Give Up the Dead

by Joe Clifford

  Alison laughed. “I used to be a bad person. I try to be a better person now. I am not a saint.” The way she wrinkled her nose when she said that last bit was the cutest goddamn thing I’d ever seen.

  “A good friend of mine. Charlie. He ended up in the hospital today. From drinking.” I hopped up, checked the coffeemaker, fished the sugar from the shelf. “Threw me for a . . . loop. I guess that’s the word I’m looking for. Do you want milk?” I’d already put sugar on the table.

  The way she looked up at me, that mix of tenderness and empathy, was too much.

  “Please, don’t do that.”

  “What?”

  “Look at me like I’m some wounded bird or wet kitten you found in the rain.”

  “It hurts me to see you hurting.”

  “Why? You don’t know me. There are people hurting all over this world. I am a good-looking white man living in America. The world is made for people like me.”

  “But you’re not happy.”

  “No one is happy after childhood. Just a fact of life. It’s not a realistic, grown-up expectation to want to be happy all the time.”

  “How about some of the time?”

  “You want to help make me happy?”

  She knitted her eyebrows, but not in a good way. Another bad habit of mine. I acted like a bigger asshole when I was hurting.

  “Tell me where I can find Phillip Crowder.”

  “You know I can’t do that.” She waited three ticks, exact. “Even if I knew who Phillip Crowder was.”

  “Okay,” I said, transferring hot coffee from pot to mug. “How about you tell me what it is you really do at Rewrite Interventions? Can we start there?”

  “Sure. Public information. And it is not illegal.”

  “That depends on what your definition of ‘it’ is.”

  “Rewrite Interventions is a last resort for many parents. They’ve tried everything to help their child, and nothing has worked. They see their sons and daughters heading toward a bad place, and they make the informed, conscientious decision to take drastic action before it’s too late.”

  “Great. Now let’s try it again. This time without the sales pitch?”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Are you asking if you can . . . ask a question?”

  “Haven’t you wondered if you could’ve done more to help your brother? Or how about this friend, Charlie? Let me rephrase. Knowing how your brother’s life ended, if you could do it over again, would you do something different?”

  “It’s a bullshit question.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of course the answer is yes.”

  “There you go.”

  “Because he’s dead. I’d enlist him in the fucking Navy if I could go back in time. Chain him to the radiator and throw away the key until the dope sweated out of his system. There is, like, nothing I could’ve done to make it worse. So of course I’d do something different. But time doesn’t work like that. Life doesn’t work like that. It goes forward. You don’t get do-overs.”

  “Sometimes you do.” The way Alison said it, weighting the words, conveyed the double meaning. “I drove out to see you because after you visited the sugarbush today, Richard was upset.”

  “Richard? Your husband.”

  “Yes, my husband.”

  “I hate to break it to you, Alison, but I don’t give a shit about your husband.”

  “I like you, Jay.”

  “Good. I like you, too. Maybe we can catch a movie sometime?”

  “What we do at Rewrite is avant garde, radical even, I’ll admit that. We sometimes have to take a child, who is addicted, against his or her will. With parental permission, of course. These kids are not in their right mind, nor are they old enough to give consent. It’s a gray area.”

  “Gray area.”

  “Legally speaking. These are often children of affluent parents—”

  “The dudes who jacked me up at the sugarbush this afternoon didn’t look like they came from money. Seemed more like hoodrats.”

  “I said ‘often.’ Richard and I oversee a far-reaching operation, with many partnerships. The orchards, mills, farms, sugarbushes are just part of it. In the past, we’ve teamed up with the Salvation Army, Bridges and Hands, inner-city shelters. Addiction does not discriminate.”

  “Your point?”

  “We can’t go to the police.”

  “Who said anything about the cops?”

  “When there is an instance of someone attempting to reach a client without permission, when they are trespassing, poking around—when they are causing trouble—we don’t have the luxury of calling the authorities for help. We are left to our own devices.”

