Screwed

CHAPTER 8

LIEUTENANT RONELLE DEACON IS THE ONLY COP I KNOW who could play herself in a movie, especially if the movie was one of those 1970s blaxploitation flicks. She wears her Afro pulled back tight for the first section, then it blooms out behind her in an explosion of ringlets. Takes some confidence to wear a hairstyle like that, but Ronnie has more than confidence, she has anger hanging over her like a heat shimmer. Anytime Ronelle walks into a room, every guy in there feels like he just got his boner rapped with a spoon. They don’t know if they’re horny or terrified. She’s a one-woman flimflam. A walking conundrum.

Ronnie and me got tossed together last year by one of her cases, which was also one of my problems, and I saved her life a couple of times and she saved my bacon. It all turned out pretty good: she got to be loot and I got to keep breathing free air. Oh, and she tumbled me into the hay one night for a tension screw as she called it. Sometimes that can be awkward between friends, but it ain’t awkward between us because Ronnie doesn’t really do friends the way normal people do, just people that aren’t suspects at the moment.

Lieutenant Deacon keeps me waiting in the diner but that’s okay because I burn out a washroom drier getting the river outta my shirt. I am not even gonna attempt the pants. It’s gonna take more than a wall-mounted Dyson to blast the Hudson from a pair of black jeans. So I’m in a booth working on some eggs and bacon, with a puddle of slime congealing around my nethers, when Ronnie finally breezes in the door like she’s fashionably late for an award gig and slides into the booth opposite me.

“McEvoy,” she says working a toothpick between her strong, white teeth.

“It looks like you’re trying to be a cop,” I say. “The toothpick is too much.”

Ronelle spits the pick onto the tabletop. “Yeah? A pity I couldn’t say the same about your toothpick.”

“Straight to that level, huh? No five-minute truce or nothing?”

Ronelle leans back, shucking the lapels of her long leather coat aside, giving me a good look at the gun and the badge.

“I only got one level, McEvoy. The Deacon level. That’s where shit gets done.”

“You have your movie and tagline right there: The Deacon Level. Where Shit Gets Done.”

“Is that why I’m here, Dan? So you can take a pop?”

These conversations are always tense because Ronnie lives on a hair trigger. She puts out more or less the same vibe whether she wants to kiss me or kill me. And that one night we did have a little tryst you can bet your favorite organ that I kept her pistola out of reach.

“No, I got a few good tips for you.”

“I’m listening.”

“Remember that Arabian horse that was stolen?”

“Scimitar? Apparently that nag was worth twenty million bucks. Mares lining up to get inseminated.”

“Yeah, well you can call off those dogs. Old Scimitar is in a trash bag down by Pier Forty nine.”

Ronelle takes a note on her phone. “That is indeed a juicy tip. Outta my zone but I can trade it in for something. What else?”

“A mob button man. Twenty feet out, in a taxi. Bodies in the trunk, and I’m betting you get enough DNA from the inside of that trunk to close a dozen unsolveds.”

Ronelle goes girly for a second and giggles. “Ooh. I love it when you say button man. Makes a lady go all quivery inside.”

This conversation is getting a little flippant for my liking.

“I’m in deep trouble, Deacon,” I tell her. “The deepest.”

Ronnie places her iPhone on the table and makes a show of watching a video. “I see that Dan. Is that a thong you got going there?”

“So you saw the clip. I was severely provoked.”

Ronnie taps her screen. “Looks to me like you were doing a spot of provoking, yourself. That’s two brother officers you’re beating on there. Fortz has been decorated twice.”

“Decorated? Like a Christmas tree.”

Ronnie smiles, reminds me of a wolf I saw once. “Christmas tree. You crack me up, Dan,” she says, displaying none of the traditional signs associated with cracking up.

“I need help, Ronnie.”

“Yeah, with your wardrobe for a start.”

“This is serious, Ronelle. A woman’s life is in danger. It may already be too late.”

