Sparkle

by Rudy Yuly

  Joe had been asleep. He replied with his eyes closed. “I’ll tell you when I get there,” he mumbled.

  “Banker’s hours, huh?”

  Joe forced his eyes open and squinted at the clock. It was nine-thirty.

  “Shit!” Adrenaline exploded through Joe’s addled brain as he kicked away the covers tangled around his legs. Why hadn’t Eddie woken him up? They should’ve been at the men’s shelter job site an hour and a half ago! Joe hated to be late; it totally screwed up Eddie’s rhythm. Shit! Is Eddie messing up again?

  “No…naw,” Joe said, forcing his voice to stay calm as he clumsily pulled on his pants and half fell down the stairs. “Tomorrow’s open. What’s up?”

  “You carrying something? Sounds like you’re breathing kind of hard.”

  “Asthma,” Joe said, trying to hold his breath as he looked around the empty kitchen. The coffee wasn’t made.

  “Really. I didn’t know you had—”

  “Look, Detective, I’m kind of in the middle of something. Could I have the address, please?”

  A garbage truck rolled around the corner at the end of Jolie’s block.

  “Hey, Ramirez!” Pinky called to a uniformed officer, pointing at it. “Go stop that guy. We need to check all the cans on this street—both sides.” She turned her attention to the blood on the front door. “4228 Redview Place,” she said into the phone. “I talked to the landlord, poor guy. He can meet you there at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow, if that’s not going to interfere with your beauty sleep. It’s a simple job. Single headshot. Guess you could call it a no-brainer.”

  “Funny.” Joe clenched his teeth to keep from saying more.

  “Not really. Poor little gal, young thing—”

  “Would you please, for once, just give me a frickin’ break?”

  “Whoa. Sure. Don’t need to yell. You know I’m only kidding,” Bjorgeson said. “You all right, Joe? You’ve been acting kind of strange lately.”

  Joe didn’t want to go downstairs and find Eddie gone. “Everything’s fine.” He kept his voice calm as he scrounged through a kitchen drawer for a pen. “Could you give me that address again, please?” Pinky repeated it. “Thanks. We’ll be there.” He hung up before the detective could say another word.

  “Eddie! Where are you?” Joe shouted down the basement stairs. No answer. He forced himself down the stairs.

  Eddie was on his couch with the covers over his face. Joe was instantly relieved. Maybe he had just overslept.

  “Thank God you’re here, Eddie. We’re late again. Get up, bro. Bro?”

  Eddie didn’t move. Joe reached down and gently—without touching his brother—pulled Eddie’s blanket back.

  Eddie was fully dressed. His hands were together, pressed flat against his face, hiding it completely.

  “Jesus, Eddie, what’d you do to your face?”

  Eddie didn’t move.

  “Eddie. Eddie! Move your hands. Move them or I’m going to have to move them for you. Eddie, I…I have to.” Joe touched his brother’s arm tentatively. Eddie didn’t react. Joe pulled Eddie’s arm away from his face.

  Eddie’s left eye was swollen and black, and there was a badly bruised cut over the brow. His face was crusted with dried blood. He was blankly staring ahead.

  “Jesus!” Joe said. “What in the hell did you do now? Come on…”

  Eddie offered no resistance as Joe raised him up, led him into the bathroom, and sat him down on the toilet. Joe found a clean washcloth and soaked it with warm water. He gently washed the blood from Eddie’s head. His hands were shaking so much, he was worried that Eddie might flinch, but his brother never moved.

  Fortunately, the cut was only about an inch long and not terribly deep. But it looked as though Eddie had bled quite a bit, and the shiner and bruises didn’t look too good, either. Joe took a deep breath and clenched his fists hard to stop them from shaking.

  “I need to see your hands,” he said. Eddie allowed Joe to uncurl his fingers. His palms were grimy and caked with dried blood. But once they were washed, they didn’t actually look too bad; all that remained were the ugly but shallow scrapes on the bottom of the palms.

  Something clicked in Joe, and he felt himself going to a familiar place. All the gains of the past few days wouldn’t help him. He needed to get back to where he knew how to cope. He needed to feel numb. He’d been thinking about himself too much.

