EQMM, June 2012 Read online

  Because he heard something. A noise . . . a specific, peculiar noise. Randy doesn't realize he's still got the book under his arm.

  Why carry the damned thing into the garage . . . ?

  Because, you dodo, he's going for his gun, the gun on the shelf over the top of that breadbox.

  My bones went all wonky.

  I dragged myself over to the window and looked out at a nail-paring moon glinting through the walnut trees up the hill. When Jerolski had asked, “Do you have a gun?” I was thinking of those nasty little things people put in their bedside tables and said, “No.”

  Once the jelly in my legs headed in the direction of bone, I stumbled down to the garage and flipped on the overhead light. The shelf over the breadbox. It should be up there in that yellow cotton wrapper: a silly thing, like a farm lady's apron.

  The shelf was empty.

  Cold. So cold.

  * * * *

  The next morning, Officer Jerolski stood in the garage, half leaning on the fender of my car. He had shaken his head a lot in the last twenty minutes. “And you don't know what kind of gun?”

  “A gun. Long. Wooden handle. Yellow wrapper with black bias-tape ties.”

  “I think I could recognize the wrapper.”

  “Hey, since when is it a crime I don't know what kind of gun my husband has that I've never seen outside that stupid wrapper?”

  “Look, Mrs. Turnbull, Jesse, it's not a crime, but you're not helping.”

  “Helping! Helping what? Did you guys find the book? Don't blame your raging incompetence on me.”

  He stared out the side window, then hitched up his pants.

  I pulled out my car keys and got into the car. Jerolski stood up as I slid the car out from under him. I'd kinda hoped he wouldn't.

  Call me if you find your way out of the garage.

  I unlocked the back door to the local branch of the Department of Agriculture just like I do every weekday. Eight years’ worth of unlocking and locking. I opened the blinds and flipped the door sign to Open, picked up the mail under the slot in the door. Two government fliers, a bill, and a notice from the post office that they'd tried to deliver a box early this morning.

  I sat down at the desk, staring at the palms of my hands. If Randy wanted a gun, quickly, to do something, then it was dangerous. He hadn't come back. . . .

  The phone rang. Awful sound.

  “Hullo?” Little insect noises in my ear. “Hullo?”

  The noises separated into little words. “Jesse, this is Marty Jerolski . . . Sheriff's Department? Are you all right?”

  “Yeah?” Snow-white shirt with curly red hairs crawling around the neck.

  “You stay there, okay, Jesse? Just stay at your desk.”

  I put the receiver down. I didn't know quite what to do with my hand, so I left it there. It looked like a white spider spraddled across the phone. I curled up the fingers. Still looked like a spider.

  The back door opened. A voice. Familiar.

  “Jesse?”

  Hand on my shoulder.

  I didn't turn my head. “He's shot somewhere. If you'd found him right away, you could have saved his life. He's dead in a ditch because somebody was going to rob us. All in pieces.”

  “Jesse, listen. You were right about sloppy work. We didn't cover the possibilities because I had a preconceived notion.”

  “You found him.”

  He nodded.

  “He's dead. Never going to finish his book. I took it back to the library anyway.”

  Jerolski locked the front door of the office and pulled down the blinds, then turned back, fumbling in his pants pocket.

  Just like Randy's brother at our wedding. Couldn't get the ring out. Pants were too tight.

  His hand opened to show Randy's ring and the gold Bulova watch his daddy'd given him.

  “Is that all that's left?”

  “No, Jesse, but . . . well, we'll accept your identification from these. They're from . . . well, I took them off myself. You don't want to . . .”

  “See what's left? Don't be stupid. Take me there.”

  “I'd rather not.”

  “You have to.”

  “Okay, fine. Squad car. He's back in the grove, a really old walnut tree. . . . You know which one?”

  Yeah. I used to climb it when Randy and I first . . .

  “Randy was not injured—well, not violently—and he didn't hurt anybody else. What happened could have happened in the library or on the way home just as easy.”

