Bang (10 page)

Jackson loses the condom and zips himself back into his pants, kissing her briskly. “We gotta get back,” is all he'll say. He leaves the bedroom before she can reply.

So. Mari stands up and gets dressed on shaky legs, alone.

Chapter Seven

Sarge won't let Jack into the interview room while Mari is giving her statement, so he bounces around the hallway by the lockers, debating changing into a fresh uniform. There's sweat drying under his arms and behind his balls, the taste of Mari's tongue in his mouth. His thighs have a post-sex twitch. Orgasms wind him up now, have ever since the shooting. He feels like he could put his fist through a wall.

“We're gonna do it by the book,” Leo had said firmly when they first arrived at the station. “We're gonna do it so by the book that the fucking book will have an existential crisis. Now go take a walk, Ford.”

Jackson had resisted some choice words about how by the book the investigation had been until now—no real description, no facial sketch, softball questions and a gloss-over interview with the parking attendant—and had done what he was told. Before now, he had it in his head the perp was part of a gang or some shit. A skinhead, maybe, or some biker guy with neck tattoos. Which is fucking stupid considering he got shot in Great Barrington, town of 7,000 and home of three ceramics studios. Vague as it was, Mari's original statement hadn't exactly hemmed his imagination in.
White with dark hair.
Shit, that could have been anyone. That could have been
Jack.

He thinks about the kid's skinny body, the resigned way he'd lain down on the floor. He was a full foot shorter than Jack.

“Fuck,” Jack swears quietly, tapping his knuckles against the cinder block. He feels like a kid waiting outside the principal's office.

If he's being honest, half of his frustration is Mari. The look on her face before she went into the interview room was closed-off and overly professional, like she was trying to compensate for what they'd just done.
Why did you ask me over to fuck if it was going to embarrass you?
Jackson had thought. Then he pictured the crap he'd just done to her and felt mean.

“Ford!” That's Gordy Punch, coming down the hallway from the front desk. Jackson startles and has to shake himself off like a retriever to recover. That's happening more often, the loud noises thing. If it happens on duty again, with anyone else but Mari as witness—

“Hey,” he tells Gordy, shoving both hands deep in his pockets. “How's it going?”

“Fucking terrible,” Gordy says amicably, shuffling by Jackson to slot some coins into the vending machine. Gordy, Jackson happens to know, drinks six Coke Zeros a day. “Some dick is up front trying to report his deck furniture as stolen. Telling me all about the teak finish.” He stands up and tips his can at Jackson. “Heard they got a lead on your guy, though. Anything solid?”

That news travelled fast. Jackson feels his heart kick up for no reason at all. “Yep,” he says, clenching his hidden hands into fists. “De la Espada thinks she can ID him.” Mari's last name already feels weird in his mouth, and they've only slept together five times. They can't stay partners for much longer, that much is pretty fucking clear.

“You're up.” That's Mari herself, coming through the hallway toward the vending machines, hair raked back into a tail so tight it looks like it must hurt her. In his bed this afternoon it smelled like cinnamon and sweat.

Jack pushes himself off the wall. “Everything okay?” he asks. His voice comes out too short for friendly concern.

Mari nods tightly, gaze flicking ever so briefly to Punch, then back again. “No problem,” she reports. Then, to Gordy, nodding at the aluminum can, “You got a death wish or what?”

Jack heads into Leo's office and gives his statement, earning a slap on the back and a “we'll get him” for his trouble. He wants to compare notes with Mari, but when he gets done she's taking a missing persons report from a woman in one of the interview rooms; then Zales needs somebody to help him out with a court appearance, so Jack plays judge in the kitchen for a little while. By the time he catches up with her in the pee-smelling hallway near holding, it's quitting time.

“You still want that drink?” Jack asks. He feels vaguely like he should apologize, but more urgently he wants to know exactly what she said to Sarge. It's under his skin like an itch, the notion that he personally has to make sure their statements are letter-perfect.

But Mari shakes her head. “Can't,” she says. “My mom just called, Sone's got a stomach thing.”

“Are you sure your mom can't—?” Jack cuts himself off. That's dumb, he doesn't need Patty to take care of her puking granddaughter so he can grill Mari about her witness statement for an hour. All at once, he feels like an asshole. “Gotcha. Poor Sone.”

