Damaged Goods: A Jack McMorrow Mystery Page 12

  He was wearing sunglasses in the rain. The hood stayed up. When we were forty feet apart, he slowly pulled his sweatshirt zipper down.

  I smiled. “Looks like we ran out of road,” I said.

  “Looks like it,” he said.

  We were still walking. I could see his face clearly. Ruddy cheeks, not quite a smile, but a relaxed expression like he’d expected this all along. Older than me by five years, maybe more.

  Not Roger.

  “Thought this road went all the way through,” I said.

  “Probably did at one time,” he said. “Guess somebody decided they didn’t want it open to the public.”

  “Good speller, too,” I said.

  “Makes it clear enough.”

  We were five feet apart now. I could see red spider lines on his cheeks. The glasses were very dark and I couldn’t see his eyes. Very hard to read somebody if you can’t see their eyes.

  “If I’d known it was a dead end, I wouldn’t have led you in here,” I said.

  His mouth flattened almost imperceptibly. Even without the eyes, I could feel him tense.

  “What do you mean?” he said.

  “Followed me all the way out from Mandi’s.”

  He didn’t answer for a moment, just stared. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

  “You called last night.”

  He shook his head. I could see some gray at his temples. The sweatshirt was darkening as the rain soaked in. “Got the wrong guy, my friend. I was just looking for a shortcut.”

  I took out my phone, saw his hand move to the opening in the front of his sweatshirt. I pressed the button. Waited. The black glasses stared. I smiled again. And from somewhere on him came the sound of a cell phone ringing.

  “Can you hear me now?” I said.

  He reached behind him and under the sweatshirt, took the phone off his belt. Flicked it open, pressed a button, and the ringing stopped.

  “You’re Alex,” I said.

  “Maybe,” he said.

  “Or maybe not. You should practice saying a name a few times. It came out like you were reading it.”

  He ran a hand over his chin, dropped it down again. I thought I could see a bulge under the sweatshirt just in front of his left hip.

  “Is that a gun?” I said.

  He looked at me, gave a cold, hard stare. “Kinda nosey, aren’t you?”

  “I’m a reporter,” I said. “We’re trained to be observant.”

  “That right? Well, there’s something heavy in your right pocket. What you got there, a roll of quarters?”

  I didn’t reply.

  “I’ve known lotsa reporters. Cocky bastards, even the ladies.”

  “At least we’re not liars,” I said.

  He stared. There were raindrops on the lenses of the glasses, made them seem like windows. “What’s with you and Mandi?” I said.

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  “That’s easy. I met her in passing. When she couldn’t go home because she was hurt, I helped her out.”

  I paused. The rain fell. “Your turn,” I said.

  “She’s good in the sack,” he said.

  I flinched, felt an urge to take his head off. Choked it down. Smiled instead. “That’s not what she says about you.”

  He didn’t answer. The mouth was a blue-white line.

  “What were you gonna do? Follow me, hope I’d lead you right to her?”

  “Wanted to see that she’s okay,” he said, both of us keeping it under control. “What I hear, she’s in kinda rough shape. Could be pretty vulnerable, wrong guy picked her up.”

  “She’s fine. Love to find the guy who beat her.”

  He snorted. “Real knight in shining armor, huh?”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “You know what I heard,” he said. “I heard she won’t even cooperate with the cops.”

  “No kidding.”

  He smiled and it was jarring, like an ape baring its teeth.

  “Happens in friggin’ domestics, eight out of ten times. Some dirtbag beats the crap out of his girlfriend, cops lock him up. Trial comes, she says she can’t remember nothin’, just wants Daddy home.”

  “You’re a cop,” I said.

  He shook his head. “Nope.”

  “Ex-cop, then. Retired. Twenty and out in Mass.”

  He didn’t answer. Behind him, the SUV idled, spewing clouds of steam. Every few seconds the wipers gave one swipe, like the truck was trying to see.

  “Guy who beat her up,” I said. “Name’s supposed to be Roger. Know him?”

  He shook his head, slowly. “You know nobody tells a hooker their real name.”