“Speaking of taglines, there’s yours. Daniel McEvoy is the Pink Thong. Pray he’s not too late.”

I pound the table. “Pink? That’s red. Any idiot can see it’s red. The sequins make it look a little pink in the light. That’s all.”

Ronnie is delighted. “Whoa there, Thongmaster. I’m here, aren’t I? Alone as requested, against orders and protocol, I might add. So whose life is in danger and how do you account for this video?”

I lay it out in brief strokes. The abduction, the porn studio, my Aunt Evelyn. It’s a good story, so Ronnie listens attentively. She may be a little out there but Ronnie is 100 percent police. She said to me once:

I’m a straight cop, Dan. If you cut me, guess what happens?

Don’t tell me, you bleed blue.

No. I bleed red, you moron, but I will read you your Mirandas before I beat the crap outta you for assaulting an officer.

When I’m finished talking, Ronnie lets it percolate for a minute, getting her questions straight.

“You ain’t bullshitting me?”

“Nope. Straight up.”

“’Cause if you’re bullshitting me. . .”

“I am not bullshitting you. Do I look like a bullshitter?”

“You smell like one.”

“It’s that fecking Hudson. I probably got hepatitis.”

Ronelle lines up the condiments.

“Okay. This woman Costello hires Fortz and Krieger to take you out of the picture?”

“Yeah. I reckon the torture porn was their own little wrinkle in the plan.”

Ronnie knocks over the salt and pepper. “Those guys have been making skin crawl ever since they left the City precinct under a cloud. They’re in the wind now, last seen hobbling away from the scene of an accident out by the Silvercup.”

I am disappointed by this as I had been wishing on a star that Krieger and Fortz had been found dead in their cruiser, having crapped themselves, with their dicks out, wearing mankinis.

Ronnie stands the ketchup and the hot sauce up on the napkin holder. “So your aunt is stuck in the penthouse with the evil stepmom?”

“Is my aunt the ketchup?”

Ronelle scowls. “No. Your aunt is the fucking sauce. What, are you retarded?”

“Sorry. Mayo, right. Yep, that’s about it. My aunt and Edit are up in the napkin holder’s penthouse.”

“You making fun of my diorama?”

“What? God no. It’s very effective.”

“Because this is legitimate policing technique-ing. And if it ain’t swish enough for Mr. Pink Thong, maybe you should find yourself another blue buddy.”

I know Ronelle is playing me but she’s holding all the condiments.

“No. I like the diorama. It crystallizes everything.”

Ronnie is placated by the effort I have put into my verb. “Crystallizes, huh? You really are desperate.”

“Come on, Ronnie, all I need for you to do is badge me into that penthouse. Then Ev can walk out of there of her own free will.”

Ronelle peels the paper from a sugar lump.

“Is that me?” I ask her. “The lump?”

“It’s not all about you, Dan,” she says, and pops the lump into her mouth. On most days, when Ronnie does some tiny unexpected thing like this, it reminds me how singular she is, how striking. This morning I just feel helpless and outplayed.

“The problem is that you’re wanted for questioning,” she says. “I should be escorting you downtown right now.”

I like how this statement is going. Plenty of scope for a but, so I prompt.

“But?”

“But I know how you are about protecting women, in your big-dog, alpha-bullshit, dick-swinging way.”

“So?”

“So if this aunt of yours were to turn up dead, you might cross out one of the Fs in our matching BFF tattoos.”

“Maybe a B too,” I say, playing along.

“So, we’re gonna drive down there ’cause I have probable cause from a reliable source. Kidnapping or some bullshit. Is that enough for you?”

“Plenty, Ronelle. You’re saving a life.”

Ronelle plants her elbows on the table, which in itself is enough to scare off the waitress who was coming over with refills.

“But if you’re setting me up, Dan, then I’m gonna look a little deeper into all the criminal shit that happened in your vicinity last year.”

I am prepared to take any deal at this point. “Okay, Ronnie. I’ll sign whatever confession you want.”

