Give It All

by Cara McKenna

  “This means Levins isn’t completely full of shit.”

  “Not completely.”

  Flores frowned. “This could spell bad news for Welch. I had my money on Levins’s claims being bull, but if the gambling debts are real, and that witness is legit . . .”

  “You think he did it?”

  “Fuck if I know anymore. I think he likes money, for sure. But I also think he makes plenty of the shit for himself, legitimately, and that he’s the kind of guy whose personality just begs people to resent him. Especially guys like David Levins. To them, Welch looks like some entitled asshole whose mommy and daddy rocked him in a gold-plated cradle.”

  “And is he?”

  Flores shook his head. “Orphan, best I can tell. Got no record of who his parents might’ve been. And he grew up in a part of London that sounds more like the projects than Buckingham Palace.”

  “Huh.”

  “He’s either self-made or a complete fucking scammer. Though all his pedigrees seem to check out.”

  Jaskowski smiled. “You think he’s innocent.”

  “I did . . . Only a clinical-grade narcissist would talk to me the way he did in questioning. Either he was entitled to feel like he got slapped in the face, or he felt entitled to it. So I’m not so sure. I think he’s guilty of being a cocky prick, and of keeping some shady company, which isn’t doing him any favors. But I didn’t think he took bribes, no. I thought somebody must have sore feelings toward him, for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.”

  “Somebody must have real sore feelings toward that Grossier thug, then. Tremblay and Levins wouldn’t have gotten busted if not for him.”

  “Yeah, but who’s gonna fuck with Grossier?” Flores asked. “Welch is the easy target, if somebody’s feeling bitter—he’s the outsider. Punish him for getting involved, cause a distraction while the real bad guys cover some tracks . . . But now I might need to rethink Welch, in light of Levins’s claims not being a hundred percent fabricated.” Funny aspect of the job, being forced to second-guess your best tool—your instincts. And he’d begun to feel as if something wasn’t quite right about Welch, ever since he searched his hotel room. There was something unwholesome about a guy that clean and organized. Something about him stank faintly . . . not unlike that bleach-reeking bathroom.

  “So, can we agree I’m your hero,” Jaskowski asked, “for finding these papers?”

  Flores rolled his eyes. “Find us some fucking bones and get me home by next weekend. Then we’ll talk.”

  “What if I sweeten the deal?” Jaskowski reached into his jacket pocket and drew out a plastic bag with a chunky flip phone in it.

  Flores blinked. “What’s that?”

  “Found it wedged in a little space next to the underside of the kitchen sink. No account—it’s a disposable.”

  Pay-as-you-go phone? Now they were talking. “You get call logs off it?”

  Jaskowski nodded. “All unlisted, every single one, incoming and outgoing. No voice mails. He was careful. All except one time.”

  “Oh?”

  Jaskowski headed for the counter, fetching a stapled stack of papers. “Text message,” he said, flipping through the pages. “To the cell phone of David Levins.”

  “Excellent. And?”

  Jaskowski cleared his throat. “August fifteenth, eight seventeen a.m. ‘If a guy named Welch comes by, just give him whatever he asks for. Keep him sweet.’”

  Flores felt the floor shift beneath him. “Well, shit.”

  “Doesn’t look great for your little expat orphan buddy.”

  “No, no, it doesn’t.” Fuck if he hadn’t called that one wrong.

  “Not enough to arrest, but plenty for a subpoena to get his phone records and seize his computer,” Jaskowski offered.

  “I’ll put in the request, then give him a couple days,” Flores said. “Call him in, waste his time, turn a couple screws. Get him frazzled, give him a chance to scramble and maybe dig himself into a deeper hole.” Goddamn, he’d really wanted that asshole to be innocent, too. Thank fuck they hadn’t started a pool.

  “So now I’m your hero?” Jaskowski asked.

  Flores rubbed his sweaty forehead, beat and energized and angry and giddy—everything this job made him feel. Every kind of hungry. “Yeah, you’re my hero, Jask. Now quit jerking off and find out what happened to those goddamn bones.”