  “What’s yours, when it’s not Alex?”

  “Marty.”

  “What is it when it isn’t Marty?”

  He didn’t answer. “What brings you up here, Marty?” I said.

  “Fresh air,” he said. “Get away, some peace and quiet. Wish I’d bought something here twenty years ago. Coulda made a killing.”

  He seemed to linger on the last word. He smiled.

  “Yeah, well,” I said. “You know what they say about hindsight.”

  We stood. He ran a long finger over his glasses, wiping away raindrops. He wore a pinky ring and a gold bracelet, like a Jersey mobster. Crooked, I thought. A crooked cop. Marty belonged in Atlantic City, not Galway, Maine.

  “I’ll tell her we met,” I said. “What name should I say?”

  “Marty’s fine,” he said. “Tell her I was asking for her.”

  “Will she be glad to hear that?”

  “I don’t know. Mandi and me, her and I, we do have a sort of bond.” He leered. I felt something well up. Anger? Jealousy? Took a deep breath and choked it down again.

  “Doesn’t talk much about her past,” I said.

  “You ever met a hooker who does? Don’t want to remind themselves that they didn’t used to be like this.”

  “Before drugs,” I said.

  “Or something,” he said. “Always something.”

  I started to turn away. Turned back. “Don’t follow me,” I said.

  “No need,” he said, flashing the leer again. “I can tell she’s in good hands. Taking real good care of her. A lot to be said for a sweet young piece, don’t you think?”

  “You’re a pig, you know that?”

  He smiled again. “Real tough guy, for a reporter. You’re lucky I’ve mellowed out, up here in Maine. Old days, I mighta just kicked your ass.”

  I just looked at him. “Old days, I would have hoped you’d try.”

  He looked at me, sizing me up. “Well, another day. But you know what? You’re playing with fire, McMorrow.” He turned and started walking back to his truck.

  “So are you,” I said to his back. “Not a good time to come poking around my house. Word to the wise, that’s all.”

  He stopped, turned back to me. “The fire, it ain’t me, my friend. It’s your little lady friend. And I don’t mean in the goddamn sack.”

  He started walking away, said over his shoulder, “You’ve got a tiger by the tail, pal. You have no fucking idea.”

  Chapter 19

  Mandi was in the kitchen. Mary and Sophie were at the counter, making cookies. Sophie was standing on a chair, wearing one of Mary’s aprons like a dress, the ties around her neck. Mandi had on gym shorts and socks and a sleeveless T-shirt that said MAINE on the front, the word spelled out in seashells.

  She was standing with the help of a single crutch.

  “Watch, Jack,” she said, and she half-hopped across the room toward me. As she reached me, she started to turn, teetered toward me. I steadied her, holding her by her upper arms. It struck me that she was bigger than Roxanne, felt more substantial. I fought off an image of her with Marty, but not quite in time.

  “No,” she said, “I can do it.”

  “Mandi’s doing the bunny hop,” Sophie said, spooning dough onto a cookie pan.

  “I ju
st go left, right, left,” Mandi said, and she crossed the room in a rocking, halting sort of gait.

  She turned to me and smiled.

  “I’ll be able to go home,” she said.

  “I don’t want you to go,” Sophie said.

  “There’s still stairs to negotiate,” Mary said.

  “I think I can go up and down on my butt,” Mandi said. “I’ll go try it.”

  She crutched her way out of the kitchen, into the living room, with its antiques and photos. I followed. The crutch caught on the lip of the carpet and she started to fall forward and I lunged and caught her by the arm, held her up. She shook me loose, said, “No, I can do it,” and hopped her way across the room and out into the hallway. She stopped, put one hand on the railing, sat down hard. “Ouch,” she said.

  She pressed the crutch under her bad arm, pushed herself up with her good arm and the heel of her good foot. The heel slipped, the sock providing no traction against the wood of the stair treads.

  “My stairs at the apartment have rubber,” she said.

  “Or you could wear a shoe,” I said.

  She took off her white sock and tried again.