  “Causing trouble? You mean by trying to find Phillip Crowder, son of Ethan and Joanne Crowder, none of whom you can confirm nor deny exist?”

  Alison stood up, collected her purse, done with my playful banter. “You’re an intelligent guy, Jay. If you tried applying that intelligence to being something other than a smart-ass, you might find some of that happiness you say eludes you.”

  “Ouch.”

  “What I’m trying to say is Richard—”

  “Your husband?”

  “I think we’ve established that, yes. When Richard—my husband—feels our mission is being compromised—”

  “Is that what you call it? A mission? Like from what? God?”

  “Please listen.”

  “All ears.”

  “Those boys at the sugarbush? There are a lot of graduates like that from the program. They volunteer their time, services, and will do whatever necessary to protect our patients and assets.”

  “Are you seriously standing in my kitchen, admitting criminal behavior, and threatening to have me fucked up if I keep trying to find Phillip?”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way. But I can see why you had trouble in your marriage.”

  “I’m not sure there’s a ‘right’ way to take that.”

  She winced a phony smile and buttoned up to face the cold night. “Be careful, okay?”

  “Tell your husband the warning has been received, loud and clear.”

  “My husband doesn’t know I’m here.”

  From the window, I watched her walk to her car. She knew I was watching her, too. Christ, she was beautiful.

  I’d headed into the kitchen, dumping the flaccid noodles in a colander, then slid the slop on a plate, doctoring best I could. I sat down and tried to eat, poking and twirling. I emptied my bland dinner in the garbage. I didn’t have the stomach to see it through. I needed another beer.

  A text came in.

  Blocked number.

  A one-word.

  Donuts.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THREE YEARS AGO, in the midst of the Judge Roberts investigation, Erik Bowman had shown up at my house in Plasterville, tipping me off that a pair of dirty cops waited outside to cap my ass. Under normal circumstances, I’m not trusting ex-gang members with neck tattoos and lengthy prison records, but that night was anything but normal. I took a flyer. Mostly because I didn’t have any other choice. I’d already had a run-in with the whole lot of them, and I liked the one-on-one odds better. Bowman drove us out to the Dunkin’ Donuts on the Merrick Parkway, where he spilled the goods on Lombardi, Roberts, and shared a bunch of other secrets he’d learned while working construction security. I didn’t consider the guy a friend, and I didn’t trust him any more this time around—he made no bones about personal vendettas—but I also wasn’t in any position to refuse the call.

  Besides, what’s the difference between facing mortal enemies and having your heart broken for the thousandth time? I slid on my tan winter coat and hit the night.

  No one waited outside for me this time; there were no tangled briar patches to navigate. My shoulders didn’t tense in anticipation of the sniper’s slug. The streets were deserted. A smattering of lightless houses peppered the block, all the good people asleep. I was surprised Fisher had
been able to relay a message to Bowman so quick. After our meeting at Dunkin’ Donuts that night, I had no idea where Bowman had gone. He’d hinted he was leaving the state, maybe the country. I couldn’t text back the blocked number. I knew the cryptic message was from him, though. No one else was inviting me for donuts at midnight.

  I didn’t know his angle yet, but I wasn’t scared to meet him alone; this was as close to an upper hand as I was getting. I’d lived in this same apartment most of my life. Anyone wanted to find me, all they had to do was walk up the rickety old stairs and knock. There was a reason Bowman was texting using secret codes, selecting clandestine meeting spots, conversing via private language. I had no idea why he’d foregone a regular phone call, but the last time I’d seen him he’d been the one on the run, not me. I had nothing to lose. Unless of course Bowman simply wanted a powdered jelly before he shot me for the hell of it. With Bowman, you never could be too sure.

  Soon as I sat in my Chevy, I tried to remember how to even get to the Merrick Parkway from Ashton. The seldom-used thoroughfare was closer to Plasterville. From Ashton, I’d have to go around the mountain. With all the snow, sections of Lamentation were no doubt closed off, and forget reliable GPS.