  * * *

  Duncan jumped in the easy chair—his music was suddenly gone, headphones lifted from his ears. He craned his neck to find Raina behind him, smiling. She’d been in and out between the guest room and the kitchen countless times in the past hour or two, but Duncan had taken little notice, caught up in research for his defense.

  Raina put the phones to her ears, blinking. “Opera?”

  He took them back. “Often.”

  “Classical, I could see. Opera seems a bit . . . dramatic.”

  “To each his own.” He hit PAUSE on his phone.

  “Wait. Is your cat named for an opera singer?”

  “I got her not long after Astrid Varnay died. I’m averse to sentimentality, but not immune.”

  “Good God, you’re weird. But listen—I’m starving and short on groceries. You want to grab a late lunch across the street?”

  Not a bad idea, his stomach suggested. He glanced around, finding Astrid on the windowsill behind the couch, looking lean and alert, but somewhat settled. “I would.”

  As they headed down the stairs a few minutes later, he said, “I’m assuming Abilene is holding down the fort.”

  “Yeah. I’ll join her around seven. Afternoons are easy. Boring. All the same old men, drinking the same old beers, listening to the same old fifty songs they’ve been playing since my dad opened the place.”

  “Predictability has its merits.”

  “It’s painful some days, but it’s also the reason I read five books a week. I bet you read a lot,” she added as they crossed Station Street.

  “Not as much as I’d like to claim.”

  “No?”

  He shook his head. “Reading requires a quiet mind, which isn’t something I possess. It takes an exceedingly riveting story to keep my compulsions in the periphery. Though I enjoy audiobooks.”

  “Of course you do,” she said with a smile. “You can read and clean at the same time.”

  Duncan held the diner’s door open for her. As they slid into opposite sides of a booth, he said, “Don’t mistake a disorder for a hobby, Ms. Harper. I don’t strictly enjoy cleaning. I merely enjoy it more than the sensation of panic that occurs if I don’t clean.”

  The older waitress took Duncan’s request for a hot water and Raina’s coffee.

  “What happens,” Raina asked, “if you don’t clean?”

  “In reality? A panic attack. In my head . . . I don’t know. It seems as though there is no if. As though whatever will happen is too horrible to comprehend. Either way, it feels like a matter of life and death.”

  “Jesus.”

  The waitress dropped off their drinks and they placed their orders. Thankfully Duncan had made a regular of himself here, so the woman wasn’t too put out when he inquired after just about every ingredient that went into the chicken club, eschewing the mayonnaise and requesting spinach in place of iceberg lettuce. He tipped waitresses as generously as he did bartenders, so she accepted the revisions cheerfully enough, then left them be.

  Raina watched as he slid a shiny gold envelope from his back pocket. “You bring your own tea bags?”

  “Are you truly surprised?”

  “Not really. But if you ever pull that shit in Benji’s—show up with your own organic lime wedges—I’ll bar you.”

  He smiled, attention on the bobbing bag. “I’m certain you would. How’s your father’s room coming along?”

  She rolled her eyes.
/>   “My offer of help still stands.”

  “So does my stubborn refusal.”

  “Theme of the day. I asked Vince about a paint job, by the way.”

  “Any luck?”

  “He said to bring it by the garage tomorrow. I’m not expecting a miracle, but anything is better th—”

  Duncan’s heart stopped as the diner’s door jingled, admitting two men. Flores. His companion was taller, with a big belly, also wearing a generic suit—surely a colleague. Christ, why did they make Duncan feel so suspicious? He wasn’t doing a thing wrong. Drinking tea. Chatting with a . . . with an acquaintance. Waiting for a sandwich. How had he gone from entitled to paranoid in the span of two days?

  “What’s wrong?” Raina asked, and she turned in her seat to see who’d entered. She looked back to Duncan. “Are they from Sunnyside?”

  He shook his head. “The one with the glasses is the agent who brought me in.”

  She frowned, eyes narrowing at the men. “Was he a jerk to you?”

  “A touch snide. But nothing out of a film—no blinding lightbulbs or hands slamming down on tables.”

  “He’s got to know you’re innocent. You taking bribes from Levins is ridiculous.”

