by Orca Various
“As far as I can tell. I know he lived in Buenos Aires for a while after the war. I talked to a woman who was a little girl when he moved there. And when he left.”
“Franken.” Curtis looks out into space. “This woman. What did she say about him?”
“Just that he lived there and that he married a woman named Mirella.”
He leans back in his chair. “Mirella Gutierrez.”
“I guess. She didn’t say.” And I could kick myself for not asking.
“What does your cousin have to do with this?”
“My cousin isn’t involved. But he sent me this picture too. It’s—”
Curtis goes still when I give him the second picture. It’s like he’s stopped breathing or something.
“Are you okay?” I ask. He’s staring at the picture, his eyes wide behind his enormous glasses. “Do you recognize him?”
He looks at me and then back at the picture.
“What do you know about this man?” he asks. His voice is hoarse.
“I’m trying to figure stuff out,” I say. “You’ve seen him before, haven’t you?”
Curtis spits on the photo—a big, juicy hork. He starts to get up from his chair but doesn’t make it. He crumples. I grab him, afraid that whatever happened a couple of nights ago is happening again now. But he rallies.
“He’s a spy,” he says. “He tried to recruit my father. He’s responsible for what happened to him.”
“What did happen?”
“He died. My father died.”
TWELVE
I’m so stunned by what Curtis tells me that I almost fall over.
Is it true? Was David McLean really a spy? I wonder how Curtis’s father died and what role David McLean played.
“Are you sure?” I ask. But the facts all seem to fit. David McLean went down to South America with an Argentinian passport. He was using a German name. He offered Franken a job in the States. And I know next to nothing about David McLean except that he had a relationship with my grandmother, which explains me, and he had a secret, which explains why I’m here. “How do you know?”
The old man’s eyes are drilling into me. “I know. Believe me, I know. He was a ruthless man working for a ruthless government, one with no conscience.”
What was he talking about? What government? The Russians? The Chinese? They were supposedly the enemy back in the sixties.
“What do you mean, ruthless?”
“Just what I said. He came to my father. He recruited him. He was responsible for what happened next.”
“To your father?”
Curtis nods.
“What do you mean?” I ask. “What happened exactly?”
“He died in a Russian labor camp.” Curtis shoves the picture back at me, but it’s covered in his spit and I don’t want to touch it. He lets it fall to the floor. “How did your cousin get that picture? What do you want?”
I consider my answer carefully. I feel that I owe Curtis something. He’s helped me do what I came here for.
“The man in that picture is my grandfather,” I say.
Curtis stares at me. “Your grandfather?”
“My cousins found that picture and some other stuff. I—we just wanted to know what they were all about.”
“Well, now you do. So I’ll thank you to leave. Immediately. And never come back.”
“But my grandfather—he was a good man. A nice man.”
“Really?” Like he didn’t believe me. “How well did you know him? How well does one generation ever know another? How well do you really know your own father? He’s a soldier, isn’t that right? Do you have any idea of the things he’s done? Do you? Does he ever talk about his experiences to you? Go back another generation, to your grandparents, and what do you know? Really know, I mean?”
“I know he was my grandfather. I—”
“Answer me this. What were his parents’ names?”
“What? What does that have to do with anything?”
“Do you know or don’t you?”
I don’t. I shake my head.
“There you go,” the old man says. “You don’t even know their names. It doesn’t take long to forget, does it?” His stare is withering. “That man”—he means David McLean—“acted like a friend to my father. I have pictures of them together, looking like they’d known each other forever. I took them myself. My father gave me a camera—I remember it. I took pictures, and I still have them.”
I want to see them. I want to see the American whose death my grandfather is responsible for. I also want to know exactly what happened.
“Can I see them?” I ask.
“No, you cannot.”
“Can you at least tell me what happened?”
“Leave. Now.”
“But I didn’t do anything. Whatever my grandfather did, it’s not my fault.”
The old man is swaying in his chair. When I ask him if he’s okay, he barks at me that he’s just fine, thank you very much. But I don’t believe him. It’s hot in here. I’m hot.
