Final Breath (17 page)

"So--you don't know him?" Sydney asked. "Or he doesn't work here anymore."

"I knew him," the bartender grunted. "And he doesn't work here anymore. He's dead."

Sydney feigned surprise. "My God, how did he die?"

"Stupidity," the heavyset man grumbled.

The blonde slapped the edge of the bar. "Hah! You're a real shit, Phil."

Ignoring her, the bartender stared at Sydney. "Want to start a tab?"

"I'm not sure yet," she said.

A few stools down, the blonde cleared her throat. "What's your name, honey?"

Sydney hesitated. "I'm--Sharon." She worked up a little smile.

The woman slid off her bar stool and took her drink over to where Sydney sat. "I'm Aurora. I was a good friend of Polly's." She raised her glass. "God rest his soul. Somebody shot him two weeks ago."

"Oh, no," Sydney murmured. "That's horrible."

"How did you know Polly?" she asked.

"Um, I came in here a few nights some months back. My mom lives in the area, and she was sick. I remember Polly was really sweet and helped cheer me up. He didn't get fresh or anything. He was just nice. Anyway, my mom's real sick again, and I came here, hoping to see Polly. Do they--um, do they know who killed him?"

Aurora tilted her head to one side and gazed at her for a moment. Sydney wasn't sure if Polly's friend believed her or not.

"Phil?" Aurora called, not breaking eye contact with Sydney. "Phil, honey, start a tab for her, and put a Seven and Seven on it. Okay?" She smiled at Sydney. "Okay?"

Sydney nodded.

"Let's go sit where we can talk," Aurora said. She grabbed her drink and sauntered toward a booth.

Sydney followed her, and slipped into the booth with her Old Style Light. The brown Naugahyde cushioned seat had black duct tape on one corner. The table was overly lacquered, and decorated with cigarette burn marks and an unlit hurricane lamp.

"So--did they catch whoever killed Polly?" Sydney asked.

Frowning, Aurora shook her head.

"Do they have any clue who shot him?" Sydney pressed.

"Well, his pals here at Anthony's have their own theories," she said, draining the rest of her glass. "Polly was sweet. But he also pissed off the wrong people. So--it could have been a mob hit. That's the popular theory around here. But some of us think it's the cops who killed him. He was--"

Aurora fell silent as the stocky, goateed bartender came by with her Seven and 7. He set it on the table and took her empty glass.

"Thanks, Phil, you're a peach," she said, not really looking at him. Then Aurora waited until he was back behind the bar. She pushed her colored blond hair back behind her ears. "Polly was a snitch. But of course, you probably already knew that."

Sydney stared at the woman and shook her head. "I don't understand--"

"He was a snitch, a police informant," Aurora whispered. "He gave them information about drug deals and small-time jobs, and they gave him money."

"Oh, I see," Sydney replied numbly. "A
snitch
, of course." She figured that must have been how Joe had been acquainted with him. Even the newspaper article said Polly was
"well known to Chicago Police."

Aurora sipped her Seven and 7. "That's a sweet story about how you met Polly," she said. "Did you just make it up on the spur of the moment? Or did you dream it up on your way here?"

"What?"

Aurora leaned back in the booth and smiled. "You're name isn't Sharon. You're Sydney Jordan, and I recognized you the minute you walked into this dump. You're married to a cop, aren't you?"

Sydney took a minute before she could answer. "Yes, that's right," she said, finally.

"So--what the hell are you doing here,
Sydney
? And please don't try to tell me you're doing a
Movers & Shakers
story on Polly, because you don't profile fuck-ups on that show. And sweet as Polly could be, he was a major fuck-up. Did your husband send you here?"

Sydney shook her head, then gulped down some beer. "Joe doesn't even know I'm here. You--you're right about Polly being an unlikely subject for
Movers & Shakers
. The truth is, he called my house twice, and when I read about his murder, it really disturbed me. The newspaper article made him out to be this shiftless ex-con with a drug problem. They more or less indicated he got what was coming to him. But I thought about this guy, Polly, who sounded so nice on the phone, and I wondered what happens to the friends of someone like him. Okay, so he had a criminal record, and he had some troubles--he also had friends, didn't he? I'm sure Polly made a difference in the world and touched several people's lives in a positive way. I know my husband felt bad about his death. He didn't know Polly very well, but suggested--if I wanted to do a story about Polly--I should talk to some of his friends. So--here I am."

