Sleep When You're Dead

by Chris Hollenback

  “I love it,” Casey yawned. “It is a great place to play guitar and collect my thoughts. How are the kids?”

  “Good.” Bruce was amiable but had the personality of a graham cracker.

  Casey tried a different tack to get Bruce talking. “Must be exciting around here with the Hail hosting a playoff game…”

  “Sure,” Bruce said.

  “Lot of interview requests?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What are you up to these days?”

  “Working.”

  “You don’t say? Bruce, Narziss has had a great year. But he’s…distracted.”

  Bruce opened the door to the small interview room and flipped on the light. The walls were white, the ceiling and carpet navy blue, with a maple table and two chairs. “Distracted?”

  “Right. Maybe he’s acting a bit funny off the field?”

  “He has been moody,” Bruce admitted, “but…”

  “That’s nothing new.”

  He curled his lips to one side. “You said it.” There was an awkward pause.

  A few seconds later, Narziss stood in the doorway, eclipsing the hall light with his six-foot-five-inch frame. Narziss exhaled hard and said, “Our PR director said Todd Narziss better come do this or he’ll get slammed in the article.”

  Way to go, Skeeto, Casey thought. Narziss had nicknamed LeRoy “Mosquito” because he stood not much taller than Gary Coleman. Oakley had shortened the moniker to “Skeeto” and it stuck.

  Now Narziss sat in a huff and didn’t look at Casey. “Don’t expect pleasantries.”

  “I’ll get right to it then.” He hit record.

  Bruce leaned against the wall by the door.

  Casey faced him. “Bruce, you mind?”

  “Oh, right.” Bruce stepped out. PR people had every right to stay in the interview room, but most of them respected requests from reporters to ask the players questions one-on-one, especially if the subject was uncontroversial.

  Casey sat about two feet from Narziss. The superstar’s muscular thighs were as thick as the reporter’s slim waist. Casey liked to toss interviewees a softball question as an icebreaker. “You’re having your best year as a Hail player,” Casey said. “How much of that is thanks to the emergence of Marshon Cummings at running back?”

  “MC’s having a great year,” Narziss said. “It certainly has helped Todd Narziss to get a clean release from the defenders at the line of scrimmage. When Oakley fakes the handoff to MC, he’s got Todd Narziss wide open downfield.”

  Casey hated when players referred to themselves in the third person. People who did that invariably had life-sized portraits of themselves hanging in their homes. If Casey wanted to keep a superstar like Narziss happy, he knew to stick to football. He needed Narziss for this story and might need him again. Still, he couldn’t shake the thought of Elena lying in a ditch or the woods. “You know Elena, right?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Elena Ortega.”

  “Never met her.”

  Interesting. “I already know you know her.”

  “Then why ask me?” Narziss said.

  “She works at the Pro Shop, and told me the other night that you had an affair with her.”

  “This for your story?”

  “Just curious.”

  “You’re a terrible liar,” Narziss said.

  “You offering pointers?”

  Narziss forced a laugh. “I thought we were talking sports.”

  “I took this assignment for Sports Scene to talk about your playoff run. But when a pro-shop employee, who happens to be my friend, tells me she’s involved with you and then disappears, things change.”

  Narziss finally made eye contact. “If she disappeared, how do you know she didn’t just leave town on vacation?”

  “Sources. So you do know her, then.”

  “Off the record?”

  He knew damn well it wasn’t, Casey thought, glancing down to make sure the red light on his recorder still illuminated, and that the cassette reels rolled.

  “Yeah, I knew her. I bought a big order of Hail gear for the kids at the local hospital on behalf of the Narziss Foundation. Elena filled the order.”

  “You knew her?”

  “Listen to Narziss when he speaks,” Narziss said.

  Casey scratched his head. I am listening, you ass-clown. “But you said it in the past tense.”

  “Are you my English teacher now?” Narziss said. “Go weave a scarf.”

  “There’s a correlation between English and weaving?”

  Narziss waved at Casey. “Whatever. The point is the kids. I really feel for these little peeps cooped up in the hospital when they should be out playing ball.”

