by Jodi Payne
“I reckon I need to start figuring out how to find the man who killed my brother. That’s what I’ve been sent here to do. Take care of business.” Sam mangled the bread, working it in his callused fingers.
“Sent here?” The question was out before he could frame it as anything other than exactly what it was, incredulity.
“Yeah—Bowie, my folks. All my people. Daddy had a stroke when he found out, you know? Bowie had to go back to saving the world. So, it’s my job.” Like this was standard operating procedure. One son dies, send another to find his killer.
That must be “the crazy” in the family that James used to talk about. Thomas was at a bit of a loss as to how to respond, so he left it alone for the moment. It needed a response, though. He’d return to it. “I’m terribly sorry to hear about your father. Will he recover?”
“Yeah. He’s talking a little slow, and he sure as shit is in a bad mood these days, but he’ll come around. Thanks for asking. It’s been a weird-assed few weeks. I mean, sorry, you know that better than anyone.”
“Maybe not. I don’t have a corner on the market for grief.” He reached over and tore off a piece of garlic bread for himself, pleasantly surprised that he genuinely felt hungry. “You know, Sam, that the NYPD is well equipped to find the person responsible, don’t you? I can understand your anger. I have plenty of my own, but it’s not particularly…logical to believe that you can find someone before they do.”
“Yessir, but it can’t hurt to have a little help.” Sam’s drawl was thick as syrup. “Don’t get me wrong—I’m an art historian and a bronc rider, not a CSI, but…I have to do something. I have to help.”
“I didn’t intend to imply you were stupid. I apologize.” He picked up his water and took a sip. He knew there was more to each of James’s brothers than met the eye.
“Eh, no worries. Everything’s all fucked up right now. I’m not all ready to be offended.” Sam grinned for him, eyes rolling wildly. “Hell, I just drank myself sober, passed out on the bathroom floor, and managed a subway for the first time. I don’t have the energy to be offended right now. Try me tomorrow.”
“Not to worry. I’ll offend you tomorrow too, I’m sure. It goes hand in hand with being arrogant and opinionated. Some of my better traits. James pointed them out regularly.” He held up his glass as if he were toasting Sam and took a sip. All his relationships required negotiation, from his clients to his personal life.
“He wasn’t one to keep his mouth shut when he thought you needed to know something. That was for sure. He rode my ass like a prized pony.”
“I bet that was a good time.” Some of the most fun they’d had stemmed from James’s compulsion to speak his mind. And as much as he appreciated that image, it surely wasn’t what Sam was referring to.
“Do you have big brothers?”
“I have two. I also have three younger and a baby sister.”
“Wow. Wow, that’s intense, but you kinda get it, right? No matter what you do, someone’s right there explaining how you’re either doing it wrong or how you’re fixin’ to get hurt or how they’ve already done it twice as good.”
“It’s the same dynamic. They just do it in teams.” He laughed. “And being in the middle is its own kind of torture. James and I used to talk about that a lot.” He never did anything right, but then he never really did anything wrong either. He’d been several shades of unremarkable in that herd of siblings.
“Yeah. He’s like our momma—a middle child, a teacher, always fixing shit. Bowie’s like Daddy—he’s a hammer and the world’s a nail.” Sam grabbed the menu, opened it up. “What do you like here?”
He was listening. James was like Momma, Jim like Daddy. Who was Sam like? Small wonder this poor boy was at loose ends. Everyone else had a blueprint to follow. Sam was blazing a new trail, like it or not.
“If you’re truly hungry, the lasagna or their spaghetti and meatballs. If you want something more delicate, the ravioli is lovely.”
“I’ll get the lasagna, then. I can take some back to the apartment and have supper for tomorrow, assuming I don’t fall on it like a ravenous beast. That could totally happen.”
