Chapter 21: Ted’s Weapon
Claudia spotted Ted, the building manager, washing down the porches. He smiled as he sloshed the water through the wooden planks and reloaded his weapon of choice – an old plastic bucket.
Ted didn’t like Doris much, after too many years of getting cranky phone calls of complaints. She was perpetually telling him he missed a spot vacuuming the rug in the hallway, that her apartment was too hot or too cold and that he was somehow legally responsible for the legions of ladybugs infesting her bedroom window. He’d go in to inspect and she’d wave a lone insect carcass around and yell, “I’m going to sue you for everything!”
Maybe that’s why he so eagerly sloshed water down three stories worth of porches, drenching her laundry on the line, a faded dress, an old pair of jeans and a souvenir T-shirt with a picture of Niagara Falls.
“Theodore, for God’s sake, no!” Doris yelled.
“Didn’t you see the notice?” he said, cursing under his breath in Spanish. “Porch washing time. And it’s Teodoro, by the way.”
The water flowed in the gaps in between the boards like a waterfall. It was not the first time Tom and Claudia had heard the sloshing and the outcry. They always chuckled at the exchange between Ted with his
vengeful buckets full of water and angry protests from Doris.
Claudia ran down to Ted and told him she had a bunch of pots she’d like to put in the basement but had misplaced her key.
“Do you think you could let me in?” she asked.
“Sure,” he said, grinning mischievously.
She grabbed the dirty plastic pots from her back porch and followed him into the dingy basement.
“There’s something about a basement in
a building that’s more than a hundred years old that makes you want to wear a gas mask,” she mumbled.
The smells of mold and old decaying bricks assailed them as they walked in. The windows were covered in cobwebs and the brick wall was coated with a mysterious flaky white substance. Shovels and shears leaned up against it. In the corners, black boxes waited for rats to slip inside their black holes to feast on a last free meal.
“It’s always so creepy down here,” Claudia said, tossing the pots in her rickety section of basement storage, a small room constructed of spare planks of wood. Anyone could see through the gaps. She didn’t bother to lock it, since there was nothing of value, just an old, broken washing machine and a pair of old skis from the 1970s she inexplicably pulled out of a dumpster. Anything nicer than that would just get covered in muddy rat prints anyway, she thought.
She inhaled sharply as Ted reached for a pair of rusty shears. He was not tall, but he was imposing. His calf muscles cut sharp lines into his legs as he started to scale the stairs out of the basement. Hulky shoulders blocked the sunlight as he stood in the doorway.
“I don’t remember having a shovel in here,” Claudia mumbled as she reached for the flimsy door handle.
“What was that? Hey, is that one of mine?” Ted said. “I’ve been missing one since that snowstorm in January.”
She grabbed the orange handle and pulled it out of the room, holding it just below the bent metal blade.
“I don’t know how it got in here,” she said.
“How’d it end up in your storage unit, then?” Ted raised his eyebrows and walked back toward her. “I haven’t seen this one since that big snowstorm, around the time that guy died. Damn pain in the ass trying dig out the sidewalks without it. Maybe you borrowed it to dig out your car and didn’t put it back?”
“I didn’t take it,” she said.
“Sure,” Ted mumbled. “You know, people take the weirdest things in this building. Someone likes to take all the light bulbs from the basement. I never bother putting in energy efficient ones anymore.”
“Do you put in any? It’s so dark in here,” she said. “Where do you want me to put it?”
“Up against the wall.” He shrugged.
The sunlight from the doorway fell on the bent metal shovel. Claudia gasped as she caught sight of a tuft of hair and dried brown blood stuck to the edge.
“Ted.” She said.
“What?”
“Look.” She pointed to the crusted blood crowning the blade. “Maybe this was the murder weapon? We need to call the cops.”
“You call ‘em,” he said. “I don’t wanna talk to them.”
He left the basement and started clipping a scraggly bush by the parking lot.
“Ted, why don’t you want to talk to the cops?” she said.
“I don’t like police,” Ted said. “I don’t trust 'em.”
“Why not?” She put her hands on her hips. “What are you scared of?”
“I just don’t like ‘em,” Ted said.
Claudia looked at Ted, and his stocky, muscular frame as he clipped the hedges, with a snip, snip, snap. It was easy to imagine him in a horror movie using the shears to snap off someone’s head. She backed off and called the cops.
