Nothing

Nothing

Barry Crowther

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Barry Crowther.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

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Copyright © 2011 Barry Crowther

All rights reserved.

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http://www.barrycrowther.com

DEDICATION

Mum and Dad. You're the Best.

STARK SUNSHINE

Looking at the spot where my sister was murdered I felt nothing. On the drive here from the airport I saw myself dropping to my knees. Screaming. Barking at the injustice. Now I'm here. Staring at the empty space. Nothing. Maybe a mild self-loathing. Outside of that no feeling at all. Not even numbness.

Largo waits beside the car at the curbside. The house was a two story single family home. Sky is blue within blue. Palms sway. Sea spray fills my nostrils with Californian air. It makes me sick.

A woman appears. She must have come from the house. I remain on her driveway staring at the concrete slab. Looking for a sign of something. Looking for a marker. The sky is blue blue blue. Heat burns against my black suit. She speaks to me.

You the brother?

She tries to keep her voice steady and even. A common enough thing. Her voice. No other sounds on the street. No more kids hollering and running. Kicking cans. Playing ball. Not since my sister had been taken from this world. This motherfucking world.

I stare at the woman then back to the concrete baked at the edges and wet from sprinklers. This is where she fell. Lay here. Bled. Closed her eyes and died. A small strip of yellow police crime tape hangs limp from a drain. The cops must have had trouble securing the area. I ask.

Who killed my sister?

 FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS

She swallows. I wait for a moment. She tries. She tries hard to stop herself. Keep her mouth shut. Keep out of this mess. Her daughter safe inside the house ... for now. Playing with her little brother. My sister eating dirt. She tries but this is not new to me. I am good at getting people to talk.

The number of murders I have committed, people I have killed you could count on one hand. The people I have tortured, maimed, buried, burned, cut, severed and fucked-up-generally, you would have to remove your shoes to count and then some.

I take a small step toward her. I feel Largo follow me. Again a small step. The woman shrinks back. She says.

I don't know his name. Just described him to the police and they said a name right away. They knew who it was.

No one has a name that quick. No one gets it that fast. Maybe we should go inside.

Her eyes wide. Largo places a hand on my shoulder. I would have fucked him up for placing a hand on me now but I know he is right. I trust his judgment. I am too close. I ask her.

This man, describe him to me.

Hispanic. Red baseball cap. Wings on his neck.

His neck. Wings on his neck?

Wings tattooed across his neck.

I point to my throat.

Here?

She nods. Nods again.

Not across the back?

I point to the nape of my neck.

She stutters.

No only the front.

What was on the cap?

White writing. Maybe a name.

What writing?

She shrugs.

I look at Largo. I am hot. I take off my sunglasses. New ones just for this trip. I wipe my eyes clear with my fingertips. Squint against the bright sun.

If I find you've lied. You know, bullshitted in some way. I may have to come back and find the truth. Your daughter home?

She's at her friends.

Which friend?

Wha —

Which fucking friend?
Where is she? Where is my sisters 'best friend'?

Amy, Amy Coolidge's place.

The woman points to the house across the street. It's a basic low-rise with a bench in the front garden alongside a small fountain in the shape of a seashell. I ask her.

The police know who it is?

She nods. Her eyes tear up. A tear clouds her vision. I have seen this many times. She is afraid. She fucking should be. I turn back to Largo, he nods and we head back to the car. Largo says.

She's telling lies

I know

What next?

The cops

Then what?

We'll come back

SPANISH VILLAGE BY THE SEA

San Clemente is a small village by the sea. Very Hispanic in history. It has a small sheriff’s department and depended on law enforcement from a nearby larger city, Irvine, to handle larger murder cases.

California still has all its fakeness. I pull off my jacket and place it in the trunk over the 2 pump actions and several boxes of shells. The sky is blue. Sun beating everything with no mercy. Largo drives the rest of the way in silence.

I like the silence. I like Largo. Air con is cranked to full making the rental too cold. I take my piece from the glove compartment and check the pipe. A nice shiny 9mm shell shows itself, I clip it shut, check the safety, put it back.

Largo stares ahead. We pull across onto the 405 and into the business district, leaving the freeway at John Wayne airport. We had arrived at John Wayne a few hours earlier. My sisters funeral will be in 2 days time. I will not be there. The sheriff's office is a compact building with a lot of parking space. Largo pulls into a space directly in front of the steps.

Largo speaks.

You need me?

No. Wait here, keep the air con going.

We had already eaten dinner. The temp reader inside the car glowed 101 in blue LED.

O.C. LAW

I walked up the steps and pulled the scratched aluminum door to the sheriff's office. Cool air poured onto my skin. It felt comfortable and unpleasant.

