Heads You Lose (21 page)

“I’m glad you don’t have that problem,” Paul said, and kissed her good-bye.

Walter Blakey’s backyard in Emery smelled like some specific flower Paul couldn’t name.

“Fucking Raiders,” Walter said.

The first game of the season was playing on an old portable black-and-white TV on the railing of his back porch. The Broncos had just returned an interception for a touchdown.

“I just keep coming back, year after year. Ever feel like the thing that really kills you is hope?” Walter asked.

“Never quite looked at it that way,” said Paul. “But I guess I know what you mean.” He’d stopped by and introduced himself on the way back down from Tulac.

After the extra point, Paul said, “So anyway, you’re probably wondering what I’m doing here.”

“I figured you’d get around to it.”

“I wanted to ask you about the WINO days,” said Paul.

“Shoot.”

“Do you remember anything weird happening around the time of my parents’ death?”

“Weird like how?”

“Like anything that made you wonder if the whole thing might not have been an accident?”

“Wow. Oh, man. . . . That period is a little blurry. We called ourselves WINO for a reason,” Walter said with a chuckle, then stopped himself. “Sorry. It’s terrible what happened to your folks.”

“That’s okay.”

“Actually, Jas—Jasmine, my ex-wife—was more into the whole WINO thing than I was. She was kind of the secretary or treasurer of the group. You probably know this already, but another couple was originally scheduled to be there that weekend. That’s what she told me, anyway.”

“Mal and Mel Sundstrom?” Paul asked.

“Sundstrom, right,” said Walter. “Me and Jas used to call them the Malmels. We could never remember which one was Mal and which was Mel. Was it Melanie or Melvin? Mallory or Malcolm? We used to crack each other up over that.” He smiled at the memory. “Anyway, I never heard from them after the accident. I guess the party was just
over
, you know? They lived out in Easternville, I think.”

“Yeah, that’s what I heard.”

Walter looked at him for a while. Then he said, “Look, Paul, I’d say you should probably just let it go, but that’s what everyone says. The part they leave out is that it doesn’t mean shit if the thing you let go of isn’t ready to let go of
you.”

They sat for a moment, watching the game.

“Spoken like a true Raider fan,” Paul said.

Walter laughed. He pointed to the overgrown jasmine in the corner of the yard. “Smell that? Every night the breeze comes right through that thing and I’m just transported.”

“They say the sense of smell bypasses the rational part of the brain,” said Paul.

“It definitely bypasses the part of the brain that would allow me to cut that fucker down.”

“Do you ever hear from Jasmine or . . . Victor?” Paul asked.

“Not since she sent the divorce papers.”

“Where are they now?”

“I try not to give it much thought,” he said, staring at the unruly bush. “I mean, what are the odds?”

“Of what?” Paul asked.

“Her name was Jasmine, and that’s exactly how she smelled.”
³¹

Paul had no answer for that. The Broncos waltzed in for another score.

Paul stopped at the Timberline to collect his thoughts. The place was lively for a Sunday night. He figured the regulars had finally recovered from Terry’s wake and were ready to resume, as Terry would say, “fightin’ that bear.”

Paul was surprised to see Rafael running the pool table. It was unusual for him to be here on a Sunday night. Paul sat in the corner and put his name up on the chalkboard. In fifteen minutes Rafael had dispatched a couple of players, bringing Paul’s turn up.

“Not a bad send-off, huh?” Rafael said, seeming a little tense as they shook hands.

“What’s that?”

“Terry’s party.”

“Yeah. He would have been pleased.”

Raf made two solids on the break, sunk another, and then missed a bank shot. Paul chalked his cue and asked, “So . . . did you know Terry well?”

“Tell you the truth, I only met him a few times. Great dude, though. My buddy Brice was friends with him. Anyway, I kind of figured Terry wouldn’t mind a couple of freeloaders looking for free booze.”

Paul laughed. “You got that right. So what brings you up here on a Sunday night?”

Instead of answering the question, Rafael asked, “What do you think happened to Terry?”

“No idea,” Paul said, losing his smile. “Why?”

Rafael shrugged as he prepared for his next shot. “I haven’t heard from Brice in a couple of weeks. He didn’t show up at Terry’s wake. Normally I’d be cool with it. Now that the whole random-violent-death thing is looking more chronic than acute, I’m not so cool with it.” He sank the shot with unnecessary force.

“Nice shot,” said Paul. “Tough leave, though.”

Rafael gave him a cool look, then missed.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Paul said. “But is a week out of touch really so bizarre for your friend? Mercer isn’t exactly known for its reliable nine-to-five types. I mean, Terry used to disappear all the time.”

“Point taken,” Rafael said. “Brice isn’t the most predictable dude in the world. But we’re tight—he should have at least texted me. All I’m sayin’ is, whoever killed Hart and Terry might know at least something about Brice, too.”

“Who says someone killed Terry?”

“Come on, man.”

“Shit happens,” said Paul. “Some towers just collapse. Some planes just explode. A lot of stuff goes on that we never understand. Seems to me that people don’t really go off the rails until they try to assign meaning to things that are just random.”

“Okay. But once you figure out one death, what if everything else starts making sense? Then maybe we could all stop worrying about where the hammer’s gonna fall next.”

Rafael crouched down to size up the eight ball. “I’m on your side, man,” he said quietly. “Looks like we both lost our best friend.”

Paul was already returning his cue to the rack when the eight clicked into the pocket. He didn’t feel like they were on the same side. His best friend was dead; Rafael’s had just become suspect number one. Or would have, if Paul were investigating.

On the way to his truck, Paul noticed Lito sitting in his car, talking on his cell phone. Paul gave him a casual wave as he passed. Lito kept talking into his phone as he hopped out of the Tercel, calling after Paul.