  “What're you saying?”

  He started the car and headed back through town. “I'm saying that Randy shot that gun and had a heart attack or a stroke or something—we'll know after the autopsy—while he was up in the tree. We didn't find him because we didn't look up."

  He shook his head. “I went back and walked through the trees again after you left. I saw that gun-wrapper thing flapping in some bushes. That's how I found him and his shotgun. One shot fired.”

  “God dammit! Why . . . a stupid thing like that?”

  We lurched up the old track into the grove and parked, Jerolski jerking on the emergency brake. We headed down a row of trees, past festoons of yellow police tape, up to a splayed-out old walnut tree. A navy body bag lay under its knobby branches.

  “Yo, Sarge, we found what's left of a dead coyote down that next row of trees.”

  Randy . . . in a bag? How could Randy be in a bag? Like . . . gym clothes.

  “Unzip it.”

  “No, Jesse. He, the body, it's been out here a long time, Jesse. Don't do this to yourself.”

  “How do I know that isn't somebody who stole Randy's ring and watch?”

  Jerolski crouched next to the bag. “They were . . . he was wearing them.” But he pulled the zipper down.

  I could see the pointed corner of Randy's shoulder, his turquoise flannel shirt, faded, a long rip down the sleeve. I wanted to reach over and close the edges of the rip. Cover what was still left inside. “Okay, that's enough.”

  Jerolski nodded and zipped up the bag.

  Randy had not betrayed me. No fight, no ambush. Just dumb old Randy nailing a coyote, under the influence of Ravaging Wargs from the Planet Melnius. One shot, too. Good old Randy.

  We walked down to the house, the back stoop, through the back door. It looked so shabby. Paint peeling on the railings. Wood bleached past color or kind.

  I was still having trouble aiming my bones in the right direction. Jerolski put his hand under my elbow and sat me down at the kitchen table. It was kind of soothing. I watched him poke around the kitchen, find eggs and a frying pan. He turned on the coffee maker.

  No talking. Just oil spattering, smell of coffee.

  “I'm sick of that Agriculture Office. Eight years.”

  Jerolski glanced over his shoulder as he stirred the eggs into the fry pan. “Yeah?”

  “Does the sheriff's department have detectives?”

  “Not now.” The coffee drizzled into the pot. He pulled ketchup from the fridge.

  “Why?”

  “I suppose it's a budget thing. Why?”

  “You need help, Jerolski.”

  He slid scrambled eggs onto a plate and put it in front of me, then poured two mugs of coffee.

  “You volunteering?” He sat down and put a lot of sugar in his coffee.

  “You wish. I want paid.”

  He looked at me. “You'd have to get trained.”

  I nodded and took a forkful of eggs. “These are good.”

  “You surprised?”

  “A little.”

  Copyright © 2012 by Judith L. Shadford

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Novelette: TORT

  by Ken Bruen

  * * * *

  Art by Mark Evans

  * * * *

  Ken Bruen is best known for his Jack Taylor novels, which have been filmed for Irish and British TV. The ninth Taylor novel appeared in the U.S. in October 2011 (Mysterious Press/Gr
ove Atlantic) to rave reviews, including one from PW that said: “a remarkable series that at heart is about one man's reckoning with a lifetime of pain and loss in a rapidly changing Ireland.” The author splits his time between New York and Ireland. As The Atlantic commented in a 2011 interview: “Bruen is threatening to become a mass cult figure in the U.S., as well as a critical favorite."

  They'd say he disliked the damn thing.

  Lord, if they only knew.

  You got to laugh else blow your brains out.

  Came back to the apartment on E. 33rd and 4th. Rent controlled and he had to live within the five boroughs so that was cool.

  Way cool, was, get this, he'd passed the Sergeant's Exam.

  Now he and Nora could really try for the baby. Kudos to her, she'd said, every time

  “You'll make the grade, Jimmy, I believe in you.”

  What else did you need. A gorgeous woman believes in you?

