A Smudge of Gray (12 page)
Chapter 17
Jonathan ran for a basketball. It
approached the out-of-bounds line. He dove and grasped it in mid-air. As the
ref watched, Jonathan hurled it back to another kid in blue; it was Kevin. He
dribbled around some orange jerseys. He shifted toward the baseline. He jumped,
released the ball, and scored. The crowd erupted in cheers as Jonathan and
Kevin slapped hands.
“They’re blowing them out,” Laura said
to Trevor.
“And he doesn’t even look tired.”
As Katie sat close to her father, she
felt a vibration on his waist, even before he did. “Dad, your phone.”
Trevor saw “Megan” displayed on the
screen.
“It’s the office. Excuse me, honey. It’s
too loud in here to talk.” Trevor got up and scurried out a side door.
Jonathan passed Kevin the ball who
tossed it with all of his energy from the three-point line. It arced high in
the air and came close to the basket, but missed. Jonathan grabbed the air ball
and put it back up, scoring two points. Katie and her mother cheered.
Laura noticed a woman wearing a thick
coat run into the gym and down the sideline. She waved at Jonathan. Laura
recognized her; it was Anne Marie Boise. Laura signaled her over as Anne Marie
took a seat next to her.
“Geesh. I almost missed it,” Anne Marie
said, flustered.
“They’re really killing them,” Laura
said, feeling the chill still attached to her new seatmate.
“Hi there.” Anne Marie smiled at Katie.
The nine-year-old returned the gesture. “I was waiting for my husband. I
thought he would drive us together, but he’s working…as always.”
“Trevor was just here. He had to step
out.”
“Oh, am I in his seat?” Anne Marie said.
“Don’t worry. The game’s nearly over.”
Anne Marie felt like an imposter as if
she had invented the story of her husband to mask the reality of single
parenthood. She saw less and less of Brian and she feared that any less would
make him vanish from her memories. Anne Marie thought that perhaps Brian was a
lie, a figment of her imagination implanted by some peculiar experiment. As she
watched the chaos on the court, the buzzer blasted, taking her breath away.
“They won!” Laura exclaimed.
The crowd turned to the court as the
blue team flailed. Laura and Katie cheered in tandem. Anne Marie joined them as
she saw Jonathan see her. The crowd quickly died down as the slow death of the
orange team finally occurred.
“Easy game today,” Laura said.
The ladies walked onto the court to reunite
with their respective sons.
“Great game,” Anne Marie said to the
boys.
“Where’s Dad?” Jonathan asked.
“He had to work,” Anne Marie revealed.
She looked into her son’s eyes and saw sorrow cloud them. She hugged him. “I
know.”
“I thought Dad was here,” Kevin said.
“He was. He had to step out for a call.”
“Did you see my layup?” Kevin asked.
“I saw all of them. And that three you
almost made,” Laura replied.
“I tried so hard.”
“You need more muscle,” Katie said.
“Hey! You try to make a three!” Kevin
returned.
“Hey, everyone!” a boy with a blue
jersey interrupted.
“How nice,” Anne Marie said.
“But my husband,” Laura said.
“Join the club,” Anne Marie joked,
sharing laughter with her fellow mom.
“We can Photoshop them in,” the boy
said.
“I need to Photoshop my husband next to
me all the time,” Anne Marie said.
Jonathan stood in front of Anne Marie as
Laura put her arms around Kevin and Katie.
“Say cheese,” the kid said.
“Cheeeeese!” the families collectively exclaimed,
as the boy clicked the picture. Then, he took off.
“Mom, can we go for ice cream?” Kevin
asked.
“Yeah!” Katie said.
Laura glanced back at the side door
where Trevor had exited, but all she saw were families leaving. “I guess.”
The two kids jumped.
“Can we go too, Mom?” Jonathan asked his
mother.
“We have to go visit your aunt,
remember?”
“But Mom, please…”
Anne Marie looked at Laura.
“There’s a place right around the
corner,” Laura said.
“Okay, but let’s get it to go.”
Jonathan cheered. Laura and Anne Marie
led their kids to the front exit.
As the crowd dissipated, a man fought
past the exiting people through the rear door. He had tangled hair parted to
the right, and the sleeves of his blue dress shirt were rolled up one too many
times. It was Brian. He scanned the court as a couple kids in blue jerseys shot
free throws, the kid with the camera taking their picture. Brian saw people
sprinkled in the bleachers, but none of them resembled his wife. As he walked
around the side of the bleachers, he saw a man open the side door and locked eyes
with him. The man was a similar height, had the same jaw line, the same physique,
but his hair was parted in the opposite direction and his clothes were
arresting. It was Trevor.
