The Law Fought Me - Ch. 7

It felt like an hour I hung out in the phone booth before the cavalry arrived. I heard the sirens howl first. Then down the road through the gloom and rain came the red and blue sparkles. I approached slowly, hands in pockets. The exercise kept me awake. The rain splashed off the brim of my brown fedora and hit me across the face now and then. Policemen rushed into Jackal’s, startling pedestrians and a couple coming out of the bar. I’d cut through the kitchen pretending to be a P.I. chasing a cheating wife and lifted the address off a chef. It was official. I was a stoolie.

Lieutenant Carbone dodged in and out of the cars, wearing a heavy coat. Detective Schok stomped out of the bar and hollered something in the swell. He opened up a police car on the passenger side and rode off in the rain, lights rotating but the siren cut. Carbone weaved in my direction and froze at the sight of me. The light caught his face so I could see him biting his lip. He let me get close enough so he could speak without yelling.

“Gartner.” The rain dripped off his titled fedora. His brow remained stiff. He bit his lip.

I kept my hands in my pockets.

“How did he get away from you?”

“I think it’s better if we talk in the cruiser. The rain’s getting in my pants.”

Carbone nodded wisely and made lunging strides across the sidewalk to his cruiser, lights revolving through the curtain of rain.

“He might still be in the area,” I said.

“Any idea which way he may have gone?”

I pointed along the curb. “The car faced that way when we parked, but I have no idea.”

We hopped in and Carbone pulled ahead in the direction the sedan had faced. He used the radio to post an update on the grey sedan I had described. I told him the make, but not model, and the first number of the plate. I took off my wet jacket and shivered.

“Let’s warm up with some coffee,” said Carbone.

Before I could turn him down, he pulled into a diagonal parking spot in front of a lit joint. I pulled myself together, covered my head with my jacket, and ran inside. There was nobody in except one employee and one customer. Carbone took a seat at the counter and I dragged myself on a cushioned stool next to him. A woman in her forties sat at the far end against the wall by the door, and a man with slicked hair and a mustache patted his side of the counter to the beat of some song on the radio. “Looks like the storm chewed you and spat you out. Let me guess, coffee?”

“Two, black.” Carbone had gotten a pencil from somewhere and was tapping it on the edge of the counter, but not to the tune on the radio.

“You mind if I lay my jacket on the counter to dry?”

“Sure,” the man beamed, “If there’s a tip in it for me. I’m kiddin’, slightly.”

I laid it out to my left and leaned my head on my hand, facing Carbone, but by no means focusing on him. My eyes blurred over the specks of color in the creme counter, the beads of water on Carbone’s coat.

“Tell me the story.”

“Right.” I raised my face to his and told him the whole story. The meeting of ex-girlfriends, chauffeuring a wanted fugitive. I spared nothing except for maybe giving Bianchi a pass to slip out of prison.

I removed the list of girlfriends from my pocket and handed it to Carbone. “All in Emerald’s handwriting.”

The server set out coffees down. I checked my watch.

“Warm your hands. If you don’t want it, I’ll drink it.” Carbone said it in a way that wasn’t an insult, then raised his mug. My eyes glazed at the coffee keg behind the counter in the corner of the place, then it dragged over the various cups and ingredients to other combinations of food and drink, over to the other corner, where an older woman sat in a hat with a puff on it.

“It’s four am. My body wants the few hours it has left to nap.”

The door jingled and we looked at some guy come in with his jacket slick with rain. “I’m sorry, Norman. Why don’t you go on home?”

I lazily tossed a finger at the guy behind us. “That is why.”

The guy came up to the counter with biscuits and slid some money across, then another jingle. Carbone went on tapping the pencil.

“You can’t canvas all of New York yourself. Someone will find him. An all-nighter isn’t going to help your keen senses of detection.” I looked at the woman. “Why do you stay up all night?”

She raised her head, becoming alert. Her face configured into confusion. “I beg your pardon?”

