The Last Alibi

22

Jason

Saturday, June 15

I pop awake from a dream, some kind of a fairy-tale serpent with long fangs, loud hissing sounds, mortal danger, whatever. I am lying in the fetal position on my bathroom floor, and reality comes to me: sleeping at Alexa’s last night, ditching out on her when I couldn’t find my tin of Altoids, hailing a cab and racing back here. The crick in my neck causes a shiver of pain. My watch tells me it’s just past six in the morning. I’ve been home maybe two, two and a half hours.

I push myself off the floor and find the box of allergy medicine next to me, the sheet of pills sticking out halfway. I pop out a pill and chew it up while I scratch my knuckles, my fingers, my palms, in vain.

I head downstairs, thinking about how I bolted on Alexa last night after saying I’d spend the night. She might not be too thrilled with me. Maybe we’ll do something fun today.

I push a button to awaken my cell phone and notice, for the first time, a text message from Joel Lightner from sometime last night.

Your guy is for real, details if u want

Huh. So James Drinker checked out. Not what I’d call a shocker, but I really didn’t know if he was being straight with me about much of anything.

“So our James is for real,” I say to Lightner when he answers his cell phone. By answer, I mean he moans and curses.

“What fucking. . time is it?”

“Time for you to wake up, princess,” I say. I’m feeling much better now, happiness coursing through me, fifteen minutes after I popped the little white tablet. “James Drinker is the real deal?”

It takes him a while. My guess is he was overserved last night. I hear yawning, grunting, throat-clearing, a sound like he’s fiddling with glasses, and then a heavy sigh.

“He’s for real, yeah. Weird, my guy says. Looks like that guy from MAD magazine on steroids, he says.”

“That’s him. Big dude with goofy red hair flopping around.”

“Yeah, apparently. Anyway, he reports to work at Higgins Auto Body every morning. He lives in that shithole building on Townsend and Kensington.” Another morning sound, like he’s stretching his sleepy muscles.

I’m on the floor now, doing my rehab. Ankle pumps, leg raises, knee bends. I’m supposed to do them for twenty to thirty minutes a day, three times a day, but I’m up to an hour each time. The knee is doing much better now. The knee is no longer the problem. I’ve graduated to bigger ones. Sometimes, like this moment, I actually admit it to myself, but it’s only after I’ve had a happy pill, experienced the euphoria. Oh yeah, when I’m high, I can be exceptionally candid with myself, I can scold myself and promise big things to come, down the road, a new path, no more pills, a fresh start-just not right now. Later. Sometime soon. Definitely soon.

“It’s six-thirty in the morning!” Lightner suddenly realizes. “Who calls somebody at six-thirty in the morning? On a Saturday?”

“I do, Joel. You were saying about your report?”

“You’re an asshole.”

“The report says I’m an asshole? I already knew that.”

Joel doesn’t sound amused. I hear the sound of glasses unfolding and making their way onto his nose. “He. . fuck. . I e-mailed this to you, but I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you, so I’ll just read it to you at six-fucking-thirty in the morning.” A loud sigh. Poor guy, he was sleeping. “Right, address checks out, employment checks out, no criminal record with a full workup, credit cards, checking account, never married, no kids, one brother, went to Princeton High but doesn’t look like he graduated, and he’s been a grease monkey ever since.”

He makes yet another morning noise. A new one. He may have broken wind.

“Did our grease monkey look like a serial killer to your guy?” I ask. “A butcher of women? A sociopath?”

“He didn’t say. Can I go back to sleep now?”

So James checked out. He is who he said he is. So far, everything he’s told me that I can confirm has been the truth. Maybe I was getting worked up for nothing.

“Sweet dreams, sugar pie,” I say, punching out the phone.