“Did they win?” Trevor asked.
“I have the same question,” Brian said.
“I had to step out when there was only a
minute left and my son’s team was leading by a lot.”
“Are you blue or orange?” Brian asked.
“Blue.”
“Me too. My son’s Jonathan.”
“My son’s Kevin. He’s new.”
“Ah, my wife mentioned him. She was
telling me about you and your family,” Brian said.
“My wife too. I’m Trevor Malloy.”
“Brian Boise.”
Both men raised arms at the same time
and joined hands. They attempted to dominate the other with their squeeze and
their shake. As each man looked deep into the other’s eyes, he saw his own
reflection. Each man waited for the other to break his stare, to relinquish his
grip. After the handshake finally broke, Trevor lowered his eyes first. But he
was now staring at Brian’s crotch.
“Your fly’s down,” Trevor whispered to
Brian.
Brian zipped up, the embarrassment of it
all hitting him once he heard the action.
“Rule number seven in the gentleman’s
handbook,” Trevor chuckled.
“There’s a gentleman’s handbook?”
Trevor returned only a coy smirk, a
smirk that didn’t answer Brian’s question, yet at the same time, it did.
“So your wife tells me you’re a police
detective,” Trevor said.
“Yep.”
“Does that keep you busy?”
“Lately, it’s been consuming my life.”
“Mainly homicide. I try not to let my
family know many details of my work. I track some of the most brutal killers.”
“Killers? Must be tough on the family.”
“Family comes first,” Brian replied.
“We all say that,” Trevor laughed. “I
keep work and family separated as well. It’s easier that way.”
“What do you do?” Brian asked in an
attempt to remove himself from the subject.
“I own a consulting service.”
“What market do you target?” Brian
asked.
Before Trevor could respond, a boy wearing
a blue jersey scampered between them. The boy’s size six sneakers stepped on
Trevor’s size eleven dress shoes, as if the businessman were not even there.
“Whoa! Watch the shoes,” Trevor yelped.
Trevor looked down and saw a scuff mark
near the white leather patch on one of his shoes. He propped it on the bottom
bleacher and buffed it lightly with his handkerchief.
“Let me guess, rule number eight in the
gentleman’s handbook—always carry a handkerchief,” Brian said.
“No. You just never know when you need a
cloth. These are special import from Italy.”
“Are you a father?” the kid with the
camera said.
Both men turned. “Yes, my son’s on your
team,” both said at the same time. They laughed.
“I’m taking pictures of the players and
their families for a photo collection. Can I take your picture?”
Trevor and Brian looked at each other and
shrugged. They both stood with the gym floor in the background.
“Okay. Say cheese,” the boy said.
Trevor said the word and smiled, while
Brian remained stone-faced as if he were taking a picture for the newspaper.
Then, the boy pressed the camera’s
button. Its lens automatically adjusted focus as it measured light and distance
to the focus point. The flash ignited and the lens captured the light in front
of it during 1/60th of a second. The man on the left looked cool and collected.
He sported an expression that had layers, an expression that his menacing eyes
dominated. But the man on the right looked like his antithesis. His face was
emotionless. He did not smile. He did not squint. It was as if he lacked life.
The picture was a brief moment frozen in time, a moment that would never be
lived again, but a moment that would be stored indefinitely by digital ones and
zeros on its memory card.
“Thank you,” the boy said, and then
scurried away.
A sudden ring jarred the two men.
“Excuse me,” Trevor said as he grabbed
his phone and stepped away into an isolated shell.
“I have to run. It was a pleasure meeting
you,” Trevor said with confidence as he offered his hand once again.
Brian accepted the gesture as his hand
went limp inside Trevor’s grip. “Likewise.”
Brian watched the man he had just met
glide toward the side door, and then sneak out. The detective felt his thigh
twitching. It was sudden and constant, a muscle out of control. But then he
realized it was his cell phone inside his pocket.
“Hello?” Brian said.
“Where are you?” Anne Marie asked.
“Standing in the gym.”
“The game’s over, Brian.”
“I can see that. I’m sorry. I got tied
up.”
“Save it.”
“I just met Kevin’s father, Trevor.”
“Oh, really. I just got done buying ice
cream for Jonathan with his wife and kids.”
“Something strange about that guy,”
Brian said.
“From what I hear, I think he seems to
be a very devoted father.”
“I don’t know. What did you say their
last name was?”
“Malloy,” Anne Marie said without
thinking, but then she thought. “Wait, are you going to run a check on him?
You’re paranoid! At least he shows up to his kid’s game on time! Not when it’s
over!”
