They Don't Play Stickball in Milwaukee

Poltergeists

Once again, the swimming pools and split ranches were rushing by beneath the belly of my plane.

Although it was only several weeks ago that I had flown home for my father’s funeral, Hollywood felt like ancient history to me now. That’s the trick of time, isn’t it? It’s not how much passes by, but how much happens as it passes.

As the flight attendant floated on by my row, I thought of Kira. She resembled her in only the most superficial ways-the almond eyes, the luminescent black hair. She smiled at me, checked the back of my seat to make certain of its upright position, and continued down the cabin. It was little moments like these that hurt the most, the unexpected flashes of her and the thoughts of what could have been. Sometimes it is a curse to have an active imagination.

It was also moments like these that made me wish I could believe in the God of my parents. I thought it must be a great comfort to have the faith that everything happened for some greater reason, that deaths, no matter how cruel or untimely, had a purpose we just could not understand.

I neither believed nor understood. I was alone.

Japan had been good for me. Kira’s parents treated me like family and introduced me to everyone as Kira’s fiance. There was no anger in any of the family, no ugliness about the violence in America. No one felt inclined to blame me. It seemed everyone had the ability to make sense of things but me. Kira’s mother, fierce and stoic, took me for a walk one day to a Shinto shrine. As we sat in a rock garden under the cold sunlight, she spoke to me about her only child. She never once looked at me, talking instead to the few birds that landed on the rocks to sun their plumes.

“My girl was never happy,” she said. “To my shame, she had no footing. At first, we tried to make her too traditional. It is not an unnatural reaction, I think, to being in a foreign land. Our feet, my husband’s and my own, were on wet rocks themselves. America can be overwhelming to people who are raised on sacrifice.”

“You have nothing to explain to me. I should be the one,” I confessed, “to explain.”

“Thank you for your graciousness. These are hard things to say, but a mother has the right to say them. She was an unhappy girl; no friends, no family, moving all the time. My husband’s career was consuming. So, when Kira decided to stay behind, I was. .” She began to cry. “I was almost-”

“-relieved,” I finished for her.

“Her unhappiness and our guilt was easier to deal with a continent away. In my awkward grief, what I am trying to say is that you must be a special man to have made Kira want to love you. It seemed she never wanted to love her parents.”

“Mine was the easier role. You had already made her perfect.”

With that, I stood and walked back to the house alone. I left Kira’s mother by herself to sort things out amongst the rocks and birds. At one point, I turned back to look at her. She was my age, maybe a year or two older, but was, I thought, wiser than I would ever be and far more courageous.

At the airport, Kira’s father gave me a family photo album, a handshake, and a bow. We knew we would never see one another again.

As always, MacClough was waiting for me outside customs. He was still heavy, but frail-looking somehow. His skin was jaundiced as it had been in Riversborough. He was worn out and looked like shit. I probably looked worse, having spent the better part of a day in the air. Although considerable creature comforts were available on board, no one would ever mistake twenty hours in a 747 for a weekend at a Palms Springs spa.

We embraced. His handshake was firm as ever. There was relief in that. We exchanged some small talk on the way through the parking lot. I continued walking even after MacClough had stopped.

“This is it,” John said, pointing to a rented car.

“Where’s the T-Bird?”

“I decided to finally get it fully restored. It’s at a place out in Montauk that specializes in ’60s Fords. It’ll be done in a coupl’a weeks. Already paid for.”

I thought that was an odd thing for him to tell me, but I just loaded my bags and myself inside. Near the airport, it was difficult to judge the season. It always seemed cold at the airport and the air always smelled of hot metal and spent kerosene. But with my window down slightly as we hit the Cross Island, I could smell spring coming. I could read it in the orange face of the setting sun. My eyes set more quickly than the sun.

We were off the LIE and the sky was dark when I woke up. I peeked over at MacClough, but he caught me.

“Up for the home stretch, huh?” He rubbed the back of my neck.

“I guess.” I was so articulate when I awoke from sleep.

“Listen, I’m goin’ away for a little while. Will you keep an eye on the Scupper for me?”

