Lyndsey, a fellow young Rave employee, adjusted the position of a small Christmas tree on the counter and moved up to the spellbound Jeannie who continued to watch the Kari Show in stunned amazement.
“What’s with you, you look like you’ve seen a ghost?” Lyndsey asked, pushing her tongue through a wad of gum in her mouth.
“He goes to my church!” Jeannie said as she pointed to Anderson on the TV screen.
“Really? Wow. Cool.” Lyndsey grinned, impressed.
Kari hustled around the front of the studio audience and climbed the steps of a side aisle where she put the microphone in front of an older man.
“I just want to say…” The older man deliberately poked his finger at Anderson for emphasis as he spoke. “…your wife deserved to live and your daughter deserved to live!”
The studio audience wildly applauded the older man’s impassioned statement.
“I believe they do live.” Anderson proselytized. “I am confident that they rest with God.”
The image of Noel Anderson was frozen on the TV monitor inside the office of detective Wayne Crotty who was staring at the screen with his feet up on the desk. Crotty had been watching a downloaded copy of the Kari Show that featured Anderson.
Detective Gene Peterson, Crotty’s partner, entered the office with some reports in his hand.
“You watchin’ that crap again?” Peterson good-naturedly scolded Crotty about his repeated viewing of the ‘Kari’ Show. “I’m starting to worry about you.”
Crotty threw his hands up as if to say “you caught me.”
“Going to have to drop your boy from the list of candidates for that arson.” Peterson matter-of-factly informed Crotty as he gestured at the image of Anderson on the TV. “It’ll be hard proving a financial motive. He donated all the insurance proceeds and the land to the city. They’re going to make a children’s park out of it.”
“I still got a feeling about this one.” Crotty held up a mug shot of Ruben Roney and pointed at Anderson on the TV monitor. “He killed him.” Crotty firmly declared, referring to Anderson’s culpability.
“How? He poured the sedative down his throat and then put him to sleep in his car?” Peterson incredulously proffered the supposition, then added, “Roney would know what he looks like from the court case and everything. What’d this, uh, Anderson guy do, wear a disguise?”
“Maybe.” Crotty contemplated the possibility. “When I went to talk to him, I just got a feeling that this one’s different. He isn’t your usual victim.”
“We got lots of cases that deserve our undivided attention. This guy isn’t up to anything.” Peterson insisted.
“Allow me to have a little fun.” Crotty croaked. “I’d feel really bad if this guy was trying to get revenge and then he got caught.”
“Then look the other way.” Peterson said, probably a bit too quickly and seriously for Crotty’s liking.
“What if he gets killed?” Crotty posed as a scenario.
“That’s his risk.” Peterson shrugged. “He’d probably prefer it and that’s his choice.”
“I know we’re not supposed to think like this…” Crotty persisted. “…but if your family was taken away from you and you had nothing, really… what would stop you from killing the guys who did it?”
“I got six by eleven reasons.” Peterson answered referring to the size of a standard jail cell.
“I mean this guy’s got absolutely nothing now.” Crotty sniffed like a bird dog. “Try to get inside his head.”
Peterson closed the office door and stepped in front of his partner’s desk.
“If he did it…” Peterson whispered. “…personally I could give a fuck.”
“Professionally?” Crotty asked.
Peterson had to be careful with this one. While they had been partners for a long time, Crotty was still a hard-ass and a superior. Crotty was no doubt testing to see if Peterson really meant it when he suggested Crotty look the other way or when he said personally he didn’t care whether Anderson might be on a vigilante quest.
“I guess I’d give a fuck.” Peterson reluctantly responded.
“This guy Anderson is a special case.” Crotty sank back further in his chair and stared off, deep in thought. “He’s smart.”
“You really think he’s capable?” Peterson asked incredulously. “He’s Joe Citizen. Builds houses. No criminal record, no mob background, nothing to suggest a mental make-up that would predispose him to cold-blooded killing.”
“He was in the military.” Crotty mentioned matter-of-factly.