  I snagged the road map from my glove compartment, trying to draw the fastest, most direct route, which soon dissolved into an endless series of intersecting, squiggly lines. I really wanted to avoid strapping on my chains if I could avoid it. My phone rang. Another blocked number. I answered. No one spoke, hollow winds echoing in the earpiece.

  “Good,” he said. “You’re outside.”

  “Bowman?”

  “What do you want?”

  “You called me.”

  “Yeah, because you’re trying to reach me. You got two minutes, Jay. Make it quick.”

  I fired up the engine, taking my time. It was going to take a while for the heat to kick in. I thought about how to handle the rare advantage. At least I thought I had the catbird seat.

  “It’s cold as fuck out here,” I said. “Why couldn’t we talk when I was inside my apartment?”

  “Because it’s bugged.”

  “What do you mean ‘it’s bugged’? Why would anyone bug my apartment?” The idea was laughable until the joke ceased being absurd. “You told Vin Biscoglio about me.”

  “Is that the name he gave you?”

  “That’s not his real name?”

  “What do you care? You don’t use my real name either. Call him Vinny B. I don’t give a fuck. Won’t make a difference. One minute.”

  “Why did you send him?”

  “I thought you could help.”

  “Why would I want to help that guy? Or Ethan Crowder. They are no better than Lomb—”

  “The mother and the boy.”

  “Joanne and Phillip?”

  The voice echoed peculiar. The mouthpiece projected a particular timbre, tinny, like he was speaking underwater and from somewhere very far away. Then I remembered what the sound was. A pay phone. Who uses a pay phone these days?

  “Forty-five seconds.”

  “Why do you want to help Joanne and Phillip?”

  “Don’t worry about the why.”

  “So this is, what, penance? You stopped clubbing people in the back of the head, and now go around assisting damsels in distress and orphan boys?”

  “Let’s say, I used to be a bad person. I try to be a better person now.”

  The midnight winds scurried along valley walls, sweeping tundra and tarmac, snaking between the rivets and bolts of my Chevy, infiltrating my truck, which was slow to warm, metal contracting, creaking steel, leaving me freezing balls. I missed that line at the time. It wouldn’t hit me till later.

  “I don’t have much time left,” Bowman said. “So let me give it to you straight, since you’re asking all the wrong questions. Your buddy ‘Vin’ is what’s known in the business as a fixer, the sort of man they send along to solve the real fucked-up shit. We are in touch because we work together. Or used to. I’m a bad man. He’s worse.”

  “Thanks for turning him on to me.”

  “It was you or someone else. I had more faith in you.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  “Don’t fuck around with him. He’s a man with a particular set of skills.”

  “Good to know, Liam—”

  “Tours, ops, shadow shit. Crowder only uses him for the darkest and dirtiest deeds. Listen to me—and listen close—whatever you find out, you keep your streak of unsung hero status going, okay? Anonymous packet to the Boston papers. That’s it. Then get the fuck out of the way.”

  “Um, okay. I have no idea what you’re smoking—”

  “Look at Crowder’s other marriage, how much money his family paid out, the scandals, hush money, why if he had a prenup, he signed over custody of the boy. Why he couldn’t bully this one.”

  “Why would I care?”

  “Because you do. I gotta go.”

  “Wait. Whoa. What if I need to reach you again?”

  “You won’t be able to.”

  He clicked off. The heat came on.

  By then, of course, it was too late.

  For as long I could remember, the first thing I’d done upon waking was worry. Subject matter varied, of course. But the panic remained the same, the flooding part. It all came back. Every stupid, lousy thing I’d ever done or said. Used to be the minor, inconsequential shit, like not talking to Muriel Kacharzic when we had blackboard duty together in the second grade; a witty comeback I missed at a party; a clumsy come-on at the bar. Then people started dying, and the bigger stuff began creeping in. Like not getting to know my parents better before they were gone for good. The mistakes I made with Chris. Being too hard on him. Not being hard enough. Everything in between. For the past few years, when I wanted to feel bad about myself, Jenny had been my go-to. All the shit she put up with. Not knowing what I had until it was gone. How I’d blown the love of a good woman. Which evoked my son, and all that I was missing out on.

