SK01 - Waist Deep (20 page)

3
4

Matt’s Jeep Cherokee was spotless and smelled lightly of Armor
All.
We rode in silence for several minutes after he picked me up.
Traffic was thick downtown with everyone heading home and abandoning the district to the dregs and the
partiers
.
Matt stared straight ahead, driving and shifting carefully.

“Money holding up?” he asked me finally.

“The money’s fine,” I said.

“Expenses?”

“A few,” I said.
“I wrote ‘em down for you.”
I pulled a list out of my windbreaker and handed it to him.

He waved it away.
“No, that’s okay.”
He reached into his pocket and handed me another envelope.
“That’s for next week, in advance.”

I stared at the white paper envelope, knowing there was seven hundred dollars inside.

“It’s only been two days,” I said.

“I don’t want to get behind.”

“Let’s wait and see where things are.”

He held the envelope in place for a moment, his eyes focused on the road.

“Really, Matt,” I said.
“Just wait.”

He held it there another moment, then put it back in his pocket.
“We’ll settle up at the end of the week, then?”

“Sure.”

We rode in silence for a minute.
Then I asked, “Does Kris have a cell phone?”

Matt nodded as he drove.
“Yeah.
Well, she did.
We took it away before she left.
Why?”

“Do you remember the number?”

He scratched his head and thought for a moment before rattling off a number.
It sounded like the same one that had been listed on the FI, as best as I could remember.

“Why are you asking?” Matt repeated.

“Just looking for angles,” I told him.
“How about Cheney?
Did you guys ever live in Cheney?”

“Sure,” he said.
“We lived there while we finished up college at Eastern.”

I nodded.
That made sense.
Cheney’s sole purpose of existence was to service the campus at Eastern Washington University.
“How long ago did you move?”

Matt gave it some thought.
“Right about when Kris started grade school.
Maybe as late as third grade.
That was a year or so after my wife finished up her
master’s
.”

“What was your address?”

“329 Poplar,” Matt said.

I sighed.
It was the same address from the FI.

“What?” Matt asked.

“Dead ends.
That’s all.”

I could tell he was straining to ask questions, but he held back and drove in silence.
Once we were at his house, he went inside and grabbed the keys to his brother’s car.
He waved me in, but I shook my head.
I didn’t want to meet his wife and have another pair of eyes to think about while I was spinning my wheels on this case.
Matt shrugged and went inside.
A few moments later, he emerged and tossed me the keys.

We went into the garage and he yanked the tarp off of the Toyota.
It was a dark blue hatchback from the early 80s.
There were some small dings and a little rust at the rear tire well.
Not bad for such an old car, considering that River City winters could be harsh.

“Engine was tuned up last summer,” he said.
“Tires are all-season.”

I nodded.
“It’ll work great.
Thanks.”

He shrugged, lifting the hood to check the oil.
“Just find her,” he said.

“I will,” I said.
“I will.”

35

That night I fried up a rib-eye steak to go with my Western Family
Mac
‘n cheese.
I cracked open a bottle of Labatt Blue and that made it a veritable king’s feast.

I didn’t enjoy the steak as much as I hoped.
Mostly I enjoyed the crisp taste of the Blue and how familiar it felt sliding down my throat.
And even as I chewed my dinner, I was remembering standing in the beer aisle of the grocery store,
staring
at all the choices waiting for me, all the wonderful choices.

I’d just grab one bottle, I thought as my eyes swept over the Miller, the Bud, the Kokanee.
Just one for the taste of it.
To go with the steak.

And then my eyes had drifted to the cases stacked next to the individual bottles and I was reaching for the box full of ambrosia before I’d even thought about it.
I stopped mid-reach and dropped my hand to my side.

You were a drunk, I told myself. A pathetic, lost drunk. A complete mess.

Yeah, well, that was a long time ago, I countered a moment later.
I cou
ld have a drink.
And
I could stop at just one.
I wasn’t like those pathetic, weak addicts who stood up and cried in front of everyone at the AA meetings.
The truth was, I just had a bad time for a while.
That’s all.
And I beat it, I fucking beat it and I was just a regular guy who could have a beer with his goddamn steak.

In the end, I
compromised between the two voices in my head. I
grabbed a six-pack of Labatt Blue and hurried to the checkout stand.

As I finished my steak, I lifted the bottle to finish the meal with a nice draft of Canada’s best, but the bottle was empty.

I walked to the small refrigerator and took out a second beer.
The top twisted off with a hiss.
I could feel the small tendril of warmth in my stomach from the first bottle with dinner.

I took a healthy slug and washed down the remains of the taste of my steak.