“I won–” I temporarily lost faculties of speech. “I was wondering why you’re here instead of getting some decent sleep at home.”

She rustled the newspaper she was holding, then scoffed. “Minding my coffee, officer.”

I turned to my coffee, staring at the reflection of an overhead light for some explanation. Prostitute? Bad day? I laid a hand on it but returned it to my lap. Carbone stared straight ahead at some advertisements on the wall. “With his record lately, I wonder what made him spare you.”

Not here, Carbone, with the public listening. I kept my voice low. “He wouldn’t shoot me with Emerald there. He was obviously through with her, but he acted polite enough.”

“Why didn’t he rough you up?”

I wrapped my hands on the coffee. “He’s doing badly with his wounds.”

“I shouldn’t have brought you so deep into this,” said Carbone, “You aren’t trained. If you were, you would have known to check Miss Norval’s purse. She could have killed him. We need to arrest him alive. For the good of his family. Hauser’s family. They need this trial.”

“I’m sorry.” I wasn’t. The word “sorry” didn’t mean anything to me. I used it mechanically. “You should get some rest,” I said. “It’s a job, it’s not your life. He’s only been out a day. You’ll catch him. They know the car he’s in. We have an updated list of all his exes. Who can he turn to?”

“The other day Schok and I chased his kid brother up and down mainstreet. We heard from another kid he was bringing Rocco around. The other kids have started doing it too. They think he’s some kind of hero. The longer he’s out, the worse it gets. It’s not fun and games, Gartner. There are real consequences. We’re going to arrest Miss Blayney and Miss Norval the moment we lay eyes on them.” He reached into his coat. “Mind if you describe the doctor to me? This Ben Watt?”

I bit my lip and covered it with my hand to keep from smiling. I didn’t believe in arresting Bianchi’s accomplices at all. I used Lynn’s mispronunciation to give the croaker a chance.

“He was an older gentleman wearing glasses. Tall, sort of skeletal looking…”

Lieutenant Carbone finished making note of my descriptions and left money on the counter. “Let’s go, Gartner.” He hesitated reaching for my mug. “Mind if I?”

I slipped on my damp jacket. “Go ahead.”

As we headed for the door, the mustached man said, “Good luck catching him!”

“Thank you,” said Carbone, “Good morning.”

I made an expression that passed for a smile.

I collapsed on the cold seat and took off my damp jacket. My shirt clung to my skin. Carbone pulled onto the empty road. It was dark still. Everything had a dull blue hue to it.

Carbone rubbed his temple and set his hat on the dashboard. A lock of damp black hair fell over his forehead. His voice was a low murmur. “There’s something that bothers me…” 

He let the phrase hang. The radio crackled and he grabbed it in a fist, but no voice spoke, so he returned it to its hook on the dashboard. “I looked up your employee file.”

I didn’t move. My fake credentials, my illicitly obtained P.I. license.

“Your name is listed Norman J. Gartner. Your middle name…” Another grab of adrenaline. He swung his face toward me, eyebrows knotted and arched in an unease too queasy to stomach. He looked woozy. “Is it–’Jerome?’”

“It’s Jeremy.”

He turned to the road, looking hurt. “Jeremy…?”

“How could you think I made up that fake name? Jerome? Why the hell would I make up some ridiculous name like Jerome Verrazzo? No, I’m sorry, why the hell would I help the very crook we’re investigating escape? Isn’t that completely diametrical to our investigation?”

“No. It isn’t.”

I looked at him. He was serious.

“If you wanted to draw out his accomplices in the Bembo case, what better way then letting Bianchi loose on the streets? You could follow him right to them.”

 I raised a hand and let it hit my leg. “I called as soon as I could. The woman had a gun on me. The payphone was far away and they were gone by the time I finished the call.”

Carbone smirked and jabbed a finger over the wheel. “Now that’s what I just don’t get. Bianchi knew you worked for me. You got the information from him that he had a girlfriend out in the fray, the thing he wanted kept most secret, and yet he didn’t kill you. He didn’t even rough you up.”