“I’ll get you some more water.” There’s a jug on the far side of the bed. I pick up a glass and fill it. I try to open the window, too, to get a little air in. But it’s locked. I swivel the locking mechanism and start to open it again.
“Leave it,” the old man says. “Do you want to kill me with the cold? It’s bad enough I have to go out on a night like this.”
I remember that Katya and Noah are taking the family to dinner. I look at the window, leave it as it is and carry the glass of water back to the old man. He takes it but doesn’t say a word.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I don’t know exactly what happened. I don’t know what David McLean did to your father. But I’m sorry.”
He won’t look at me. In a way, I can’t blame him. There’s nothing else I can do. I leave.
I leave, but I plan to go back. I have to. Somewhere in the old man’s room are pictures of my grandfather. What will they tell me? Is there proof somewhere in them of the double life he led? I came all this way. I need to know. I need to see them.
Part of me says it doesn’t matter. Whatever happened, it was a long, long time ago. David McLean is dead. Maybe—probably—I’ll never know why he hid all his spy stuff instead of burning it. As for what kinds of things he did while he was a spy, well, it doesn’t matter what the crime is; the statute of limitations runs out when the suspect dies. You can’t get blood from a stone—or from the dead. End of story.
But the truth is, for some reason I can’t figure out, it matters to me. This man was my grandfather. He was my mom’s dad. I met him, and he seemed like a good guy. I felt that he understood me. I felt he cared. And now someone is telling me he was anything but good, that basically he was a traitor who did terrible things to people, like condemn them to Russian labor camps. What kind of a person would do such a thing? And why? What was he thinking?
Maybe I’ll never know the answer to that—assuming it’s true. Maybe the best I can do is figure out if what the old man told me is accurate, or if he’s just a confused old coot who doesn’t know what he’s talking about. After all, how long has it been since he supposedly saw David McLean? And what if the man in his so-called proof pictures only resembles my grandfather but isn’t really him? I owe it to myself to find out. In a weird way, I feel I owe it to my grandfather too.
I walk past closed-down stores. I’m not sure where I’m going. I check my watch. The whole family is going out to some fancy restaurant to celebrate Noah and Katya’s engagement. As soon as the house is empty, I’m going back in. In the meantime, I have time to kill.
I take a left and head up a residential street—well, what used to be a residential street—aiming for the lights in the distance, for downtown. Maybe I can hang out someplace warm. Maybe in a store. Or a coffee shop.
There’s a parking lot up ahead. Correction: it’s a used-car lot. When I get closer, I can see the neon sign–Honest John’s—but the neon is switched off. Maybe Ho
nest doesn’t see any advantage in paying for electricity on a night when no one is likely to buy a car. Or maybe he’s having trouble paying his bills. His lot is crammed with cars. Too many, if you ask me. Honest has obviously been buying, but it looks like he’s had a little trouble selling. In the distance, on the other side of the lot, I see the sign for a coffee place. I can hang out there for a while. I cut across the used-car lot.
I’m about a third of the way in when something zings past me, and the driver’s-side window of the car next to me shatters. What the—?
Another zing. Something slams into the car in front of me. I can’t see what it is, but I have a bad feeling.
I hear footsteps somewhere behind me. Someone is running. Maybe two someones. Maybe more. I have no idea. All I know is, the footsteps are getting louder, which means they’re heading toward me.
I hear another sound, louder this time. Another car window explodes. Someone is shooting. At me.
Every muscle in my body freezes up, and I remember what Eric said. I saw the guy who shot Duane, and the shooter saw me. I told Carver I could recognize him. Who couldn’t, with a tattoo like that? But at the same time, I told myself I was safe because the shooter has no idea who I am. He’s never seen me before. I’m not from here.