  “How about we drop it?” he asked as their food was delivered. “I’d like to spend a few minutes not thinking about my predicament, if that’s all right.”

  “Fine.”

  They ate quickly and split the bill. Duncan cursed his heart for beating hard as they made their way to the exit, the agents seated at the counter eating matching burgers. He focused his attention on Raina’s backside, but the distraction fell apart at the sound of her voice.

  She stopped behind the two men. “You Flores?” she demanded.

  The man swiveled on his stool and caught sight of Duncan, offered a little nod as he swallowed a bite of burger. He looked to Raina. “I am. Who’s asking?”

  “I just want you to know,” she said quietly, “that if you think Duncan took bribes, you ought to get your badge revoked for having the mental capacity of a turd.”

  The other fed snorted, and Duncan ground his teeth. “Christ.”

  Flores’s eyebrows rose above his glasses. “I don’t discuss ongoing cases with the public. Though your opinion regarding my likeness to a turd has been noted.”

  “If you ever come across the street,” Raina said smoothly, “I’ll see to it personally that your drink gets spit in.”

  Flores smiled. “You asking for a visit from the health inspector, Miss . . . ?”

  “Ms. Harper,” Duncan said, and steered Raina toward the door. “Excuse us.”

  “I think you’re a prick,” Raina tossed over her shoulder at Flores. “Just so you know.”

  Duncan cast Flores a mortified look. “She’s very passionate,” he said grimly.

  “Bet she is,” said Flores’s partner, smirking.

  “See you soon, Welch,” Flores called.

  Out in the lot, Duncan glared at Raina. “Oh, thanks very much for that.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  They crossed the street. He worked hard to hang on to his annoyance, but it was like wet tissue paper trying to pass for a tarp—a flimsy attempt, not hiding what lay beneath. And beneath was undeniable pleasure. And wonder.

  She stood up for me. With vulgarity, doing him precisely zero favors, but no matter, because no one had ever stood up for Duncan before, not for any reason. It made him feel too many things. Patronized, yet delighted. He hoped she couldn’t tell.

  Once back in the apartment, they resumed their respective projects, but by four, Duncan was at a standstill. Without knowing the nature of that so-called witness and his or her claims, there could be no strategizing about it.

  He stood and stretched, and with his headphones off he heard music coming from the soon-to-be guest room. He walked to the threshold. The space was chaos—half-filled boxes and garbage bags all over, every drawer open, books and records and shoe boxes stacked into a dozen towers. The music was coming from a dated turntable perched on the dresser, the record an old blues album.

  Raina was humming along.

  He ought to be angrier with her, for the way she’d managed to bring him here, and for that gaffe in the diner. He ought to be furious, and anxious as well—she could threaten to play the OCD card anytime she wanted something more from him, tonight or tomorrow or next week. He resented being manipulated. Yet if anything, he rather admired the ploy. And perhaps he could play nice until he stumbled upon a secret of hers and landed them in a stalemate. A truce, two equally sharp knives held with perfect parity at each other’s throats.

  Good luck. The shameless are exceedingly difficult to blackmail.

  She had her back to him, and a heap of notebooks beside her on the bed. She was slumped, her rounded posture and the bundle of waves gathered at the top of her head making her seem like a teenager. She wasn’t crying, he didn’t think, just lost in the open book in her lap.

  He knocked softly on the doorframe and she turned. Her smile was odd, sort of sleepy, as he imagined she might look if he woke her, first thing in the morning. Not that he’d imagined such a thing . . . white sheets against her bare skin, the sharper edges worn off her cutting words by the doziness. No, he definitely hadn’t imagined any of that.

  “You want to see what my dad looked like?” she asked.

  “Sure.” He came around to sit beside her. The book in her lap was a photo album.

  “That’s him,” she said, tapping an old snapshot. The man in the picture was bartending, wearing a huge, showy grin as he poured liquor in a long stream into a glass. He sported a shaggy eighties haircut and a Sonny Bono mustache. Not a handsome man, but Benji Harper seemed warm and welcoming. Fun.