A small woman with black hair, a broken nose and blue eyes looked over her spectacles. I told her who I was. She looked at me, the same as the others behind desks: as if I was shit. She looked over to a divider near the back of the room. A big cop stood, picked up a file and came over. At least 6'3" and built. He said.

Come this way ... Sir.

I could read from the delayed Sir that I was in his shit-book too. I followed to a corridor then along to a side room, he pushed open the door allowing me through then closed it behind me. I was alone with a table, 4 plastic chairs and a 2-way mirror.

I took a seat and lit a cigarette. Within 30 seconds the door opened and a suited cop walked in, young, blond straight hair. A badge on his belt. No firearm. He says.

You can't smoke in here.

Where? California?

In the station. Pretty much California too.

I ignore him. He waited then spoke.

You identified your sister?

My mom did that. I mean my mother.

He flicks through a folder. Tells me.

Not officially though. She was there at the scene. She hasn't been to the mortuary.

She ... hasn't been well I hear she's in the hospital.

Back to the folder. Flicking an internal stapled page forward and backward as if looking for something. Speaks.

I see.

Your witness tells me she saw the killer and you know who it is.

We have some leads. Yes.

He keeps his gaze on the folder.

Door opens. Another suited detective enters. Older. Grey hair. Tanned. Golfer type. He tells me.

You can't smoke in here.

I told him that.

Then put the fucker out.

I stare back at him. Take a last deep draw then stub it out on the table. Old cop looks at the butt and blackened perfect circle then slaps me in the face real hard. The young cop sucks air and steps back with the folder pressed against his chest. Old cop speaks.

We don't want you here. None of you or your sort. Nothing. Sons of bitches, come here from that shit hole Chicago and stamp all over our crime scene and all our work goes to shit.

I rub the place he hit me and smile back. I ask him.

You got a name?

Why goin' a file a complaint?

Not
your
name. I know your name detective cocksucker. The name of the cunt killed my sister?

Old cop runs his fingers through his hair plastering it to his head and paces the room like a lion. This is all bullshit. All show. This must be the Californian version of good cop / bad cop only the good cop hadn't stepped up yet. The younger cop was still stood near the mirror with the folder up near his chin. Old cop stops pacing.

Everyone knows you're here. Here to fuck things up. Well this investigation will not get fucked up.

Holds up his palms and continues.

I know. I know you lost a sister. A little girl too. But you have to realize that all this is back to you. You're a piece of shit. You bring bad news wherever you go, why do you think your mom brought the kid out here in the first place? Think she'd be safe in Chicago? Why not go back. Peddle your misery there. Go now.

I took another cigarette from the packet and placed it between my lips. The old cop flitted it to the floor. I stood up. The young cop seemed to breath hard. His eyes wild. I told them.

You seem like fucking stupid flat feet to me, so I think I'll stick around. Get myself one of those lovely tans.

Old cop shakes his head like I had just made some terrible mistake. He says.

Iverson, take this asshole out of the building and point him towards LAX. I see you again asshole and I got some cellmates that would love to make your acquaintance.

Golf buddies of yours. Cool.

Iverson was the young cop. He opened the door quickly. Me and Old Cop keep eye contact. I rub the hinge of my jaw and smile. Iverson takes me back the reception desk. He pauses at the desk and stops me. I decide to light another cigarette. The ugly bitch with the black hair and blue eyes looks over her spectacles and points to a sign showing the California Ordnance and Penal Codes with a $500 fine highlighted beneath it. It is also in Spanish. Se Habla Espanol. I don't follow her finger, I look straight at her.

Iverson hands me 2 business cards. He says.

I'm sorry for your loss.

Sure you are.

Walking back into the heat. The first card read 'Lewinsky Mortuary' the address was El Camino Real. This was where my sister must be on ice. It meant I would have to be the official identifier. The next card was his.

DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT JAMES IVERSON

CONQUISTADORS

Iverson’s card had the details of the station and a direct cell number. I pushed both cards into my back pocket. Largo was stood beside the car talking to 2 men. They were Colombians. That much was obvious, shirts hanging limp outside thin blue jeans. One shirt was Aztec or Mayan in it's pattern, the other a sunset. Largo lifted his chin toward me, they both turned. As I approached Sunset spoke.

We were telling your friend here that we can help.

Sunset held out his hand. I ignored it. He looked at Aztec print and then back to me with hard eyes. I speak.

You take this message back. Tell Baba Yama that I don't need his permission to be here and don't need no fucking help from a couple of fence jumping waitresses.

Aztec print makes his game face and moves his hand to the rear of his waistband.

I laugh.

Sunset shirt says.

What is funny?