“Poor Sone,” Mari agrees. “Rain check?”

“Sure thing,” Jack promises. His voice comes out too bright. Then, surprising himself, “You want company?”

“What, tonight?” Mari looks surprised too. “You want to?” Her eyes narrow. “It sounds grisly, I'm warning you. It's not gonna be, like, like…” she trails off then, making a funny little waving motion from which Jack assumes he is to infer
the rough sex we had in your apartment during business hours
. “You know what I mean?”

“I know what you mean.” Jackson rubs the back of his neck. “Look, I wouldn't have volunteered if I didn't want to come, okay?” It comes out sounding sour, and Mari sighs.

“Fine,” she says. “Suit yourself.”

They change into street clothes and meet around back in the parking lot. Mari looks tired when Jackson catches up with her, a pair of faded jeans and a pull-on hoodie that used to be Andre's. Mom clothes. He thinks about her body, all belly and thighs and deep, olivey skin. She has matching zebra stretch marks on both hips.

“Hey,” he says, tapping her shoulder as she flips her hood up and walks toward the car. The air has gone from cool to truly cold, jacket weather. In two weeks it'll be Halloween. “I'm sorry about earlier.” He isn't sure if he means the sex or something else.

Mari rubs at the bridge of her nose. “Okay,” is all she says. “Look, I mean it, this isn't going to be fun. She's not as cute when she's sick, trust me.”

Jack exhales, stung. “Do you not want me to come? Because you could just say so.”

Mari raises her eyebrows. “Do
you
want to come?” she asks. When she's especially tired or especially annoyed she lets a bit of Patty's accent creep into her voice. Jackson can't tell which she is right now. Probably both.

“I do,” he says. “I am. I want to see Sone.” He feels stubborn about that, like he's got something to prove. He knows she got a letter sent home last week for using her outdoor voice indoors and that her daycare is hatching tadpoles, but he hasn't actually seen her since the night he drove Mari to pick up the morning-after pill. Before Mari's divorce, he averaged about one Sonya sighting a year. It feels small of him now, to have avoided an entire tiny person just because her existence made him sad.

Mari softens. “Suit yourself,” she repeats, shaking her head, the red-purple twilight casting shadows across her face. “I'll see you at the house.”

Jack climbs into the SUV and follows, stopping off at the Big Y for a box of popsicles shaped like Disney characters and a pint of the dulce de leche ice cream Mari likes. He isn't great with kids. “Peace offering,” he says twenty minutes later, holding them out on Mari's doorstep.

Both her silky eyebrows pop up. “Are we fighting?”

Jackson hesitates, standing there in her doorway. He wants to kiss her. He wants to yell. It's all tangled up inside him, how bad he loves her and how angry he is, how the truth is that for all their fucking partner talk he almost doesn't trust her worth a damn anymore. The worst part is, he doesn't even think he's pissed about the shooting. He thinks what he's really pissed about is the nine years that came before it.

“No,” he says finally, shaking his head ever so slightly and stepping inside the house. It's fucked up, he can admit that. They were buddies; she was married. It's not like he ever made a move. But he knows she always knew she could have him, and now that they're actually together it makes him feel resentful as all hell. “We're not fighting.”

“Okay.” Mari looks uncertain, but she takes the grocery bag and makes for the freezer. She's still wearing Andre's hoodie. “Patient's on the couch watching a movie. My mom's already in bed. I gather it was not a good day for any of us.”

“No kidding,” Jack mutters, then immediately regrets it. “Had its highlights,” he adds. Mari snorts.

Sonya's curled into a ball on the sofa with a stuffed strawberry and an aluminum barf bowl beside her, the first musical sequence of
Aladdin
finishing up on the flat screen. In Jackson's family, the barf bowl was a big, yellow Tupperware container. It feels important that he now knows about the de la Espadas. “Hey, sick girl,” Jack says to Sonya, tapping one small, fuschia-toed foot gingerly. “How's it going?”

“I threw up,” she tells him mournfully. “All over my bed.”

Jack nods. “I heard.” With Sonya lying down, there's not going to be enough room for all three of them on the sofa, but the chair feels far so finally he just sits down on the carpet, legs stretched out and ankles crossed in front of him. “This is a good movie, though.” He's normally good at shooting the shit with Sone when he sees her, but suddenly he feels self-conscious, like this time it's extra important she likes him.

