by Joe Clifford
Now here we were again. Another Porter brother in trouble with the law. Only this time, it was me.
“No one is accusing you of anything, Jay.”
“You’re shitting me, right?”
“Hank Miller said around eleven o’clock last night, he saw you, outside the garage, poking around windows with a flashlight. He tells me there was a break-in?”
I pulled out the blank business card from my mysterious visitor, holding it out. Turley stared at the handwritten number and dollar amount scrawled on the back. Might as well have been written by me.
“What’s that?” Turley asked.
“Nothing.” I stuffed the card back in my pocket. If I started rambling about a frame-job now, I’d sound like my dead junkie brother. My anxiety kicked in, making me act jumpy and skittish, which comes across as guilty to the untrained eye. If I tried to pin this rap on a boogeyman, Turley would have me committed on the spot. I was a Porter, first and foremost, and my brother had left a legacy. In his absence, I’d stepped right into those shoes; and you can’t outrun your name. I turned back to the hospital room where my friend and boss clung to life, trying to muster indignance. My outrage came across manufactured and phony. “Tom Gable is laid up in there—maybe dying—and you’re investigating me?” I wanted to laugh but couldn’t. “You got a pair of balls.”
“I’m doing my job. This isn’t twenty-plus years of innuendo, okay? And this has nothing to do with your brother. You were the last one to see Tom. The weapon came from the garage below your apartment.”
“So fucking what?”
“And then there’s the matter of—”
“I don’t care if you are a cop, Turley. You’re lucky I don’t slug you.”
Turley brought up his right hand a bit, still loose but at the ready. “I wouldn’t try that if I were you. Didn’t work out so well the last time, remember?”
I wrapped my head around the corner. Freddie glowered. No wonder she was giving me the stink eye, Turley filling her head with this garbage.
“What were you and Tom fighting about last night?”
“What are you talking about? I saw Tom for like six seconds on the porch before the storm. To get cash for the sale.”
“Freddie said she heard Tom fighting with someone on the telephone. Late. Like two a.m. She thinks it was you.”
I bent over, inflating my lungs, holding back the air, trying not to scream. It was happening again. Blood surged between my ears making it tough to think, heart thumping, temples throbbing, circulation rushing behind my eyeballs, a siren wailing in the distance, growing louder, chasing me down.
Turley crouched to meet my eye. He reached out to touch my arm. I flung him off.
“Whoa.” He held up his hands. “Let’s take a minute to calm down, okay?”
I could see his deputy up the corridor take a step in our direction.
Turley held him back. “I started this conversation by saying no one was accusing you of anything, didn’t I?”
“Goddamn right. Why would you? The suggestion is a fucking joke.”
“I want you take a deep breath. Then pay attention to what I am about to say. Don’t leap to conclusions. Take what I am saying at face value. Can you do that?” Turley pointed at a nearby bench. “Maybe we should sit down?”
“I’ll fucking stand, thank you.”
Turley kept his hands high.
“I thought I was past this bullshit.” I shook my head, like if I could shake hard enough I’d be freed of these thoughts forever. “Why on earth would I want to hurt Tom? He’s my friend. He’s my boss. He’s selling me the company, for Christ’s sake. I mean, if I can come up with the money.”
“About that . . .” Turley trailed off.
“Maybe you should be talking to that dirtbag Owen Eaton. He wants to buy the company, too. He’s a real piece of shit. Should’ve seen the stunt he pulled last night—”
“Oh boy,” Turley said. I didn’t appreciate the condescending tone. It was the same attitude he’d adopted when I admitted knowing Tom had gone to Pittsfield. Like he knew something I didn’t. I hated when people did that.
“What?”
Turley pulled an envelope from his back pocket, slapping it in my waiting palm like a fiver owed on a football bet. My name was on the front, Tom’s handwriting clear as day.
I held the envelope at arm’s length, not wanting to look, because I knew whatever waited inside was not good news.
“Go ahead,” Turley said. He peered past, as if to make sure the coast was clear. “Freddie found that in Tom’s office this morning. Right after he left the house to meet you. Propped on the keyboard.” Turley nodded at the letter in my hand. “Read it.”