If he hadn’t been making sure he ate regularly, he would feel the same way. But there was a whole host of regular, normal life things he’d been forcing himself to continue despite everything. Eating regularly, running, going to work, going to bed and trying to sleep. Apart from sleeping, none of it was as difficult as it seemed. He was able to rely on habit. What was hard were the hours in his day that were less routine, the ones he’d spent with James or thinking about James.
And weekends. God, their weekends.
“You know, Mister Art Historian, you should visit the museum to use up some of that free time.” He looked at Sam, realizing it was probable Sam had no idea what he did for a living. “The Met. I can get you free tickets. I work there.”
“Yeah?” Oh, look at those eyes light up. That transformed Sam from grumpy, tired cowboy to fascinated, engaged scholar. “What do you do?”
“Development. I help get funding for special exhibits. Basically, I beg rich people for money.” He laughed. It was a great deal more than that, but the details made the job sound dull.
“Ah. Yes. That’s basically what I’ll end up doing, assuming I ever decide to get a job in my field. Right now, I’m publishing articles and doing research for people writing Westerns and making movies.”
He made an effort not to say something stupid again, but he felt his head tilt a little anyway. How interesting. “I had no idea. James didn’t give me the details. That must be interesting work. Do you enjoy research?”
“God, yes. I specialize in Western art, history, and culture. Mainly art, of course—Jack Wells, Russell, Remington, Glen Powell, Tim Cox—but people tend to need the other parts too. Costuming, newspapers, language even.”
“We love bringing in that kind of thing. Tying the art into the culture. It’s much easier for me to fund something people can relate to. Art in context, you know what I mean? So…” He thought about what he knew about Western art, which was pathetically little. “Suppose we brought in a Remington collection, paintings, sculptures. We’d also bring in something about him personally if we could, and about the time he was painting to give them context. All of that research would be valuable for us.” He sat back a little and snorted. “Not that you need much context for Remington. Everything he did was so dynamic on its own, but you know what I mean.”
“Well, you know he lived in Brooklyn, yes? That’s where his art took off. He turned being a ‘cowboy’ into a career.” Sam chuckled, shook his head. “Don’t get me started. I can bore the most stalwart individual.”
He laughed, the sound a little foreign to him, a little tentative, but it was real and made him feel the most alive he had in weeks. “I might be able to give you a run for your money.” He grinned and leaned forward. “Promise me you’ll come to the museum this week and test my resolve.”
“Yeah. I could do that. I mean, I’m here, right?” Thomas read guilt and hunger in Sam’s expression, in equal amounts.
“You’re here, yes.” He looked Sam over, wishing he could ease some of the guilt for him, and realized that perhaps he could. “Quid pro quo, hm? You visit the museum and teach me something I don’t know, and I’ll…walk you through what little is on the security cameras.”
“The security cameras? You mean from James’s place? Is he on it?”
“No. Well, yes, but not the attack, not up close. His building doesn’t have a camera. But there are two from the square that show the guy and one from the subway entrance that shows James, and the bank has a distant recording. You can’t really see much on that one. They showed them to me when I went down for—” Damn. Thomas had thought perhaps to omit a detail or two, but what was the point? Sam would ask his own questions, find out for himself. “When they questioned me the second time.”
Sam didn’t look the least bit surprised. “You’re the boyfri
end. Of course you were questioned. Why didn’t they tell us about you?”
“They? You mean the police? Because I asked them not to. I explained that James wasn’t out. I genuinely believed he wasn’t. I suspect they’ll consider his sexuality relevant information at some point, but they didn’t then.”
“They know about James. Bowie too. They’re not happy, but that’s more to do with lack of grandbabies than anything else. My folks aren’t bad people. They love James.”
“Bowie too?” Had James told him that? If so, he didn’t remember the conversation. “I’m relieved to know your parents are accepting. I’m not sure why I got the impression no one knew.” That wasn’t true. He knew exactly why—because James never told him they knew. And he obviously made an incorrect assumption. An assumption that apparently cost him an invitation to his lover’s funeral.
Goddammit. He wasn’t going to think about that.
