by Joe Clifford
“A lot.”
“Weren’t you bitching last month about not having the money to buy Tom’s business?”
I ignored his question and breezed past him into the kitchen. I cracked the window and lit a cigarette, but the wind spat back, flicking ice chips into my corneas. I slammed it shut. Charlie didn’t care if I smoked inside. Place stank to high heaven anyway. He’d neglected cleaning. Hungry Man boxes, tins upended, cereal tipped on its side, spilling kernels. I had no idea how he was getting groceries, unless he was strapping the sacks on the back of his bicycle with a bungee. In the corner, I saw scattered black flecks. Little pellets, the size of uncooked rice grains. Took me a minute to figure out I was staring at mouse shit. Garden trash bags that Charlie hadn’t bothered to close up or tie off toppled with empty beer cans and liquor bottles by the door. How hard was it to walk the rest of the way to the garbage bins?
Tying up the trash, I hauled the bags outside and dropped them in the cans.
From his stoop, Lamentation Mountain loomed terrifying. Ragged peaks disappeared high into the sky, past the blue, past the gray, into the storm that still raged, refusing to end.
“Jay?” Charlie stood in the doorway. “What are you doing?”
I brushed past him up the stairs, back inside.
“Your place is a mess.”
“Been busy.”
Busy? What could I say to that? Charlie was unemployed, living off workman’s comp, and getting sloshed every night, sleeping well into the afternoon.
“I don’t understand why you wouldn’t jump at the offer,” he said. “You investigated claims and stuff at NorthEastern. Might be an easy payday for a few phone calls.”
“Don’t worry about it, Charlie.”
Last night I’d said no to the job because it had come at the end of a long, shit day, and my default position was almost always no. When I woke up, the opportunity didn’t feel any more appealing or sincere. I’d come to Charlie’s for more than Fisher’s number. I could use someone to talk to. But right now just being around the guy pissed me off. Charlie and I used to be partners, pals; my buddy was always up for an adventure. Back in the day, I’d be able to talk to my friend about this. Weigh the pros and cons of taking the gig, better judgment be damned. As I watched Charlie tug the thinning curls on his swollen head, staring past my eyes to the stains on the wall, canned ham gut slung over elastic, I knew I couldn’t talk to Charlie about this or anything else. Charlie Finn stood in front of me. He glanced in my general direction. But my friend wasn’t there anymore.
“Go back to sleep. I’m going to wait for Fisher to call back.”
Charlie sloughed off toward his bedroom.
“Your Internet still work?”
He pointed at the back room that used to be his mother’s sewing den, before continuing on to his room. Within seconds Charlie was sawing logs, that alcoholic’s snore rattling deep within dried-out sinus chambers and a gutted soul. His place looked like shit. He looked like shit. Like he’d given up attempting the bare minimum that makes us human. Bathing, brushing teeth, pest control. Then again, who was I to judge?
I pulled out Vin Biscoglio’s card, turning it over in my fingers, studying the numbers. Who turns down that many zeroes without due diligence? I called. Of course Vin Biscoglio didn’t pick up. Not even a beep or robot asking me to leave a message. I felt like a dope for being so gullible. There’s no such thing as free money.
I booted Charlie’s computer and rooted around the web. Nothing Vin Biscoglio told me was an outright lie. But it hadn’t been the truth either. First off, Ethan and Joanne weren’t going through a divorce. Not yet at least. But the high-society marriage was on the rocks, and the tabloids didn’t shy away from dirty laundry. Far from the victim, Ethan Crowder came across the bully. There were allusions to a history of violence, domestic abuse charges in past relationships, hints of payouts, another powerful family with the means to cover up messes, sweep dirt under the rug. Turned out Joanne wasn’t even the first Mrs. Crowder. Ethan had been married once before when he was much younger, to a showgirl named Isabelle from Wyoming. The two-day Vegas marriage ended in an annulment. The guy sounded like a real prize. I was able to find Joanne Crowder’s address in Coal Creek, which I scribbled down, the next logical step if I wished to pursue this further. And I did not.