Clearing and washing the dishes only took a short while and I sipped the beer while I worked, just a simple man enjoying a beer after dinner.
When the bottle ran dry, I popped another and sat down with my notepad and wrote down everything that had happened since I agreed to take on the task of finding the little siren Kris Sinderling.

“Here’s to you, Star,” I said, raising my beer.
I wasn’t sure if I was trying to sound serious or mocking.
“
Wherever the hell you are.”

Then I chuckled, because I was a fucking poet.

“
Na zdraví
,” I said, finishing the toast. Then
I took a healthy swallow, which is what you’re supposed to do when you
toast, and returned to my notes.

I worked on those notes late into the night, scribbling facts and ideas and questions.
And I walked through all six of those beers, leaving the dead soldiers standing on the kitchenette counter awaiting review in the morning.
I sat staring at that little squad of six and it took every last bit of strength not to leave the apartment and head up to the 1-Stop just two blocks away and buy the case I should’ve bought in the first place at the grocery store.
Instead, I called it a night and forced myself to go to bed.

T
hat night, I did not dream.

36

When morning came, it was really afternoon.
That’s what the small, cheap digital alarm clock next to my bed said, anyway.

I moved and then groaned.
My head hurt, throbbing like someone was playing the bongo drums in time with a heavy bass guitar right in the front part of my skull.
My torso ached where Leon and Grill had played kickball with me.
Inside my mouth, my tongue was like a throw rug from inside a doghouse.

My stomach felt queasy.
Then, the salty-bitter taste of pre-barf saliva filled my mouth.
Queasiness gave way to all-out nausea.
I rolled out of bed and staggered into the bathroom before I threw up what looked like an awfully expensive steak and some cheap macaroni and cheese.
The heaves sent pain lancing through my mid-section, particularly where Grill’s front kick had drilled me.

Once all the food was out, I thought I would be done, but the dry heaves held on for several more trial runs.
Nothing came up, just the clenching of my stomach and back muscles and the retching of my throat, followed by a brief respite.
During those small breaks, I tried to spit the taste of puke out of my mouth, but it wasn’t going to be so easily dislodged.

Event
ually, the heaving subsided.
I flushed the toilet and leaned my head against the back of it.
I muttered my thanks to whoever designed toilets, making the porcelain cool and comforting in a time of need.

I shut down all thought and sat resting my head against the cold porcelain until I felt ready to get up and face the day.

Once I rinsed my mouth and brushed my teeth, I was marginally better.
I popped three
aspirin
and ate a piece of dry toast before getting into the shower and standing under the hot water until it ran out again.
Once I was clean and in some clothes, I felt even more human, though the bongo
and
bass duet in my head gave no sign of subsiding.

The six empties stood on my counter, all in a neat row.
The stale smell of beer made my stomach lurch, threatening to expel the toast I’d eaten earlier and the
pain relievers
with it.
I forced myself to breathe through my mouth and swept the bottles into a plastic grocery bag.
I slipped on my windbreaker, which was the warmest thing I owned at that moment and took the bottles with me when I left the apartment.

My first thought after throwing the bag into the dumpster was coffee.
I should’ve made some in the apartment, but I’d been so intent on getting clean and losing my headache that it hadn’t even occurred to me.
I debated heading over to the Rocket.
Did I really want to see Cassie again in the shape I was in?
Then I decided to go anyway and let things happen if they were going to happen.

I almost started walking over when I remembered I had Matt’s car.
The Celica started right up and I drove to the Rocket.
The lunch crowd was thinning out and a little twenty-something barista with a belly button ring took my order.
There was no sign of Cassie.
A small sadness wormed its way into my chest.

The coffee seemed to nudge the
pain
reliever
s
along and
my
headache faded.
I sat at a table in the corner, wishing I had brought my notes with me.
I didn’t remember writing anything profound, but sometimes re-reading things helped spark the analytical process.
Being a detective was never something I really got a chance to do
. I guess the only the exception was
a brief stint
helping out detectives while I was
on light duty after the
Circle K
shooting
.
Even then, I mostly did grunt work.

I closed my eyes and thought of everything that I knew and everything that had happened.
The faces of all the people involv
ed
rolled past in
my mind’s eye.
I heard voices, murmuring echoes, but no epiphany came.
I hadn’t accomplished
much of anything yet
and I had no idea where to go from here.

The coffee warmed my stomach and settled it down.
I sipped it until the cup was empty, going around and around things in my head and ending up with the same dead ends every time.

I left the Rocket and walked to the payphone down the street.
I got Adam’s voice mail, so I left him a message about getting a late lunch and hung up.

Back in the car, I glanced at the digital clock on the dash.
School would be out soon.
Maybe there was something I could do.