  Narziss bragged about practically everything, but it didn’t surprise Casey that he was coy about his affair with Elena. Casey tried baiting the player with something chauvinistic he’d otherwise never say. “I bet the boys at the hospital wanted to jump Elena’s bones.”

  Narziss saw through it and sat up. “This is a non-story.”

  Casey leaned forward in his chair. “Come on, Todd, people will love you when they read about your gentle side, helping sick kids.”

  “They already love Todd Narziss.”

  Casey wondered how much they’d love him if they knew he had been banging the Hail Pro Shop girl while Mrs. Narziss took care of the kids. “So you’re saying there’s nothing more to your relationship with Elena?”

  His smile evaporated. Then it reappeared. “You’re fishing for drama for your story. You think every pro athlete is a womanizer.”

  “No, I don’t. But I think one athlete is.”

  Narziss leaned back and laughed. “You know, Thread, I give you props. Most reporters are kiss-asses, but you give it right back.”

  “I also won’t let you wiggle out of dinner tomorrow night,” Casey said, half joking but, like most quips, grounding it in more truth than he’d readily admit.

  “You’re lucky you’re writing for Sports Scene magazine, or I’d tell you where to go.”

  These were the realities of sports reporting. Casey had scheduled the dinner in addition to the formal interview so he could get a sense of Narziss’s life away from football. The editors of Sports Scene would have it no other way. “Need me to pick up a pizza on the way?”

  “Samantha said she’s making chicken curry.” The superstar grinned. “Narziss loves things that taste like chicken.”

  Casey rolled his eyes. “So we’re still on?”

  Narziss held out his hands. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  Pressing the affair risked losing access to Narziss for this article and forever into the future. On the other hand, this exposé could make his career. “Nothing to hide. So you’ve told your wife about the Elena rumors?”

  Narziss leaned toward Casey, pointed a bratwurst-sized finger and whispered, “If you bring that up to Samantha, Narziss will kill you.”

  Casey certainly enjoyed living, so for the moment he dropped it. Then the image of Elena lying dead reappeared in his imagination, soon followed by a hollow feeling. He wondered if Elena had asked Todd to leave his wife. Casey heard himself speaking before the words left his mouth yet he couldn’t pull them back. “So you had nothing to do with Elena’s disappearance?”

  The star stood up. “What’s wrong with you? Todd Narziss has been here, at the stadium, preparing for the playoffs. I don’t have time for anything else.”

  Like a bastard child? Casey looked up at him and smirked. “Just because you were here doesn’t necessarily mean you didn’t know she would vanish.”

  Narziss made an incredulous spitting noise. He looked toward the hallway. “Bruce?”

  Casey remained seated and said, “Come on, Todd, just a few more questions.”

  He pointed at Casey. “Don’t push it, Thread. We’re done.” Narziss walked toward the door, rolling his right shoulder with machismo, cracking his knuckles and stretching his head to each side, clearly wishing he cou
ld use the reporter to knock out the drywall.

  “Well, this is an amazing start,” Casey said. “I have a feeling we’ll make more progress tomorrow night.”

  Narziss paused in the doorway and gave Casey a look like, You’ve got to be kidding.

  Casey thought for sure Narziss would call off the dinner interview. So he said, “You know I’ll write this article whether you participate or not. Do you really want Mrs. Narziss to read about this in Sports Scene magazine? Hear it from all her friends? On the other hand, if you deny the affair, tell your wife about the rumors now, then you have nothing to worry about in having me over. I’ll behave. I promise.”

  Narziss glowered. “Fine.” With that, he left.

  A moment later, Bruce appeared in the doorway, watching Narziss stride away. Bruce looked at Casey and asked his pat question, “Interview go okay?”

  7

  MONDAY, JANUARY 17

  After the interview, Casey called Nell. “Can I buy you coffee at Fixate Factory?”

  “Twist my arm,” Nell said. “I love that place.”

  “My sister Leila works there,” Casey yawned, “and I need a caffeine infusion, stat.”