  He took a deep breath and spoke very distinctly. “I don’t even want to know how this happened, Eddie.” It was the truth. All he wanted was for things to go back to the way they had been last week. “I just want you to stop it. Whatever it is…just knock it off.”

  Eddie heard Joe’s voice but couldn’t make out the words. His eyes wouldn’t focus properly. Joe’s blurry face, contorted with worry, looked small enough to take between his thumb and forefinger, both very far away and yet so close that Eddie could smell the pungent anxiety on his brother’s breath.

  Eddie was grateful to Joe for coming and helping him, but now he needed to sleep and dream. Sleep and dream. Sleep and dream. Sleep and dream. He’d been lying on the couch with the covers over his head for what seemed like an eternity, unable to move, hiding under the blanket, barely blinking, black wasps buzzing and drowning out everything, everything.

  Tending to Eddie’s wounds had a strangely calming effect on Joe. Eddie needed him. His own needs didn’t seem so urgent. His brother was hurting. His own pain seemed to fade. After Eddie was reasonably cleaned up, Joe scrounged around in the washstand drawers and found a big box of Band-Aids that contained a small butterfly, which he used to close the gash over Eddie’s eye. He became uncharacteristically efficient and confident, almost paternal, as he focused more and more on his brother’s immediate needs.

  “Did somebody do this to you, Eddie?”

  No answer.

  “Did you do it to yourself?”

  Eddie’s expression didn’t change. Joe blew out a frustrated exhalation. He’d seen Eddie hit his head against things plenty of times, but it had been a long time since he’d done it hard enough to hurt himself.

  “You’re not going to work like this.” Joe stared at the top of his brother’s head.

  Eddie didn’t respond.

  All of a sudden, a wave of anger hit Joe. He felt as though he were being dragged into playing a thankless role against his will. And one small but furious part of him wanted to fight back.

  “Jesus, Eddie! You’re screwing me up, man!”

  Apparently it didn’t register.

  Get a grip. Joe spent a blank moment rubbing his scar as though trying to erase it. Then he very gently helped Eddie stand—although he was still steaming inside—and led him back to his couch.

  Joe tried to get him to sit down, but Eddie seemed to resist. He reached his hand into the pocket of his rumpled, dirty work pants and held out his hand to Joe.

  “What’s this?”

  “Man sized mess.”

  Joe opened his hand and Eddie dropped the wadded up rubber glove into it.

  Eddie took a huge breath and his eyes suddenly became intensely focused. He held up his hand as if for silence as he forced the words out.

  “From Lucy’s house. For Louis.”

  Joe gingerly unwadded the glove and looked inside. A piece of paper. Joe carefully extracted it with his thumb and forefinger.

  It was half receipt. From the Goodwill. Men’s clothing. $24.95. Just like what Eddie had found at the Red Lotus. Only this half wasn’t bloody. It had a time and date. And part of a credit card number.

  “What’s Lucy’s house? What is that, Eddie?”

  “Lucy Silver. Man sized mess.”

  “You found this when you were cleaning the Silver house? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Uh huh. Okay.”

  A chill ran up Joe’s back. “You think this is evidence Eddie? Like the one you found at the Red Lotus?”

  “Uh huh. Okay.” As he mumbled the words Eddie’s eyes seemed to lose t
heir light and he half sat and half fell onto the couch. Joe hurriedly stuffed the receipt and glove in his pocket and helped Eddie straighten out. He covered him up. Eddie closed his eyes and was gone. Passed out in an instant. Joe knew there was no way he would open his eyes again until he was ready. It might be days.

  Joe stomped up the stairs. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and called LaVonne.

  Something happened to Mom, something bad: The thought raced through Eddie’s mind over and over. No! Not to Mom, to Lucy. No! It was Jolie. Something happened to Jolie. Something bad. Something bad happened to Jolie.

  It was almost impossible to hold on to the thought. Shadowy snips of memory, and flashing torn images and sensations zipped and hissed like machine-gun bullets through his consciousness, tearing sense to shreds. It was so tempting, it would be so natural, to try to catch and tame the billion flashing bits: connect, parse, categorize, and analyze. It could be the work of a lifetime. Eddie would never have to move again. It was a powerful lure.