  Allel-Irished-u-ea.

  And don't just take Jimmy's word for it, Pete, the owner of The Harp, their hood pub, his friend for oh, phew, long as the Micks were singing “Galway Bay.”

  That long and change.

  Pete's say

  “Don't know how you got her Jimmy but she's a beauty, nine ways to any given Sunday.”

  He bought roses, from the Lithuanian lady on the corner who said

  (being NY, everybody got to say something, on everything)

  “Must be early Valentine's Day.”

  When he tipped her the extra spot, she smiled, went

  “Course with your Nora, every day is Valentine's.”

  Believe it.

  Times had been a wee bit rocky there, fess up, his drinking getting a touch out of control. But he'd ditched the Jameson, just did the few bottles of Bud when they went down there of a Friday night.

  Ni biggie.

  Cop's got to let off some steam.

  Right?

  Too, knocked the Luckies out of the frame, even slung his beloved Zippo over the Brooklyn Bridge. Dramatic, sure, but you have Irish blood, you need the odd grand gesture.

  And wow, kicking the nicotine was one SOB.

  Bought a box of Irish Delights from Stavros, eyes averted from the packs of Strikes and their oh so seductive siren call.

  Opening the door of their apartment, call it cop gut, call it pain, the silence.

  Shouldn't be that.

  Nora, like, the

  Radio

  TV

  Pots, pans, cooking

  Domestic din

  Reassuring noise of love.

  Nope.

  Dead air.

  He dropped the gifts, reached for his piece in the waistband of his jeans, the old-fashioned Smith and Wesson .38, barrel swung out, he'd liked the old gig of loading your own gun.

  Most cops, went with the ubiquitous Glock.

  Light

  Popular

  Cheap

  Ah, but did they mention how the sucker jammed?

  He swept the apartment with the .38, his heart hammering, then saw the note.

  Oh sweet damnation.

  A note.

  A Dear John

  Or

  Jimmy.

  Whatever.

  Goodbye in any terms.

  * * * *

  My God, at least she hadn't sent a text.

  Had she?

  The note

  ........Dear Jimmy

  You left me a long time ago, you just didn't know.

  I've met someone.

  I'll send for my things.

  I left a roast in the oven, just heat and if you like, add the roast spuds I've left in the bottom oven.

  I'm sorry Jimmy.

  Please don't look for me.

  Nora.”

  Roast that.

  * * * *

  Next few days, blur city.

  Music.

  Of course.

  Razor blades and rope stuff.

  IE

  When you buy the wailing stuff, they give you free samples of the above.

  The Pogues

  Luke Kelly

  Van

  Gretchen McCorbett.

  All songs about, yeah

  Loss

  Pain

  Ferocious agony

  Guilt.

  You get the picture.

  Not your happy camper stuff.

  Fourth day in?

  Who was counting.

  His door ajar. Like in NY City, who does that kind of crazy stuff? The lost and wounded.

  What was to steal? Nora took the only part of him that might . . . might have amounted to somebody.

  Not no more.

  A voice, from the door

  “Hello?”

  Tentative, a child?

  Yup.

  All of like five maybe, he looked in, blond tousled hair, asked

  “You ok mister?”

  He thought,

  ......and seek the pain you need was coming somehow.

  He answered

  “You betcha.”

  The kid asked

  “My dad says you are . . . police?”

  The pronunciation was like a bad pizza on steroids. Jimmy nearly laughed but basically had forgotten how, you believe it?

  Believe.

  The kid said

  “We're moving to Idaho.”

  God, and Jimmy thought he had problems, he said

  “Bon voyage.”

  Meant, like to a five year old?

  “Get lost.”

  The child said

  “I have a problem sir.”

  Sir!

  Jimmy stood, tiring a bit of the cuteness, it was nice, slice of Waltons-ville, syrpt-ed with Laura Ingalls but like, enough already,

  He answered

  “Us all got problems kid.”

  Wisdom of the ages.