“He was half-conscious and passed out in the armchair.”

“Why didn’t you call us then?”

“Lynn had a gun on me. She looked like she knew how to use it. I could have tried to take it, but I thought she’d use it on me. I preferred self-preservation. I did call you, didn’t I?”

Carbone laid a hand on my shoulder and patted it slowly. “At ease, Gartner. At ease.”

The car drifted toward the curb and he straightened it with a tug. I checked my watch.

I climbed up my apartment stairs with heavy lids and a heavy conscience. He knows. Maybe I did too good of a job, maybe putting the heat on Bianchi’s last known location had thrown him for a loop about the Jerome-Jeremy thing. If he finds out it’s prison, baby. I needed a phone. I needed to hear Vaness’ voice of assurance that she was alright, comfortably away from the hands of the law. I locked my door, then threw off my hat, my jacket, unhooked my belt, kicked off my shoes and climbed out of my pants. I threw on something to sleep in and got under the covers. My eyes sunk deep in my head, but then my consciousness snapped closer to the surface, saying, he knows.

I woke up in fear from a dream that evidence of some murder I committed had resurfaced, and my old friend was saying, “You’re EXPOSED. Who is Joe?” holding a letter with the photograph of this Joe trapped in a hotel-sized washing machine at the moment proceeding his death. My heart beat steady in my chest. The alarm went off and I clenched up. I hit it over the head with my pillow, swearing.

I had no choice but to get dressed. It was Thursday. I dragged myself to the kitchen and sat at the small dining set staring at the empty chair across from me. I wished there was someone sitting in it that I could talk to. I never should have taken this job. I thought being a detective assistant would get me close to the interesting stuff, but not close enough to get dragged into it. Why did I always let myself get dragged into it?

I should cut myself off from the case. Except for Vaness. I needed a telephone, damn…

Lieutenant Carbone wasn’t in at the office, but O’Grady was there, having placed a new stack of paperwork. He waited for me to sit behind it and look into his pasty face before explaining. “The hit and run case might have a new lead. There’s are possible matches on the car. Could you organize them for me by model? The driver was a woman, but don’t put aside any registrations based on sex. Likely unless she’s single, the papers are going to be in the man’s name.”

Yes, thank you, O’Grady, for your vast erudition.

“Now don’t get unenthusiastic cause it’s a car did it. We have witnesses this is homicide. The car bent straight for him.” He leaned sideways over the desk confidentially, letting me in on a little secret. “She looked angry.” He even winked. I tried not to look like I thought his attempt at humor was dull and unasked for, but it was very hard.

I spent a good two hours making penciled notes on which cars had repairs after the auto-icide, when I wasn’t staring at random things in the room. Detective O’Grady entered the office, scratching his stomach. “Has Carbone been in?”

“No.”

“Don’t he know the hit and run trial’s Monday? Just last night there was a hotel murder. I had to investigate it myself. This drunkard climbed out the second story and broke a leg an’ arm. Wasn’t too hard to track, he could only get over the garden wall into some shrubs. Only been there a few hours. Thought if he rested up, he could make a real good run.”

I tried to read the top sheet. “Yeah, sounds special. I’m sure Carbone missed out.”

“Say, you aren’t being sarcastic, are you?”

I couldn’t bother to answer. I was spared O’Grady’s fishhead stare when Carbone came in. O’Grady started with, “And the man of the hour,” or some nonsense but Carbone’s commanding presence took over with “I’m going to need the room.”

I opened my suitcase on my desk. “How much should I take with me, and where?”

Carbone paced. “Go on your lunch break.”

I checked my watch.

“A brunch break. It shouldn’t take more than an hour. If it does–” He waved his hand. “You can take notes.”

Carbone flattened against the door as I went out. I locked eyes with a short stocky man going in–the keyman the now-deceased Fates bribed to let me speak to Bianchi alone. He stared at me, blank, surprised. I casually drew a finger across my lips and then dragged my thumb under my chin. I exited the building.