“Where you-”

“I don’t know where I’m goin’,” he said, “but I’m burnt. It’s time to take a rest away from here.”

“How long?”

“For chrissakes, Klein! Will you watch the Scupper for me or what?”

“You know I will,” I threw my hands up in surrender. “What the fuck else do I have to do? Besides, it’s a better gig than my agent could get me.”

MacClough thought that was very funny. He didn’t restart the conversation until we were nearly at the Sound Hill village limits.

“I didn’t kill him, Dylan,” was how he began.

“Hernandez?”

“Yeah, Hernandez. You were right about the rolled-up newspaper. I did rough him up pretty good, but he just wouldn’t tell me where the Boatswain kid was.”

“So you used your second gun, pulled out all but one cartridge, and stuck it in his mouth.”

“Just like I learned in school,” he admitted. “Even though he thought it was a random spin of the cylinder, I knew the bullet was in the last chamber. That gave me five shots to play with.”

“He talked.”

“But he didn’t give the kid up easy.” MacClough let go of the wheel and held up his right hand, fingers spread wide. “It took all five empties before he gave me the location.”

“So before I could tell him he was under arrest and that he had the right to remain silent, he. .” MacClough put his right index finger in his mouth and pulled a make-believe trigger. “He clamped his thumbs around my trigger finger and swallowed the bullet.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that, as God is my witness. Boom! He gave up the kid and offed himself. For more than twenty years, I wondered about that.”

“You don’t wonder anymore?” I asked.

“No, not anymore.”

“Why not?”

He deflected my question. “You are one nosy Jewish son of a bitch. It doesn’t matter why I don’t wonder anymore. I just don’t. I didn’t want to go away before I told you about Hernandez.”

“What about my brother?”

“Later for your brother.” He parked in front of the Scupper. “I’ve got to check on something. C’mon in and let me buy ya a beer.”

I thought about resisting, but I knew he’d drag me in by my ears if I put up too much of a stink. When MacClough wants to buy you a beer, you let him. It looked dark and pretty dead inside, sort of like I’d felt since Kira’s murder. Yet, just the sight of the place, no matter how bereft of patrons, brightened my spirits. It lifted me up like the smell of a Nathans hot dog. Walking through the front door, I noticed the bar really was dark and empty. I shrugged my shoulders. For all I knew this could be one of MacClough’s lame promotions: Hide and go seek night! All lite beers half price if you can find them in the dark.

“Surprise!” someone shouted.

The lights came up as did about twenty heads from behind the bar. My brothers and sisters-in-law were there. Zak and the other kids, too. Guppy came out of the kitchen with Valencia Jones on his arm. Detective Fazio and Sergeant Hurley, looking fine in black jeans, boots, and work shirt, were seated at a booth. Sure I noticed Hurley. I was grieving, not dead myself. All of Sound Hill’s usual suspects were on hand as well. Even Larry Feld had deigned to come and I was never happier to see the prick. But I was most shocked at the presence of my agent, Shelley Stickman.

“Dylan, Dylan, Dylan.” He ran up to me smiling like he had a stale croissant stuck in his lips. “I got news.”

“You got news, Shelley?” I was so enthusiastic I nearly fell back asleep.

“Sure I got news. What da ya think, this is a welcome back from the funeral party?”

“You’re an asshole, Shelley.”

“Sure I’m an asshole,” he said straight-faced. “It’s a pre-requisite in my line of work.”

“Get to the point, Shelley.”

“Moviemax bought the rights. They’re not crazy about the title, but for what they paid, they’re allowed not to like the title. Sure,” he winked, “the thing will probably never get made, but who cares?”

“You’re right, Shelley,” I said, shaking his hand unconsciously, “who cares?”

“Sure, bust my balls, but I got a heart. It’s just not good for me to show the bastards I’ve got to deal with for you. I’m sorry about the girl.”

“Thanks, Shelley.”

“Ten percent is my thanks, but you’re welcome anyway.”

God, he was such a putz. Polonius was his role model. Maybe later we could get him to stand behind a curtain and the rest of us could play Hamlet. Doesn’t everyone want to play Hamlet once in their career?