“So, is Bowie out with the Rangers?”
“No. I’m not sure Bowie wouldn’t just bite the head off anyone that came on to him. Chomp.” Sam clicked his teeth together. “You obviously never met him either, or you wouldn’t have bothered asking.”
He chuckled. “I see. That’s a terrible way to live. I’m sad for him.”
Sam shrugged. “He’s a soldier. He loves his life, I guess. I don’t know. We’re not particularly close—he left home at seventeen. I was ten. He’s been home…what? Three times in fifteen years? Maybe four. He’s doing exactly what he wants to do. Feel sorry for him in five years when they drum him out and he’s got nothing left.”
Well. Nothing left, hm? “I don’t actually feel sorry for him at all. Do I sense you have issues with the military, or just with Bowie?”
“Neither. I got nothing but respect, man.”
That was a well-practiced, oft-said response. One he didn’t entirely accept, although Sam’s earnest look was lovely. “Mm. Of course.” If Sam and Bowie were never close, then Sam would only feel that much more alone for losing James.
Their food arrived along with more bread and a server ready to grate fresh parmesan. He leaned back and let her cover his lasagna; then she stepped around and offered some to Sam, flirting.
“Parm?”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
She smiled and watched Sam until she got the nod to stop. “Enjoy your dinner.”
He waited for her to be out of earshot. “Every server in New York City flirted with James. I think it’s those stunning hazel eyes you both have.”
“I think it’s the accent and the hat.” Sam chuckled softly and shook his head. “Momma says we have baby-shit-colored eyes, you know, but thank you for the compliment.”
“Oh, no. They’re lovely. The way they change in the light, or shift depending on what you’re wearing—or…sorry. What James would wear, I mean. Though yours are lovely too.” He probably ought to be embarrassed by that slip, but he wasn’t. He just watched Sam to see how he’d react.
“Oh, honey…” Sam reached out under the table and patted his leg. “I’m so sorry. My heart’s broke for you. I…Lord have mercy, I’d fix this if I could.”
He caught Sam’s hand impulsively and held the man’s eyes for a moment, not at all sure what the hell he was doing. He finally released it, thinking he should apologize, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t sorry. Baffled, intrigued, stunned maybe, but not sorry.
Sam stared at his supper for a long time before he inhaled, releasing the breath slowly. “Okay, first supper here. It looks amazing. I got a good friend in Austin that makes lasagna when we’re both in town at the same time, but this looks better.”
He knew he’d overstepped, though he didn’t know why precisely. What he did know was, it wasn’t well received. But rather than apologize now and make things worse, he decided it could wait while they ate and he tried to repair things.
“I think you’ll like it. It’s one of my favorites.”
“Yes, sir.” Sam began to eat, eyes on the plate. Eventually he slowed down, looked up, and met Thomas’s eyes. “It’s so weird. I’ve never done this before. I’ve had buddies die on the circuit, and lots of older family, but not something like this. I don’t know what to say to make you not upset.”
“Sam—” He hesitated but reached out across the table and lightly rested his fingers on Sam’s. “There’s nothing you can say, any more than there is anything I could say to make you not upset. It doesn’t make sense. It seems impossible. It’s…surreal. The only thing either of us can do is breathe.”
God, didn’t that sound so easy? Just breathe. If only he could find air.
“Yeah. Just breathe. I can—” “The Army Goes Rolling Along” sounded, and Sam rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s Bowie. If I don’t answer…”
“Of course, go ahead.” He understood Bowie wouldn’t get many opportunities to call.
“Thanks. Hey, Bow.…Yes. Yes, I’m here.…Yes.…No. I’m eating food.…No, I haven’t found…No. Dammit, Bowie, I don’t even know how to start finding…Oh, fuck you, asshole. I’m trying. Don’t you need to shoot someone or blow someone up?”
The voice on the other end of the line snapped out, Sam’s face went ashen, and when he answered this time, his voice was dull. “I didn’t forget why I’m here, I promise. I’ll call home here after a bit, man. I swear.”