I sat on a bench outside the police station, head in hands, staring at the street a few inches up from the curb. Wheels blurred by, and my gaze occasionally wandered, not far.

I remembered to check my watch. I resumed staring.

Eventually I heard my name and Detective Schok stepped beside me, hands on his hips. “We need you in the office.”

We approached the press room. Through the window I saw rows of desks occupied by slightly aged white men with whitening hair, some glasses, some not, all holding their hats on their desks. Carbone paced in front of them.

“They aren’t all Ben Watt, are they?”

Schok snarled. “There are no records of a Doctor Ben Watt, real or imaginary. But we rounded up every unlicensed quack in our records. He’s in there. And you’re gonna finger ‘im.”

Carbone opened the door and shut it behind himself. “What’s the hold up?”

“Gartner’s squeamish.”

“I don’t want him brandishing a scalpel like a dart if I identify him. Actually, I meant I’d like to identify him anonymously.”

Carbone angled his eyebrows. “What do you expect us to do?”

“You could put a sack on my head and cut out the eyes.”

“We don’t have sacks,” said Schok. “This look like a dungeon basement?” He sneered. “Don’t answer that.”

I peered into the window. “I can see him from here. Far corner by the closet.”

Carbone looked sternly at Schok. He opened the door with his back and Schok gave me a hard shove.

I stumbled into the room in front of the old men. They looked more horrible up close. A cop stood guard at the rear door leading into an adjoining office. No escape.

I turned to the door as Carbone strode in. “At 2:30 this morning a man with four bullet wounds was given emergency medical treatment in a grey Ford sedan on 54th street. He is described as wearing a pair of glasses, but.” Carbone looked up from the report. “He may have taken them off before he came here.” He sat on the desk comfortably and rolled the report up in his hands. “A licensed doctor is bound by law to report the treatment of bullet wounds to the police. Mr. Gartner?” He lazily batted the rolled paper in his other palm. “Do you recognize any of these gentlemen?”

They all stared back at me, including the cops poised at each door. Dr. Benoit didn’t look particularly troubled. Though, he wasn’t wearing his glasses, so maybe he couldn’t see me.

“Yeah. The gentleman in the rear corner by that closet.”

Carbone nodded and slid off the desk toward him. “Sir, may I see your wallet?”

“Sure,” said Dr. Benoit amiably.

Carbone thumbed through it, and pulled out a single five dollar bill. He aimed a frown at Schok. He leaned down onto the desk. “Can you pronounce your name, Mister Ben…?”

“Doctor Ben-wah. Is there something you were looking for in there?”

“Yes, Mr. Benoit, payment for treatment. But we can find that with a warrant. You may have been licensed during Prohibition, on another continent, but you aren’t now. We’d like you to come with us.”

“Of course,” he said, rising.

Carbone walked behind him to the door, and drew a hand over his slicked hair. He clamped a hand on Dr. Benoit’s shoulder at the door and motioned to Schok. “The rest can go home.”

The rest of the doctors ambled toward the exit. “Ahh, I figured it was him,” said Schok. “He’s got a record like… Well, the metaphor’s eluding me.” We followed the men out. “Gartner, why don’t you ever make it easy?”

I stuck my hands in my pockets and tried to look apologetic as I shuffled in front of him. He stepped in front of me. “Wrong way.”

“I’m taking my lunch break.”

“You usually take it in the office.”

“I wouldn’t want to distract the lieutenant with my munching.”

Schok made a scoff that was meant to be a cynical chuckle. He went to the horde of doctors and began herding them out like confused elephants.

Carbone, of course, was in the office with Dr. Benoit. My sandwich was in there. I walked a block to a deli and ate a better one. I was tempted to nap on the counter, but didn’t. When I got back, I could hear voices behind the door, so I got water from the glass jug as slowly as I could. No dice. There was a cop waiting outside now. I decided hell with it and went in. Carbone was tapping a paper on the desk, sitting on it, as usual. “Sign here.”