Valencia Jones walked up to me with tears in her eyes. Her mouth moved as if she wanted words to come out. None did. That was all right. She didn’t have to say a word for me to understand. We hugged and I told her to give up skiing. She liked that. I sat down with Hurley and Fazio. Hurley excused herself and asked me if she could bring me a drink on the way back. I explained that MacClough would know what I wanted. She drifted into the crowd. As she did, I thanked Fazio for saving our lives.

“Glad to do it.” He smiled. “Almost like being a real cop.”

“You know, MacClough didn’t kill Hernandez,” I said awkwardly.

“I know. He told me all about it.”

“Why’d you help him? MacClough and my brother ruined your career.”

“They didn’t ruin it, they changed it. And I helped him, because he needed help. I don’t hold what your brother might have done against you or your nephew. I’m an honorable man. Anyways, he helped me solve Caliparri’s murder.”

Confused, I wondered: “You’re not bitter?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“What are you saying?”

He put his face close to mine. “Listen, MacClough came to me and asked for help. It wasn’t complicated. I was just supposed to keep tabs on him when he went back to Riversborough. He figured he needed somebody to watch his flank. Thinking ahead, we arranged a meeting spot in case he got jammed up. If he needed it, I’d wire him for sound. IAD cops are good with wires. I hedged my bets and let the DEA in on our little arrangements. MacClough ran. We met. I wired him. We got the evidence. You got your nephew. All MacClough did for me was answer some questions, questions that have eaten my guts out for more than twenty years. Whether I liked the answers I got didn’t really matter. It was that I got them. That’s all. The past doesn’t change. The hurt don’t go away.” He grabbed his belly. “The bitterness is still in me, but maybe I can sleep a little bit now.”

Fazio stood up as Hurley returned with my drink. She was nursing a glass of champagne. She seemed ill at ease when she sat down.

“I know you’re grieving, but. .” She cleared her throat, hesitated, her face reddening. “This is awkward, but when you’re feeling better would it be all right with you if I took you to dinner sometime?”

I didn’t answer right away.

“I know this is odd for you,” she said, “but it’s no good for me pretending that I don’t like you. And don’t be valiant or anything. Catching you on the rebound is better than not catching you at all.”

Now I hesitated. “Listen. Sergeant-”

“-Cathy,” she corrected.

“I don’t know if I’m ready, Cathy.”

“That’s okay,” she lied.

“Maybe some other time.”

“Please, I’d like that.”

As she excused herself, I found myself reaching for her hand.

“What is it?” she wondered.

“I think I changed my mind,” I said. “Is that invitation for dinner still on the table?”

“Sure.”

“Give me two weeks, okay?”

“Two weeks?” She winked. “I can wait two weeks.”

I wrote my number down on a bar nap, stood and kissed her cheek. I spilled some of my Black and Tan on her shoes. I don’t think she noticed.

“Two weeks,” she reminded me.

“Better call or I’ll come looking for you.”

“I’d hate that,” she purred.

Smiling with substance for the first time in weeks, I continued making the rounds. As I moved through the crowd, I received an odd mixture of congratulation and condolence. MacClough was in his element, pouring beers and weaving tales to anyone who would listen. They all listened. I knew his stories by heart as if they’d been passed onto me for safekeeping, but I could listen to them still. He had the gift of making them fresh with each recounting. As I finished my pint, I lip-synced the words along with John as he captivated Guppy and my brother Josh with one of his favorites: the one about walking off his traffic post in Coney Island on the Fourth of July so he could bang a Puerto Rican nurse in the back of an ambulance. MacClough caught me watching, gave me a nod, and kept going without missing a beat.

Before John got to the part where his captain catches him with the nurse, Larry Feld grabbed me by the elbow and ushered me to a more private part of the room. Larry understood very little about people beyond greed and desperation. He had always been too hungry and ambitious himself to notice much else. But Larry understood pain. It was the engine of his life, though I doubt he ever thought of it as such. And for the first time since his mother’s funeral, I saw real sorrow in his eyes. He held my hand as he held it that day. This time, however, it was his hand pulling me up from the depths. When he noticed the first hints of appreciation in my expression, he let go of my hand and disappeared.

