Gunmetal Blue Read online

  I have a hard time sleeping. I can’t concentrate. If I lacked motivation to get out of bed before she was killed, it’s been impossible now. It’s the reason why I always show up late to work. I show up and there’s Wanda looking all bright and fresh as springtime flowers and I’m always half dead because I couldn’t sleep because all that was going through my head during the night was how she was killed. So much for counting sheep…and for what?

  There were over eighty people from all walks of life at her funeral. Six people stood up to eulogize her. I was asked if I wanted to say a few words. But what could I say? That the whole thing was a desecration? Just a fucking desecration, and that I was to blame? Stop blaming yourself, people tell me. That’s bullshit. Take responsibility for your actions is what I say. I was the reason—me and no one else is why this whole tragic thing happened. Had I been more responsible with the Glock, none of this would have happened. Had I decided upon a different career—as she had suggested—none of this would have happened. But my wife was very supportive of me. She was supportive of Meg as well. She always told both of us, whatever we want to be we can be. She said she’d support us 110%. What was I to say about her at her funeral? That she was behind me 110%? That I was too stubborn to change my ways? That the reason why I was in this business in the first place was because it was a lark?

  At the funeral, those who did get up to talk spoke about what an angel she was. And the truth is, my wife was an angel. How else to describe her, but to say she was as sweet as can be? She worked like hell, and I understand she could be tough at work, but she was one of those rare birds who also had a gentle sweetness to her. There is no getting around that. You could see it not only in the way she and Meg got along, but with everyone else as well. She was a very unique individual. Everyone loved her. I still don’t know why she hooked up with me, of all people. She could have gotten anyone she wanted.

  I remember the first time I met her parents. I could see it in their eyes even then—they wondered where in the hell their daughter had found such a creature. They thought our relationship was a temporary thing. Back then, even I thought it was temporary. But of course it wasn’t. We actually loved each other. It was good chemistry. Adeleine and I fit well together: her hand in my hand, her body against my body. It was as if we had been designed to physically complete each other. As I got older my body changed, and so did hers, but that fitting one body against the next didn’t change. We grew together through the years, and we always seemed to fit. We were one of those couples, the older we got the more we resembled each other. Our attitudes about life were also complimentary. I’m plodding. Unflappable. Set in my ways. She always said I was like a well-built house. Straight walls built upon a strong foundation. Adeleine had similar qualities of perseverance. But she was more graceful than I was. She was flexible, where I was fixed. It was this that really gave me a lot of security. When I saw that flexibility in her, it made me feel she understood me and that she could handle who I was.

  Before I met Adeleine, no one seemed to understand me. My mother and father didn’t understand me. My father always felt I fell short of my potential. I never knew what my potential was—that is the problem. What’s more, there was so much out there that people seemed to want, and the thing about me is, I never wanted it. It seems to me that rising to the occasion of one’s potential is partly related to wanting, so on some level my problem was, and is, I don’t want enough. I want just enough to get along, that’s all. Nothing more. As to money, I don’t give a damn about it. Everybody obsessed with money—as if it can make you happy! Certainly the lack of money may make you unhappy, but it’s never been proven that an excess of money will make you more happy.

  What’s important is that you figure out how to be happy with who you are—and this was a view that Adeleine and I both shared. But my dad didn’t understand my type of happiness. He was an immigrant from Poland, and he didn’t understand how I could be happy not wanting anything at all. He also sensed I was prone to laziness. All he understood was hard work. If you have time on your hands, he liked to tell me…

  If you have time on your hands, Art…

  Yes Dad.

  It seems you have too much time on your hands.

  What do you mean?

  What I mean is, if you have too much time on your hands, maybe you’re not working hard enough. Maybe you ought to consider working a little harder than you appear to be working.

  For what reason, Dad? I’m happy.

  Bah. Happy! You need to be successful.

  How successful? Successful like you?

  Well I certainly want you to be more successful than me.

  But you’re successful enough, Dad. Look at you. You have Mom and me. There’s Jason. You have a nice house in the suburbs. A good job…

  But you with your brains, Art. You can do more than me. You should go farther. The son should always improve on the father. The father lays the foundation; the son builds the building. That’s the way it is from one generation to the next.

  But I don’t want your life. I’m happy with the life I have.