“So what?” Peterson rejected the correlation.
“So it makes you more comfortable with killing.” Crotty surmised. “You’re trained for it.”
“Maybe.” Peterson conceded, but he wasn’t convinced one necessarily followed the other.
“Did he impress you as a holy roller?” Crotty put it to his partner plainly, indicating the frozen image again of Anderson on the TV.
“Not particularly…” Peterson responded. “…but that doesn’t mean a thing either. Maybe he’s just trying to hang on by his fingernails, so he doesn’t blow his own brains out.”
“I checked on Gabriel Lysander, the brother of the douche bag who actually pulled the trigger on Anderson’s wife.” Crotty said, dropping his feet down on the floor and picking up a file off his desk. “He was released from prison a month ago after serving out his involuntary manslaughter rap-”
“Yeah… and?” Peterson interrupted.
Crotty stared pensively at the file without answering.
“He’s still breathing?” Peterson continued sarcastically.
“I’m wondering…” Crotty waved the file thoughtfully.
“You’re thinking of warning him?” Peterson asked, realizing what Crotty was contemplating.
“Not Anderson.” Crotty shook his head.
“I know who you’re talking about!” Peterson exclaimed, agitated.
“We’re sworn to uphold the law.” Crotty forcefully reminded him.
“To the best of our ability.” Peterson contended. “And that doesn’t include warning people about crimes someone else may or may not commit.”
It was clear Crotty wouldn’t relent.
“What? So you want to go up to the douche bag brother who just got out and say…” Peterson cupped his hand next to his mouth and whispered mockingly, “Hey, douche bag, be careful! This guy, you know the one who you murdered his wife with your other douche bag brother, well, this builder guy, he just might be after you!”
Crotty finally seemed to acquiesce to the absurdity of the notion.
“You’re obsessing.” Peterson said, then in a conciliatory gesture pointed to Gabriel’s mug shot in the file Crotty was holding. “Tell you what, if this second guy dies you can say: I told you so.”
Peterson added the documents he was holding to the case file in Crotty’s hand, opened the door and walked out of the office.
Crotty looked back intently at the freeze frame image of Anderson on the TV monitor as Peterson’s footsteps receded into the stationhouse buzz.
CHAPTER 22
Jeannie sorted some old vinyl LPs in a display bin as a beautiful snow could be seen falling softly outside the Rave Record Store window. It was one of those snows that made everything seem quiet and peaceful. Even in a bustling city.
She suddenly looked up at a customer who was staring at her from the other side of the display. It was Anderson.
Jeannie smiled.
So did Anderson. There was an awkward silence, then:
“I saw you on TV. That was really brave.” Jeannie gushed. “I couldn’t go on a talk show. God knows I’d like to, show all those shits.”
“What ‘shits’?”
“Just people.”
Jeannie threw a look over at her co-worker, Lyndsey, the other twenty-something Rave employee who was presently locking the entrance door.
“We’re closing.” Jeannie informed Anderson.
“I know. I thought we might try to have that dinner now.”
“What dinner?”
“That one where you thought I might stick you with the check.”
“Oh yeah.” Jeannie nodded, remembering, and kind of excited about the prospect of going out with Anderson again. “Are we going to the same place?”
“We don’t have to. I’m open to suggestions.”
“Can you wait a minute?” Jeannie gestured at the clothes she was wearing and pointed towards the dressing rooms. “I’d like to change into something else I have in the back.”
The Black Knights Restaurant and Bar was one of those inner-city honky-tonks that really comes alive on weekends and holidays. It was a couple of days before Christmas so it was particularly busy.
A 4-piece cover band was on the small stage grindingly playing their way through the bluesy “Cocaine” that was made famous by Eric Clapton.
Revelers jammed the dance floor and shouted the lyrics along with the lead singer.
Jeannie, dressed provocatively in a body stocking, breasts almost spilling out her top, stepped up with Anderson to the crowded bar.