The bulk of the crowd had turned into pumpkins and rats well before the witching hour. There were only a few of us left. MacClough, of course. Fazio and Hurley, like any two self-respecting cops, were in it until last call. Jeffrey, looking for his heart in a bottle of single malt scotch, was lingering in a corner somewhere. Bob Street from the Star Spangled Deli and old man Carney, the proprietor of Carney’s Cabs, were playing a game of Buzz at the end of the bar with shots of Remy Martin and Grand Marnier. Card-carrying Bud drinkers, Street and Carney had expensive tastes when someone else was picking up the tab.

Curious, I wandered over to Jeffrey’s lonely corner. “Did you pay for this?” I asked.

Staring oddly at the bottle, he seemed not to understand the question. Then, realizing I wasn’t asking about the scotch, but the party, he had a good laugh at himself. It was a rare sight, seeing my big brother laugh at himself.

“I paid for part of it,” he said. “Does it matter?”

“I guess not, not really.” I sat down across from him. “I think there are some things we need to get out in the open.”

“Cut to the chase, little brother.”

“Was it your idea to cover-up what happened between MacClough and Hernandez?”

“It’s not like you to be euphemistic, Dylan. What’s this ‘what happened between’ crap?” Jeff pointed to the bar. “Your buddy over there blew a suspect’s brains out and I turned him into a hero detective. So sue me.”

“MacClough says it was suicide,” I defended.

“Sure it was, little brother. Christ, I don’t know. Maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe he’s convinced himself that’s what really happened. It’s a rather moot point, don’t you think?”

“So John made detective on the strength of a corpse and Fazio’s career.”

“Careers have turned on much less. MacClough was in the right place at the right time. It was his street contacts that led him to Hernandez, not mine. He was a damned beat cop, for chrissakes, a uniform. If he had just let it alone, worked his shifts and gone home, history would have been very different for all of us. But once he stuck his nose into things, he became the beneficiary of circumstance.”

“Or,” I differed, “its victim.”

“Or its victim.”

“But why the cover-up? Why not-”

“Because,” Jeffrey cut me off, “police corruption was rampant then. The department was in disarray, still reeling from the Knapp Commission. There had even been some rumblings of state or federal intervention. The last thing the NYPD needed at that moment was the fallout from a rogue cop torturing and killing a suspect. Remember, cops were still called pigs back then. Hernandez would’ve been seen as a convenient minority fall guy, another victim of the big bad police. So I seized the moment. Me, the ambitious little pis-sant A.D.A., turned a sow’s ear into a career for myself and a gold shield for your friend. With a bit of cooperation from the police brass-they were so fucking desperate to preserve their precious department, they would have done almost anything-MacClough’s promise to keep his mouth shut and a few favors from the press, I spun a potential disaster into shining glory.” Looking almost wistful, he said: “It’s too bad, really, you couldn’t have seen the headlines.”

“Oh, but I did.”

He didn’t seem to hear what I said and, as he continued to speak, Jeffrey gestured with his hands, framing imaginary headlines that floated somewhere above our table:

“HERO COP BEATS FEDS TO THE PUNCH”

I snapped my fingers in front of his face to break the trance.

“God, Dylan,” he went on, “those were heady days. It was perfect. All the rumblings from Albany and Washington came to an abrupt halt. So if you are asking me whether the life of one scumbag kidnapper and the career of one honest cop was worth it, I’d say it was. If Fazio knew all the details, he’d agree.”

“Okay, Jeff, I just wanted to hear it from your own lips.”

Standing now, he said: “I haven’t properly thanked you for getting Zak back to us.”

“Forget it. His being safe should be enough thanks for both of us.”

“When did you get so smart?” he teased.

“Obviously, when you weren’t looking.”

“Save my seat. I want you to tell me about Kira.” He brushed his hand gently across my cheek. “I may never have met her, but I know she was too good for you.”

Jeffrey could not have known how much the world would change before he got back to his seat.

