Henry Wood: Time and Again: (2 page)

Now, Henry took another shot of vodka. He could imagine her with the chiseled cheek bones, button nose, and those piercing eyes, sitting across the table. It hurt to think about her.

Henry stood up from the table and walked around the room. Her face was firmly fixed in his mind. She wasn't the love of his life…that painful wound belonged to another memory. She was something, though. Henry took a hit from the bottle and stood looking out of the window. The cars rolled past. A woman chased her bonnet making an attempted getaway. A police officer was giving directions to an elderly couple. Henry noticed a man lighting up a cigarette with a cabbie on the corner, but as he turned away from the window, there she was again, in his mind, walking around his soul and bumping into all of the bottled up emotions he had hidden away. If she wasn't careful, she might knock one over and let those feelings spill out. That wouldn't do at all.

He was more tired than drunk. Back in the day, Henry really knew how to crawl into a bottle, but it seemed that those days might have passed, too. He didn't go to bed, though; he lay down on the couch and put his arm across his eyes. He tried to shut out the dim light from the street and the burning light of her face in his mind's eye. He wondered if she realized the pain she had inflicted when sending him the record.

She was the kindest person he knew. It seemed unlikely that she envisioned him spending months being torn to shreds emotionally when he failed to find her. It just wasn't her way.

His mind retrieved a happier moment. It was the day they spent looking at early works of art by Henri Matisse. Henry didn't care much for art, until he saw it through her eyes. She talked with ease about Matisse's first paintings. Henry didn't understand much of what she was saying, but he never dismissed art again. In fact, there were many times, over the years, when he found himself drawn into a museum for comfort. The quiet appealed to him. Eventually he started to enjoy the paintings, too.

Art wasn't the only mark she had left on his life. She had taught him to dream. When they would meet, usually at the diner, the conversation would often be about what was to come. She talked about the family she would raise with her fiancé when he returned from saving the world. What Henry found most endearing is that the dream constantly changed. The names of the children were never the same. The houses moved from the city to the country and all around the world. Even her plans for the big wedding were a work in progress.

She did have one constant, and that was the dress. Henry loved hearing her describe it. She knew every detail and would blush when realizing that she was going on about it, again. Henry always told her to continue, which she gladly did.

She was simple and complex, light and dark, day and night, and more than anything, she was unlike anyone he had ever met, before or since.

Her memory brought Henry such pain mixed with joy…he couldn't bring himself to utter her name. He thought about saying it, just once, but held his tongue.

Just as he was fading off to sleep, he cursed his radio, for it, really, was the one that poured the salt into his wound.

If Henry had not had the radio on, he would have remained at home. He might have still been in his shop when the flash of light and loud pop came from his closet. He would have noticed the new “present” left for him in the strange closet.

He may have been able to stop what was about to happen.

Chapter Three

While Henry slept, his old mentor was celebrating just ten blocks away.

Michael Thomas Moore, named for the poet, gave Henry his start in the private detective business. Now he was nearing the end of his days of stakeouts, crappy food, and sleeping in his car with the Leica camera on the seat next to him.

Everyone called him “Mickey.” He taught Henry to pick a lock, trail a suspect, and always have friends on the force. Mickey would say things like, “The clients always lie,” or “If the retainer is too generous, the job is too dangerous,” and “Never forget your notebook... and write down everything.”

Mickey had shown Henry the art of observation. They had spent hour upon hour just watching people. If they weren't on a case, Mickey was teaching him to see his surroundings. At any moment, Mickey would ask, "What color hat was the woman we just passed wearing?" If Henry didn't know, it would cost him lunch. Henry didn't make a lot of money back then, so he had to learn fast, or Mickey would eat up his entire paycheck.

The Dublin Rogue had darts, a pool table, peanuts and pretzels on the bar, half a dozen booths, and a perpetually sticky floor. A hangout for the local beat cops, this had become a favorite of Mickey's twenty years before. There were few people who could remember a day when he wasn't perched in his favorite spot. The bar had opened shortly after Prohibition ended, and not long after Mickey had become a fixture.

“The next round is on me!” Mickey said, as he raised his drink.

Everyone in the bar cheered. The waitress and bartender, though surprised, started handing out the beers. Three of New York's men in blue from the ninth precinct were giving Mickey a hard time about his largess. "I must really be plastered, did I hear that correctly? Mickey is finally buying a round!"

“I’m celebrating,

Mr. Thompson…er, sorry, Officer Thompson. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, and it isn't a train,” Mickey shot back triumphantly. He had known Bobby Thompson since he was a young boy trying to sneak into the bar. Mickey never got used to the idea of him being a full-fledged peace officer.

The short, round officer called Carl added, “You come in ta some dough, Mickey?”

The tall, thin sergeant, who everyone called Slim, said, “What's the story, Mic? You finally going to sail off into the sunset?”

Mickey had been telling everyone about his dream of buying a boat for years. He planned on sailing to Florida, opening a bar, spending his days on the beach, and his nights serving and drinking Mai Tais. Those who frequented the bar knew his dream by heart. They could describe the pool table in the corner, name the specials on Tuesday, and picture his vision as if it were a photo hanging on the wall.

He had developed a reputation for being a bit of a tightwad, which was true. Mickey had been living like a bum, which suited him, for thirty years. He saved every penny and knew exactly how much he needed.

Mickey took a long pull of his beer. “As you know, I have been looking forward to the day when I can sail off into the sunset and leave you rascals behind. This morning, I took my last job. Two weeks, three tops, and I'll be done with this racket! By June first, I should be ready to head south.”

“Cheers to Mickey!”

The waitress gave Mickey a kiss on the cheek, handed him another beer, and said, “Congrats, old man.”

Mickey asked her to sail away with him and then smacked her on the bottom.