Stan looked incredulous when she told him.
“Really?” he said. “You’re just noticing it now? Where was it exactly?”
She pointed to the corner near the shelf.
“Doesn’t look like they could have slid it through the openings in between the slats and have it stand upright against the wall,” he said. “Who else has the key?”
“Tom does,” she said, noticing the way Stan eyed her as she said the name. “But I don’t actually keep it locked. It’s just junk.”
“Am I a suspect now?” she said.
“Everyone’s a suspect, dear,” he said. “But what do you think? Should you be?”
“It’s weird that I discover the body and six months later, the murder weapon. But if I were the killer, I wouldn’t be calling you about it, now would I?”
“Exactly, sweetheart,” Stan said. “But of course, you never know.”
Claudia told Tom how it all happened when she got back into the apartment. He was surfing the Internet but slapped the laptop shut when he saw her face as she opened the door. Her mouth was contorted in a grimace and her eyes narrowed under heavy eyebrows.
“How do you spot the face of a murderer?” Claudia let out an exasperated breath.
“People talk about feminine intuition all the time,” he said, putting an arm around her tight shoulders. “What does yours tell you?”
Her muscles tightened even more with his touch.
“Feminine intuition is a load of bull shit,” she said. “No one ever figured out a murder based on feminine intuition. Not in real life.”
But she closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath and tried to channel what little she had.
It just made her angry there were no answers.
“You wanna know what my ‘feminine intuition’ says?” Tom said, taking a sip of a warm bottle of beer left on the coffee table. “Maybe it’s Ted’s immigration status that makes him wary of the police. I’ve got nothing against the man personally.”
“I just thought it was odd that he didn’t want to talk to the cops,” she said. “But at least he didn’t run away. I still wonder about Kevin.”
Claudia leaned up against Tom, relieved the hammer had nothing to do with it. She had nothing to be afraid of. She could be safe with him now, couldn’t she?
She went into her room and called Stan’s number. She asked him a simple question about Tom.
“If it was a juvenile record, why did you tell me about it?” she said. “I thought police weren’t supposed to talk about juvenile records. It’s sealed right?”
“Oh honey,” he said. “Is that what he told you? Tom’s a felon. You can look up his record at the Cook County courthouse if you like. It’s public record.”
Claudia got off the phone, her face burning red. It wasn’t time for a conversation anymore. It was time to move. Too bad moving wasn’t so simple. She resigned herself to pretending that everything was ok, keeping her mouth shut for a while, until she could figure things out. Where the hell was she going to go?
Chapter
22: Game’s Over
Kevin crushed the Miller Lite cans and tried not to count them as he tossed them into a plastic bag. Had Grandpa always drank this much? Had he just never noticed or had it gotten worse after his father died? It was hard to tell.
He carried the bag out of the house and noticed it dripping yellow, stale booze onto his Nikes. He couldn’t help but swear since they were the only shoes he had. Great, now everyone is going to smell me and think I’m an alcoholic
, he mumbled.
But who besides his grandfather was really seeing or smelling him anyway. The two of them were constantly holed up playing the “wee wee” as his grandfather creepily called it. Kevin would take what he could for entertainment.
When his grandfather would hobble off to the bathroom, Kevin would sometimes dump out the old man’s beer into a half-dead potted plant and replace it with a glass of water. His grandfather would take a sip, give him a look, but the old man never said nothing.
Maybe it was because the water helped his game. His cane sat up against the old, olive green chair and the man stood up, swinging his arms wildly and shouting at the screen. Or maybe it was because he wasn’t alone anymore.
It didn’t matter what game they played, he was kicking Kevin’s ass and laughing about it. As the weeks went on, the potted plant in the corner got lusher and greener.
“I haven’t actually bowled in 20 years,” his grandpa said. “No, more like 30. I used to belong to a league, you know.”
Kevin set down his white controller and stared out the window at the tall, tangled weeds.
“Grandpa, you want me to mow?” Kevin asked.
“You tired of defeat?” the old man, chuckled.
“Nah, I just thought maybe I should do something to help around here.”
“Good, boy,” his grandfather said. “You should earn your keep. At least your mom taught you something right.”