  Slipped. “Hold my foot,” she said.

  I hesitated, then took her bare foot in my hand. I was aware of her legs, bare and long in the shorts.

  “Cinderella,” she said, pushing against my hand. “See if the glass slipper fits.”

  “Mandi,” I said. “Stop for a second. Just hold it.”

  She eased herself back down. I let go of her foot. “What? I can do this. And then I can get out of your hair. You can go back to your life, write your stories, forget you ever—”

  “Just listen,” I said. “I stopped at your apartment this morning.”

  I told her about the call from “Alex.” I told her about the car that followed me out of Galway. I told her about the black SUV. I watched her as she listened passively, no expression, like she’d tuned out. And then I told her about Marty.

  She blanched, caught herself, and tried to smile. Looked away, a bad attempt at nonchalance. “What did he say?” she asked, still looking away.

  “He said he knew you. He said he heard you were hurt.”

  “I wonder from who?”

  “He said he knew you weren’t cooperating with the police.”

  “Oh,” Mandi said. “So he talked to that detective.”

  “I’d say so. He was a cop himself, right?”

  Mandi didn’t answer. I watched her closely. “Was it Marty who beat you up? Is this whole Roger thing made up?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head, looking into my eyes now. “It wasn’t him, it was Roger. It was just like I said. Really it was. He must have told you he didn’t have anything to do with it, right? What did he tell you?” There was something faintly frantic in her tone. The beginning of panic.

  “Mandi,” I said. “Why are you so afraid of him?”

  “I’m not. It’s just that—” She paused.

  “Just that what?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “You’re more afraid of this guy than you are of the guy who beat you up, aren’t you? Does this Marty guy hurt you, Mandi?”

  She looked at the stairs. “No,” she said, her voice barely audible.

  “He said—” I began. Then it was my turn to pause.

  “He said what?” she asked.

  “He said the two of you had a bond,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, whatever.”

  I hesitated, then said, “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

  “Please, Jack. Don’t—”

  “I can help get you a job. Roxanne can. She knows a lot of people. Not a lot of money, maybe, but you wouldn’t have to—”

  “No,” Mandi said. “Please don’t.”

  “Don’t what? Don’t try to help you?”

  “No, you’ve done enough. Too much. I don’t—” She had her arms wrapped around her chest, was starting to rock.

  “You don’t what, Mandi?” I said.

  “I don’t deserve this,” she said, tears starting to flow. “I don’t deserve any of it. I don’t deserve to be here. I don’t deserve to be in this big house with these nice people and your pretty little girl and your beautiful wife. I wouldn’t blame her if she said, ‘Get this filthy slut out of here. Don’t let her near my kid.’”

  The words came fast, the tears, too. Mandi wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, started to sob. I patted her shoulder. “Don’t you see?” she said. “Don’t you know this is why I keep moving? I don’t want people like you in my life. I don’t want anybody. I don’t. I just don’t.”

  “But why do you say that? Everybody makes bad decisions sometimes. Gets in the wrong situation with the wrong people. I’m not an angel. I’ve done things I—”

  “You don’t know, Jack,” she said, slashing at the tears running down her cheeks. “You don’t need to know. Just let me get my stuff. Get me back to town. I’m okay now. I don’t need you anymore. Thanks for everything. You’ve all been great. So thanks. Catch you around.”

  She hoisted herself up on her hand, scooched up a step.

  “Mandi. You don’t have to—”

  “Let me go,” she snapped. “Just let me get the hell outta here. I’ll leave in the morning. You don’t let me go, I’ll call the cops.”

  “Easy. Just calm—”

  Footsteps crossing the living room. Sophie ran into the hallway, holding a plate with cookies. “The first ones,” she said, and she held one out to me. I smiled and took it.

  “Here’s yours, Mandi,” Sophie said, and she climbed a step, held out a cookie. “They’re still hot so the chocolate chips are melty,” she said. “You can have two if you—”

  She looked up at Mandi, who, still wiping her eyes, attempted a smile. “You sad again?” Sophie said.

  “I’m okay, honey,” Mandi said.