Bob Street and old man Carney had had enough. They held each other, zig zagging their way to the Scupper’s door. Once at the threshold, however, they were at a bit of a loss. I set them free, pushing open the door. The two of them stumbled onto the pavement, laughing. I watched them stagger on down the otherwise silent street until they disappeared fully into the night. The cool salty air felt good on my face and made a home for itself in my lungs, but I could feel exhaustion tapping at my shoulder. I looked forward to a lengthy visit with my bed. In some sense I was relieved that Kira and I had never shared that bed. If we had, I could never have slept there again.

As I began to pull the door shut, I could still hear Bob Street and Carney laughing like giddy poltergeists moving onto their next haunt. I never did get the door closed. Another hand, a powerful hand held it open. I could say little about the man on the opposite side of the door other than he had a steel grip and was bathed in darkness. Beyond that, he was a mystery.

“Sorry,” I said, “private party.”

“I’m looking for MacClough, man,” was his answer to that. “I think he’s expecting me.”

The muscles in my arm ached from holding the door against his grip. I called to MacClough, still futzing around behind the bar, and told him there had been a request for an audience.

“If I’m expectin’ the man, let him in.”

And in that instant I let go of the door, I knew something was wrong. The night visitor yanked the door open and came charging into the bar out of his darkness. He was a short, well-muscled latino dressed in fatigue pants and a white tank top. His exposed skin was a maze of grotesque tattoos, the tank top preventing me from making sense of the stains on his body. He sported a pinstripe-thin moustache above a wicked gray goatee. His scalp was shaved and his eyes were black and feral. They saw nothing but their prey, Johnny MacClough.

“Hey pato” he hissed at MacClough, “you know who I am?”

“I’ve been wait in’ for you, Angel.”

Wild eyes almost smiled at that. “So you got my letter.”

Fazio, passive until now, jumped to his feet when he heard Angel’s name. He reached for his ankle. Hurley too went for her gun. Suddenly, Angel saw more than MacClough.

“This is for my brother,” Angel screamed, spitting, his hand disappearing behind his back. When his hand reappeared, it held a sawed-off shotgun.

I jumped at him, but he flicked me away like ashes. I followed the barrel of the gun to MacClough’s eyes. They held no fear that I could see. Maybe I was invested in not seeing any. His eyes were impatient. Come on, they seemed to say, let’s get it over with. I remember yelling at Fazio and Hurley to do something. And then Jeffrey threw open the mens room door. It was human to look, to hesitate just a beat. But Angel was not human. The little shotgun coughed thunder, spit smoke and fire. The impact caught John squarely, freeing him from the restrictions of gravity. The beveled mirror on the bar’s back wall ended his brief flight. John slid to the floor, a shower of shattered glass and spirits anointing his body.

Fazio and Hurley cut Angel to pieces almost before the scatter shot hit MacClough. As far as doing Johnny any good, it could have been a month later. The damage was done. Angel sprawled out, his head landing with a crack at my feet. The bullet holes had rendered his tattoos forever nonsensical.

John was lifeless behind the bar. There would be no good-byes. The four of us, Fazio and Hurley, Jeffrey and myself, formed a circle around his body. Glass crunched under our feet. More out of reflex than hope, Fazio knelt down and touched his fingers to Johnny’s bloodied throat. There was nothing to feel but the heat running out of him.

“I’ll go make the call,” Hurley volunteered.

Then Fazio said something only survivors say: “It’s better this way.”

He must have seen the confusion in my eyes and answered my question before I asked it.

“Liver cancer,” he said, “and it was spreading. He wanted to tell you, but with your dad, the kid, and the girl, he just never had the heart.”

I guess Fazio was right. It was better this way. John was haunted by his own father’s death from cancer.

Pointing at Angel, Jeffrey asked: “Who was he?”

“Angel Hernandez,” Fazio answered.

“Hernandez!” The name caught in my throat.

“That’s right, Klein, the kidnapper’s brother,” Fazio confirmed. “MacClough told me Angel had sworn to get even for his little brother.”

Sirens replaced the laughter of giddy poltergeists as the soundtrack for the evening. Tires screeched. The Scupper was crowded once again. John always liked it when the Scupper was crowded.

We passed the school where children played

Their lessons scarcely done;

We passed the fields of gazing grain,

We passed the setting sun.

— Emily Dickinson