  “He looks very friendly.”

  “He was. He was never angry. Well, never aside from when he watched football.”

  Astrid pushed against Duncan’s shin and he stooped to pick her up. “You two don’t look much alike. Do you have any photos of your mother?”

  “I don’t, no. I’m not sure if he did, either, though I’ve got plenty of boxes still to dig through.” She seemed to say it mainly to the cat, and gave its neck a rub before examining the collar’s tags. “Tell me these aren’t, like, custom-engraved platinum from Tiffany.”

  He smirked. “Sterling. And not Tiffany, no.” Though no less pretentious.

  “And I bet she was a pedigreed, pampered kitten whose mother, like, won the cat equivalent of Westminster or something,” Raina went on, petting her.

  “Hardly.” Duncan circled Astrid’s left ear with his thumb and forefinger, showcasing its clipped tip. “She spent her formative months stray, and I got her from a shelter . . . She likes you,” he added with surprise. “And she doesn’t normally like anyone.”

  “Animals dig me.” The cat purred its approval of Raina’s attention. “I have assertive energy. That’s what Miah told me, anyhow.”

  “Astrid clawed my last girlfriend’s neck and ruined her handbag.”

  “Maybe Astrid knew something you didn’t. Also, that’s strange—you having a girlfriend,” Raina clarified, still spoiling the cat. “That seems way too normal somehow. What do you do, on dates?”

  He shrugged. “Dinner. Drinks.”

  “Movies?”

  “Not usually. I don’t like movie theaters.”

  “Too dirty?”

  “I just don’t see the appeal. Why on earth would I want to pay twelve dollars to sit in a dark room with sticky floors, watching a film I may hate, all the while listening to strangers chatting and . . . and chewing?”

  She laughed. “Fair points. I only ever went for the making out.”

  Duncan caught a faint whiff of alcohol on her breath, and looked to the dresser, finding an open bottle of whiskey there. “Are you drunk?”

 
“Buzzed.”

  “What time have you got to start working? Seven?”

  “Yup.”

  Well, that gave her three hours to sober up, he supposed. Duncan was far from the poster boy for temperance, but going to work intoxicated was unacceptable. “I’ll make you some coffee.”

  “No, thanks.”

  He set Astrid on the floor and stood. “I wasn’t offering, merely informing you.”

  “Very forceful, Mr. Welch. Are you one of those well-dressed, domineering, kinky millionaires I’ve heard about? Shall I get the handcuffs?”

  “A gag wouldn’t go astray.” He headed for the kitchen. “And I’m not a millionaire,” he called back. Not in terms of liquidity, anyhow.

  Raina came to stand in the threshold, crossed arms making a distraction of her breasts. “Cold,” she said as Duncan rooted through the cupboards, looking for coffee. “Colder. Wait—warmer.”

  He touched a drawer by the sink.

  “Colder.”

  Back toward the stove.

  “Warm. Warmer.”

  He opened a cabinet.

  “Hot. Like, scorching hot.”

  “Ah.” He grabbed the canister and the little mesh one-cup filter sitting on top of it. He got the kettle heating and selected her a mug, one boasting a cheesy watercolor image of mesas with Phoenix under it in rainbow script. Thinking she needed it strong, he packed the filter nearly to the top.

  “Milk and sugar?”

  She shook her head. “Black.”

  “Have a seat,” he said, pointing to the table.

  Her cheeks grew round. Whether she was amused by his pushiness or holding in a snide comment, he couldn’t guess. He didn’t care, besides—he was too struck by how lovely she looked, smiling and sedate.

  Raina sat and Duncan leaned against the counter, waiting for the kettle. “So, what’s driven you to day-drinking?”

  The smile was gone in an instant, snuffed like a candle. “Nothing. Or maybe everything.” She freed her wild hair and gathered it in her hands, twisting it up, letting it fall. Her shoulders rose and dropped. “I dunno. It’s a lot. A whole big room full of too many memories. And not just memories. Things I’ve never seen. Sides of him I never met. I’m sure he got rid of anything he really didn’t want me seeing . . . but little things.”