Earl noticed the guy had that sad, pained look around the eyes. Eyes that looked older than the rest of his soft face.

  Rain was coming down. The guy’s face was wet. Almost looked like he’d been crying. The guy looked agitated, frightened, confused.

  Earl felt an odd stirring in his brain. He didn’t feel as he had before – with his sister and the others. Not exactly. Whatever way he had felt before, there was anger in it now.

  Gratelli found the same parking spot he’d had earlier – a minor miracle despite the short time he was gone – and pulled the Taurus into the small space. The light was still on in McClellan’s apartment. In the dim street lamps across the street he saw two figures, talking to each other in the rain. Noticed one of them lighting up.

  ‘Smoking’ll kill you fella,’ Gratelli said aloud but to himself. Conversations this time of night, Gratelli thought there was no doubt a more dangerous deal being struck – drugs more likely. Sometimes after dark this wasn’t the best of neighborhoods. A little crack, a little meth, a little heroin. And who knows what goes down.

  Gratelli tried to shrug off the wetness once inside the building’s entry hall. He went to McClellan’s door. It was unlocked. He went inside. It was still. Too still. McClellan was not in the main room.

  ‘Mickey?’

  There was no answer. No one in the kitchen. The door to the bathroom was ajar. There was light behind it. He looked at the bedside table. The pistol was missing. Gratelli knew what he’d find. There was really no need to open the door. He did. He had to.

  Earl followed the young man into the rear entrance to the apartment building. Only a little light filtered down the dingy stairway from the landing above. Earl put his hand on the fellow’s shoulder before the first step.

  ‘Here,’ Earl said. ‘I don’t want to go up.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said I don’t want to go up.’

  ‘Just for a few minutes,’ the guy said. ‘You don’t have to do anything.’

  ‘Take off your coat.’

  The young man turned, took off his coat. Before he showed a nervous anticipation. Now he showed a nervous caution.

  ‘It’s warmer up there,’ the young man said. ‘We can relax.’

  ‘I don’t wanna relax.’

  ‘Something to drink maybe?’

  ‘No,’ Earl said, taking the guy’s coat and throwing it on the steps. ‘Drop your pants.’

  ‘Hey, I want to do it with you, but not like this.’

  ‘C’mon.’

  ‘Hey, maybe this isn’t a good idea.’

  ‘Turn around,’ Earl said, grabbing shoulders and forcing the guy to face the other way. Then Earl put his arm around the guy’s neck, holding him firm. ‘Drop the pants.’

  ‘I don’t mind getting a little kinky,’ the guy said. ‘But this isn’t . . .’

  ‘Shut up,’ Earl said, increasing the pressure on the stranger’s neck. He heard the rustle of the pants fall. He felt powerful, really powerful. ‘I’m getting tired of getting fucked,’ Earl said. ‘About time somebody else did.’ He didn’t know whether he said this out loud or just thought it.

  ‘Use a condom,’ came the strained voice. ‘Please use a condom.’

  Earl felt the boy’s warm body against his own, pushed in, felt the warmness engulf his flesh. It was as if it was this that caused his trembling to stop. Now he had the power. This time for real.

  Gratelli went out to the car, made the call. Then he went back inside. There was a note. It read: ‘Fuckin’ awful thing to do to you, I know. Remember, nothing you could have done. Nothing anybody could have done. I was past all that.’

  Gratelli wadded up the paper torn from McClellan’s notebook and stuffed the wad in his pocket. He sat down on the edge of the bed. Mickey had tried to minimize the mess. The tile in the bathroom was far easier to clean than mattress and carpeting. A deadly dose of something might have been easier; but Gratelli didn’t know of too many cop suicides done with pills. That just wasn’t the way. You ate your gun. That was the way.

  Stupid. All of it was stupid.

  Gratelli tried to figure out what he felt. He was stunned. Perhaps he was in shock. He looked around the room. Pretty anonymous. ‘End of the line,’ McClellan had said. If Gratelli had been a bit sharper, he would have seen this coming. His visit, the friendly, not-too-personal chatter fell way short. McClellan had needed professional help.

  Gratelli would have to tell Beth. He didn’t know her that well. McClellan had been right. They didn’t have dinner together. They didn’t visit each other. They weren’t close. Only accidental glimpses into each other’s lives.

  Still, it was up to him to break the news. No one else was any closer. McClellan had alienated most of his peers and virtually all of those in charge. If he hadn’t made Homicide before making so many enemies, somebody would have found a way to get him off the force. Nobody knew McClellan very well, Gratelli thought. Including McClellan.

  Gratelli went outside to wait for the cops to arrive, noticed one
of the figures from before crossing the grassy divide back the other way. Whatever was going down had gone down, Gratelli thought.

  Two cop cars pulled up. Lights flashed, but there were no sirens. In the back of one was the lieutenant.

  ‘Who’d a guessed? Jesus!’ he said, covering up his neck with the collar of his long coat. ‘You OK, Vince?’

  Earl knew something had changed while he was in jail. No question. He couldn’t have explained it even if he’d had someone to explain it to. Maybe he grew up.

  Lying in bed, he had no urge to light the candles, to feel his own body, to listen to music. There was a dullness in his mind, but he wasn’t confused anymore. The baby monster grew up to be a real one. Eat or get eaten. At first he never figured Cobra to be that smart, but Cobra had it right. Cobra hadn’t tried to help him. He just took what he wanted. But Earl learned something. There was nobody to help. Just get tough. Don’t take any shit. Get what you need. Take what you want if you figure you can get by with it. Be a little smarter than Cobra. Don’t get caught.

  What happened in that back stairway was done by someone he was becoming. Someone who wasn’t lonely anymore, wasn’t sad anymore, who wouldn’t worry about the rightness or wrongness of what he had done. He still couldn’t sleep. He didn’t care. Earl Falwell had found a new power, not over unsuspecting women; but over whoever he wanted to have power over. Earl Falwell wasn’t frightened anymore. He was in charge. Like Cobra. Like his father and stepfather. Prison, however brief it was, was a turning point. Things would be different from now on.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Helluva time for Bradley to call, Paul Chang thought. He had thirty-five minutes to get to the airport to pick up Julia, and Bradley, very unlike him, wanted to talk. And Bradley, also very unlike him, didn’t come to the point.

  Something about opportunity. Change.

  ‘What! Bradley tell me what. Or wait until you get back and we’ll have dinner and drinks and we’ll talk until dawn.’