Dr. Benoit fiddled with his fedora. “I couldn’t be sure they were bullet wounds and not from a set of harpoons.”

“You knew it was illegal.”

Dr. Benoit signed and I sat at my desk. Carbone lunged for the door knob and the cop strolled in to take Dr. Benoit away.

Dr. Benoit looked back at me and went “tsk, tsk, tsk” with his tongue.

Carbone dragged his hand over his hair. “Holy smokes.” Something only he’d say. He dug through his desk papers. “He gave a description of the woman, Miss Lynn Blayney, matches yours. Better, he knows which way they went. Southeast. Miss Blayney mentioned something about where to take Bianchi and what to do with him. The woman with her, Miss Norval, seemed to have an idea, but Benoit left the car and they didn’t tell him. He says.” He leaned on the desk. “But I don’t know why they would. Any ideas?”

“Emerald got all the women together. She could persuade one to hold him.”

“We have a stakeout at every one of their addresses. Neither Miss Blayney or Miss Norval has gone home, so they must be somewhere.”

“With Bianchi’s mother? Emerald said she liked her soup.”

Carbone gathered some notes into his pockets and left the office.

My jokes just weren’t appreciated today.

I threw money on the counter of the electronics store and hugged the cardboard box under one arm. As I pushed through the swing doors onto the city street, I could hear the telephone knock around inside. I had the hole in the wall to connect it. I could figure it out.

If the job didn’t pay, I might quit.

Once I set up the phone I realized it was useless. Not only did I need a professional telephone representative to start my tab with the Bell company, but Vaness might not expect a call from me outside business hours.

I was running low on food so I stopped at this deli down the block. I liked being around people, even if I didn’t speak to them. I felt less like the last man on earth that way.

At eight, I walked down to a payphone and called her. She didn’t pick up right away, and then I didn’t hear anything on the line. There was air, like it was on, picking up something quiet. It disconnected. I redialed.

“Who is this?” said Vaness.

“It’s Gartner. I got a new phone.”

“Your voice sounds a little rougher on this one,” she said.

“I connected it myself.”

“I didn’t know you were such a handyman.”

“I went to trade school. It’s about time I got some use out of it.”

“My telephone seems to be doing fine, Mr. Handyman, but maybe you could come over and fix me a drink?”

I laughed. The line went hollow on me. “Hello? Are you still there?”

The speaker crackled. I hit it with my palm.

“Yeah. Somebody broke a glass or something downstairs. Whoa! Someone’s running up–Someone’s pounding on my door.”

What, is it the mailman? I thought sarcastically. “Is your roommate home?”

“No… Can you hear that?” A loud hammering carried over the line.

I put my hand on the phone booth door. “Are you alright? Did you check the peephole?”

“I’m not doing that,” she whispered, “The door might fall on me.”

“What am I going to do against him? Call the cops!”

“Nooo! I can’t, I can’t.”

“They know me, it’s okay.”

“No! Detective Schok said—Gartner please…”

“Is it Johnny?”

She sounded exasperated trying to downplay it. “Whoever it is, he’ll go away eventually.”

“Try barricading the door with a chair. Push something in front of it. I’ll be right over. Call the cops. I’m coming over.”

I hung up and ran up to my apartment, opened my suitcase on my dresser, and rummaged for a slip of paper. I found the paper with Carbone’s home number scrawled on it. I ran back down the block to the booth, yanked myself inside and dialed Carbone. An older woman’s voice answered after what felt like several tense minutes of me tapping my leg and staring at the grime on the dial. “Hello, this is the Carbone residence.”

“Hello, is Lieutenant Carbone home? I need to speak to him.”

“Can this wait for business hours? He–”

Carbone’s voice muscled on the line. “Schok, what’s the dope on Bianchi?”

“No. It’s Gartner. I need a favor.”