Back in the kitchen, I rummaged cupboards. I found a near-empty tin of Folger’s and made coffee. Waiting for the pot to brew, I craned my neck out the window to see if I could find the top of the mountain now. The fog had grown worse, cloud cover descending, visibility reduced, swallowing the dim white dot that used to be the sun.
I didn’t know what Vin Biscoglio or Crowder Steel stood to gain from involving me, but I couldn’t shake the feeling I was being pulled along, forced to participate.
Someone was playing me.
Playing you? What’s the game?
Fisher never did call back, and neither did Vin Biscoglio. By noon I was sick of stale coffee, cigarettes, and my neurosis. I had both cells on Charlie’s kitchen table, along with his landline. Sitting in that cold, dark house, waiting for one of them to buzz or ring, I felt like I did in middle school, holding out hope Tracy Barnett would agree to go with me to homecoming dance, a sap. Any trace of daylight had vanished, replaced by angrier gray clouds churning, swirling, chucking ice and snow at the glass. I could’ve moved, turned on a light. But I did not. Instead, I sat in the darkness and contemplated mouse turds and dust bunnies while my bloated alcoholic best friend raised the roof beams.
I didn’t have time for this. I still had to deal with last night’s score, which sat outside locked up in the back of the U-Haul hooked up to my Chevy. I still had to drive down to the storage locker, a good half hour south on the Desmond Turnpike, drop my load, and get ready for the next one. Felt like I worked twenty-four seven, three sixty-five, and for what? To tread water. Break even. A tie. I hoped Vin Biscoglio didn’t call back. Nothing good was going to come from me poking around.
Part of me also knew it didn’t matter if he called back, if I formally accepted his offer or took one red cent. I was already working this case whether I wanted to or not.
I wrote Charlie a note telling him if Fisher called to make sure he called me. I’d left my number in a voice mail, but I didn’t trust that tiny mutherfucker as far as I could throw him.
Unlike Charlie, I was not a lazy, shiftless worker. I seldom cut corners. A job worth doing is a job worth doing right. I was tempted to leave last night’s score in the U-Haul, go home, eat my dinner from a box, switch on the tube, because come Monday, I’d be packing up again. But with all the sketchy motels in the area, the wretchedness of the strip, crackheads, meth freaks, guys like my brother, I couldn’t risk it. Junkies loved to break into private property. They’d swipe anything not nailed down, running off to trade hot electronics for a fix. Over the years, Tom and I had been hit plenty. We usually found whatever had been stolen in surrounding pawnshops. Recovered most of the items. Most of the time. Still a pain in the ass. Someone had to go down to the station, file the paperwork, make a statement. And charges never stuck because junkies just say they found it. Unless you caught them red-handed, who could prove otherwise? It was a big game to them. What did they have to lose besides the time? And time is the only commodity a junkie has. I knew by emptying the U-Haul, I was creating more work for myself, digging a hole just to fill it back up. Had it not been for the break-in at Hank Miller’s garage, I might’ve chanced it. Better safe than sorry. U-Hauls were pretty easy to pick.
On my way to the You Store storage pod, I stopped at the grocery store and grabbed a case of beer.
Took me all afternoon to unload the U-Haul. I could’ve saved time, but knowing I’d be restrapping the wagon again in forty-eight, I had the foresight to restock, rearrange, and make reloading easier on the flip side. I pulled forward the biggest, bulkiest items, like the chest of drawers and headboards, sticking smaller goods—wall clocks, coatracks, knickknacks
and bric-a-brac, paintings—in the rear. I also had some old hard drives belonging to Tom. He had gotten a new computer for his home office and asked me to dispose of them properly. Which, if anyone knew my history, was hilarious. My brother had gotten his hands on those pedophile pics because some moron working for Lombardi thought it a good idea to entrust a couple junkies with sensitive data. Like Chris wasn’t going to root around for personal financial info. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake. I had to find a proper electronic recycling center, and I hadn’t had the time to do that yet. I didn’t know why Tom even needed a new home computer. We didn’t use one at the warehouse. Tom Gable had a mind like a steel trap. Every item ever purchased logged upstairs in the mental microfiche, more secure than an NSA database.