“And you promise me now: no throwing punches, none of your black-ops, wet-work bullshit.”

I am squirming to be off. “No bullshit of any kind.”

“You better believe it, Dan,” says Ronelle, tossing a twenty on the table, even though she didn’t have anything. “I just got the lieutenant’s desk and I want to hang on to it for a while.”

My phone burbles rather than tweets after its time in the river. I can’t help checking it.

Stop waiting for that white knight to come rescue you. You are your own white knight.

I cover the phone with my hand.

Ronelle squints suspiciously. “Got something interesting there, cowboy?”

“Nope,” I say, sliding out of the booth. “Not interesting and not helpful.”

Ronnie slides out her side and suddenly we’re standing very close to each other and I don’t know whether I’m supposed to back away or not. Ronnie steps even closer and puts the flat of her hand on my back. Her eyes are two chocolate drops and her lips when she smiles could belong to a nice person. She’s smiling now.

“Ronnie,” I say, but that’s as far as I get because I don’t know what to say next and also her hand is sliding lower under the band of my jeans.

This is all very public and I don’t really have the time, but I can’t help thinking back to the night we had together, which was pretty wild.

Something must show on my face, because Ronnie laughs.

“Don’t flatter yourself, McEvoy, I’m just checking something.”

She slips two fingers under the thong strap and snaps it good.

“Still wearing it, huh?”

I nod, hoping that none of the diner’s half dozen early birds are watching this little show.

“It’s been a busy day and I don’t carry spares.”

“That could be a problem,” says Ronnie, wiping the river mud from her hand with a napkin. “You’re never gonna get into the Broadway Park looking like a decrepit old bum.”

There was absolutely no need for old in that sentence.

We swing by a twenty-four-hour Kmart on Broadway to pick up some clothes for me that don’t smell of river sewage. With a little persuasion from Ronelle’s badge, the manager relinquishes the employees’ bathroom key and I spend a few minutes scooping crud out of my cavities and staring at myself in a mirror that seems to have some kind of fungus growing between the glass and aluminium. I look pretty shook up, like the zombie version of myself, and this impression is reinforced by the sound of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” playing over the store speakers, or maybe that’s what put the idea in my head in the first place. I stand still to listen to the Vincent Price section, which I have always liked, and realize that there is no song playing over the speakers—in fact there are no speakers.

I need to pull myself together pronto.

I stuff most of my wet clothes in the trash apart from the boots and jacket, which I bag.

Outside the restroom there’s an old Asian guy holding a cup so I toss in a five figuring I’ll take whatever karma can be bought and the guy says:

“Screw you, cue ball. I’m waiting to use the facilities.”

Shite. I can’t put a foot right these days.

“Sorry, man. I assumed you were looking for a buck.”

“’Cause I’m Korean, right?”

I am too weary for this and I’m afraid to stand up for myself in case I spark off another conflict.

“I apologize, okay? Whatever. Just give me back the five or keep it, whatever. No bad blood. Annyeonghi gyeseyo.”

The old dude is patriotically unimpressed by my mangling of his birdsong language.

“Stop talking, cue ball. Your words hurt my brain.”

For some reason, getting into it with this ancient Korean brings on something of a mini-breakdown. I think it’s partly the randomness of it—this guy doesn’t have a beef with me—and partly the cue-ball thing. Sure I have a forehead the size of JFK’s proposed new runway, but thanks to Zeb’s surgical skills my bald patch is gone, so I thought my hair wouldn’t be such a target. Yet this restroom-waiting, empty-cup-holding, angry old motherfucker has nailed me twice already. Would it pain Jesus so much to send a few more decent people my way every once in a while? I know they’re out there. Jason is one. Evelyn is another, underneath the layer of pickling.

Yeah. And Edit was one too. Remember?

I want to bawl like a drunken aunt. I wanna grind my teeth to stumps and punch the wall, but I don’t and the effort of containing it starts me shaking all over. For a moment I think I might actually be having a heart attack, then the moment passes and I collapse onto a chair beside the Korean guy.