But the mower wouldn’t start. It took Kevin a while to find the gasoline in the garage. He knocked over a rusty rake and cut his hand. He had to move the remains of three mangled bicycles just to get to the can. It was obvious his grandfather had run over them a few times judging by the twisted tires. Had he been drinking at the time?
Kevin poured the gurgling gasoline into the mower, pulled the cord and was off. The only times he ever mowed grass was at his grandfather’s house when he was a kid. It seemed exotic at the time. At home, there was no grass to mow, no backyard – just a lot of concrete in the parking lot. Now, Kevin smelled the scent of cut grass
and dirt, and watched his Nikes take on a faint green hue, as he chopped rows of short grass up and down the lawn.
A white van stopped in front of the house. At first, Kevin didn’t think anything of it. He didn’t notice them staring at him. Then, the little hairs on the back of his neck started to stand up, despite the sweat. They weren’t getting out of the car. They were just sitting there looking at him.
He stopped the lawnmower and rolled it back into the garage.
He walked back into the house slowly, trying not to look over his shoulder, trying not to stare back. But then the men flung open the door and started running after him.
Back when Kevin was in second grade and teachers talked about stranger danger, he always thought it didn’t matter if someone chased him. He could always get away. He would summon an extra burst of energy. The danger would boost his speed and no one would ever be able to catch him.
But the fact of the matter was, the extra pounds were too heavy for him to spring like a gazelle across the lawn into his home, and the men grabbed him by the arm just as his fingers reached for the doorknob. They pushed him inside the house.
Grandpa was waiting.
Chapter 23: Angel of Death
The phone rang. Tom, shirtless as always, answered then sank down onto a chair.
“Really? Someone wants to buy it? For $1,000? This afternoon? I’ll come by.”
He put down the phone and clapped his hands together loudly.
“Paul says someone wants to buy the reaper for $1,000 bucks,” he hooted.
He gave Claudia an awkward hug before she could pull away.
Tom scrambled to find a clean shirt off his bedroom floor, and finally dug out the white one from his closet. As his fingers danced over the buttons, he asked Claudia if she wanted to join him for a drink.
“Sure,” she said, smiling despite herself. “Sounds like you’re buying.”
She put on mascara and paused to look at herself in the mirror. It was a nice tight, black shirt, but not enough cleavage
for a bar, she thought, so she went back to her room and hoisted herself into a different bra. She forgot to close the door all the way. Tom pretended like he hadn’t noticed when she came out.
For about a year, Tom had had five of his paintings displayed at a local bar, with price tags dangling from their frames. The price tags and the art went mostly ignored. Tom promised a cut to Paul, the bar owner, if he ever sold anything, but so far, he hadn’t had any luck.
To be fair, it was a strange place to masquerade as an art gallery. Half of the bar was built during Prohibition. Hundreds of liquor bottles were stacked up on shelves against the dark polished wood and giant mirror stretching across the wall. Women’s faces were carved into the wood and shone beautiful brown in the dim light. The other side of the room was a 1970s addition with booths and orange tabletops surrounded by sports banners and florescent beer signs.
Tom’s artwork in the corner only added to the schizophrenic décor. The biggest and most expensive picture on
the wall, oddly enough, was a ten-foot-tall angel of death, crouched below the fluorescent lights. Tom called it “A Vision of What’s to Come.” Claudia didn’t like it. In fact, she thought it was a cliché with the skeletal face half hidden behind the black fabric and slice of silver metal. But there was something in its eyes that was warm and inviting in Tom’s picture. The eyes glowed a soft burnt orange like a fireplace at Christmas time.
It was odd art for a dive bar, but Tom said it was appropriate considering that the booze would probably kill you if you drank enough on a regular basis.
When they stepped inside the 1970s part of the bar, they got a jolt unrelated to Red Bull and vodka. There sitting at a red Formica table under the angel of death was Dan Johnson with his hands folded over his checkbook, next to a row of empty, brown bottles.
“Hello, Tom,” he said. “I didn’t know you were an artist.”
The muscle lining Tom’s jawbone tightened.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“A friendly drink and a chance to explain a few things,” Dan said, sitting back in his chair. “Can I buy you two lovebirds a beer? I am genuinely interested in the art, by the way. It’s no lie.”
“We’re not lo
vebirds,” Claudia said, crossing her arms.
“Love is a complicated thing,” Dan said, taking a swig out of the last dregs of his Miller. He started to peel the label off the side of the bottle.