I dragged everything into the pod, and beat my body up good. In this weather, my leg chewed at the bone. With no one to help carry the load, I wrenched the hell out of my lower lumbar, and when I was done, my hands were raw and bloody. I’d left my gloves in the pockets of my old winter coat. Exposed to the blustery elements, I felt like I’d been jacking off a prickly pear.
Finally finished and ready to call it a day, I was deciding between takeout Chinese and Mickey D’s, when I realized, like a fucking idiot, I’d missed a chair. And not a tiny one, either. A big cushy one in the back corner of the U-Haul. Which defeated the purpose of the extra hours, undermining all the hard work I’d done. So frustrating. So typical. The way I’d stacked everything, there was no room to cram it in. I could’ve left it, except I’m nothing if not a stubborn sonofabitch. Especially when I’ve had a lot to drink. I’d already made a decent dent into the case of beer.
I hopped into the U-Haul, dragging my bum leg, telling myself I was not pulling everything out again, knowing damn well I was pulling everything out again.
A call came in on my cell.
It was not any of the calls I was expecting.
CHAPTER FIVE
“WHAT’S UP, TURLEY? Sorta busy here.”
“Jay, I don’t know how to say this.”
I put the call on speaker while Turley hemmed and hawed on the other end. I was in the middle of gripping a giant chair, like one of those ESPN strongmen with a log too hard to handle, arms stretched wide around the base, wrenching ligaments and soft tissue. “Spit it out, man. I got shit to do.”
“Tom Gable’s had . . . an accident. He’s in the hospital.”
I dropped the chair. Lucky for me the leg landed on my big toe, splitting the nail. Hurt like hell, but I was glad to have something to break the fall. Goddamn chair was worth more than my whole foot. I switched off speaker, putting the phone to my ear, plugging the other so I could hear above the wind tunnel racing through locker alley.
“Did you know he was down in Pittsfield earlier?”
“Yeah. To sign the lease on our new property, dual showcase and auction room we’re renting. Why?”
“Oh boy.” Turley groaned like my knowing that somehow made this news worse.
“What happened?”
“On his way back into town, at the bottom of the mountain— you know that secluded stretch entering into the foothills?”
“I am familiar with the area.”
“Tom must’ve pulled over to help a stranded motorist. There were two sets of tire tracks in the snow. We’re still trying to piece together—”
“Tom. What happened to Tom?”
“Someone beat the shit out of him. Looks like a car jacking gone wrong. Found the crowbar they used, covered in blood, bits of hair and bone. He was outside in the cold for a while.”
“How bad is it?”
He didn’t answer.
“Turley?”
“Bad. It’s bad, Jay.”
We didn’t have a hospital in Ashton. The closest emergency room was down in Pittsfield, which was where I’d ended up when I severed the nerves in my calf. Maybe it was phantom pain, a sympathy reaction on my part, but my leg hurt worse upon hearing the news.
I jammed everything back in the pod, organization be damned. I locked up the shed, and unhitched the U-Haul, leaving it in the parking lot with the rest of the moving vans. I’d be able to drive faster without the extra weight holding me back.
When you don’t have parents, you latch on to different people to fill those roles. That’s what the shrink told me after Chris died. Normally I’d laugh off such psychobabble, but, man, I was a mess back then, desperate for any explanation. Dr. Shapiro-Weiss said when you don’t have a father—or in my case, one who died so young—you glom onto others to do the job. My skin crawled with all the hokey terms she used—inner child, reparenting, mourning a loss of innocence—but I’d worked for Tom most of my life, and didn’t need a doctor to point out the obvious. Tom Gable was about the age my dad would’ve been had he not driven the family car into Echo Lake. Even though ours was a business relationship, Tom had taken me under his wing. Speeding to the hospital, not knowing if he was going to live or die, chain-smoking like a mad man, popping lorazepam like breath mints, I tried not to dwell on tragedies and fallouts, the parallels of repeating patterns. In particular where that mountain was concerned. My parents died on Lamentation Mountain, Chris not far from it. I almost died up there, too. Moments like this dredge up shit you’d prefer remain buried; they force you to confront demons you’d rather stay asleep. I had enough disappointment in my life. I didn’t need this. Making me feel even lousier, my first thought when Turley told me Tom was in critical condition: What would happen to the business if he died? I mean, it popped in my head for a split second. In, out, one of a myriad flashing thoughts. But admitting I’d even considered that, however fleeting, made me feel like a terrible person.