He drapes his spindly arm around my shoulder and says:

“My son.”

And I think: Wow. Is this guy going to surprise me by playing into his stereotype and delivering a nugget of wisdom?

“I never see a man shake after taking a dump before.” He pats me on the back. “That must have been a hell of a dump. Hollowed you right out. I think maybe I’ll wait here a few minutes, let the extractor fan do its work.”

Clever but not very wise. I pluck my five dollars from his cup and go back outside, into my life.

Predawn lasts a little longer in Manhattan because of the urban topography and what light does manage to find a through line is faded and whittled until it arrives gray and limpid on the sidewalks.

Yeah, I know. You’re thinking that maybe I should concentrate on the problems I got instead of contemplating early-morning light in Manhattan.

Limpid? Fuck me.

The Broadway Park House is exactly where I left it last night, standing sentry over Central Park, built on money so old it started off as goats. Ronelle pulls her Lincoln in hard, bumping the front wheel up on the sidewalk, letting the doormen know who’s in charge before she even steps out of the vehicle.

The experienced guys get the message and hang back, but one young buck bristles at how the Broadway Park bay has been defiled and is over like a shot.

“Can I park that for you, ma’am?” he asks, pronouncing ma’am like his pops owns a plantation somewhere.

Ronnie doesn’t even look at him. “You don’t touch my car, kid. And if anyone does touch it, I’m holding you responsible. Got it?”

The kid may have blurted out some kind of reply, but at that stage we are already through the door.

Ronnie has a menace about her that is particularly effective in post offices or hotels. Wherever people are responsible for shit. They take one look at Ronelle Deacon with her game face on and they start thinking, Not me, please God, not me.

Ronnie strides through the lobby making a beeline for the concierge desk, snapping her fingers at a lady trying to hide behind the monitor.

“Hey, hey, sweetie,” she says. “Get me Edit Costello on the phone.”

The lady makes a perfunctory attempt to uphold the hotel’s privacy policy.

“Miss Vikander-Costello does not wish to be disturbed. She sent a memo.”

Ronnie flashes her badge. “See this, sweetie? This trumps the shit out of your memo. This takes your memo out back and beats the crap out of it. This bends your memo over and—”

“Very well, Officer,” says the lady, rightly guessing that Ronnie would continue with her graphic memo-defiling imagery for as long as was necessary. “I’m dialing right now. Look, I’m dialing.”

Edit picks up and the concierge speaks to her in that enthusiastic yet deferential manner that makes rich folk feel good about having people serve them, then hands the phone to Ronnie.

“Miss Vikander-Costello has kindly agreed to speak with you.”

Ronnie takes the phone and winks at me. This is not a friendly wink like a person might get from Fonzie. This particular wink says, See how smooth I am? Now keep on keeping quiet and let me do my thing.

Okay. Let me do my thing might be a little bit of stereotyping on my part, but that Korean guy knocked my powers of interpretation for six.

Ronnie tucks the phone under her ear and puts on a sad face.

“Yes, Mrs. Costello, thank you so much for agreeing to speak with me.”

Thank you so much?

That ain’t the Ronelle I know. She’s running some kinda game.

“My name is Lieutenant Deacon, with the Jersey State Police. And the thing is, we found a relative of yours down by the docks. His wallet identifies him as one Daniel McEvoy and, believe it or not, you are this bum . . . eh, this guy’s next of kin. I was wondering if my associate and I could come up and talk to you about him. It won’t take more than a minute, then I’m outta your morning.” Ronnie nods for a couple seconds, then smiles her dangerous, beautiful smile. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Costello. I appreciate you taking the time.”

She hangs up and points a stiff finger at me. Maybe I’m supposed to suck it. I honestly don’t know any more. Obviously I can’t read signs for shit.

“Okay, Associate. We are in. I do all the talking up there and I don’t want to hear a peep outta your face.”