Now I think: He doesn’t need to know who I am. Maybe it’s enough that he knows who I was with, and I was with Duane. The shooter must have known Duane. He shot him dead, just like that. So maybe he also knew who Duane hung out with. Maybe he knew that Duane was buddies with Eric. He’d probably assume I was too. That would have given him some kind of clue about where to find me. I’ve just come from Eric’s house. Another thought—the guys at Jacques’s diner said everyone knows who killed those college kids. Maybe someone was impatient with the cops. Maybe someone had decided to take the law into his own hands.
Yet another thought: What if the shooter knew Duane was a cop? What if he had a grudge against Duane because of that? And there I was, watching him take down a cop. I can ID him. I can say, “That’s the guy who shot that cop.” If I was the shooter, I’d want to get rid of me the fastest and easiest way possible. The smart thing would be to have someone watch me when I came out of the police station. Maybe that same person had followed me back to my hotel. And then to Eric’s place. And then…
I keep my head down. I keep my whole body down. And I run, but not in a straight line. That would be stupid. I zigzag between the cars. I pray that someone else hears the shots and calls the cops. I try not to think about the thirty minutes it supposedly takes to get a 9-1-1 response in this town, assuming there’s a citizen around who’s concerned enough to make the call.
I fumble in my pocket for my cell phone. Why wait for a stranger to do something when you can do it yourself?
Someone rears up in front of me, a guy in a balaclava. He has a gun, and it’s pointed at me. I start to raise my hands in a gesture of surrender. What else can I do? Through the balaclava’s mouth hole, I see the guy grin. He turns his head a little, probably to call to his buddies: Hey, I got him, he’s here. But he doesn’t get out a single word, because in that split second I dive forward, tackling him at the knees, taking him down. The gun goes off. The guy is flat on his back, cursing. I don’t stick around for his buddies to show up. I roll under the closest car and then under the one beside it. I keep going, dragging myself from car to car, all the weight on my elbows. All I can think is, Keep moving.
I hear more footsteps. I see boots, or think I do. It’s as dark as the bottom of a pit under those cars. I dig for my phone again, but my pocket is empty. I must have dropped it, or it fell out of my pocket. I see feet moving slowly. They’re looking for me. If I stay where I am, I’m dead.
If I move, I’m probably dead too.
Still, I drag myself under another car, and then another. Honest John’s place is huge, and I have no idea how many more cars I’ll have to crawl under before I get to the edge of the lot. I also don’t know if there’s someone patrolling the perimeter, waiting for me.
I can’t hear anything. I can’t tell if they’re still there or if they’ve given up.
Suddenly, someone is running.
I hear someone shout, “Got him!”
I hear shots—three of them.
But I’m still in one piece.
I see feet again. They’re two cars away from where I’m hiding. I see someone crouch down. Then: “Hey! Hey, what’s going on out there?”
I hear a blast.
“I’m sick to death of you guys ripping me off!”
Another blast.
Something shatters—I’m thinking more car windows. The same voice lets out a stream of curses. They sound like poetry the way they’re strung together.
Something clatters to the frozen ground.
I hear more running, and suddenly the lot is flooded with light.
I stay put.
I see feet again—and the end of what looks like a shotgun barrel. I hear another curse, soft and sad. I hear footsteps running. When I roll out from under the car, I see a man racing into the car dealership’s office. Honest John, maybe, standing guard? I don’t stick around to find out. I stay on my hands and knees where (I hope) he can’t see me. As soon as the man with the shotgun is inside, with his back to me—I think he’s on the phone—I crouch-run through the maze of cars. I see something glinting on the ground—my phone. I grab it.
A few paces farther and I stumble and fall to my knees. What I’ve stumbled over: a guy lying on the pavement, half under a car. He’s young like me, but scruffy and rough-looking, and he’s wearing my hat. I feel a jolt when I realize he’s the panhandler from outside my hotel, the guy the shift manager wanted to shift right off his turf, telling him to get a job and leave the guests alone. The guy I gave a couple of twenties and my hat to. He said he had a job. He said that he worked part-time security at a car lot but it didn’t pay the bills. Looks to me like he wasn’t too good at his job.
I feel bad about what happened to him. I really do. It makes me want to go home more than ever. But mostly, given what happened the last time someone got shot and killed in my vicinity, it makes me want to get away—now.
