Authors: Dave White
“Just stop. Jeanne’s been gone a while now. It’s time to let go.”
“Every memory I have of her is tainted.”
The car stopped and I noticed the familiar sight of Lester Russell’s small office. It reminded me of a doctor’s office, a gray aluminum-sided house with a sign hanging from a lamppost on the wall. His name and occupation were on the sign.
I started to open the door. “Thanks for getting me, Leonard.”
“Jackson, wait,” he said. “You’re going to do whatever you want with this information. Yes, Jeanne was with Bill Martin. But she picked you.”
“I know.” I shook my head.
“You’re a good man, but not terribly smart. I do you a favor, I bail you out of jail, and how do you repay me? By yelling at me, punching my car. We haven’t spoken in
years. And you think I’m just going to up and help you out with your problems. You’re asking me to crucify my daughter’s memory for your own good.”
“I—”
He turned toward me. “Get out of my car and don’t call me again. After Jeanne’s funeral I told you that my wife and I would be there for you. You ignored us. It’s too late now.”
He reached out his hand and I took it. “Good luck, Jackson.”
Lester Russell asked, “Last night, what did he say to you?”
It was a warm afternoon, signaling the beginning of spring’s transition to summer. Russell had the air-conditioning on.
“Nothing,” I said.
“You fucked up, Jackson.”
I nodded. He was right, but at this point I didn’t care about being a private investigator.
He’d been with Jeanne. Despite my conversation with Leonard, the image still stuck with me.
Lester Russell stood awkwardly.
“I need to get my car. Can you help? After that, I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?”
No. “Yeah. I’ll be okay.”
***
After getting my car, I drove back to my apartment and tried to sit for a while. I got antsy around midnight and decided to get out.
The Olde Towne Tavern was hopping. The jukebox blared The Clash as I entered. Kids played pool, flirted with other kids, danced, screamed, and drank. The place smelled like old cigars, and a cloud of smoke hung from the rafters. I pushed my way to the front of the bar.
Artie was busy tonight, but his face dropped when he saw me. I must have looked like hell. I tried to ignore the Bud Light sign with the mirror. He finished making a drink and then asked if he could help me.
“Jack Daniel’s,” I said. “Might as well bring the bottle.”
“Jack? You don’t drink Jack anymore.”
“Pour yourself a shot, too. I see you got other bartenders working tonight. You don’t have to do too much.”
There was a woman in a black tank top and jeans, long blonde hair, flirting with a couple of guys as she mixed a rum and Coke. There was another guy in a T-shirt and khakis pulling the tap on a Coors Light for two giggling girls. They were all smiling.
“What’s the matter?” Artie asked. “Pour the drink first.”
He did, but didn’t deliver it to me. Artie cocked his head toward his office behind the bar. I got up and made my way toward him, through the bar into the office. Bare bones, Artie had a desk with papers on it, a small TV, a couch, and a picture of him from his days in the military. Vietnam, if I remembered correctly.
Sitting on the couch, I knocked back the first Jack Daniel’s. The liquid burned its way down my throat and calmed my involuntary shiver. It didn’t do much for settling my stomach, however.
“What happened?” Artie asked.
I told him most of the story, being arrested, losing my license. I didn’t mention Jeanne.
“Did this have to do with Gerry?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. Truth was, after I listened to Martin speculate, it didn’t sound too far off to me. But I was working on Rex Hanover’s case when I got arrested. And to believe the two cases to be interlocked sounded way too coincidental. “But I have nothing to do with it anymore.”
Artie sat forward. “You’re giving up?”
“What choice do I have? I have no license. Nothing.” I smiled. “Nothing but my buddy Jack Daniel’s.”
“Didn’t you once tell me you wore a suit with a hole in it to show how dedicated to solving a case you were? That you’d risk everything?” Artie leaned even closer.
“Fuck that.”
“Why are you being such a pussy?”
I answered by pouring another glass and knocking it back. “Why won’t you help a friend?”
“Because when you help out a friend, when you look into their lives, you find out you don’t actually know them. No one is who you think they are. It’s all lies.”
Artie poured himself a shot. “That’s the way it goes, man. People keep secrets.”
“Save it. If I told you what I’ve found out, you’d understand.”
He downed the Jack and said, “Then tell me. I’m your fucking friend. All I know is it looks to me like you haven’t been working. Then you come in here and you want to get loaded and tell me that Bill Martin took your license away.”
I told him everything. Gerry was probably making drugs. I nearly killed two men. Jeanne slept with Martin.
Artie swore at me, told me that I couldn’t give up no matter what, but the night was beginning to fade. The alcohol crept around my brain, around the exhaustion, the tight nerves, and after a few more shots, the evening spun into blackness.
***
“What time is it?” I said through a dry mouth.
The lamplights were too bright, and my head throbbed. I had to rub out my eyes before they would focus. I was still in Artie’s office, laid out on the couch, empty bottle of Jack next to me. Someone was massaging my shoulder.
“You okay?” Tracy said. “Artie called me. He told me what happened.”
I blinked my eyes to adjust to the light. Sitting up made me feel like I was on a boat. “How much did I drink?”
“Artie said he only had two shots. You must have had the rest.”
“Shit.” I looked at my wrist only to find my watch missing. “What time is it?” I asked again.
Tracy reached over and handed me my watch. “You put it on the table. It’s four in the morning.”
“Why are you here?” I asked.
“I called you and you never answered. I got worried. I called Artie. It was busy in here, and he didn’t get to the phone until I called an hour ago.”
“Sorry about that.”