“I’m sorry, honey. Forget it.”
“Go back to work!” she barked, and then
hung up.
Brian took a seat on the bench and
rubbed his face. His stubble stung his hands. His brain hurt again. He realized
that darkness had breached the safe that he had kept hidden deep inside his
mind, the safe that contained the most coveted feelings of his wife and son.
Brian sat alone on the bleacher as the life in the gym had faded into a coma.
Chapter 18
A truck tire pummeled a pothole shaving off
a chunk of macadam. Vehicles filled the busy downtown as the stars blanketed
the sky. A downtown shopping mall lined both sides of the city block. Taxis
picked up shoppers and dropped off potential ones. A large walkway, some thirty
feet over the road, connected the two blocks. Life flourished.
An Asian woman stepped from a taxi. She
tightened the belt on her coat from the brisk night air. A sound of clicking
caught her attention. Even though a thousand people filled the sidewalks, the
sound wiggled its way through the masses and entered her eardrums. The woman
turned toward the busy walkway next to her as she followed the guidance of her
ears. And there amongst the crowd she saw what produced the sound—two charcoal
gray shoes.
A thug with a shaved head and goatee
stood inside the booth engrossed in his phone conversation. He talked with his
hands and looked like an inmate getting his weekly phone call.
Trevor stopped outside the booth. He peered
at his watch. The hands of his Rolex displayed one minute to nine. Trevor shook
his head, and then opened the booth.
“Hey, buddy!” the man with the goatee roared
at his intruder.
“This phone’s out of service.” Trevor
reached in and pressed the receiver.
“What the fuck!?”
The man clenched his fist. Trevor flipped
open his coat. The brute lowered his hand and his expression as Trevor’s silver
pistol spoke louder than words.
“Alright,” the man conceded, and then
walked away.
Trevor slid into the phone booth and set
his briefcase down. He picked up the dangling phone with his left hand and held
the receiver with a finger from his right. Trevor stared at the black dial on
his wrist—the second hand swept around the number nine. He remained motionless
like a statue sculpted from the darkest clay. His mind had no thoughts, no
regrets, no fears; his eyes only saw the sweep of the second hand. Finally, it
hit twelve. The minute hand followed it and locked into place. As the watch
showed exactly nine o’clock, a moment in time that lasted only, and exactly,
one second, the phone rang. Trevor released his leathered finger and placed the
phone on his ear.
“The sunset leads to darkness,” the
chilled voice sprayed into Trevor.
“And darkness leads to death,” Trevor
replied in a tone he kept hidden inside the bowels of his mind.
“This contract is for April Benko.
Twelve Eighth Street. Apartment Four C.”
“My fee has gone up another fifty
percent since last time.”
“You’re out pricing yourself,” the
mysterious man replied with a chuckle.
“The risk for my capture escalates with
each contract. And more risk equals more compensation.”
A void of nothingness replied, a pause
while the devil deliberated.
“Alright, that can be arranged,” the
voice finally said.
Trevor placed the receiver back into its
cradle and slithered out from the confining glass into the crowd. But as he
took a few steps away from the booth, two men blocked his path. One man was the
offended thug with the goatee; the other was his friend, equally as abrupt with
tattoos weighing him down.
“How was the phone call, huh?” the man
with the goatee said as he opened his coat and flashed a gun.
Trevor remained still. He licked his
lips, amused by the rubbish in front of him. He had no time to entertain.
* * *
At forty minutes after nine, some eight
blocks away, two men worked diligently, performing their duties to the best of
their abilities. One man received immediate recognition for his efforts because
he was a janitor. As he flexed his biceps to slosh the mop back and forth on
the floor, the result of his sweat was clean tiles that reflected the fluorescent
lights. The other man, however, worked just as hard as he flexed his mental
muscle at his desk searching a computer database. This man did not see immediate
gratitude for his efforts. His floor was darker and dirtier after he slid his
mop across it.
Brian moved the mechanical ball on his
antiquated mouse across the wood on his desk, dodging the stale half-empty
coffee in front of him. He clicked through the police records. His blue dress
shirt still covered his body with his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Brian
selected the “Name” field on the screen and used his right hand to peck at the
keyboard. He entered “Malloy, Trevor” one letter at a time as if he only had
one chance to enter it. Then, he clicked the “Go” button as the word
“Processing” filled the screen. He stared at the three little dancing dots
after the “g.” After what seemed like an hour, but was only ten seconds, the
computer screen spit “No Police Records Found.”
“Hmm,” Brian sighed.
