When One Man Dies (6 page)
Authors: Dave White
“Scotch and soda?”
The scotch would knock me out, go right to my head. I said yes anyway.
Jen went through a door to what I assumed was the kitchen and I heard glasses rattle around.
The room, the house still smelled. My mind traveled back to the night my father walked out on my mother and me. He never gave a reason, never left a note. My mother said he woke up in the middle of the night and left. He didn’t come back. She probably kept something from me that night; he must have said something to her. When my sister and I woke up she was sitting on the couch, crying.
Jen came back with the drinks and placed one in front of me. The taste was bitter and made me cringe. Not a big scotch drinker, it really didn’t go down smooth.
“What did the police tell you?”
She took almost half the drink in her mouth. Swallowed and didn’t even flinch. “They asked if I knew where Rex was. They asked a lot of questions. Said he was wanted for questioning. They wouldn’t say if he was all right. Is he all right?”
“I don’t know. Did he call here, did you hear from him?” Etta James ended. Sam Cooke now, “We’re Having a Party.”
“What happened?” Jen said. “You’re acting like the police. I hired you. I want to know what happened. I asked them the same thing and they wouldn’t tell me. I don’t know what’s going on. My God, my stomach is in knots.”
She finished off her drink. I told her what she wanted to know. By the time I was done, she was sobbing again. Now my stomach was in knots. Still couldn’t clear the smell from my nostrils. The feeling of déjà vu.
I drank my scotch, let her cry. Over her shoulder was a window, Venetian blinds closed. There was a hint of light against the blinds. The sun was coming up.
“He called,” she said. “Just said he had to go away for a while, but he’d be back. He’s done this a few times before.”
“He has?”
“It’s the reason I came to you in the first place. Sometimes he goes to work, calls me, and tells me he has to go away.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I didn’t think it was too important.” Her crying had slowed. “Tonight. When he called tonight, I was mad. I swore at him. He told me he couldn’t talk long, hung up on me. Bastard.”
“Did you tell the police he called?”
No tissue now, she wiped her face with the back of her hand. “No. They wouldn’t tell me what happened. They wouldn’t tell me anything. So I didn’t tell them.”
“Mrs. Hanover, your husband murdered someone.” She took a deep breath. “No. He didn’t.”
The music changed again. Sam Cooke to Van Morrison, “Into the Mystic.”
“My husband didn’t kill anyone.”
“Mrs. Hanover—Jen—I took pictures of him.”
“You have him on camera? Actually murdering someone?”
“I have him with the body.”
“You didn’t see him kill anyone?”
“No.”
Jen nodded. “I don’t believe Rex could ever kill anyone.”
“You should have told the police he called. They need to find him. Did he say where he was going?”
“No.”
“You should have told them.”
“I don’t want the police to find him.” I downed the last of my scotch.
“I want you to find him,” she said. “Mrs. Hanover. Please.”
“Find him, Mr. Donne. Bring him home to me. Once you find him, we’ll both see that he’s not a murderer. This has to be a misunderstanding. I can believe he cheated on me. I can understand that. But my husband is not a murderer.”
I didn’t say anything.
Sitting across from me, Jen leaned forward. Took my right hand in both of hers.
“Will you help me?”
I took air in through my nose. The smell—again I was back in my childhood home, my mother crying on the couch. My father had disappeared. We never heard from him again. I remembered how helpless I felt, an eight-year-old boy who could only hug his mother. A helpless eight-year-old.
“I’ll help you find your husband,” I said.
Jen Hanover smiled, stood up, and gave me a hug. I patted her shoulder, and felt the weight of the past day get a little heavier on my shoulders.
The sun was barely coloring the sky, and the sound of traffic was still light. It wasn’t even six. That meant the man he was looking for was still around. He always was this time of morning.
Jesus Sanchez made his way around the corner and froze. Bill Martin saw and nodded at him. Sanchez paled.
“Yo, what the fuck you doin’ here, man? Didn’t think you were into this shit anymore.”
Martin extended his hand; Sanchez ignored it. “I said, what the fuck are you doin’ here?”
“Need to ask you a few questions.”
“Yo, you ain’t a narc anymore.”
“I need to know who the big guy is these days,” Martin said. “Fuck if it ain’t me.”
Martin laughed. “You’ve never been a big seller. You never will be. Answer my question.”
Being out here felt great. You didn’t get this working small-time robberies in New Brunswick. Martin loved moments like this, just fucking with a witness or informant until you got what you wanted. Working petty shit stolen from a frat house was boring. This was great.
“Shit, man. You don’t gotta be like that. Michael Burgess, yo. Check in on him.”
“Never heard of him.” Martin dropped his cigarette on the ground.
“Yeah, you been away awhile,” Jesus said. “You still talk to your boy? You know, Jackson.”
“Who’s Michael Burgess?” Martin fumbled for another cigarette. “Man, that guy, he didn’t give you up, did he? But yeah, you still holdin’ a grudge like he fucked you.”
Maybe working this case wasn’t exactly as Martin had hoped. “Tell me about Burgess.”
“Man, you ever tell him about what happened? What you did?”
Memories rushed back to Martin, moments he’d long ago buried.
“No,” Martin said. “I never told him.”
“What you smiling for? You know I ain’t gonna tell you shit. I don’t have to.”
“I can find out about Burgess without you.” He inhaled some smoke. “You just gave me an idea. See ya around, Jesus.”
“Man, what are you talkin’ about?”
“You still see Donne?”
“Nah. Every once in a while walking up and down this block. But we don’t talk no more.”
“You decide to get friendly, don’t tell him you saw me.”
“Man, fuck you.”