I opened the envelope.
I read the note. Didn’t take long. It was a short letter.
What the fuck?
CHAPTER SIX
WALKING BACK THROUGH the snow-covered lot toward the garage, I wasn’t pissed that Turley had told me “not to leave town”; I didn’t have anywhere to go. The only place I wanted to be was with my wife and son, and they weren’t mine anymore. My next scheduled visitation was two weeks away. If I wanted to see my son before that, I had to get clearance, ask Jenny if it was okay. Then she had to run it by Stephen, see if it fit into his schedule. I hadn’t gotten a divorce lawyer, couldn’t afford one, and I wasn’t fighting Jenny on custody anyway. My wife was more qualified to raise our son. And the truth was she’d never tell me I couldn’t see Aiden. She was a wonderful mother, who was more than fair with visitation rights. She only asked that I call first, not drop by unannounced, a reasonable request born of the fact that I was liable to punch her new husband in the head. Maybe I was touched. Had I crossed that line? Everyone’s the hero in his own story. Even the bad guy.
I reached in my inner pocket and dug out my prescription bottle. A couple more should calm me down. But I was all out. A month’s supply gone in less than two weeks. Why would Tom write that letter? And that morning of all mornings? Of all the times to make a grand gesture, why did it have to be then? Made no sense. The note wasn’t even typed. It was handwritten. Tom’s writing. Right there in black and white. Or rather blue ballpoint. Signed and left where someone was meant to find it.
If anything happens to me, I, Tom Gable, leave Gable Liquidators LLC to Jason Porter of . . .
Then a few hours later, the accident.
How’s that even possible? Who would want to hurt Tom? He was a junkman, like me. We didn’t make enemies in our line of work. Besides Tom, the business was valuable to exactly two people. Me. And Owen Eaton. And for as little as I thought of Owen Eaton—as big a dirtbag as I knew him to be—I couldn’t picture him throttling Tom Gable to within inches of his life. Owen Eaton was a snake oil huckster. Tom Gable, a barrel-chested mountain man. No way Owen was getting the jump. Which left me. Obviously I was innocent, but that letter sure made me look guilty.
There was no rumor this time, no whispered innuendo inside the Farm Shop or outside Central Pizza. That directive fingered one person. Yours truly. Like I’d forced him to write it at knifepoint before beating the shit out of him and leaving him for dead on the side of Lamentation. Hank Miller saw me last night, flashlight in hand, poking around the garage where the potential murder weapon was stolen. Christine had ID’d me from the restaurant, where I’d been with Tom right before the attack. Freddie said she overheard me on the phone, threatening Tom. Which was total bullshit. But all of that put together? Along with the note saying the company was mine if he died? I would’ve suspected me, too.
Tom wasn’t dead, I kept telling myself. They’d drilled into his skull to relieve the swelling. Critical but still alive. Looked bad. But not over yet. Tom would wake up and set the record straight. He was a tough SOB. Something must’ve spooked him to write that letter. That was the only explanation. He was looking out for me. Unfortunately in trying to help, Tom had painted a bull’s-eye on my forehead. No wonder Freddie seethed with murderous intent.
In the three years since my brother died, I’d blown the only decent-paying job I ever had, and lost my wife and custody of my son. I’d survived a near-fatal attack on the ice of Echo Lake, shredding my calf muscle like fresh mozzarella, leaving me with permanent nerve damage and a considerable limp. Worst of all I’d started to lose the parts of me that made me me. It had been a rough stretch. But I was beginning to bounce back. I was starting to heal. I was still lonely, miserable, and pissed off most of the time. But I was me again. I’d take a lifetime of broken bones over that kind of self-doubt. I didn’t need this now.
Stalking to my Chevy, I’d fired up a smoke, inhaling like a rat bastard, when my cell rang.
“How’s the King of Shit County?”
“Took you long enough, Fisher.”
“Sorry, Porter. I don’t sit around all day waiting to see if you’ll grace me with your presence. What do you want? I got shit to do.”