With one elbow on the table and her chin in her hand, Aurora sat across from her and stared. Sydney wasn't sure if she believed a word of this. "What does your husband say about him?" Aurora asked.

"Joe and I have a rule. Neither one of us can talk about our work at home. Besides, Joe didn't know Polly very well. At least, that's what he said." Sydney waited to see if Aurora would contradict her.

Aurora uttered a sad little laugh. "Well, I can tell you Polly was good to his cat. It's this half-deaf, half-blind, old bag of bones named Simon. I inherited the thing, lucky me. Is that the kind of shit you're looking for?"

Sydney nodded.
So Joe didn't know Polly very well, thank God.
"Yes, little human touches like that," she said. "And of course, I'd like to include something about the work he did for the police. Without Polly's help, they probably wouldn't have been able to crack several important cases. Am I right?"

"Yeah," Aurora replied over her Seven and 7. "In fact, I figured it was his part in that drug bust at the pier three weeks ago that got him killed."

"What drug bust?" Sydney asked.

"Huh, you weren't shitting me earlier," Aurora said. "You and your old man really don't talk about his work. It happened about three weeks ago. A couple of small-timers were moving some cocaine at Fort Jackson Pier when the cops arrived. The two schmucks ended up burning to death in their RV, along with most of the stuff--or so the cops claimed. Polly was the snitch on the deal. He told me there was up to half a million worth of coke involved. The four cops who pulled off the raid recovered something like thirteen thousand dollars' worth, and claimed the rest went up in smoke. I think the newspapers estimated forty-some-odd thousand went poof, but that's bullshit. And Polly knew it." Aurora sipped her drink, then gave her a wary sidelong glance. "So--this is all news to you?"

Sydney nodded.

"Well, honey, then this must be news to you as well. Your husband was one of the four cops who pulled off this drug bust--though I'd call it a
heist
."

Sydney shook her head. "My husband would never get involved in anything like that. Joe's a good guy. He's an honest cop. He--"

"Huh, Polly used to think so, too," Aurora said, cutting her off. "He knew these guys were after him, these hit men. Polly wasn't sure if it was payback from someone connected to those two schmucks who fried in their RV or if the cops had hired these guys to shut him up permanently. Whoever it was, Polly knew he was a dead man. I've never seen him so sick with worry. He called your husband at least six times, begging for help."

"But I didn't think he knew Joe very well," Sydney said.

"Not very," Aurora agreed. "Polly never snitched for your husband. For the Fort Jackson Pier deal, he dealt with one of the other cops. But Polly knew your husband. He knew Joe McCloud's reputation as a good guy who went out of his way to help people in trouble." Aurora drained the rest of her glass and loudly set it down on the table. "Well, your nice-guy hero-husband didn't lift a fucking finger to help Polly. He let him down--and he let him die."

Sydney squirmed in the booth seat. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I don't believe a goddamn thing you've told me--except the fact that Polly called your house, and your husband doesn't talk to you about his work. It's why you came here, isn't it, Sydney? You wanted to find out why your big hero-husband was associating with a small-time hood like Polly. Well, now you know. He was involved in a heist--and murder. And then he let a sweet guy get shot to death. Why don't you do a story on that, Sydney?"

Dazed, she just shook her head.

"Anyway," Aurora muttered. "If your darling Joe gives you a beautiful new mink coat or a sparkly diamond bracelet on your next birthday, now you'll know where the money came from."

Sydney felt sick to her stomach. "Why haven't you told any of this to the police investigating Polly's death?" she heard herself ask.

Aurora leaned forward. "How old do you think I am?"

Sydney hesitated. She could feel the color draining from her face.

"I'm forty-three," Aurora answered for her. "And I'd like to live to see my forty-fourth birthday. I'm not saying the cops checking out Polly's murder aren't honest. But why take a chance, y'know?" She gazed at Sydney, her eyes narrowed. "Say, you don't look so hot."

With a shaky hand, Sydney pulled two twenties out of her purse. "This ought to cover my tab," she murmured, setting the money on the tabletop. "Don't worry. It's not my husband's money. It's mine. Thank you for your time."

Her legs felt unsteady as she got up and moved to the door. She was nauseous and dizzy. Staggering out of Anthony's Cha-Cha Lounge, she didn't even make it to her car. Sydney grabbed hold of a light post, braced herself, and then threw up on the sidewalk.