I’m glad I didn’t suck the finger now. I’m pretty sure it would have been the wrong move.

Someone who is not Edit opens the door, which is good news for me, as I get a pass into the apartment. The door opener is a fit-looking fecker in his thirties wearing hemp shorts, and the name Pablo pops into my memory. Perhaps Edit is getting a work-out session in before the business day kicks off.

Ronnie brusquely emasculates the guy.

“This is confidential police business, sir,” she says. “I want you to point me in Mrs. Costello’s direction and then stay out here in the hall. If I need you to massage my glutes or something, I’ll whistle, got it?”

The guy is wearing a Buddha T-shirt and a couple of string bracelets, so I’m guessing he’s not used to his space being violated by such negativity. I see in his eyes that he’s about to lay some kind of bio-energy, chi, ask-the-universe line on Ronnie, and that could put him in the hospital, so I intervene.

“Pablo’s fine, aren’t you Pablo? He’s at peace, right?”

Pablo blinks. “Yes. Of course. Miss Edit is waiting in her office. Just down the corridor.”

“Past the gorilla,” I say. “I’ve been here before.”

Edit has that same desperately hopeful look strapped to her face that she wore in the Parker Meridien. It’s a good look and only hardens a fraction when she sees who’s waltzing in her door very much not dead.

“Lieutenant Deacon,” she says. “I somehow got the impression that Mr. McEvoy had been found drowned down by some docks or other.”

Deacon doesn’t bother hiding her grin. Ronnie once told me that screwing with rich folks’ schedules is the runner-up in her top five list of on-the-job perks. Buying drug-dealer bling in police auctions was number one. Couple of months ago Ronelle picked up a jewel-encrusted samurai sword for a hundred bucks, which she is just dying to baptize with blood. I haven’t visited since then.

“I don’t know how you inferred that. It’s certainly not the impression I intended to convey.”

This is a pretty pat statement and I get the feeling Ronnie has trotted it out before.

Edit nods slowly, taking her time signing some contracts on her desk. She is dressed in her gym gear, which seems a little out of place in the office, but she looks healthy and calm, and if I had to take her word over mine I’d need to think about it for a minute.

Finally she lays the pen in a groove carved into her desktop.

“So, Lieutenant Deacon, if Mr. McEvoy is not actually dead, what are you doing here?”

Ronnie isn’t cowed by the wealth on display around her; in fact she thrives on this level of confrontation, which is why she might not rise much further in any police department.

“You have no idea why I’m here?”

Edit’s smile acknowledges that she recognizes an adversary.

“No. Why don’t you tell me?”

Ronnie brushes some papers aside and perches on a corner of the desk.

“Mr. McEvoy here . . .”

“Your associate.”

“Yes, my associate, swears that you hired two police officers to kidnap and possibly murder him.”

Edit has had a moment to compose herself and so does not overreact.

“Do the police provide those services? Surely not.”

“I don’t, you can bet on that, but some of my brother officers don’t have my scruples.”

“What do the officers in question say for themselves?”

“Nothing yet, but they will, you can bet on that too.”

“More betting? You appear to be gambling quite a lot, Lieutenant.”

“So you deny knowing these officers?”

“You are the first police officer ever to grace this office, apart from Commissioner Salazar, but that was a social occasion.”

I want to dive in at this point. I want to grab this woman by the throat and shake the truth out of her. I want to wrap Evelyn in a sheet and carry her to a hospital. Ronnie seems to sense my frustration and shoots me a warning look. I shoot her a look back that says, Get on with it. You have five minutes.

Or if Ronnie’s interpretation of looks and gestures is as bad as mine, my look could say, Potato, potato, whiskey, potato, to her.

Ronnie changes tack before I decide to involve myself.

“We have security-camera footage of Mr. McEvoy delivering Evelyn Costello into your hands last night. Do you deny this?”

“I very much doubt you have any footage of anything,” says Edit. “But no, I don’t deny it. Daniel brought Evelyn home last night. He demanded payment for his services, can you imagine that?”