The detective rubbed his stubble. He switched
to another screen with the words “Bar Records – Official Use Only” plastered in
Courier font. He scrolled to the bottom of the busy screen, which was filled
with advanced search features. He bypassed the “Name” field and selected the
“Occupation” field with his mouse. Carefully, Brian entered “Prosecuting
Attorney,” only using the backspace once to fix his fat fingering. Then he moved
his mouse, clicked a “Radius” drop down box, and selected the maximum, “25
miles.” Brian hit “Search” as the screen displayed “Processing” again. As the
computer calculated, Brian used a Taco Bell napkin to wipe the deposited grime on
his monitor that had settled from the spoiled air. As he smeared the screen
even more, the CRT monitor beamed “49 Records Found.”
“Good evening, sir,” the janitor said as
he slid his way around Brian’s desk.
“Hey, Charlie. How’s it going?” Brian
asked.
“Ah, another day. How ’bout you?”
“Fuckin’ exhausted.”
“You should get out of here, sir. Go
down to the girlie club. That always cheers me up.”
“I’m about ready to get out of here, but
I get a free ticket into the girlie club at my house,” Brian chuckled.
“It’s never free,” the janitor said as
he kept mopping.
* * *
Trevor Malloy sat at his desk all alone
with the solitary light from his desk lamp. The businessman sat comfortably on
his plush eight-way office chair as a half-full bottle of purified water rested
in front of him. He sat with his white fitted dress shirt still encasing his
frame with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms.
Trevor typed with his hands resting on
the home keys. The field on screen read “Benko, April.” He shifted his optical
mouse and clicked “Search.” The query took less than one second as Trevor read
his monitor—“3 Results Found.” Unlike Brian’s ambiguous search term, Trevor had
a piece of information to narrow his search—the address of April Benko. The
third entry matched “12 Eighth Street, Apt 4C.” He clicked the address as more
details displayed, “Occupants of 12 Eighth Street, Apt 4C – Benko, April and
Wizda, Betty.”
“Roommates. Apartment’s no good,” Trevor
said as he stretched his back in his chair.
The businessman refocused on his
computer screen as he maximized another window. The pixels on the 24” flat-screen
showed a newspaper article with the image of a sophisticated woman smiling in
front of a ribbon cutting ceremony. She was a blonde, a woman of class and
stature that scored one for the blonde team. Her style was contemporary. A
white coat shielded her from the cold and a tartan scarf noosed her neck.
Trevor read the caption aloud, “Attorney
April Benko, first tenant at newly renovated 25th Street office building.”
Trevor sat back in his chair and smirked.
“Eighth Street to Twenty Fifth Street in
the morning commute… Subway.” He stood up.
* * *
In the police precinct, Brian sat down.
He mulled over the case in his mind, sorting and sifting through the
information like Google’s web crawler. Brian leaned back as he thought about
the blood splatters on the wall. He rubbed his forehead as the hole in Max’s
head filled his thoughts. Brian took a sip from his stale coffee as shoe polish
canisters stacked inside his brain. Suddenly, he heard the sound of something pulsating.
Brian stroked his ears, but the sound still existed. It was subtle yet present.
As the noise intensified, Brian thought it was a heartbeat, but then he
realized what it was—footsteps. The sound of his suspect’s march consumed his
mind. Brian suddenly felt trapped. His heart raced. His brow furrowed. Brian
clenched his fists and wanted the sound to leave his mind, but the sound of the
killer only strengthened.
“There’s the busy beaver,” a voice hit
Brian from the back.
The detective beheld the captain
standing over him. Brian glanced at the captain’s dress shoes and saw they were
gray, which complemented his uniform.
“Hello, sir,” Brian instinctively
replied, lifting his backside from the chair.
“No, stay seated… How’s the case shaping
up? Hopefully you found our perp.”
“Well, I’m doing my best, sir.”
“Soon, sir. This is my top priority and
I won’t sleep until I get the suspect.”
“Hey. What do nineteen-year-old girls
like?” the captain asked.
“Uh… I don’t know. Sex.”
“What kind of fuckin’ answer is that,
Boise?”
“I’m sorry, sir. My mind is shot.”
“It’s my daughter’s birthday. I’m asking
what to buy her. Solve this case, and then take a fuckin’ vacation.”
Brian watched the captain walk off.
“This floor looks mighty clean. Hey,
Charlie. Nice job,” the captain said to the janitor.
Brian listened to the captain’s
footsteps as they faded away, and then like that, they died, leaving the
detective alone in his quadrant of the building. He let the clinking flow over
him as his mind went numb. It was as if someone had pulled the plug on his
brain. The detective stood from his chair as a dull ache in his gut clutched
him.
