Suicide Squeeze

11

They left the inflatable dinghy on the riverbank and parted ways. Neither Conner nor Jenny had the energy to pretend anything special had happened between them. Conner had the Electric Jenny’s registration tucked into his pants pocket. He’d exchange it for the rest of his repo fee. Maybe Jenny got some kind of satisfaction from stealing her ex-husband’s boat out from under him.

Jenny was sour and unhappy and mad at the world, and Conner already had enough of that to go around. She was a little bit sad and a lot pathetic, and that made Conner hope things would turn around for her, but not so much that he wanted to get into her up to his eyeballs.

The sun was just yawning and stretching over the horizon when Conner parked the Plymouth, shuffled into his apartment, and fell on his bed. Sleep mugged him, pulled him down into his pillow with his clothes on. He dreamed about bullets and blondes and drowning in the dark.

Conner pried his eyes open at noon, showered, drank four cups of black coffee, and swallowed three aspirin. If he’d had health insurance, he’d have gone to the emergency room. His ribs blazed, roared pain whenever he turned or bent over. He prodded his side, took deep, experimental breaths. He didn’t think anything vital had been punctured.

The day was hot and bright, and the sun glittered on the bay like a picture postcard. Conner’s Plymouth sailed over the bridge into Mobile and he found Derrick James’s shop and parked. He folded the Electric Jenny’s registration and shoved it in the front pocket of his khaki shorts. He hoped showing James the boat’s location on a river chart would be good enough. He didn’t feel like paddling back out there and bringing the boat back by sea.

As Conner approached the shop, he noticed the police cars. The front door stood open. Inside, three uniformed cops poked around. He went back to the office, found another cop standing over James’s dead body.

Hell.

James sprawled on the floor, arms awkwardly beneath his own body, legs twisted, with the knees pointing at one another, mouth slack, eyes glassy and lifeless. A pool of blood the size of a pizza spread from his head.

The cop noticed Conner standing in the doorway. “Hey, you can’t come in here.” He seemed young and nervous. He herded Conner out of the office, whipped out a pen and notepad. “Don’t step on anything, for Christ’s sake. The crime scene guys will go nuts.”

“Sorry.”

“What’s your name? What are you doing here?”

Conner hesitated only a second. He told the officer James had hired him to repossess the boat, but he didn’t say anything about Folger or the scene with the Japanese killers. The cop wrote Conner’s name and address on the notepad.

A young girl burst into the shop. She looked panicked. Conner recognized her as the girl who worked the register for James. “What’s going on?” She rushed toward the young cop. “Oh, my God! Is Mr. James okay? Has something happened?”

“Crap.” The cop moved to intercept the girl. She started crying and shaking, grabbing hold of the cop’s arm.

Conner slipped back into James’s office. He was careful not to touch anything. The office looked like it had been searched recklessly. One drawer of the filing cabinet stood open. Conner craned his neck, looked without touching. The drawer was marked F-J. An empty space in the front of the drawer. The Folger file. It was missing. James’s murder had something to do with Teddy Folger and the boat.

Shit.

He looked over his shoulder. The young cop looked distressed, the girl sobbing on his shoulder.

Conner realized he was being a bit selfish, but he couldn’t help thinking he obviously wasn’t going to get paid for repossessing the Jenny. All that work. He’d been beaten up, even shot at. To come away empty-handed…

He flipped open James’s humidor, grabbed a fistful of cigars, and shut it again. He stuffed the cigars into his pocket, left the office, walked past the cop and the still-weeping girl.

“Can I go now?”

“Uh… sure.” The cop waved the notepad at him. “We have your information. A detective might come see you. If we have any more questions.”

“Fine,” said Conner, who couldn’t think of a single question he wanted to answer.