  Fifteen minutes later, she pulled up in a lipstick-red BMW Z4 Roadster convertible.

  Casey laughed. “Seriously? Nice wheels!”

  “Thanks, I just earned it from Baciare Cosmetics.”

  Of course she did. “You make real money selling cosmetics?”

  “I make enough to convince people that I’m a robber baron.”

  Casey envisioned a pyramid scheme as he got into the car.

  “Of course, that’s not true,” she continued, pulling away from the stadium. “But we are independent contractors, so we call our own shots. My current national director lives down the street from Oprah.”

  As he rode, Casey periodically pinched his own arm to stay alert.

  Fixate Factory lacked square footage but had character. Olive walls featured hand-painted cream paisley flourishes in the corners. The stereo played mellow bossa nova music with sultry singers set to electronica dance beats. Periodically, live musicians or poets would take the mic. The toffee-flavored coffee smelled rich. Leila Thread dispensed whipped cream on a customer’s mocha.

  “Hey Case, what’s up?” Leila said, sounding somewhat ambivalent. She fiddled with a strand of blue hair that had fallen astray from her bun and pushed up her black glasses. The siblings hugged awkwardly across the counter. Casey introduced Leila and Nell.

  Leila invited them to sit at the counter.

  “What can I get you?” she asked them.

  Nell and Casey ordered cappuccinos and scones to go.

  “You have a nice complexion,” Nell said to Leila.

  “Yeah, riiiight,” Leila said, half-asleep and pointing with a pen at a zit on her nose. Actually, Leila did have fair skin, which she got from her mother. But she never wore makeup and, ever since the attack, had cared little about her appearance.

  Nell motioned at Leila. “Easy to fix, even easier to prevent. Ever try Baciare Cosmetics? We have an in-CRED-ible four-in-one facial cleanser.”

  Leila folded her lips into her mouth and rubbed her temple, where Casey could still see the scar from the cigarette burn. These were the same nervous tics she’d done since high school whenever she felt intimidated or infuriated by another female. “Um, makeup’s so not my thing.” Leila glanced down and saw she had chowder on her shirt. She wiped it with a white towel.

  “I used to feel the same way,” Nell said. “But after I tried Baciare skin-care products, I was hooked. Now I’m a sales consultant!”

  Leila stared blankly. “Oh goodie.” She handed them their drinks.

  Casey chugged half his cappuccino and wished for a flask.

  “I like the blue hair,” Nell said to Leila. “I bet we could find a lip color to complement it perfectly.” Nell handed Leila a business card depicting lipstick that resembled candy. “Well, call me, I’d love to give you a free facial. You deserve to be pampered.”

  Leila handed them a paper bag with scones, narrowed her eyes, folded her lips in again then smacked them. “Anything else?”

  “Check, please,” Casey chimed. They followed her to the cash register, where a man was paying for his takeout order.

  Casey could have sworn he looked familiar. He nudged Nell and whispered, “Isn’t that the sculptor who made the stadium statues?”

  “Hey, yeah, I think it is. Ask for his autograph.”

  Casey introduced himself to the sculptor. “I’m writing about Todd Narziss and the Hail for Sports Scene magazine.” They shook hands.

  “Hailangelo,” he said, accepting Casey’s business card.

  “Yes, I interviewed you once before for the Green Bay Times.”

  “Oh right,” Hailangelo read the card. “I thought you looked familiar. Hey, are you related to Leila?”

  “Yeah, she’s my sister.”

  “Small world.” Hailangelo smiled at Leila. She raised one brow skeptically and wiped the counter.

  “I’d really like to interview you about your Narziss statue for my story. Since it’s part of the local lore.”

  Hailangelo was in his late twenties or early thirties and had clean-cut brown hair parted on the side. He was a guy a girl could bring home to Mom. “It would be my pleasure. I’ll call you.”

  “Terrific. Nice to see you again. Keep up the stellar work.”

  Hailangelo grinned. “Oh, I will.” He took his food and coffee and left the shop.

  Casey handed Leila his Visa card. “I’ll see you later this week, okay?”