  No! His mom had told him to just let go. He knew how to do that. He did it when he worked. He was good at it when blood was around. Could he do it now? He willed himself to be still in the midst of the chaos. He forced the words to form in his mind: Just let go. He’d let go of what Lucy had given him. Was that the right thing? There was no way to know— but he did feel a little of the terrible crushing weight lift. Just let go. The words were helping. He willed them to grow, pushing the black noise aside. It felt like falling. It wasn’t comfortable, but he surrendered.

  Having Joe near made it easier, much easier than it had been when he was alone in the night.

  He fell and fell, and finally fell asleep.

  Joe and Eddie sat together on the bed. Joe was wearing his Six Million Dollar Man pajamas. Actually, they were just pajamas with money printed on them, but he and Joe called them Six Million Dollar Man pajamas because that was Joe’s favorite show. Eddie was in his underwear.

  Joe was scared. He was crying. Even though he was a lot bigger than Eddie, Eddie was doing his best to comfort him.

  The sound of muffled yells throbbed up through the floorboards. It was mostly their dad yelling at their mom, and a little bit of her yelling back. It was impossible to tell what they were yelling.

  Joe and Eddie had been asleep in bed when it started, probably close to midnight on a Friday. They knew their dad was drunk and had just come home. It wasn’t the first time, but this sounded bad. Maybe worse than ever before.

  Then they heard furniture crash. Joe wailed again. Eddie wished he would be quiet. He didn’t want Dad to come up.

  Another crash sounded, and now Eddie could make out what Dad was saying. He was closer, probably near the bottom of the stairs.

  “Lying bitch!” Dad screamed. “You think I’m stupid? You think I’m blind? Where you going? Get back here!”

  Chapter 40

  Joe didn’t have time to think about anything. They had a commitment and they were fucking late again. His blood pressure was going through the roof. Eddie was staying home, so Joe was going to have to do the shelter job alone.

  He was just finishing loading the van when LaVonne arrived.

  “I’m g-g-glad you’re here,” he said, doing his best to focus on her for a moment.

  She hugged him. “Try to relax,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, LaVonne. Thanks for coming. I swear, things usually aren’t like this.” Joe tried to loosen his body a little, but ended up pulling away. He dug deep into his pocket, pulled out two fifties, and held them out to her. “Take this. Your time’s valuable.”

  “Don’t make me slap you, Joe. Put that money back in your pocket. Just tell me, how is he?”

  “Sorry. He’s on his couch. He’s just sleeping. There’s food in the fridge. I’ll be back by five-thirty, six o’clock.”

  “What happened?”

  Joe finished loading and slammed the van’s back doors. “No idea. He took…off again. Only this time, he messed himself up.”

  “What do you mean? Is he okay?”

  “No…I don’t know. Physically, yeah, he’s banged up but okay, I guess. He hurt his head and his hands. I d-d-don’t think it’s serious. I don’t—I can’t really talk about it right now. Listen, LaVonne, I’ve really got to go. I’m really late. I’m sorry. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate …” Joe rubbed his cheek hard.

  “Okay,” LaVonne said. “You’d better get going.” Joe looked as though he were holding on by a thread. As usual, she was more worried about him than about Eddie. This had been one crazy week so far, and she was amazed at how quickly and deeply she had been drawn into Joe’s life. “Have you ever actually done one of these jobs on your own before?”

  They were standing next to the van and Joe had a moment of panic as he remembered the flowers inside. If they weren’t good enough before, they were horrible now, wilted and depressing. He’d stop on the way home tonight for sure and get some decent ones.

  He took LaVonne’s arm and steered her toward the house. “Eddie p-p-probably shouldn’t be alone,” he said. “You… Thank you, LaVonne. I owe you big time.”

  Joe turned and walked back to the van. He felt like running. As he was climbing in, he knocked the half-dead bouquet onto the floor on Eddie’s side. Then he lurched off.

  The Catholic Archdiocese’s long-term center for homeless men was a decent-looking brick building on a seedy street in the heart of downtown Seattle, right across from an X-rated video store.