“Can you even get your mainsail up?” she said with a wink. Those within earshot howled with laughter.

Everyone stopped over to pat Mickey on the back, ask him to describe his boat - just one more time - or just to thank him for the beer. After an hour or so, Mickey grabbed his hat and stepped out into the night to start his last job. The sky had opened up and a cold rain was pounding the pavement. Mickey yelled good-bye, held the day's newspaper over his head, and jogged to his car. The bar crowd gave him a cheer as he left.

Chapter Four

Bam! Bam! Bam!

The pounding on the door shook Henry from his dream. Nearly falling off the couch, he yelled, "What?"

"My name is Officer Brently. May I come in? There has been an accident."

Henry opened the door and held it for Officer Brently, "What sort of accident?"

"It looks like a hit and run, but that is not why I'm here. I was sent by Thompson; he said you should get down here right away. The vic is..." his voice trailed off. Officer Bentley had a habit of speaking very quickly realized the gravity of the situation. "The man who was killed is your friend Mickey."

Henry was stunned. He hadn't talked to Mickey in a couple of years and, suddenly, he was gone. "What happened?"

"I was told to bring you down to the scene. I'll tell you along the way."

Henry grabbed his overcoat and hat and didn't bother to lock the door behind him. The officer explained that Mickey had been hit after leaving The Dublin Rogue. It had just happened, and he had rushed over to get Henry. Officer Bentley gave his condolences and said that everyone who knew Mickey loved him. That was all there was to say, so they walked through the chilly night in silence.

Henry's mind raced. He checked to see if he had his notebook. He did. The memories of Mickey's teachings seemed to flood back to him. Henry remembered the saying Mickey used daily: "There are no coincidences and accidents are seldom accidental." Henry picked up the pace of his stride.

After six blocks they rounded the corner. The lights of the squad cars cut through the dark and damp. The street was wet and lined with cars; a few lights on in the buildings. A crowd of people stood outside of the bar. Henry passed from the sidewalk to the street through a gap in the parked cars. He was greeted by Officer Carl whom Henry had known since he was a boy. The look on Carl's face was of profound sadness. He had loved Mickey like a father much like Henry did. "It was raining pretty hard, and it looks like the driver didn't see him. We were inside, and a couple who left a few minutes after Mickey found him."

"The driver didn't stop?"

"Nope, looks like a hit and run. We are going to canvas the neighborhood and find out if anyone saw anything, but, with the rain, I doubt anyone could have seen much. Maybe if they happened to be looking, a make and model, but I don't know."

Henry didn't have anything to say. He walked over to the body, lifted the corner of the sheet, and looked at his friend. The peaceful look on Mickey's face seemed out of place. Henry expected anguish or terror but didn't find it. He badly wanted Mickey to offer him one more rule to live by. Something inane that would bring comfort at this exact moment. The noise from the city and the crowd seemed to fade away. Those who were standing about gave Henry and Mickey a moment to be alone.

This made it easier for Henry to slip Mickey's notebook out of his breast pocket. He took the pen as well not because it was important but because Henry knew that the pen without the notebook might draw attention.

“Always think about how things go together,” popped into Henry's head. Promises were taken seriously by Mickey, and he had instilled this in Henry. He could hear Mickey clear as a bell. He was still speaking to him. Henry covered Mickey back up and stood slowly. "I hear you. I'll find out who did this."

The rain was still falling though it had slowed. Henry walked up the street to the spot where he had crossed from the sidewalk. He stood there. The emptiness was out of place. He looked up and down the street. The rest of the street was lined with cars bumper to bumper. This spot was just five cars behind where Mickey had parked. Henry looked down at the pavement. A tiny stream of rainwater passed across the middle of the spot. Against the rear tire of the car in front, water was pooling. Henry looked closer.

A small wet pile of cigarette butts gathered between the edge of the tire and the curb. Henry walked up the street a ways. The rest of the gutter was wiped clean from the hard rain. Somebody had been sitting in their car smoking, and, by the number of cigarettes, they had been there a long time. This wasn't a hit and run. It was murder.

Henry's hand went to his coat pocket just to check that Mickey's notebook was still there. He pulled out his own notebook, counted the wet butts, and noted it. He counted the number of cars parked on the street and wrote down the license plates of the ones surrounding Mickey's car.

Henry walked home slowly. Mickey's words followed him: “Life is short; do what you love; and never have regrets.” Mickey said this while placing a bet on a horse. He lost the bet but loved the action. “All women are trouble except for one. The hard part is finding the one.” This was the wisdom Mickey passed along after Henry had gotten the first letter. It hadn't made him feel any better. In fact, it made him feel worse. “Pain is sweetest when it's from a crazy and beautiful girl.” This was sort of said, sort of slurred while Mickey was drowning his sorrows after his longtime, part-time love interest had finally given up on him.

Now he was gone. Henry was filled with regret at not having stayed in touch. He knew Mickey wouldn't approve of his feelings and would likely say, "Don't cry for me; drink a toast and be done with it. Plus, crying is for girls or guys who are drunk. And you aren't drunk yet."

Henry wasn't drunk though he wanted to be. He wished he had drank more vodka earlier in the evening. The ten-block walk home wasn't long enough. He went right past the stairs to his apartment and continued on into the city night. The last few hours had been devastating.

"Damn you, Kat!" he said out loud and regretted it soon after. He hadn't said her name in years and had fought off the temptation earlier when he was wallowing in self-pity. She snuck past his lips, and the sound of her name ripped through him.

Katarina, who had been named for Katherine the Great, by her mother who loved history. She was well liked by Mickey. He often told Henry to stop being her friend and start being a man. Henry never listened and had let her slip away without ever telling her how he felt. He had assumed she knew, but how would she have known? Now Mickey was gone, and her memory was back.