  And half in the bag with a fifth of Jameson, who's not a philosopher, he moved to shut the door, thinking

  “Maybe get a deadbolt, that door is open invite to the smash-and-grab junkies.”

  The kid pushed a M.C. Donald's bag over the threshold, shouted

  “My ride's waiting, Dad is honking the horn.”

  And was gone.

  Jimmy thought

  “Like what, he left me his Big Mac?”

  Then the bag moved.

  Jimmy reaching for the .38, always now in his waistband, saying

  “Holy God, I've lost it, Fast food is indeed fast and I'm reaching for my piece to what?, blow away a large portion of French fries.”

  The gun by his side, tears began to roll down his cheeks, he knew

  “Pathetic?”

  Yeah, right.

  He was through, raising the .38 to his temple, when the top of the bag moved aside, to emit, slowly........ Very slowly, the head of a tortoise.

  Weird city.

  Over the next few days, Jimmy began to care about the damn slow thing.

  What do you feed em?

  He gave it some lettuce, water and that seemed to be ok.

  Like it was going to complain?

  Jimmy, after his initial response to the compulsion to shoot it, was fascinated with the way the little guy just kept on... keeping on.

  He'd watch the tiny creature, with a distinctive brown mottled shell, that old grizzled head, like John Wayne, in Green Berets, painstakingly move across the living room.

  Then

  Go figure.

  Jimmy was watching Seinfeld, the one where George is posing as a marine biologist and has to wade out and confront the “Mighty Beast”

  George's words.

  The tort, stopped, swear to God, no Jameson on board, looked at the TV.

  So, what can you do?

  Call him George and have company with the reruns.

  Evening later, he finally gets to the bar.

  Of course, his bud Peter, like the whole freaking neighborhood, knows Nora is in the wind, watching Jimmy, see, if

  ...he smokes?

  (
oh he's smoking though not in the way they'd imagine)

  b..the top shelf, will he ask for the Jay?

  He orders a cold one, has the long neck before him, Pete moving nervously along the bar, he asks

  “Pete, what do you know about tortoises?”

  Am?

  Collective sigh from the chorus, Jimmy has officially lost it.

  Shame.

  Pete says honestly

  “Zip.”

  Jimmy nods, takes a slow sip from the brew, says

  “More to them than you'd think.”

  OK.

  Like who thinks anything . . . ever about them?

  Pete asks

  “You doing all right hermano?”

  Jimmy looks at him, puzzled, then

  “Just I was wondering what you should feed them?”

  Pete wants to hit somebody, moves real close over the bar, goes

  “Jimmy, we're here for you buddy.”

  Someone hits the juke, one of the few pubs in the greater NY area that still has the real deal, four tracks for a quarter.

  This nickel buys

  The Pogues (quells surprise) but Shane in the haunting duet with Moira from Clannad

  Waits

  The Clash

  And

  Stiff Little Fingers with “Alternative Ulster.”

  Music if not to live by, least to fry for.

  Jimmy stands, puts a ten on the bar, seems lost a moment, then says

  “Pete, I made sergeant.”

  Pete thinking

  “Sure you did.”

  Says

  “Great, am, lemme get you another cold one to celebrate and Molly's in the kitchen, fix you some grub?”

  Jimmy gives a half smile, weariness leaking all over his too-aged face, says

  “Thanks but I got to feed George.”

  Pete, mid bottle opening, echoes

  “George?”

  Jimmy shakes his head, sighs, says

  “Pete, you got to keep up, pay attention.”

  And walks out.

  The chorus, like Pete wondering

  “Is he carrying the .38?”

  “Is this evening the one he eats the barrel?”

  Moira Brennan's mournful declaration of love sings him out onto the cold neighborhood.

  * * * *

  Next day, a chill wind blew down the street like a black omen. Jimmy had a day at work that would test a man in his prime, but for a man in the talons of grief, it was a lash. Worse, a murder of a child which not only ripped the heart of Jimmy but put him in the throes of the