She stared at him and imagined his face on a domestic violence poster as the victim, swollen blue skin circling his soft green eyes. Claudia used to think he was the abuser, but now she was not so sure.
He wore work clothes, a nice pair of dress pants, black, shiny shoes and a dress shirt with his sleeves rolled up. Maybe he was on his lunch break.
“I know you are angry about what happened, and I feel bad about it too, but I think it’s time to put this behind us,” Dan said. “Sara’s in rehab. She’s getting better.”
“Rehab for what?” Claudia butted in.
“Meth,” he said.
“Why are you telling me all this?” Tom said. “Do I look like I care?”
“I just wish you’d drop the charges against my wife,” he said. “She used to be a good person, and I know she can be again. I really wish you could’ve known her before she started using. She used to be so kind, so normal, before her mom died.”
Tom scoffed. “Too bad she tried to kill me. I’m not going to drop the charges, and I’m definitely not selling any art to you,” Tom sputtered.
“I know it’s hard to forgive, but please, think about it. She’s doing so much better now that Steve’s gone.” Dan took a swig of his beer. “She used to come back from those support group meetings in such a good mood. The fucker was slipping her the damn pills. She didn’t know what she was doing. You know I’m sure they fucked, too, in exchange. But I can’t get that mad about that considering I’ve got a lot to make up for myself when it comes to being faithful...”
Claudia grimaced and crossed her arms, gripping her elbows.
“Did you have anything to do with that guy getting killed?” Tom asked, clenching his jaw tightly.
“Of course not,” Dan said. “I’m not that kind of person. I do sometimes lose my temper, but there’s a big difference between hitting someone and killing them.”
“Oh, is there?” Tom said. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t usually go around beating people up.”
“
Please, just let me buy one of your paintings,” Dan said, rubbing his face with his hands. “I’ll pay you ten grand. I just want to make things right. You know how these things drag out.”
“You know, I don’t think we should be having this conversation,” Tom said.
He took a swig of his beer.
“Why not? Doesn’t look like you’re selling to anybody,” Dan said loudly, motioning at the other paintings.
“Did you know they are evicting us from the apartment?” he added.
“It’s about time,” Claudia said, but she couldn’t help but swallow. Her face flushed red out of nervousness.
Tom was calm and sat dead still in his seat.
“I have standards for where my art goes,” he said. “I don’t want it getting knocked down all the time.”
“I’m sure the judge would find this whole conversation very interesting,” Claudia said, suddenly. “Bribery doesn’t go over too well, usually.”
With that, Dan stood up, slammed his empty bottle down on the table and left. He forgot his checkbook on the tabletop, but neither of them were willing to touch it.
The heavy, wooden door slammed as they left. The checkbook sat there on the tabletop, the corners slightly upturned, next to the smiling Angel of Death.
Three days later, the movers came. From their window, Tom and Claudia watched them pull out the pieces of the Johnsons’ life together – a Tiffany lamp with a broken stained-glass shade, the leather couch complete with slash marks leaking white stuffing, a desk missing one of its legs, and boxes and boxes hiding other violent secrets.
Down below, the movers reminded Claudia of draft horses with their stocky builds and rippling calves. They trampled up and down the stairs, stomping and leaping into the truck.
“Do you think he killed Steve?” she said. “He certainly had a motive.”
“I can see it,” Tom said. “Dan comes home and catches them in bed together. They argue in the hallway and as he’s leaving, Dan smacks him across the head out in the cold with the shovel.”
Tom stood up and joined Claudia back at the window. They watched the movers criss-cross over the grassy patch, trampling the blades. None of the movers had any idea a body was ever found there. It reminded Claudia of someone walking over a grave. It bothered her that they didn’t know.
“It’s all just speculation,” she said. “Who knows what really happened? How would you ever prove it? Wouldn’t
Sara say something to the cops, if that were the case?”
“Not if she still really loved him deep down,” Tom said, putting his hands on top of the windowsill. “Maybe they were even. Just think about it. If I really loved you, I’d do anything for you, lie to the cops, even kill for you. Wouldn’t you do the same?”
If you loved me, you wouldn’t lie to me, she thought. But Claudia said nothing.
She
kept staring out the window. She had lost track of how many boxes they’d pulled out of the broken home. The pieces seemed endless.
“I don’t want to ever end up like that,” she said.