“I told you you’d like this place!” Jeannie shouted to Anderson through the din as she pressed against the bar counter. The bartender immediately recognized her.
“Merry Christmas!” The bartender warmly greeted Jeannie as he chewed on a bar straw exposing his not so great teeth. “Haven’t seen you in awhile. Where’ve ya’ been?”
“Here. There. Everywhere adored!” Jeannie answered, giggling like a little girl.
“The usual?” The bartender asked.
“Yeah, why not.” Jeannie approved.
The bartender looked to Anderson for his drink request, but Jeannie jumped in and ordered for him.
“Double Jack on the rocks.” Jeannie yelled, pumping her arms in time with the song.
Anderson watched the bartender reach back and grab a bottle of tequila along with a bottle of triple sec as he set about making the “usual” margarita for Jeannie.
“Think you should?” Anderson asked her with some concern, nodding to the salt rimmed glass that was being set in front of her.
“I can have one.” Jeannie replied plaintively, holding up an index finger.
The bartender quickly blended her margarita and filled Jeannie’s glass. He then poured out the Double Jack order in a small tumbler glass and slid it to Anderson.
“Hardly recognized you with your hair like that.” The bartender shouted over the din, staring at Jeannie’s hair.
Anderson pushed some money across the bar to pay.
“No, it’s on me.” The bartender said, shoving the money back to Anderson and moving off to fill another drink order.
Jeannie smiled as she put her hands about the broad-bowled stemmed margarita glass and blissfully sniffed its contents. She took a drink as though it was mother’s milk and purred.
The band finished their rendition of “Cocaine” with a chaotic guitar flurry.
There were cheers and appreciative applause from the crowd.
The lead singer thanked the crowd for joining in but added, “Please, don’t bring me any cocaine!”
People shouted comebacks but the band quickly transitioned into a wildly energetic reworking of “What I Like About You,” an anthem made famous by The Romantics.
“Great song!” Jeannie exclaimed, bouncing to the beat with her drink in hand. She took another long sip.
“What did he mean about your hair?” Anderson asked as he sat down on the edge of a bar stool.
“Oh, I used to have my hair green, red… purple.” Jeannie explained. “I’m really a blonde but I dyed my hair so much I like shocked the roots. Now it just grows out brown.”
Anderson gazed at her hair and wondered what she would look like as a blonde.
“You must miss them terrible, your wife and daughter.” Jeannie speculated out loud and took another drink.
“Don’t think about it that much.” Anderson replied, sipping his whiskey.
“Do you cry a lot?”
“No.”
“Never?” Jeannie asked with disbelief. “God, I’d be hysterical all the time. Don’t you want a family, a home again?”
“I don’t want anything.”
“Nothing? That’s interesting.”
“I just try to think about now.”
“Very Zen.” Jeannie commented, and nodded. “I know I’m never going to meet someone. I failed at it and its okay. I just have to stop thinking about it all the time. I had fun…“ She shrugged her shoulders, unashamed. She took another drink and, starting to feel the effects, slipped a bit.
Anderson reached out and steadied her.
“Whoa! Watch that first step!” She shouted somewhat woozily.
Anderson gestured for her to plant herself on a bar stool but she didn’t want to sit.
“Probably should tell you…” She took a deep breath and then stated forthrightly. “…I’ve had quite a few boyfriends.”
“Telling me about your old boyfriends is one sure way of killing a romantic evening.” Anderson warned her with a cool but good-natured look of irritation.
“Oh…” Jeannie came right back to him, blearily brightening. “…is this going to be a romantic evening?” She laughed, tried to do a smooth twirl in place that turned out wobbly and ended with her spilling some of her margarita down her front.
Anderson handed her his dry cocktail napkin and scanned for more napkins on the bar counter.
“Excuse me.” Jeanne said, embarrassed. She woozily set her drink down on the bar and staggered off towards the ladies room.
Anderson, concerned, followed her. He maintained a small distance between himself and Jeannie as he watched her work her way unsteadily through the crowd, round a corner and enter a hallway. He scooted up just in time to see her put a stiff-arm to the door of the ladies room and disappear inside.
