They Don't Play Stickball in Milwaukee

Guilt

I watched MacClough stroll out of the gate, carry-on bag in hand. And once again I was dismayed by his looks. It wasn’t that I’d forgotten how fatigued and bloated he appeared at my Dad’s funeral, but getting to the root of his sudden weight gain wasn’t exactly at the top of my punch list. Extra bulk or not, he was still a pro and followed my instructions to the letter. He did not look for me in the crowd, though he knew I was there watching. He confirmed his car rental and headed for the phone bank just to the right of the Riversborough Chamber of Commerce sign. I watched him slowly punch in a number as he read it off a slip of paper. About seventy-five feet away, on the other side of the terminal, another phone rang. I picked up.

“You watched too many Hitchcock movies when you were a kid,” he said. “Are you sure this cloak-and-dagger crap is necessary in such a cockamamy little town? Jesus, Klein, the Sheepshead Bay Diner is bigger than this airport.”

“And it has better cheesecake, but you could barely land a helicopter in the parking lot. Trust me, John, these precau tions are necessary. Like I told you on the phone last night, I’ve had these two clowns on my ass for days. I’m sure I lost them on the way here, but I can’t be certain they’re not bearding for someone I haven’t spotted. Did you make a reservation at the Old Watermill Inn?”

“I did.”

“Great. It’s good to have you around,” my voice smiled. “I’ve been tripping over my dick in the dark around here.”

“I bet that’s not the only thing you’ve been doing with it.”

I ignored that. “My room in an hour.”

“Klein!”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll stay on the line after you hang up. If anybody follows you besides the two guys you know about, I’ll spot ‘em.”

“Thanks.”

I took a detour back to the hotel that led me past Cyclone Ridge. The chairlifts were pretty much idle and I could only spot a few lonely souls working their way down the ski trails. That was no surprise. Death on the slopes isn’t much of a selling point. With time, though, people would forget. The papers would move onto another story. People would return. Accidents will happen. But so will murder. And murder is what happened here. I could feel it in the marrow of my bones. I also felt responsible. For although I might never be able to prove it, I knew as surely as the sun burned in the sky, that if Steven Markum had never met me, he would be alive today. I wasn’t nearly as confident that I knew how to live with that kind of guilt. It was a long ride back down the mountain.

I didn’t even look to see who was behind the desk when I got back to the Old Watermill. I went straight up to my room. As I stepped in, a strong hand grabbed my collar and pulled me to the ground. I had a mouthful of carpet and one armed pinned painfully against my back. Something round and very cold was jabbed into the soft spot behind my ear. Then, in one eternal instant, I heard the door lock snap shut and the metallic click of a gun hammer striking.

I was lifted up, not by God’s right hand, but by MacClough’s.

“Asshole!” He shook me. “You’re not paying attention.”

“I am now.”

We hugged. He pushed me back to arm’s length and stared through me. I could tell he didn’t like the view.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Oh nothing, John.” I pulled out of his grasp. “My Dad just died. My nephew’s missing. I crapped out in Hollywood. I’ve managed to get pepper-sprayed, arrested, and get somebody killed. And last night, because I was too busy beating the shit out of myself to notice what I might be doing to anyone else, I ruined the most exciting relationship I’ve probably ever had. So no, John, nothing’s wrong.”

He lifted his pants leg and holstered his.38. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself or just go home. You’re not gonna do anybody any good if you’re gonna live inside your head. I can’t watch your back and mine at the same time.”

“Why not, you got eye troubles?” I wondered.

“My eyes are fine. It’s just that there seems to be a lot of people interested in your flat Jewish ass. I don’t know if I can keep track. Maybe we should just give out numbers like the deli counter at Waldbaums.”

“I was followed?”

“You were,” he confirmed. “The first guy looked like a surfer in a ski suit. You know the type, sunbleached blond, funky sunglasses, muscles from here to there. Didn’t you spot him?”

“Half the population of Riversborough looks like that. The other half looks like the smartest kid in your third grade class, only bigger and with bad skin.”

“The other guy was a Fed. I worked on task forces with a hundred guys just like him. From the way he dressed, he might as well have had FBI, ATF, or DEA printed on the back of his suit. The problem with those guys is, even though they’re trained not to advertise who they are, they can’t stand for the whole world not to know. One time I was on a surveillance and it was really late and we’d been in the car for hours. We’d told every joke, every bar story, every sex story we could think of. Finally, I turned to one of these FBI guys and ask him why he became a Fed. You know what he said to me?” MacClough started laughing.

“No.”

“He says becoming a Special Agent is as close to being a superhero as he could get. What a fuckin’ idiot, huh?”

“Good thing he liked Superman cartoons better than the Roadrunner.”

We both laughed at that. Then it got very quiet.

“I love you, man.” He hugged me again, but very tight, almost desperately. “I just want you to know that.”

“I know that, John. I know.”

“Good.” He let me go. “Let’s take a look inside the mini-bar. We got a lot to talk about before our trip tomorrow.”

“Where’re we going?”

“To jail.”

“Been there. Done that.”

“Not this jail,” he said. “And don’t worry, we’re not staying. We’re just visiting.”

“One of your relatives?” I teased.

“No, shithead, Valencia Jones.”

“How did-”

“Don’t ask,” MacClough ordered. “Don’t ask.”

And I didn’t. John was halfway to the minibar when someone knocked on the door. It was Kira. My heart was in my throat. MacClough whispered for me to get rid of her. I got rid of him instead, sort of. He fit nicely into the closet.

When she stepped in, tears were running down her cheeks. I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. There are certain hurts for which an apology is an insult. I dropped to my knees and pressed the side of my face to her belly. She ran her fingers through what was left of my gray hair. She kissed the top of my head before dropping down to her knees. Once we kissed, we could not stop. And not for a sec ond did I think of John Francis MacClough hiding there in my closet.