She sat back in her seat. “This afternoon, you said whatever you were doing had something to do with Gerry.”
“I did?” I couldn’t think past the pain in my head. “Yeah.”
“Oh.” I rubbed my eyes with the palms of my hands and fought the thought of vomiting. I needed water or Gatorade or something that wasn’t alcohol.
Everything that happened came flooding back to me. My vision clouded for a moment, and I shook my head to clear it.
“And when I got here, Artie was pissed off.”
“Well—”
“Why won’t you look into it?”
I didn’t need this now. Not with the headache. Not with all that happened in the last day. “I am looking into it.”
“You aren’t. Every time we talk you’re looking into something else. You’re working, but you’re not working on finding my uncle’s killer.”
“I—”
“Are you afraid of something?”
“What do you mean?”
“What are you afraid of?”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“Like hell it doesn’t.” Her face was flushed, burning red.
“I can’t look into anything. I’m not a private investigator anymore.”
“What do you mean? Artie didn’t say—”
I interrupted and told her. I told her what Martin said, how he thought Maurice and Josh were connected with Gerry. And how much I wanted to believe that it wasn’t connected, though it was too much of a coincidence.
Tracy listened, and as I sat up she put her arm around me. I couldn’t see her face, she wasn’t looking at me as I talked, and I thought she might be crying. But she didn’t shudder or whimper or sniffle.
After I was done talking, she was quiet for a long time. “You can’t look into it anymore?”
“No.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Drink.”
She glared at me.
“Just a joke. I don’t know. I’m going to back to school.”
“Bill Martin. Do you trust him?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I used to be his partner when I was a cop. He was dirty. So was I. But eventually I felt guilty. So I turned our whole division in. I kept his name out of it, but a lot of his friends went down. He got demoted and he blamed me.”
“So would I.”
I nodded. “Now he’s pissed.”
“So he took your license.”
“Among other things.”
I wanted to tell her about Jeanne. About what he took from me. My past. But I didn’t say anything. When Martin was with my fiancée, I was trying to be with Tracy.
I looked at her. The light from the lamp cast a shadow over her face. She looked tired but focused. Her skin was smooth, her eyes soft. I remembered why I found her so attractive. I tried to hate her for helping me drive Jeanne away. But I couldn’t. Tracy and I may not have slept together, but we wanted to.
“Will he solve my uncle’s murder?”
“I don’t know. I think I was his only lead.”
She shook her head. “That not what I meant. Will he work on it? Will he do the best he can?”
“Not if there isn’t anything in it for him.”
“Is there?”
“I don’t know.”
She put her hand on my leg, kissed my forehead. I closed my eyes. For a moment the throbbing went away. I didn’t want her here. But I couldn’t get her to leave. I knew if she left, I’d drink my way into a cocoon. I couldn’t deal with Jeanne.
“Don’t be scared of him. It’s not worth it.”
“I’m not.” I sounded like the angry, stubborn child I tried to play in the interrogation room.
She shushed me. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”
It was hard to stand up, but I did. We walked back to my apartment slowly.
Bill Martin got off shift late after Donne was bailed out. He couldn’t get the smile off his face. No way was he getting any sleep. Hell, it wasn’t even about the kid going to trial. Just the fact that he was put away for the evening and left to stew felt great.
He decided to stop at a coffee shop. The one he used to always stop at. He ordered a large to go and turned toward the counter to fill it with cream and sugar when he finally allowed himself to look at the booth. An empty plastic booth, stained with coffee and covered with crumbs, the corner of it chipped away. One morning, years ago, she’d sat there crying when Martin came in for the first cup of the day.
He sat across from her and offered her a napkin to dry the tears. “What is it?” he asked. When he worked as a narc, he would have worried about being late, but now who gave a shit?
“Jackson’s gone,” she said. “I don’t even know if he knows what’s going on, he’s so coked up. But he left with a girl. Another addict. And—oh my God. I can’t do this.”
“It’s okay,” he mumbled. Martin reached across and squeezed her hand. He wanted to tell her that Donne wasn’t worth it, but somehow he knew she wouldn’t believe it. “He’s fucked up, Jeanne.”
“I know. I don’t know what happened. Even after the trial, he doesn’t stop. He drinks, smokes, snorts. Goddamn him.”
“You need to get away from him. Even if it’s just for a while.”
She nodded. “I know. But what if I see him tonight? What if he comes home?”
“You won’t be there,” Martin said. “I’m going to take you out to dinner. We can talk—about anything. Get your mind off this. Keep you away from him.”
Jeanne stared at him through her strawberry blonde bangs.
***
Most of the night revolved around Donne. Just hearing his name prickled Martin’s skin and made Jeanne cry. So he made a rule.
“From here on out, we don’t talk about him. He screwed us both over, and he doesn’t deserve our attention.”
Jeanne agreed.
Then, to brighten the mood, he said, “What’s the difference between roast beef and pea soup?”
She shrugged.
“You can roast beef, but you can’t pee soup.”
She didn’t laugh. “I’m leaving. You don’t take anything seriously.” Jeanne stood to leave and he grabbed her arm.
“Wait,” he said.
Martin didn’t expect her to whirl and slap him as hard as she did. His cheek stung, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he pulled her closer.
And that’s when he noticed her. The glimmer in her eyes wasn’t sadness anymore, but anger. She tried to hit him again, screaming at him to let go. The people in the restaurant were staring, but he didn’t care. He pulled her even closer, fending off her blows with his free hand.
He leaned in and pressed his lips against hers. She tried to pull away at first, but slowly, he felt her posture change. She relaxed and let him kiss her more passionately.