Carbone drove a cruiser up to my door, I threw myself inside, and he veered around a parked car like a bullet with the lights flashing and yet it still wasn’t fast enough.

“You think it’s him? Johnny?”

“He must have heard about Fates’ killing. It wasn’t in the restraining order, but Fates made us understand that he had a kind of guard watching out for Johnny, but I guess he quit.”

“You’re sure?”

“I knew Johnny in the Army, and I knew him afterward when they were dating. He’s dangerous when he’s drunk and jealous. The last time that happened he cut her with a razor. He was aiming for me.”

Carbone pulled his unmarked car behind a yellow Studebaker out in front of Vaness’ apartment steps. The front door of the apartment hung open with the window totally shattered. Only a few glass teeth hung on.

“That’s his signature,” I said, and jumped out of the car.

Carbone caught up as I raced up the cement steps to the stairwell. He motioned me to wait and we listened. No banging on any door. I slowly mounted the stairs to the third floor, keeping to the railing with my eyes fixed above me. When I rounded the corner of the second story landing, I froze.

Vaness’ apartment door was wide open.

Carbone paused beside me and removed his service gun from a shoulder holster. I felt water behind my eyes as he crept inside. I followed.

The living room was uninhabited. The pictures on the wall straight. We rounded the corner to the kitchen. The cabinets were clean. No one stood in front of them. We turned the corner where the dining set was. Vaness yelled, and the glass in her hand jumped and shattered on the floor. Johnny towered behind her, with a glass in one hand and the other on her waist.

His blond hair was slicked back over his square forehead, and his pearly whites beamed between two dimples inside a square jaw. Of course, he was dressed to the nines: a striped gold, black, and blue tie, wide pointed collar over a pastel blue flannel suit, shiny two-tone loafers. His voice was suave and cheery. “Gar-tner… I see you’ve made a new frie-end…”

“Miss Baretto,” said Carbone, “Are you in any danger?”

“N-no.” She shook her head. “He was just visiting. I don’t want to press charges.”

“That’s up to the landlord.”

I pleaded with her with my eyes, trying to tell her to step the hell away from him. She glanced up at me but focused at the floor instead.

“We were just talkin’... We’ren’t we, Vaness?”

“You broke the front door,” I said.

“So I was a little clumsy. I’ll pay the damages.”

Shoot the bastard. Shoot him.

“You know, I’m surprised she still like, let’s you hang around, trying to make me jealous,” Johnny said, cocking his head with that grin.

“Mr. Schmerkowitz, I’d like you to step away from Miss Baretto.”

Johnny raised his hands and sidestepped. “Like this?” He sipped the rest of the margarita. “And who, like, the hell are you anyway?”

Carbone lowered his gun and showed his badge. “Lieutenant Carbone. Police detective.”

“Gartner… You make friends in high places.”

“You were served a restraining order in defense of Miss Baretto. By being here you are violating that order, which is punishable by arrest.” Carbone removed handcuffs from his belt.

“Whoah. The lawyer that tied it up’s dead, so I figure… It’s gotta be nil now, right?”

“No. It’s valid.”

“You broke in,” I said. “It didn’t occur to you breaking and entering was a crime?”

“She let me in,” he said. “Ask her.” He looked proud.

Vaness looked startled. Her lips upturned in the middle in a weird frown. “Yeah, I… I did.”

“He’s still in violation,” said Carbone.

Vaness’s gaze drifted to the glass on the floor.

LOOK AT ME.

“You sounded terrified when I called you.”

LOOK AT ME.

She didn’t answer.

COME OVER HERE.

“Maybe something can be done about that,” said Johnny, with a grin as he stepped to the head of the table, “Like, with an appeal,” His face dropped, and he made a break for the door.

Carbone broke after him. “Stop!”

I met her eyes where they wouldn’t meet me. “More broken glass,” I said, and bolted for the stairs.