Sam hung up without a good-bye and turned his phone off. “Sorry. I hate when folks talk during supper.”
He felt like he ought to sit on his hands. There were a number of things he wanted to do right now, and not a one of them was appropriate under the circumstances. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that James’s eldest brother survived on adrenaline and was grieving, and that had to be a powerful cocktail.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah. He’s just making sure I’m not slacking, you know?” Sam wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I’m not here for a vacation.”
He watched Sam, choosing his words carefully and speaking slowly, emotion swirling in his chest. “What exactly does he want you to do?”
“Find the man who killed James and take care of him.”
Dear Baby Brother, go find a murderer in a huge city and kill him. Love, Bowie. Wow.
“That’s insane. You do know that, Sam. Don’t you? It’s…deranged.”
“It’s Texas justice, I guess. I have to try to do right by him, no matter that I don’t know how to go about finding a killer.”
He leaned back in his chair, eyes on Sam still, stunned by what he was hearing, by what just the concept of retribution was doing to James’s little brother.
“It won’t bring him back.”
“No, but maybe it’ll help them all at home, you know? Maybe it’ll help you, knowing he’s not out there.”
No. That was not how things were done. How he wanted them done.
“I will sleep much better when the police find him, and I know he won’t hurt anyone else. Don’t bring me into this. Don’t do it for me. I don’t want you to. Ask yourself if James would. I’m pretty sure I know the answer.” He pulled out his wallet, tossed some cash on the table, and stood. “Think for yourself, Sam.”
One of Sam’s eyebrows lifted, that upper lip curling. “Keep your fucking money, man. I got supper. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass.”
He didn’t touch the money. But he did return Sam’s look, evenly. “That’s a lot easier than having to wonder if you might be wrong, isn’t it? Good night, Sam. Thank you for joining me.”
He turned and headed out the door, wishing he’d gotten that bottle of wine after all. Now he needed something stronger.
5
It took three days to clean out the kitchen, somehow. Possibly because he spent twelve hours a day bugging the police and wandering around James’s neighborhood, praying for someone to tell stories on his brother, and six hours a day working.
Sam did it, though, didn’t he?
Yessir.
The little gal at the Italian restaurant had helpe
d him find a grocery store, so he had bleach and peanut butter and…
Yeah.
He called Momma once a day and checked in. He didn’t answer Bowie’s calls, and he didn’t think about James’s boyfriend. Obviously the guy didn’t understand. His daddy had done had a stroke. Bowie was fixin’ to be deployed. He was the only one left to make sure James’s killer was found.
Ask what James would want? Had this guy seen James beat Bobby Gentry down when the bastard had knocked out three of Sam’s baby teeth? Had he been there when the football team had locked him in a toolbox and left him for the weekend, and James had broken four of the quarterback’s fingers until he told where Sam was trapped? No. James had been there for him, just like Bowie had been there for James. Now it was his turn. He had to be there.
He stood in the kitchen, eating a peanut butter spoon while he waited on his coffee.
Christ on a pink sparkly crutch, it was fixin’ to be nine a.m. and time to wander around outside and pretend like he knew what to do.
A loud buzzing sound blared from a box by the door he hadn’t even noticed was there before. It stopped, then started again, drowning out his own goddamn thoughts.
He frowned and pondered just whacking it with a broom like a smoke detector. It was altogether too early for buzzing and shit.
He jabbed the button and growled. “Whut?”
That was right, right? Fuck, if it wasn’t right, who the fuck would know? This was his new motherfucking motto. Nobody knew him from Job, barring a handful of detectives, and Mr. Pissed Off, so he could fuck up all he needed to.
“Uh. Hello? I’m sorry to…my name is Kevin. I taught with James over at Reynolds Elementary School. I just…I live in the neighborhood, and I saw you coming and going yesterday. Do you have a minute?”