Ronnie ignores this accusation, which bumps her up a couple of places on my friend ladder.

“And you’re holding Evelyn prisoner?”

Edit is confident enough to laugh. “Prisoner? This is Evelyn’s home. She has returned to her family.”

“And if she wishes to leave?”

“The door is right down the hall but Evelyn came here because she wants to be here.”

It’s killing me to hold my silence. I’ve been arguing with Zeb Kronski for the past couple of years. These people are amateurs.

“So we can see her. Get her side of the story?”

At this, Edit’s mask of civility slips a little. “No. Out of the question. Evelyn is sick and she needs her rest.”

Ronnie plays her last card. “I can come back with a warrant.”

Edit stands and comes around the desk. The ghost of Joan Rivers spots that her tracksuit is Hermès but I can’t think of a way to turn that fact to my advantage.

“I very much doubt that, Lieutenant,” she says with Scandinavian ice in her voice. “You tricked your way in here and you are several post codes away from your jurisdiction.”

We’re losing ground. I am just gonna have to pop Edit gently and search the place. Ronnie is gonna have a fit, but once I find Ev, then everything should straighten out just fine.

“Okay, I’m outta my patch,” Ronnie says, but she’s down to bluster now. “But I know plenty of local guys who will run a search for me. Let me see Evelyn and that’s the end of it. Why won’t you do that one simple thing? Makes me suspicious, lady.”

Edit gets right up in Ronelle’s face and I don’t know two other guys who would have the town halls to do that.

“I do not care one tiny tad about how you feel, Deacon. Why do you not take your blackmailing associate and go back to your Jersey neighborhood where I am sure there are cats that need rescuing.”

Tiny tad? Who says that? Immigrants from Sweden.

Ronnie plants her hands on her hips and I see that maybe I won’t be the one to pop Edit. “Yeah, well maybe you gotta few cats of your own that need rescuing.”

That doesn’t even make any sense. Ronnie is going down in flames.

The door opens and a lady walks in.

“What’s all the noise about, Edit?”

It takes me a second to realize that the lady is Evelyn, but not the same Ev that I dropped off. She’s different. Calmer. There are cosmetic changes too. Her hair is cut short in one of those fashionable bobs that looks like someone hacked it out of the back of her head with a tomahawk but actually costs a fortune. Her brows are shaped and her skin glows like Vaseline. She’s wearing a plush white robe and cloth sandals but I can smell the fresh booze on her from six feet away. So, not a totally new model. They musta had stylists working on her while she slept.

I can’t stay out of this anymore.

“Ev, you don’t have to stay here.”

Evelyn looks surprised to see me, like it’s been years and she can’t believe how much I’ve changed.

“Danny. Dan. You look good.” Her voice is lighter, less grit and 100 percent Manhattan penthouse.

“Since last night, you mean?”

“Was it only last night? Seems like a lifetime ago, so much has happened.”

Edit places her body between Evelyn and me, shielding her, touching her elbow.

“Don’t get anxious, Evelyn. Daniel is just leaving.”

Ronelle gets to the heart of the matter.

“Evelyn. Miss Costello, are you okay?”

My aunt doesn’t try to act, just sticks to her lines. “Of course I’m okay. I’m home now. I’ve made a few mistakes but with Edit’s help, I can get through this challenging time.”

Ronelle looks Evelyn up and down. “You know something, McEvoy? Appears to me like this lady has already been saved.”

I can see where this is going, but I have to try.

“Ev, all of this is nothing. This is bricks and mortar. Edit tried to have me killed.”

I see the old Evelyn for a moment, like a flash from a sniper’s scope but then the robot is back: “Daniel. What a horrible thing to say. Edit is my salvation.”

What a nice setup, all ready for the spike.

“And you are mine,” says Edit, squeezing Evelyn’s hand, which was probably soaked in paraffin before the French polish was applied.

Boom. Case closed. We are done.