This was how Fisher always talked.
“This guy stopped by last night—”
“I know,” Fisher replied, bored and agitated. “I got your message. It’s why I’m calling you back? I also talked to Charlie.”
“And?”
“And I don’t know what to tell you.”
“A man named Vin Biscoglio, who works for Ethan Crowder—”
“Don’t you listen? I told you: I got your message. I don’t know anyone named . . . Vin Biscotti—”
“Biscoglio.”
“Whatever. Don’t know him. Don’t know Ethan Crowder, either. I know of him. Everyone does. Heir to a steel fortune. But I haven’t spoken with either one, ever, and I sure as shit didn’t recommend you for any investigating job. Get over yourself, man. You fucked up the last gig I got you in record time. Made me look like an asshole.”
“You’d already quit NorthEastern.”
“Whatever. You worked investigations for, what? Eight months?”
“Whoever this Biscoglio is, he’s offering me a lot of money to find Crowder’s missing kid.”
“And I have a Nigerian prince who wants to entrust me with his family’s fortune. So fucking what?”
I got to my truck, climbed in the cab, and blasted the heat. “Think, Fisher. Are you sure—”
“How many ways can I say it? Yes, I am sure. Think about what you’re asking. Someone has that kind of money, they hire a professional, dude. Why go to a guy who clears crap out of dead people’s houses?”
“It’s called estate clearing—”
“Yeah, yeah. Save it for the college girls. Are we done here?”
I ran my fingers down my face, clawing at my own eyes, jaw and throat tightening. Then I let out a bellow, a demented screech that sounded like a cross between a possum stuck in a bear trap and that scene in American History X. Scared the hell out of Fisher, though.
“Jesus Christ!”
I didn’t respond.
“Porter? You still there, man?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“Hey, man. Sorry. Okay? Didn’t mean to bust your balls so hard.”
“It’s fine.”
“I don’t know anything. I swear. I never suggested you for a job. If you knew what I did now . . .”
I’d barely spoken to the guy in three years. I had no idea what he did now. And I couldn’t care less.
Fisher laughed without prompt. “I don’t get out of the house much, let’s put it that way.” He waited. I could feel his remorse bleeding over the line for coming on so strong. Good. Let someone else feel like shit for a change. “You going to be all right, man?”
“Fucking peachy. Remember my boss, Tom Gable?”
“What about him?”
“Someone tried to kill him. Brained him on Lamentation Mountain with a crowbar. Cracked his skull open. He’s in ICU in Pittsfield.”
“Someone tried to kill Tom? Whoa. Why? Who . . . what . . . do they have any suspects?”
“Yeah, Fisher,” I said. “They do. Me.”
I got back to my place late, agitated skies eddying over Lamentation. Hank Miller’s house was dark. At the steps to my apartment, I pulled my cell, flipping on the flashlight, sweeping the grounds. What was I looking for? Sinister tracks in the snow? Cracking a wrecking bar over Tom Gable’s skull didn’t require breaking into Hank’s garage. Any hardware store would do. Stealing it from here served one purpose: to set me up. The question was why.
Across the field I saw the porch light switch on. Hank Miller waved from the stoop, before heading over. I knew he was coming to apologize, but I didn’t blame Hank for telling Turley he’d seen me out here last night. The law asked the questions. An old man, he had a lot of ground to cover, his little house a good fifty yards from the filling station, across the ironweeds of an automotive graveyard. My brother didn’t kill my parents. I knew that. But the rumor had legs because of this garage. The same garage where I now rented a room upstairs. Truth was, I think the only reason Hank Miller rented to me was because he felt bad about my brother. Wasn’t his fault his auto shop linked to the tragedy, but providing me a place to live—at a very reasonable rent—represented a form of reparations for Hank.
“Hey’ya, Jay.” Even in the dark, I saw the remorse wash over his face. “Cops come by earlier.”
“I know. Ran into Turley at the hospital.”