Martin turned and walked back to the police station.
The ringing phone was like a jolt of electricity through my body. I snapped out of bed, still in a sleepy daze, and knocked the alarm clock off my nightstand. The ringing kept up and I reached for the phone.
The clock, which landed faceup, said it was ten. I’d only gotten to bed around seven-fifteen. Jen had given me a list of Rex’s friends, their phone numbers and addresses, and then let me go. I spent the next hour and a half sitting on 287 in morning rush-hour traffic, listening to bad talk radio and fighting to keep my eyes open. I stumbled into my apartment, stripped to my boxers, and passed out on the bed. I hadn’t even had time to dream when the phone started ringing.
“Hello,” I mumbled into the receiver, rolling onto my back. “This is Ellen Schwartz, admissions office at Rutgers University.”
“Yes? How can I help you?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Donne. Did I wake you?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. I could hear some disapproval in her voice, so I added, “I worked the night shift last night.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you.”
“Not a problem.”
I tried not to yawn into the receiver.
“Mr. Donne, we’re calling to schedule your entrance exam. You’re a late admit, so we’re afraid the letter wouldn’t reach in time. We’re holding the exam on May seventeenth. A Saturday.”
“Okay.”
“Will you be able to attend? It’s a six-hour exam, two hours for language arts, two hours for math, and two hours for a foreign language.”
“Foreign language?”
“It’s for placement in your classes. If you can test out of the intro courses, you’ll have to take fewer credits.”
I found my daily planner in the drawer in the nightstand. I flipped to May 17.
“Terrific. I should be free that day.”
“Good. Report to the lecture room in Scott Hall at eight in the morning. We’ll sort things out from there.” She hung up.
I closed my eyes for what felt like another minute. My blinds were closed, but the sun still found a way to force some beams into the room. The phone rang again. I opened my eyes; now it was eleven. I decided I wasn’t going to get much more sleep.
I answered the phone, rubbing my eyes with my free hand. “It’s Artie.”
“What’s up?”
“Were you sleeping? Jesus, it’s eleven in the morning.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Holy shit. What happened? You okay?”
I leaned back. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just spent the night with the Madison Police Department.”
“Did it have to do with Gerry?”
“No.”
“What were you doing, then?”
“You at the bar?” I asked. “Yeah. Tracy’s on her way, too.”
“Who?” Maybe I’d missed something while I was sleeping. I had no idea who Tracy was.
“Tracy Boland? Gerry’s niece? You don’t remember her?”
“No.” But the memory of her face flashed before my eyes.
“Be here in twenty minutes. Maybe by then you’ll remember.”
***
It was more like thirty-five. I nearly fell asleep again in the shower, but I turned the water to cold and was instantly awake. Finally, dressed in clean jeans, sneakers, and a plain red T-shirt, I entered the Olde Towne Tavern. Artie was behind the bar, looking like he hadn’t slept in days.
As I came through the door, he said, “You look like shit.”
“Right back at you.”
He forced a smile. The TV was perched over Artie’s shoulder above the bar, tuned to a news station. The words Special Report rolled across the screen.
I nodded toward the tube. “What’s going on up there?”
“They raised that terror level thing again.” Artie didn’t even look at the screen.
“Any particular reason?”
Artie found two mugs behind the counter and blew into them. “Best way to get the dust out,” Gerry used to say. Artie poured some steaming coffee, went digging. Came up with some half and half and sugar. “Nonspecific credible threats.”
“The government at work. Damn fine as usual.”
Artie found a fifth of Jack Daniel’s. Poured some into one of the half-full mugs and nodded at me. “Want a nip?”
I shook my head.
“Suit yourself.” He pushed my mug toward me.
“So, you gonna tell me why you spent last night with the Madison cops? Did it have to do with Gerry?” Artie took a sip, flinched, tasting the bitter end of the whiskey.
I looked around. “Tracy didn’t show up?”
“She’ll be here.”
I tapped a rhythm on the bar top. “You really want to know about last night?”
Artie nodded. I told him about the Hanovers, the body in the carpet, and my interrogation. Then I told him about staying up and drinking scotch with Hanover’s wife. Artie stopped me there.
“You took another job?”
“It’s how I make a living.”
“Fuck that. What about your friend? Your dead friend?”
“What’s the problem here, Artie?”
Artie downed the rest of his drink. The bar had a mist to it. The smell of musk and wood chips was thick, and it seemed like they had a physical form as dust motes floated between Artie and me, making his image cloudy.
“The problem is you spent last night in a police station caught up in a murder investigation. You should be trying to find out what happened to Gerry. Your friend and my friend.”
I finished my coffee, rested the mug on the bar. “I intend to do both.”
“Yeah? How do you ‘intend’ to do that?” The words melted from his mouth. “You’ll spend all your time searching for someone who’s missing. Meanwhile your friend is dead, and it doesn’t matter who killed him.”
“Did you drink before I got here, Artie?”
“Fuck you. I can be pissed without drinking.” He threw the towel he used to clean the bar at me. “Asshole.”
I leaned across the bar, grabbed Artie by the shirt, and pulled him close to me. We were nose to nose. “Don’t ever tell me that I don’t care about Gerry. I’ll find out what happened to him. But Bill Martin’s watching my ass and he’ll make it hard for me to do anything. If I’m working two cases, it’ll give me some leeway. Now, Mr. Bartender, maybe you need to lay off the booze.”
I pushed Artie away from me. He stumbled and then gained his balance. Coughed into his hand and seemed to regain some of his composure. “I remember when I used to have to tell you that,” he said. His words slurred a little, but at least he was thinking straight.