  Joe parked in the loading zone and started to un-stow the gear. He was trying hard not to think at all, but his heart was beating wildly. He had to fight the urge to get back into the van and drive away.

  As usual, he didn’t know exactly what had happened. Two victims, both men, wounds inflicted by knives. On each other. Probably some longterm beef that finally exploded.

  Joe needed to prove to himself that he could do it. Semiconsciously, he wanted to punish Eddie for screwing up. Mostly, though, he couldn’t resist the opportunity to beat the shit out of himself.

  He wondered what his dad would have done in this situation. He probably would’ve dragged Eddie’s ass out of bed and tried to force him to do the job. Joe smiled grimly at the thought. At least he wasn’t as bad as his old man.

  A weary-looking priest of about sixty came out to the curb. He was tall and thin and casually dressed, in a black short-sleeved shirt and collar.

  “I’m Father Sundberg. Can I give you a hand?”

  Joe didn’t look at him. “No, thanks.” He opened the back of the van. “Just show me the job.” After he had stowed the equipment on his cart, the priest led him to the main entrance.

  “I’m afraid we don’t have a service elevator.” He held the door for Joe. “I’m also afraid you can’t smoke in here,” he said kindly. “I’m sorry.”

  Joe looked around for an ashtray. “I’ll take it.” The priest held out his hand. He squashed Joe’s live butt between his thick, callused bare thumb and forefinger without blinking, then carefully dropped it in a trash can by the door.

  In the lobby, ten or fifteen rough old men were watching television or reading magazines. Most of them were pushing seventy, burned-out alcoholics and druggies with their hell-raising days long behind them. They stared like kindergartners as the priest led Joe through the space.

  “Our elevator’s rather slow, I’m afraid, Mr…I’m sorry, I guess I don’t know your name.”

  “Joe.”

  “Oh, yes. For some reason I thought your name was Edward.” Joe didn’t say anything. “Well, Joe, this was a shock to us all. These men were roommates. We try very hard to create a good environment here. We had no idea until the next—”

  “Excuse me, Father,” Joe interrupted. “But soul searching is your job. I’m just a cleaner.”

  The priest fell silent. The elevator opened, and he held the button while Joe made an awkward show of wrestling the cart out onto the floor.

  The room was down a short
tidy hallway. The crime scene tape was already gone. The priest pulled a fat jangle of keys on a retractable chain from his pants pocket. He opened the door without looking in.

  “Will you need anything special?”

  “Just some space.” Joe knew he was being an ass, but he couldn’t help it.

  The priest looked at him carefully. “Take all the time you need, son.” He turned to go.

  “Father…Sanders,” Joe stammered. He felt he should apologize in some way.

  “Sundberg,” the priest said. “Yes?”

  “I’m, um…kind of stressed.”

  “I’ll pray for you, then,” the priest said. He walked away.

  “I don’t think that’s going to help,” Joe muttered. He put on Tyvek coveralls, booties, gloves, mask, and goggles, and walked into the bloody room.

  Chapter 41

  “I want a full workup on the thing,” Louis said into the phone. “The whole nine yards. Yes. I know it’s not much. Look. You’ve got blood. I want to know whose it is. Yes. I’m personally authorizing it.” He hung up the phone looking frustrated.

  Pinky, riffing through the big file cabinet in Louis’s office, laughed derisively. “I don’t know why you’re wasting your time on a stupid scrap of paper. Forensics must be laughing their asses off at us.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re probably right,” Louis said, defensively. The fact was, he wasn’t exactly sure himself why he wanted to follow Eddie’s lead. “As usual.”

  “I’m telling you, you should have crumpled that stupid thing up, tossed it in the trash, and told Eddie to go home and relax. This bullshit with Eddie’s just muddying the water.”

  Louis and Bjorgeson rarely disagreed on the way an investigation should proceed. It was a small glitch in the big scheme of things, but the situation was an unpleasant off-note for them both.

  “You’ve got a theory and no evidence, Pink—”

  “Wha—?”

  “No, listen. It’s a good theory, okay? But you’ve basically got a theory and nothing but circumstantial evidence. Me, I don’t have a theory. Okay? I’ve got—maybe—a piece of evidence. Maybe.”