“If I’d have known . . .” Hank panned to the gas pumps populating tiny islands. “They asked if anything was missing. Before they told me what happened. I says, ‘Yeah, now that you mention it, I’m missing a pry bar. I only know ’cause I had it on the hood of a car I was working on.’ Strange thing to notice missing. But they asked. I thought they’d come because of the break-in.”
I put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
He bobbed his old man head. “I told them cops they had it all wrong. About you. About your brother.”
“Why don’t you go in, Hank? It’s cold out here.” The guy didn’t even have on a coat. “I’m going to have a look around if that’s okay.”
“Sure, Jay.” He waited, manufacturing a smile. “I went to bed half an hour ago anyway.”
I waited until he was indoors and the lights switched off. Holding the cell to the windows, I searched for anything out of the ordinary, boot prints, discarded candy wrappers, matchbook, which was pointless since the garage had been open all day, business as usual. A couple dozen people had come and gone.
Something felt off, a presence I couldn’t place, the same one I’d gotten last night after Vin Biscoglio’s visit. Last night, the sensation wasn’t overpowering. More unsettling, like a color you can’t quite describe, trapped between shades, flames flickering beyond peripheral. Now the lunatics danced in the clear moonlight and their voices screamed in my ear. The offer for that much money coming when I needed it most? If I were to compete with Owen Eaton, I needed a miracle. Was that miracle my friend and boss having his head stomped in? Once upon a time, I believed God was looking out for me, like there was rhyme, reason, some serendipitous Universe seeking to even scores, settle wrongs, balance the scale. I’d view good fortune as providence. But for the grace of God there go I. Which is all well and fine until you think about the poor bastard over there.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I WOKE THE next morning to the simultaneous sounds of fists pounding on my door and my landline ringing. Total sensory overload. I kept telling myself I was going to cancel my home phone because the only people who called it were bill collectors and solicitors, neither of whom I wanted to talk to. And I sure as hell wasn’t up for company.
Crawling out of bed, I zipped my sweatshirt, shivering. I left the heat off to avoid hefty bills. Nighttime wasn’t so bad because I could pile on the blankets. When I woke, though, it was like stepping into a meat locker. Tom had given me that fancy automatic heating system. I could handle the electronics, no problem. Hooking up to the Internet? Not with step-by-step directions and an extra set of hands.
I checked out my bedroom window, scanning for police cars, as fists conti
nued to rain down. The usual cars dotted the block. Fat flakes floated through slate skies. Icicles jagged from telephone lines, threatening preemptive strike. More snow had accumulated overnight, winds gusting hard. The glass bowed with each blast, perforating plastic insulation.
For a brief, glorious moment, the thumping stopped, calls abated, my temples didn’t pulsate, and I wasn’t cursing things I couldn’t see for just being born. Then the ringing started back up, the thudding returned, and without thinking, I yanked the landline from the socket, ripped the cord, and smashed the thing against the wall, cheap Radio Shack piece-of-shit shattering into a million little pieces.
“Jay? It’s me. Come on, man! Open up.”
I hadn’t seen a bicycle below and couldn’t picture Charlie peddling his pork chops across town in this weather anyway, which meant one thing.
A while back I saw a terrible movie with Nick Nolte and Jessica Lange. Tim Hutton was in it, too. I can’t remember the name. It was about a football player. The film spans many years, and to show this passage of time, the filmmakers made the unfortunate, ham-handed decision to alter Hutton’s facial hair every scene he’s in. Early on he’s clean cut, and then as we pass through the sixties, he’s sporting longer hippy locks, and then the seventies, all disco ’stache, et cetera. At one point, I think he even rocks a goatee, never a good look on a man. I was thinking about that movie when I opened the door.
Fisher’s appearance had grown increasingly radical, and the years had not been kind. His stringy, greasy hair was tied atop his head in a sloppy knot. And he had a fucking goatee. Beneath his beaver coat, he was still a runt, compensating by wearing thick-soled boots, painting the false impression of height.
“What was that noise?” Charlie said, nodding past my shoulder, scouring my party-of-one remnants. I hadn’t collected empty beer bottles in ages. Place was such a mess, you couldn’t pick out the landline bones among the rest of the carnage.