“Lito. How’s it goin’?”

“Hey, man. Hangin’ in there, I guess,” Lito said, giving him a weary fist bump. “Look, my dad’s on the line. He wants to say hello. Make peace, you know? He feels bad about Marv and everything.” He handed Paul the phone.

“Hello?” said Paul.

“Paul. Jay Babalato. Look, I just wanted to say how sorry I am about your loss. Terry was a good man. We’re going to miss him a lot around here.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Also, I want to personally apologize for my brother’s actions. He was way out of line. He gets a little passionate sometimes. He doesn’t mean any harm.”

“I appreciate that. Thanks.”

“Look, I’d really like to buy you lunch. How about noon tomorrow at Verducci’s?”

“Uh . . .”

“It’ll be worth your time, I promise. Just you and me, no Marv, no strings attached. I have an opportunity that might interest you. If not, no harm done.”

“Okay.”

“Perfect. See you then, Paul.”

Paul handed the phone back to Lito. “Dad?” Lito said into the phone, but Jay had already hung up.

“Thanks, bro,” Lito said as he started toward the Timberline’s entrance.

“Hang on a sec,” said Paul.

“Yeah?”

“I was just thinking. You know what’s weird? We saw that plane explode and then we never talked about it again.”

Lito shrugged. “Shit happens,” he said, and entered the bar.

On the drive home Paul called Brandy to tell her about the lunch with Jay so he’d at least have a witness if something went wrong.

“Just be careful, baby,” she said.

When Paul finally pulled into his driveway, Irving came running up to the truck without the usual beak or squirrel elbow. Instead he gave Paul a blank look. Lacey’s car was gone, but that wasn’t so strange.

The front door was locked, and inside the house everything looked fine. Paul went downstairs to check on the plants. When he opened the sealed door to the grow room, he was blasted with light. Paul checked his watch in a panic. It should have been dark in there.

One of the first things Terry had taught him was that too much light during the plants’ dark cycle would cause them to hermaphroditize, rendering them useless.
“Dude looks like a lay-day,”
Terry had sung, by way of explanation. “Sometimes ‘she’s got it all’ ain’t a compliment.” Paul checked the timer. The settings had been reversed. A quick examination of the plants confirmed that it was too late.

Paul unplugged the lights and sat in his newly decorative herb garden. He was a man in the dark. In a few weeks, when the last of the finished product was sold, he’d be a man without an income. He wondered how Lacey would take the news. Then he had an ugly thought.

NOTES:

Lisa,

I’ll be brief. If you can continue to resist your murderous urges, I can keep playing nice.

Dave

P.S. I hope Paul’s admission about his college degree didn’t touch a nerve.

Dave,

So nice to see Irving again. That’s one smart cat. I wonder if
he
turned on the lights.

Amusing dig about my absent bachelor’s degree. With an MFA in creative writing I can’t imagine how many books I’d have published by now. Maybe zero.

I’ll play nice, too. I think I like what you’re doing with Paul’s investigation into his parents’ death. It’s a little off-point, but at least he’s doing something other than listening to Bach with Brandy.

Lisa

P.S. To answer your previous note, I suspect there are a few people who would work with me. I wouldn’t have them start from scratch—we’d just excise your chapters and they’d figure out how to fill in the gaps.

CHAPTER 21

When Lacey returned home that night, the house was aglow, but not in the usual TV blue. Paul stared at the flames in the fireplace in stony silence.

“Paul,” Lacey said. “Are you all right?”

“Check the grow room,” he replied without turning away from the flames.

Lacey headed down to the basement, opened the door, and was blinded by the glare of the lights. Once her eyes adjusted, she recognized the sabotage at once. As she cycled through the possible suspects, she also felt relief. With most of their income gone, wasn’t this a good time to get out?

“I’m sorry,” Lacey said.

In the glow of the fire, Lacey could see Paul’s eyes watering.

“Forgive me for saying this,” she said, “but you seem more broken up about the loss of your plants than the loss of your best friend.”

“People grieve in different ways.”

“Do you know who did this?” Lacey asked.

“If I did, do you think I’d be sitting here doing nothing?”

“Probably.” She regretted the response the moment it escaped her lips. But it was the truth. Even as children, Paul’s response to a crisis was inertia. For some reason, Lacey remembered what she would later refer to as The Pop-Tart Incident. Paul’s breakfast caught fire in the toaster when he was ten. Lacey came into the kitchen and saw Paul staring at the flames as they ignited a dishrag. There was a fire extinguisher under the sink. Lacey put out the flames as Paul watched.

And here he was again. Just staring at the fire.

“What now?” Lacey asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I have some things to tell you,” Lacey said.

“Can they wait?”

“You’re just watching a fire burn.”

“It’s peaceful, Lace. Just let me have this.”

Tiny bursts of glowing embers breathed their last breath. All that was left was spent lumber and ash. Lacey broke the silence just as the final flicker of light died.

“Terry was murdered,” she said.

“I figured as much,” Paul replied.

“Whoever murdered him probably wanted the land.”

“Maybe.”

“Probably.”

“That’s debatable,” Paul said. He was already thinking about his meeting with Jay Babalato the next day. If he believed Jay was a murderer, he’d feel like an accomplice.

“What else do you need to tell me, Lacey?”

The news about Brandy was on the tip of her tongue, but she decided there was a better way to handle it.

“Nothing,” she replied.

“You said you had
things
to tell me,” said Paul. “That implies there was at least one more thing.”

“Oh right. Uh, I think the porch light needs changing.”

“I’ll get to it tomorrow,” Paul replied.

That light had been out for six months. He knew Lacey was holding out on him. That night he went to bed wondering how well he really knew his own sister.