Vengeance (8 page)

Chapter 9

Evidence of Aiden’s murder was not exactly piling up. But suspicion was swelling enough to convince me to find out what I could from this Rook character. And I knew I could find him at Andy’s later that night. But the sun was only just setting, so I had time to reconsider whether I was thinking straight. In the meantime, there were a few loose ends I could take care of.

I drove to Aiden’s old apartment building by memory. This time I heard footsteps immediately upon knocking. A woman about my age opened the door wide. She had the look of a farmer’s daughter who had taken a job as a bartender. She was wearing a plunging tank-top and gray sweat pants and I had to force myself to maintain eye contact. I introduced myself and she invited me in. Her name was Anna. She left the door resting against the jam without closing it all the way. No one had mentioned Aiden having a girlfriend, so maybe the two of them were nothing more than roommates. I didn’t want to ask that straight out, so I just said, “Were you guys close?”

“He was nice,” Anna said. “But we didn’t hang out much. We’d bump into each other in the kitchen and we watched TV together now and then, but we mostly kept to ourselves and didn’t spend much time in the apartment.”

It was difficult to imagine Aiden living with a woman as attractive as her and not putting the moves on. Maybe he was still in love with Paige and maybe they were working on things, after all.

“Can I see his room?” I asked.

“I packed his stuff up,” Anna said. “Landlord took twenty bucks off my rent to move it to the basement. He wants the room rented ASAP.”

She led me downstairs, leaving me in the light that tumbled over the edges of the steps as she ventured into the dark to pull the overhead light cord. She pointed to a handful of boxes in two stacks in the far corner. Each stack had a huge box at the bottom. Each slumped from the weight of the smaller boxes on top.

“I just dumped his drawers into them,” she explained. “It didn’t feel right handling his things. Maybe I’m superstitious.”

When I lifted two of the smaller boxes onto a straight back chair and dragged it a few feet so it was right under the glaring bulb, she said, “You need some help loading these in your car?”

Of course, that’s what she would expect. But I had no idea whether the boxes held anything worth lugging around. And I couldn’t take much on the airplane, anyway.

“There’s something specific I’m looking for,” I said. She cocked her head as if surprised to learn there might be hidden treasure in those weathered boxes.

I figured they were either going to sit in that corner until the whole heap biodegraded or they’d be hefted out to the alley with the trash. So I promised not to leave a mess behind and she left me to go through the contents.

The first box contained avalanches of cassette cases, playing cards, a few Polaroids, and a handful of loose change at the bottom. The biggest boxes were crammed full of clothes and shoes. The overwhelming scent of Brut deodorant and the funk of dirty socks affirmed those were Aiden’s belongings. I dug to the bottom of each corner and fished around to make sure I wasn’t missing anything. If there had been something of monetary value, Anna might have fished it out of the debris. But I wasn’t rifling for items to pawn. I was hoping to find something of nostalgic value, whatever that might’ve turned out to be. A memento. But I came up empty on that score. The few photographs were goofy party shots of Aiden and various friends. Nothing especially flattering or worth keeping.

If there was one item Aiden owned that could remind me of him, what would it be?

Truth is, we moved often. We always lived within a certain radius of the poorest part of town. Still, each move marked the abandonment or forfeiture of some measure of our belongings. Landlords sometimes seized or discarded our stuff before we arrived home from school to find ourselves locked out of another “home.” Our dad sitting in the car at the curb to gather us up.

So Aiden wasn’t likely to own gold candlesticks or silver picture frames. What treasure had I hoped to find? As I sifted through another box, I dredged up a pair of his trademark aviator glasses. One lens was shattered. While Anna most likely hadn’t pilfered any riches, she may have inadvertently broken the glasses as she unceremoniously dumped his things. Or maybe not. A broken pair of cheap gas station sunglasses could be explained by any number of colorful stories. So I let go of my imagined resentment toward her.