Christ. She's four fucking years old.

“It is a good movie,” Mari agrees, coming into the living room behind him. “Hey, Fancy Pants, Jack brought you some ice pops. Want one?”

Sonya nods bravely and selects a popsicle shaped like Sleeping Beauty, biting the head off with not a small amount of relish. “Is it gonna make my puke blue?” she asks Jackson during “Street Rat”. Her hair is in a frizzy braid, held back by multiple butterfly clips. Jackson thinks they probably hurt to lie on.

Jack considers it. “I mean,” he tells her honestly. “It might. I'm sorry.”

Sonya's face lights up. “Cool.”

Sure enough, that's exactly what happens half an hour later while Mari is upstairs in the bathroom. Jackson is watching Robin Williams's genie doppelganger do impersonations of famous people from the '90s when he hears the unmistakable sound of barf hitting aluminum. He scrambles to his feet in a panic, not sure what to do.

Thankfully, Sonya seems to be aiming just fine on her own. “Look,” she says tearfully, holding out her bowl. Sure enough, it looks like she puked up Smurf.

Jackson laughs. “Okay, kiddo,” he announces, getting his ass in gear. “We'll take care of that. You all done, you think?”

Sonya isn't, as it turns out, so Jack rubs her fuzzy neck lightly while she pukes up more popsicle, then empties the big bowl into the kitchen sink. He's rinsing it out with soap when Mari comes back downstairs.

“I hope you're going to scrub out my dish rack too,” she says, smiling. Then, at Jackson's confused face, “You're supposed to empty it in the toilet, dumbass.”

Jackson looks down at the half-cleaned bowl. “Oh.”

“I want another ice pop,” Sone announces from the family room.

Jack empties the bowl twice more before the night is out. “Thanks,” Mari says after the final cleanup. Both of them are eating the ice cream out of the carton in the darkened kitchen, no lights because Sonya sacked out on the couch. Mari hadn't wanted her out of sight. “Probably we should have waited and gotten that drink instead, though.”

“We still could?” Jack offers, sounding dumbly hopeful even to his own ears, like he's asking her to the prom instead of out for a pint of Sam Adams. It occurs to him he has no idea how to go about dating a woman with a kid. “Once Sone's better, I mean.”

“We could,” Mari agrees. Then, setting the ice cream down on the counter, leaning back against the Formica and crossing one bare foot over the other, “So. Are you gonna ask me?”

For a second Jackson honestly has no idea what she's talking about. “To get a drink?” he asks, confused, and Mari shakes her head.

“About my statement. That's why you came over tonight, right?”

Jack feels his back go up. “I came over because I wanted to spend time with you,” he retorts, temper flaring, but Mari just looks at him evenly and finally he sighs. “I don't know,” he admits. “Partly.”

“You got shot, Jack,” Mari tells him, as if that fact has somehow escaped his attention the past few months, as if he doesn't live with the scars every single second of the day. “And I let him get away the first time, and I let him get away again this morning. And if you think I'm not every bit as pissed at myself over that as you are at me, you're out of your fucking mind.”

Jack can't see her face clearly in the darkened kitchen, the only light coming from the ice dispenser on the fridge, but he knows her body language better than anyone else's and he knows her back is up too. He doesn't want to comfort her. He shouldn't have to. “What'd you say to Leo?” he asks instead.

Mari blows out a breath. “I told him the truth,” she says. “I gave a description, we went over what happened the day you were shot. That kid's a local, clearly. He's probably holed up in some apartment like a block from where we were this morning. He's stupid, and he's scared. And you and me are going to find him.”

The way she says it, like they're starring in some kind of late-night crime thriller on cable and not a couple of beat cops bumbling their way through Western Mass, makes him snort. “Oh we are, huh?” he asks her.

Mari isn't laughing, “Yeah,” she says, holding her ground. “We are.”

Jack shakes his head. It's ridiculous—he knows she's just trying to pep talk him, keep him from spiraling out into whatever dark place she thinks he goes. What's more ridiculous is that it kind of works. “I'm pretty sure Leo's not going to want us mucking around in it,” he points out, but it sounds like a feeble excuse and Mari pounces.