Johnny leaped into his Studebaker and knocked some wind out of himself landing on the door. He slipped into the seat headfirst but Carbone dragged him back by the collar and wrestled his arms behind him. “John Schmerkowitz you are under arrest for breaking and entering and the intent to drive under the influence.”

Johnny relaxed and looked over his shoulder. “Yeah… we’ll see if that sticks.”

I helped Vaness sweep, I held the dustpan. Yeah, it seemed fitting. I collect broken glass and dust, and a few small dead things. Carbone stomped up to tell Vaness he was booking Johnny on a charge of breaking and entering into the apartment, at least its front door.

“If you would like to make an additional report, Miss Baretto, I will personally assist.”

She made a little nod. Carbone batted my arm. “It’s going to be alright. Both of you. I’ll come back if you need a ride.”

I shook my head. He closed the door after himself, and I locked it.

I sheafed the glass into the trash bin and Vaness hugged the broom handle. She obviously wanted to say something. When she did she sounded like she was getting punishment. “I let him in, so he wouldn’t break the door. He was drunk, but sociable. He said he missed me, and that because my lawyer died, he was gonna make it up to me… Did Bianchi really kill him?”

I looked at the table where Johnny’d left his straw hat with a little black band and bow. I pulled out a chair and sat in it, knitting my fingers loosely in my lap. It was always some other guy.

She put her hands on my shoulders. I put my forehead in my hands. “Sorry, Gartner, I didn’t want to call the police. That detective creep… Well I know he’s gonna come back an’ ask already about all those exes that came over, and last time–” Her hesitation filled me with dread. “I didn’t want to get in more trouble, y’know? I didn’t know how Johnny would react.”

I lifted my head so my chin rested on my hands. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You kept him docile.”

“He acted like nothing happened for me to get the restraining order. He said he was sorry we had to be apart and for all the stuff he did to me but he never mentioned ‘it.’”

She let it hang so I pulled on my lower eyelids with my fingers. “Yes?”

“I, um, sometimes miss the good times we had. But.” She hugged me from behind. “I love you, Gartner.”

Augh, shoot me. I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying not to cry in frustration or hopelessness, then held the arms around me. She couldn’t even face me. She had no reason to apologize, but every word out of her mouth made it more unbearable. I wanted to be elsewhere. The exact person I wanted to be with was causing me to want to be elsewhere. Her fingers glanced over my watch. That made it worse.

I turned my head to my shoulder, but I still couldn’t see her face–only a peripheral blur in the dark curls. “Stop letting him in.”

“I didn’t—He didn’t come around before. I di–”

“You locked the front door, and he can bust through that, but you can’t open the one to your own–” My throat muscles clenched. “Home.” But I knew what word sounded more poetic.

She hugged me tighter, and now her head was on my shoulder, curls obscuring her face. I kissed her neck between her hairline and collar, then rubbed her back. “C’mon. Do you want to sit down?”

She got up and set a dining chair across from me and plunked into it. She looked blank.

“I meant on the couch…”

“Oh.”

I stood up abruptly, with a violent scrape of the chair, and left a massive vacuum of sound and meaning. Vaness looked surprised, brown eyes wide, expecting me to say something. The hum of a car brushed the window. “I’m trying everything possible to keep you out of jail. There’s nothing you can do, but I’m trying.”

She said something like, of course I believe you, or an apology for no damn reason while I stared at the wall. I slapped my legs. “Never mind. Forget it.” I took my hat and walked to the door and heard her talking to me but my hand was turning the knob and I wasn’t listening.

My jaw was tight as I bounced down the stairs. I must have left the door open behind me only so I didn’t have to slam it in her face, or on her fingers if she tried to stop me. I hit the streets and kept on walking. “That son of a bitch!” I burst, with no real aim in mind. I walked several blocks uttering curses against Johnny and Schok and everyone else I ever hated, and occasionally muttered phrases like, “hate, hate…” and “kill, kill…” before the adrenaline or the energy or whatever it was died down, and I could reflect upon my next possible steps.