Stepping into the ICU, first thing I noticed were the machines doing God’s work. Atomic hearts beating. Morphine dripping. Artificial pipelines to veins and brains. Despite the high-tech medical equipment, the scene reminded me of Hank Miller’s repair shop. Janky alternators and transmissions hooked up to diagnostics, attempting to isolate the problem. The human body, no different than any other engine. Other species have the dignity to die gracefully. We don’t go down without a fight. We patch up solenoid bearings with solder and duct tape, anything to milk a few more miles.
I spotted Tom’s wife, Freddie, pacing, wringing hands; she looked a mess. Her real name was Fredericka but everyone called her Freddie. I wasn’t as close to Freddie as I was Tom. But I still saw her often. Anytime I’d venture up to the house to get money or hand over inventory lists, like last night, we’d talk, exchange pleasantries, say hello. She knew who I was. I’d had dinner at their place plenty over the years. They didn’t have any children. I wondered if Tom Gable thought of me the same way I did him. Like the son he never had. Hard not to get sentimental at times like this. I started toward Freddie to offer my condolence, let her know if there was anything I could do, please, don’t hesitate to ask, but the daggers in her eyes stopped me dead in my tracks. Her husband was in the hospital. He was in bad shape. I tried to not let her chilly reception hurt my feelings. There was no reason for her to blame me.
Maybe I was mistaking disdain for grief. Before I could make a move and find out, Turley intercepted me, pulling me into an adjacent corridor, sticking me behind a defibrillator. I could feel Freddie’s vitriol boring through the walls.
“What’s up?” I asked, peeking around the corner, toward Tom’s room. “Is he going to be okay?”
“Still critical. Bleeding in the brain. Doctors operated to relieve the pressure. He hasn’t woken up. Right now, it’s touch and go.”
“I saw him this morning.”
“I know.”
“We were having breakfast . . .” I stopped. “What do you mean you know?”
“Talked to Christine Erickson.”
“The waitress at Julie’s?”
Turley rubbed the back of his thick neck, muckling his mouth.
“Why are you talking to Christine?”
“Listen, Jay. There’s no easy way—”<
br />
“You know I hate when you do this.”
“What?”
“You have something to tell me, then tap dance like a pussy. Get to it, man.”
“We found Tom’s truck. About a mile down the road. Someone had driven it off into the woods.”
“Thought you said it was a carjacking?” Why ditch the ride so fast?
“I said it looked like a carjacking.” He adopted his lawman’s stance. “Where did you go after you met Tom for breakfast?”
“Charlie’s.”
“Finn verify that?”
“For the ten minutes he was awake and sober.”
“What time did you leave?”
“I don’t know? Noon?”
“Where did you go?”
“Work. I have a goddamn job.”
“Alone?”
“Yeah.” Call it stress, strain, or chalk it up to sheer obliviousness, I still didn’t comprehend what he was getting at. My sole focus was on who would want to hurt Tom.
“Why were you snooping around Hank Miller’s garage late last night?”
“I wasn’t snooping. Who told you I was snooping?”
“Hank Miller. The crowbar used to beat Tom came from Miller’s garage.”
And like that it all came rushing back, twenty-five years of pain, hurt, and remorse. The crash. The rumors my brother Chris had been responsible. You could trace the exact moment my life veered off course to the night my folks went off that bridge. At the time of their accident, my brother had been working at Hank Miller’s garage. A burnt-out head case at seventeen, with a nasty temper and penchant for violent outburst, Chris had begun experimenting with drugs. Known for his erratic behavior, he and our father had gotten into legendary brawls. Tawdry grist can’t escape a small town’s gossip mill. After the crash, the cops determined someone had tampered with the brake line, and because of the drugs and attitude problems, the fights and easy access to the garage, Chris got accused. My brother was a whiz with mechanics, which didn’t help. The preposterous allegations dogged my brother the rest of his no-good life.