For the sake of my mother, I gotta give it one last try. “Ev, you’re being manipulated, don’t you realize? Edit needs access to your fund so she’s gonna keep you up here, topped up with the best booze until you’re broke. Then it’s back down into the gutter for you.”

Ev walks deliberately to the drinks cabinet and pours herself enough scotch to marinade a pig.

“I’ve been in the gutter, Danny, and I’ve decided I don’t want to go back. Edit and I have an arrangement. I am investing in a few beleaguered companies in return for a twenty percent share holding in the Costello corporation.”

Shit. Beleaguered? I bet she hasn’t used that word in a while. Well, she might’ve lain down in her Motel 6 room one evening and said: After all that Thunderbird one’s liver is a little beleaguered.

“You don’t care that she tried to kill me?”

“I do care, Daniel. Of course I care. But I’m afraid it simply can’t be true. We all know how you’ve been since the army. You see things. You talk to yourself. Have you considered that you might be suffering from PTSD?”

That’s it. The final nail. I am thoroughly disgusted with my last relative.

“Okay, whatever. You two deserve each other. Paddy would be so proud.”

Evelyn downs half of her drink in one go. She’s gonna love living up here. A never-ending supply of top-quality booze and she doesn’t even have to resort to light hooking.

“Come on, Ronnie,” I say. “This lady is beyond helping.”

Ronnie is not ready to go yet. She pulls out her phone and snaps off a couple of shots of Edit and Evelyn.

“You guys are all smug and victorious right now, but I’m gonna find Fortz and Krieger and link them back to you. I’m betting you used these guys before, back when they worked outta the city. And if you can do me a favor and have Daniel killed, that would make my case a whole lot easier to build.”

Edit and Ronnie lock eyes. Message sent; message received. I think Ronelle Deacon may have just saved my life.

I get little maudlin in the elevator.

What is wrong with people? Why would Evelyn choose the dark side? Didn’t the boob lectures and the icepick plot mean anything to her? I guess maybe they did at the time but that was then and this ain’t then.

Young Evelyn, the sherry thief, hadn’t yet spent a few years rolling downhill, crashing through class fences, coming to rest in the shelters and hovels of America’s great un-sober.

I feel myself getting sucked into a mood. After what Ronnie did for me up there, she doesn’t deserve the silent treatment.

“Sorry to clam up on you, Ronnie. You did a good thing up there. Thanks.”

“Huh?” says Ronnie, looking up from her phone. “I was checking my mail. You say anything worth listening to?”

I guess I didn’t. “No. Just, you know, talking.”

Ronnie pockets the phone. “Well, the good news for you is that they found the site you were to be torture-porned on, complete with teaser video. That puts you in the clear. Ain’t a jury on Earth would convict a man for bitch beatin’ two sickbags who kidnapped him for a snuff shoot.”

“So, I’m free to go?”

“Yeah-ish. You still gotta come in for questioning but it ain’t so urgent. Maybe you want to take a long shower first.”

For about ten years. “I got a car here so I’ll see you back in Cloisters?”

Ronnie gets out at the lobby, but holds the door.

“What I said up there, about you being dead helping me build a case.”

“I remember.”

“Well, it’s true, but I’m thinking that maybe it wouldn’t be worth it.”

The golden doors slide across and I see my own reflection looking dumb and defeated. I notice that the elevator panel has two close-doors buttons but no keep-doors-open button, which is a little strange. Maybe rich folk are generally in a hurry. Faces don’t glycolically peel themselves, I suppose.

Well, it’s true, but I’m thinking that maybe it wouldn’t be worth it.

I think that’s the nicest thing Ronnie has ever said to me.

The elevator dings for the parking level and I wedge an old video-store card into the runner to prevent the door from closing.

It’s puerile I know, but I am desperate for the fleeting heart balm of lighthearted mischief.

Mom and Ev.

Dead.

To me.

On the bright side I have a Cadillac packed with cash that Freckles ain’t gonna have much use for where he’s parked.