She still felt queasy driving home. Even after drinking half a bottle of Evian water and sucking on a peppermint from her purse, she still had an awful taste in her mouth--and a sore throat. She knew Aurora's story was probably true. Three weeks ago, she'd been in Boston on a
Movers & Shakers
story. For one of those nights while she'd been away, Eli had slept over at Brad's house. That had probably been the night of the raid--or
heist
, as Aurora called it.

"Please, God, let it not be true," she kept whispering during the long drive home. She tried to convince herself that there was an explanation, some reason Joe couldn't tell her what was going on. By the time Sydney turned down North Spaulding, she was crying. Something so dear to her had died back there inside that crummy bar in Cicero.

As she approached the house, she noticed a strange car in their driveway. Sydney pulled in and parked behind it. She took another Kleenex out of her purse and wiped her eyes and nose. When she looked up, she saw Eli shuffling out the front door. He gave her a listless wave.

She quickly checked herself in the rearview mirror, wiped her nose again, then climbed out of the car. She glanced at the white Taurus in front of her. Sydney had been on the road enough to recognize a rental car when she saw one. But the Hertz logo on the frame around the back license plate left no room for doubt. She gave Eli a quick kiss. "Hi, Eli," she said. "Whose rental car is that?"

Eli shrugged, and kicked the tire. "I dunno. This weird guy's in the living room, talking to Dad, and they asked me to leave."

"What?" she murmured.

Eli followed her into the house. She saw Joe standing in the living room with a can of Budweiser in his hand. He still had his tie on from work, but it was loosened. He appeared startled to see her. "Oh, hi, honey..."

She squinted at him. "Do we have company?"

Frowning, he heaved a long sigh. Then he nodded in the direction of the kitchen. "It's this joker from Seattle, who hasn't seen you in a year. He says he's your brother."

Kyle came around the corner from the kitchen, and Sydney let out a gasp. She threw her arms around him and started crying. Her brother hugged her. "It was all Joe's idea," she heard Kyle say. "He's been hatching this for a while. He even insisted on paying for my flight. Hey, Joe, next time, first-class might be nice..."

She turned and embraced Joe. "Thank you, sweetie," she said, past her tears.

"I've been such an unbearable grouch lately," he whispered, kissing her. "I'm going to start making it up to you, honey."

Sydney just nodded. She thought about what Aurora had said:
"So if your darling Joe gives you a beautiful new mink coat or a sparkly diamond bracelet on your next birthday, you'll know where the money came from."

She couldn't stop crying. But she told herself it was all right. She wasn't giving herself away. Her family probably thought they were tears of joy.

That week while Kyle stayed with them, Sydney couldn't help wondering if Joe had planned the visit just so she'd be distracted and preoccupied--and less likely to pursue this Polly business any further. If that was Joe's plan, it sure as hell worked. Kyle's visit put everything on hold. Her brother kept asking her if she was okay, and saying she looked tired. Was she sleeping all right lately? She couldn't tell him the truth. Kyle thought Joe was wonderful.

"Okay, let's see," Kyle said, over drinks at a gay bar called Sidetracks. Joe had insisted she and her brother have a night on the town together while he looked after Eli. They sat at a counter by the window. Nancy Sinatra was singing "These Boots Are Made for Walking," and Kyle had to shout over the loud volume. "Joe does the laundry, and folds it better than Mom used to. He helps with the dishes. He doesn't bitch or moan about having to take care of Eli while you're away. Plus, he's so cool about me being gay. It's such a
non-issue
with him. And looks-wise, on a scale from one to ten, he's about a twelve plus. Plus he's still crazy in love with you after all these years, any fool can see that. Could I clone him, please? I want a Joe of my very own."

"Well, you haven't been exposed to him in the morning, while he's eating his Cheerios," Sydney argued, raising her voice to compete with the music. "He has to make sure every piece of cereal gets dunked in the milk, and he keeps clanking his spoon against the bowl between shoveling the cereal in his mouth. All that clanking, it's enough to drive you nuts. God help that man if a dry morsel of cereal passed his lips. And at night, when he's getting ready for bed and he takes off his wristwatch,
he smells his wrist afterward!
How gross is that? I don't know if he's sniffing for sweat or the leather wristband smell against his skin. But it's weird--and disgusting."