Jeannie braced herself on the edge of a bathroom sink as she grabbed paper towels from a dispenser and dabbed at the wetness on her chest. She looked in the mirror and rolled her eyes as she tried to get her bearings.
Anderson watched as other women entered and exited the ladies room. He figured Jeannie was safe for the moment and went into the nearby men’s room.
Anderson stepped up to one of the urinals inside the old plaster-walled washroom and began to relieve himself. He could hear someone enter right behind him and didn’t pay much attention to it until Jack Trax ambled up to the urinal right next to him. Anderson looked over. What’s with this fucking guy!
“Hey, how ya doin’?” Trax chirped in his inimitable smarmy style. “Out with Jeannie again?”
Anderson quickly decided not to show any emotion. Why should he? This Trax was an asswipe. He just stared blankly at Trax as he spoke. Also, Anderson was in mid-pee and wanted to finish.
“Lookin’ for a good time, she’s the girl.” Trax continued disparagingly, taking the time to urinate also. “Yeah, everybody gets their wish with Jeannie, if you know what I mean. Million stories, man…”
Anderson just kept peeing and staring.
Trax laughed out loud and then snorted gleefully as he remembered an uproarious incident regarding Jeannie. “Did she ever tell you…” Trax went on, “…about the time they wouldn’t let her on the tour bus unless she went down on this other chick?!!” Trax laughed again. “We videotaped it! Fuckin’ intense, man!!”
Anderson simply continued to silently and stoically stare at Trax.
“Should know you’re swimming in dirty water.” Trax offered with mock seriousness before he belly laughed again as he recalled an even funnier episode concerning Jeannie. “I mean, she defined the term ‘backstage ass’!”
Anderson finished urinating and zipped up his pants.
“Another time…” Trax continued, still peeing. “…there was these guys in from this record label, about seven of us altogether, and she-” Trax didn’t get the chance to finish recounting this particular
experience on the subject of Jeannie.
Anderson wrenched Trax’s arm behind his back, grabbed him by the hair and laid him out on the sink.
Trax thrashed but he was no match for Anderson’s strength or anger.
Anderson ripped off the globe reservoir of a wall-mounted liquid soap dispenser and poured the pink gooey hand cleaner contents into Trax’s mouth.
Trax gagged, flailed about as Anderson held him in place. Liquid soap ran down Trax’s face, got in his eyes.
Anderson dragged Trax into a stall, dunked him face-first into a toilet and flushed. Trax gasped for air, tried to free himself, but Anderson pushed his head into the toilet another time and flushed again.
Anderson finally released him and backed out of the stall.
Trax spewed, choked, his feet slipping out from under him as he tried to stand. He fell weakly back on the bathroom stall floor.
Jeannie, a bit steadier on her feet, almost ran into Anderson as he exited the men’s room.
Another male restaurant patron moved up the hallway and noticed Anderson’s slightly ruffled and splattered state.
“You okay?” The restaurant patron inquired of Anderson.
“Yeah.” Anderson answered and casually warned the man, gesturing back in the direction of the washroom. “Just, um, some guy is sick in there.”
The restaurant patron nodded thanks and cautiously entered the men’s room.
* * *
The two-story apartment building where Jeannie lived was in one of those porous border, largely un-policed melting pot neighborhoods where they put the alcohol and drug addiction treatment clinics. The City even dropped plans long ago to put an off-track horse betting parlor there because it was too downmarket and too dangerous.
Anderson didn’t like leaving his Mercedes on the street but hoped the gang-bangers would figure it for a bait car and leave it alone. Luckily, or not (sometimes it’s looked at as a dare), Anderson also saw there was a POD (Police Observation Device), a large video surveillance box with a flickering blue light affixed to the top of a nearby light pole that was meant to view and record crime in high-risk areas. He thought this could maybe further add to his chances his car would still be there when he returned.
Violence Page 21