  “Eat a cookie,” Sophie said. “A cookie will make you happy.”

  Mandi took a bite.

  Chapter 20

  Clair was in the barn, the carburetor for one of his tractors disassembled on the workbench. Rain pattered on the roof and some sort of Celtic music was playing. Acoustic. Instrumental. Harp. “Can’t hold her here against her will,” he said, picking up a tiny spring.

  “I know. I just hope that whoever beat her up doesn’t come back to finish the job. And this guy from Mass., he seems like he had a real mean streak. She’s afraid to death of him.”

  “Kind of life she leads, it’s a fine line she’s always walking.”

  “He has some hold on her or something. The way he talked, it was like he was in control. I wonder if he’s taking a percentage or something.”

  “Or not paying his way,” Clair said.

  “Jesus,” I said. “I don’t know why she has to do this.”

  “Well, you know it’s something put in motion a long time ago. Something made her what she is.”

  “Yeah, well, I like her,” I said.

  Clair looked up, screwdriver in hand.

  “Not that way,” I said.

  “Careful,” Clair said. “Women like her, a lot of times they only know one way to relate to men. Can’t believe anyone would care for them for any other reason.”

  “I know that. I just think she could do so much better.”

  “In a perfect world,” Clair said, peering inside the carburetor, poking with his forefinger. “But it isn’t. It’s a big, jumbled chaotic mess. All this tragedy, it hits like God looks down on the map and sticks in the pins. A flood here. A mudslide there. How ’bout a civil war? Let’s kill a few thousand women and children.”

  “You believe in God?” I said.

  “Sometimes,” Clair said. “You?”

  “Yeah, I just don’t think he or she has everything under control.”

  Clair picked up a spring, hooked onto a piece of metal.

  “These Satanists,” I said, “they say their boy is the real deal.”

  “Bel
ieve it,” Clair said. “I’ve seen some of his work.” He put the piece of metal down. Reached for his coffee. “Our young friend reminded me of things. Vietnam. Thailand. Women doing whatever it took to survive. Slap in the face on top of it all was most of ’em didn’t get anything for it, just handed the money over to some criminal. Made a fuss, they got a beating. Or worse.”

  “There’s somebody deserves to burn in Hell,” I said.

  There was a moment of quiet and then Clair said, “Couple of ’em are.” He held his coffee. “This poor Vietnamese girl, sweet little thing, worked in a massage house at China Beach. A prostitute and a nice kid. Supported her whole family. Eight of ’em or some goddamn thing. She’d fallen in love with one of my soldiers. Latino kid from San Diego. They called him Chico. Real name was Arthur. Arturo.”

  I listened, had never heard this one.

  “He was shipping out in a week. Ly, her name was. Chico tells Ly he’ll take her home with him and they’ll get married, live in a ranch house. And he was serious, not playing some cruel joke. I remember he took her to dinner at this real restaurant so all the GIs could see she was a lady. Nice guy. Moved really well in the jungle, too. Grew up in the city, but turned out to be a great tracker. Some people just have a gift. Anyway, she tells the boss man at the massage house she doesn’t need to go with Americans for money anymore. Gonna marry one so the boss man, he can piss off.”

  “Don’t tell me. He can’t have that.”

  “Hell, no. So the boss man, older South Vietnamese mafiosi, real puke, decides to make an example of her. Cut her face all up with a razor. To ribbons. Woulda been scarred for life, but she bled to death.”

  “God.”

  “Or evidence of the lack of one,” Clair said. “Well, Chico finds out, goes ballistic, gonna go kill the guy, burn the place down, get himself in a bucketload of trouble just before he was supposed to get out of that hellhole.”

  “You persuaded him not to?”

  “No. I told him to take him for a ride instead of making a big public scene, end up in the brig for twenty years.”

  “So he did?”

  Clair paused. Picked up the carburetor. “We did,” he said. “I drove.”

  “He killed him?”

  Clair didn’t answer. The Celtic music played, some suitably sad lament. The rain fell. “I don’t tell that story much,” Clair said.