I stacked the boxes and pulled the cord on the light before letting myself out. In a sense, I left emptier than when I arrived. Such sparse accoutrements amassed over twenty plus years. If someone asked me what Aiden’s life had amounted to, was that heap of laundry and kitsch all there was to show? And if I explained our nomadic existence led to a dearth of belongings and they instead asked for the balance of Aiden’s accomplishments, how could I account? Had he saved a group of orphans from a fire in the night? Had he discovered a source of renewable energy?

But whose measure and definition of worth was I applying?

Had Aiden made his lovers laugh? Had he protected his friends and family like a centurion? Had he sat at the foot of his parents’ bed at six years of age and read to his four year-old brother? Had he, by reading that Judy Blume book, cast an enchantment on me?

“Is that really what it says?” I asked.

I made him read a few passages multiple times to listen for inconsistencies, a test of whether he was making up the words and not really deciphering the printed characters that I found familiar but impenetrable.

“You already read the whole book?” I asked.

I wasn’t sure he wasn’t lying just to impress me. I asked him how it ended then had him read to me from the final pages for confirmation, trusting that he wasn’t conning me.

I had never wanted anything more in my life than to be able to read like Aiden. To be like Aiden. That’s what inspired me to learn to read, and how I learned to ride a bike. And swim. In many ways, he was more a father to me than our dad was. I idolized Aiden. Everything I could ever make of myself was in some measure due to him.

When I got to the motel I checked for messages before calling the mortuary again. I hung up when the answering machine came on the line. It was probably after hours. I had hoped to talk to someone there before going through with talking to Rook. But I was running short on time and needed to pursue every avenue. I hadn’t asked my dad when Andy’s closed, but I could guess it would be at least midnight. In the meantime, I turned the TV to a movie and ended up falling asleep on and off through its second half and the late news. I left the motel with plenty of time to grab a couple of cheap drive-through tacos to eat on the way. But when I tried to pay at the drive-through, my wallet was missing. I must have left it in the motel.

I parked at the back of the lot behind Andy’s, where unkempt trees grasped at the sky beyond the privacy fence behind me. It was as stealthy a location as could be found. I reclined the seat and slouched low to avoid attention. After feeling anxious when I first arrived, I fell into a calm. All I could do was watch and wait. And listen to my stomach grumble. It would have sped things up to go inside and ask to see Rook, but my dad had warned me he wasn’t a man who entertained unannounced visitors. Anyone who had any business seeing him would be sent his way by someone he knew or would set up a meeting in advance. Best case scenario, if I tried walking in there, I’d just be stone-walled, meaning I’d have to try again. And I didn’t have time to set up an appointment.

As the first hour went by, there were steady surges of traffic beyond the bar every time the stoplight near the mall changed. Every so often, two or three patrons sauntered in or staggered out together. No one walked into this place alone, it seemed. The new arrivals didn’t interest me. I was sure Rook was already inside. So I avoided turning my head to survey each incoming car. After all, I didn’t need them noticing me and telling someone inside they were under surveillance.

My eyes were fixed on the figures coming out the side door. Their cars were parked between mine and the bar, so they had to walk toward me along the narrow passage between the bar’s metal shell and the chain link fence armored with aluminum privacy slats. They often stumbled and caught themselves on one side or another, always accompanied by a metallic response. The wall was sturdy like a bass, while the tinny fence rippled toward its opposite ends, like a futuristic harp. I could stare at them a good ten seconds before they would be close enough to notice me behind the windshield in the dark. That was more than enough time to rule them out based on their silhouettes alone. None of them cut the imposing figure Rook was sure to have.

After a half hour lull, a single figure trod into the night. Lenny the bartender. His tired steps seemed to be dragged behind the rest of him toward his car, which he idled for two full minutes before pulling out. Once he was gone, the only other car in the gravel lot was a silver BMW with impenetrably tinted windows. For all I knew, there could have been someone in that car the entire time I was staking out the bar’s side door. They could have been watching me watch the side door, waiting for me to make my move before easing out behind me, aiming sleek 9mm pistols from hip level, casual as gunfighters plinking bottles off a split-rail fence.