  “Yep, call my cell,” Leila said, running his card and handing it back along with the receipt. “Good to see you, Case.” Her voice lacked emotion.

  It wasn’t that they didn’t get along. It was more that they had grown into such different people. At times in their lives, Casey had figured it was the age difference. After all, five years could be an eternity when one kid is in ninth grade and the other in college. Though now it meant less. It had more to do with a certain night, and their general lack of things in common beyond their parents and genetics. Sometimes it felt like Leila had grown tired of continuing to make the effort. “Thanks, sis.” He signed the receipt and handed it back to her. “Good to see you, too.”

  Nell and Casey returned to her Beemer and she gave him a ride to his mother’s house. “Got any big plans with your mom?”

  “Not really. It’s Bridge Night and I promised to give her a ride.”

  “She doesn’t drive?”

  “She has early-onset glaucoma from smoking.”

  Nell stared at him a moment and he waited for the inevitable question. “How will you drive her without a car?”

  Casey shrugged. “Call a cab. Maybe I’ll try the same taxi service Elena used.”

  “Yeah, great, then you could disappear, too.” She took a bite of her scone. “By the way, you know Skeeto’s dog, right?”

  Casey felt grateful for a change of subject. “Who could forget a doggie named Bag?”

  “The morning after Skeeto’s party, Elena was passed out in the hallway of the White House. Doggie Bag sniffed her face, then her back and butt, paused and made an ‘ew’ face.”

  Casey laughed. “No way.”

  “It’s true. I got her up and dressed.”

  Casey appreciated knowing that he wasn’t the only one who fell asleep at inopportune times and, in an odd way, he related to Elena. While that image of her wasn’t exactly alluring, it didn’t change his overall opinion of her when she was awake; she was sharp, gentle, and drop-dead gorgeous. She never paid for drinks and, like many girls who enjoyed this status, was prone to getting drunk. Then again, Nell and Leila would never pass out on the floor, would never even give a dog a chance to sniff them. Plus, Elena had slept with Narziss. Narziss! Somehow, the sheen of Elena faded. Regardless, she was missing and pregnant. He had to find her.

  “You may want to think twice before you fall for Elena,”
Nell said.

  “I’m not falling for Elena,” Casey said. Technically, he had already fallen for her.

  “You sure about that?” Nell pulled the car up in front of his mother’s house, a white ranch with black shutters and a matching front door.

  Casey smirked. “Only woman on my mind right now is my mother.”

  “Sure you don’t want me to just give you both a ride?”

  “Thanks, but Bridge Night isn’t for a few hours. I’m sure you have better things to do.”

  “I do have a Baciare appointment. Have fun with your mom.”

  Later that night, his mother, Elzbieta Thread, sat next to him in the cab, her long gray hair up in a bun. Her skin had wrinkled from decades of smoking; Nell could have made a killing selling anti-aging creams just to her. Elzbieta did have decent cheekbones and a triangular nose that she had passed on to her son. She was sixty-three years old and stood five-foot-three, but carried a big verbal stick and didn’t hesitate to use it. Casey respected that. She got things done. Hell, she’d raised two little kids on her own after her husband died. He owed her the world for that.

  “I’m making pot roast for dinner tomorrow.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Ma. I could bring home takeout.”

  “Takeout? I don’t go for that. You live in town, yet you only have one night a week for your mother.”

  He knew that, tough as she seemed, she really did miss him. “Ma, I’m sorry, I’d really like to spend all week with you.” His proverbial pants were on fire. “But you know I’m writing my first major feature story for Sports Scene magazine.”

  “Aren’t we big in our britches.” She shuffled her shoulders and looked out the passenger-side window.

  “It’s my job, Ma.”

  She shook her head. “That’s your job—with the Church’s shortage of priests!”

  Casey sighed. What was it with so many mothers from her generation wanting their children to become priests, rabbis, or ministers? Perhaps they wanted to approach other moms and say, “In your face! My son is holier than yours!” Or maybe it blossomed from a Freudian yearning to preserve their sons’ purity. What else could be such a surefire ticket to heaven?