I keep low until I’m clear of Honest John’s. Then I run as fast and as far as I can. I run until my lungs are ready to burst. Until they hurt every time I take a breath and feel like they’re lined with ice, it’s that cold out. I haven’t seen a single police car or heard a single siren. If Honest John has managed to scare up any law enforcement, they’re going in silent. And invisible.
THIRTEEN
I’m a good dozen blocks from Honest John’s and shaking all over, like one of those nutcases who start the New Year by pulling on their swim trunks and jumping into a nearly frozen lake as if it were the middle of July. My head is spinning. I need to think. So I duck into a greasy spoon—one of the few places that’s open on the mostly boarded-up block I’m on—and grab a booth at the back, as far away as possible from the windows. There’s no waitress, just a bored-looking guy behind the counter who calls to me, “What’ll it be, sport?”
“Coffee,” I tell him. And there it is again. My stomach. It’s growling. You’d think I’d be in shock or something. Maybe I am. Or maybe I’m getting used to all this shooting. But I’m also hungry. My grandmother says lately it’s like I have a hollow leg—she doesn’t know where I put all the food I consume. “You do burgers?” I ask.
The guy at the counter rolls his eyes and raises one index finger to point to the display board that runs the length of the grill, the milkshake maker, the coffeemakers—the whole wall behind the counter. There are pictures of every food item, in case the patrons can’t read, I guess. Yeah, they do burgers.
“Cheeseburger,” I say. “With fries.” I look at the pictures. “And gravy. On the side.”
The guy nods. He turns to the grill. I watch him bend. When he straightens up, he drops a patty onto the grill, and I hear it sizzle. He brings me a mug and a couple of creamers and pours coffee fro
m what looks like a fresh pot. Could also be a full pot that’s been sitting on the warmer for hours. There’s no one else in the place except him and me. Maybe the supper rush hasn’t started yet. Maybe there is no supper rush. He goes back to the grill, and I think about what just happened.
There’s no doubt in my mind that those guys were gunning for me. I didn’t see any faces this time, but there’s also no doubt in my mind that they’re the same guys who showed up in that alley and shot Duane and who probably would have shot me if Spider Face hadn’t heard that sound up on the fire escape. They must have been watching the police station. They must have been looking for me so they could stop me from identifying them to the cops. Lucky for me that they got the wrong guy. Not so lucky for the panhandler that I gave him my hat.
I know what I should do: call Detective Carver.
The fry guy is back with my cheeseburger, fries and side of what turns out to be the best gravy I’ve ever tasted—better even than my grandmother’s, and let me tell you, she is the queen of gravy. I dig in. My hands stop shaking. Something approaching calm settles over me like a big, comfy, grandma-knit sweater. I chase the food down with the rest of my coffee and, what do you know, the fry guy is back, pouring me a refill. It’s definitely fresh. It’s as good as the gravy. I wonder where all his customers are. The guy knows his way around a kitchen.
While I sip my refill, I think about what Carver is going to say when he hears from me. I imagine a supremely skeptical look on his face as he says, “So, Rennie, you say some guys started shooting at you in a used-car lot, is that right? Did you get a good look at them? No? But you’re sure they’re the same guys who shot Duane? How do you know? You say they were wearing balaclavas and that’s why you didn’t get a good look at them tonight? That’s funny, don’t you think, considering that you didn’t say anything about balaclavas last night when Duane was shot, especially when the one you saw clearly, the shooter, had such a distinguishing feature. It was a big spider tattoo on his face, isn’t that what you said? Why do you think they would wear balaclavas tonight, when they go out to eliminate the eyewitness—that is what you’re claiming, right, Rennie? That they came after you because you saw what they did last night? So why did they wear balaclavas tonight but they didn’t wear them last night? I mean, according to your theory, you already saw them, so it’s not like they have anything to hide. In fact, it would make a whole lot more sense if they’d worn balaclavas last night, to avoid being recognized in the first place.”