  The new day’s light seared its accusation through fish-eyed lids. Regret, guilt, shame, dread, hopelessness. Thirty-four years’ worth of disaster and disappointment packed into a nanosecond. Like being woken up by a Taser gun on my balls. Today’s hysteria came with the added bonus of paranoia.

  Following my phone call with Bowman, I’d returned to the apartment, reaching for Jenny’s Italian Heritage cookbook, the one Vin Biscoglio inspected during his visit. I flipped through and discovered a small, square, metallic object affixed to the back. Could’ve been an anti-theft device the bookstore had neglected to remove. Then again, how else was Bowman able to parrot back exactly what Alison Rodgers had told me mere minutes earlier? The “I used to be bad, I’m trying to be better” speech he’d nailed word for word. He must’ve spoken with Vin Biscoglio. Unless only Alison or Bowman had said it, déjà vu reverberating, a residual from the PTSD or whatever label modern psych wanted to slap on me. Not like it was a movie I could rewind, a book whose passage I could revisit. You leave a monkey in a room with a typewriter long enough, you’re bound to encounter similar tales of fall and redemption.

  Even if Bowman and Biscoglio hadn’t just spoken, why was Bowman warning me to stay away from the same guy he’d sent to my apartment? Last week I’m supposed to help him, now he’s the enemy? What was all that “unsung hero” crap about? A two-minute timed phone call—and it had been two minutes, to the second—I checked the dash clock. And why a pay phone? My brother, too broke-ass to afford a cell, used to call from pay phones at the truck stop all the time, collect of course. No one else used them anymore. If I had half a brain, I would’ve saved whatever I found stuck to the back of that cookbook instead of chucking it out the window into the snow. But I didn’t want that thing anywhere near me.

  I couldn’t sit around all day waiting for magic solutions. I needed to get down to the warehouse, haul another load to Everything Under the Sun, if only to maintain my sanity. Or reel it back in. If I’d lost touch with reali
ty again, it couldn’t have wandered too far. I called the one guy who might be able to get answers. Either Fisher wasn’t awake, or he was screening his calls, sick of me, too. He didn’t pick up and I had to leave a message.

  I showered, shaved, found my cleanest dirty tee shirt in the hamper, and put on some coffee. I was pouring an uninspiring mugful when Fisher rang me back.

  “Guess you were able to get a message to Bowman?”

  “What are you talking about, Porter?”

  “He called me last night. Bizarre conversation. He was going on about—”

  “I didn’t relay any message to Bowman. But I can tell you this: the guy definitely does not work for Crowder Steel. Not anymore. He’s serving four years in Mass Correctional.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Did you even put his real name in Google, man? He was busted last summer, sentenced this fall, pled guilty to assault charges. Prosecution piled on a bunch of other charges, crimes he looked good for. Locked up snug as a bug in a rug.”

  “Are you sure? There was no ‘you are getting a call from prison’ or anything.”

  “Probably used a burner. They sneak those things in to prison all the time.”

  “Sounded like a pay phone.”

  “Calling card? That shit is like currency to convicts.”

  “He sent me a text first.”

  “Can’t text from a pay phone.”

  “He sent a text to go outside, then called and told me my apartment was bugged.”

  “Plenty of ways to relay messages from prison. Was it?”

  “Was what?”

  “Your apartment. Was it bugged?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He warned me about Vin Biscoglio, which apparently isn’t even his real name. Makes no sense since Bowman admitted sending him to me in the first place.”

  “I told you I didn’t know that guy,” Fisher said, vindicated. “What’s his real name if it’s not Biscoglio?”

  “No idea. But I think Bowman wants me to help the boy.”

  “Phillip Crowder? Why?”

  “I don’t know.”