As the bar’s door opened for the final time, I knew it would have to be Rook. I sat upright and opened the car door. He must have been six foot four or more, but he actually appeared almost stocky due to the girth of his thighs, arms, and chest. I started toward him, the gravel beneath my feet announcing my presence. As he turned from locking the door and faced me, my heart leapt. There was a seconds-long intense stare that should have stopped me in my tracks and reversed my course. Even a little kid who happens by a loose grizzly bear would think twice about trying to pet it. But I strode along, closing the distance between us. He started walking toward me.

“Rook?” I said.

When he was one last step away, he raised his hand, and I raised mine to intercept the offer of a handshake. But as his hand continued to rise I realized I had misinterpreted the gesture and I was too late to react. I caught the blur of his open hand swatting my temple. That’s when the film flapped off the reel.

*

“What I want you to consider,” a voice was saying through the tar that engulfed my head, “is that the best thing for you to do is stay in your seat. If you try to get up, you’re going to fall on your face. But if you don’t fall, one of my friends behind you is going to smash your face into something. So staying put saves us all a lot of trouble, doesn’t it?”

I tried to open my eyes, but the lids wouldn’t respond. I lifted a hand to my head, but it wouldn’t come. It was anchored, bound. Both of my hands together. I could feel the rope on my skin now. The tar was melting. Again, I tried my eyes, and this time they blinked hesitantly several times, but finally remained partially open. We were in the bar. I could tell not only from how little detail I could see in the dark, but because the smells were the same as I remembered. The ropes on my wrists were several loops thick. As I tried to raise my hands as one, I could feel the tug on the base of the chair. My wrists were bound together, and in turn secured to the chair.

“You weren’t carrying a gun,” his voice said. The tar was completely gone now, but my head was heavy as I lifted my face to see who was in front of me. Somehow in the absence of almost all light, his form still eclipsed enough of the surroundings to know it had to be Rook.

“Or any weapons at all,” he continued. His voice was clear and deep, and every word sounded as if it was a command boomed at a guard dog in training. Yet there was also a cadence to his speech that was almost relaxing. “So we made sure to tie up those hands with extra care.”

“What?” I said. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was asking about.

“If they sent someone after Rook unarmed, that ain’t no mother fucker I want getting his hands on me,” a man behind me said.

Rook had said we weren’t alone. Now I had confirmation. I could hear a second man snigger. So there were at least three of them. Not that it mattered. I couldn’t take Rook even if I hadn’t been tied up. There was no sense in struggling or arguing. The time for that had passed while I was out cold. The current situation was a matter of me waiting to be killed, I thought. Strangely, I wasn’t nervous. Maybe it was because the matter was already decided. Or maybe it was because there was obviously some sort of mistaken identity going on.

“I don’t know you,” Rook said, almost as if he were reading my mind. My eyes were adjusting to the absence of light. His face was a smudge in the dark. He said, “Should I? By reputation? Know you?”

“By reputation? No. No. This is some kind of a mix up.”

“So you’re a nobody?” he said. “They could have at least sent someone I’d heard of. Shown me that much respect.”

“They?”

“The people who sent you.”

“Nobody sent me,” I said. Maybe I was just disoriented, but I was swept up in setting straight whatever he was talking about instead of pursuing my own agenda.

“Nobody sent you,” he repeated, underscoring his disbelief.

“Nobody sent me.”

“All right, Mr. Nobody Sent Me. What the fuck are we doing here? You come to rob this place? You can’t be that stupid. Bottom line is you’re wasting my time,” Rook said. His form swelled, as if he had been leaning and now stood erect. He marched for the hall, toward the side door. “Break whatever it takes until he decides to forget he ever came in here,” he ordered, his voice like a muscle car rumbling into the distance.