  But the life you have, don’t forget, is provided to you free of charge from me. And don’t think I’m going to bankroll you forever.

  I didn’t realize that’s how you thought of it, Dad—that you were bankrolling me.

  When you’re a child, Art, you’re a child. You can be whatever you want to be. But when you’re a man, you’ll have to learn how to stand on your own.

  I don’t know if I wanted to stand on my own. I wanted human connection, and I found that with Adeleine.

  I remember when I met Adeleine, one of the first things she told me was she could tell I was happy. She really admired that in me. I admired it in her, too. And it was then, I suppose, when a bond began to form. We even talked about it.

  There is something here, isn’t there, Adeleine?

  What do you mean?

  A bond. Do you feel a bond forming between us?

  And in mock silliness she would say back to me, countering my seriousness:

  Yes, I see a bond forming between us, Art. It is a strong bond. It is a bond meant to last. It is a bond that is unbreakable and we will stay cemented to each other forever and ever until death do us part.

  At which point she would begin laughing, and I would begin laughing, and at such times the death-do-us-part bit seemed like it would never happen. Not to us. Things like death-do-us-part happen to others. But it spares happy people such as ourselves.

  Of course, it didn’t end up sparing us. It got us just like it got everyone else. Sooner or later the seeds of our own destruction are planted, and sometimes they grow before we are ready. Or as she once so unforgettably said, remember the monstrosity you evoke may come home to sleep with you.

  Such was the case with my Adeleine, and with my determination to stick with the detective business.

  ¤

  My wife wasn’t in the ground two weeks when I got a call from the bricklayer.

  Let’s meet, he said.

  OK?

  We need to talk.

  Where would you like to meet?

  How about that coffee shop?

  It was a hot day. The sun was beating down. I waited in a courtyard outside the coffee shop. There were a few tables in the courtyard and a fountain that was spraying water. The courtyard was empty but I had a good view of the place so it seemed strategically the best place to meet him. It was a safe public place. Nothing would ever happen here. But then again, maybe anything in the world could happen anywhere. Adeleine’s death had taught me that much. I felt sick to my stomach, but I sat there waiting for him. Since Adeleine died, I had no taste for strangers. I also had a funny feeling about this meeting, so I’d brought my Ruger. I’d loaded it with live rounds and holstered it in a Bianchi leather waistband holster that Cal, in a fit of generosity, had given me. I did not feel righteous.

  I wished for alcohol instead of coffee, but coffee it was. I stared up at the sky half
worrying some malign act was going to fall down upon me, and half hoping to see her up there smiling down on me.

  Hi, Art.

  Hi, Adeleine.

  How are you?

  Terrible. Devastated. Crushed. Broken. I could go on, but I won’t. I want to hang myself from a rope in the garage and call it quits. Suicide is the only true medicine in cases like this. I don’t have the heart to shoot myself. Not after what happened to you. I’m sorry what happened to you. I truly am.

  I’m sorry too, Art. It’s not what we discussed, is it?

  No, Adeleine. This is not what we planned. Suddenly the appetite for life has escaped me. I’ve stopped eating. I go days on end like this, and then suddenly I realize I’m on the cusp of starvation so I binge-eat to catch up. My heart races at night and I wish it would just blow so I could be done with it, but the heart is a strong organ. I wish you were here with me.

  You’re on your own now.

  Meg left me.

  I’m sorry.

  I want her to return. We love her so very much, don’t we honey?

  Yes we do.

  Then there he was all of a sudden. The bricklayer.

  •

  He came loping from around the corner. By the looks of him I was glad I had my gun. He shouted: Hello detective. He insisted I stand up so he could shake my hand. His hands trembled.

  I didn’t budge.

  Get up, detective. Stand up! I want to shake your hand.

  I got up and reached my hand out. I thought to punch the shit out of him and crack his skull open, but I was wary. He grabbed my hand with both hands, and brutally squeezed it; he shook it up and down like a water pump.

  Hello, detective, he said. Good to see you again, he says. Thanks for coming out today! Jesus it’s hot. Are you drinking coffee, detective? Good, I’m glad you’re drinking coffee. That’s what detectives like you do for a living, apparently. You sit in coffee shops drinking coffee while the rest of us work. You sit in coffee shops like vultures waiting to feast on your next meal.

  Listen, it was you who called me to come out today.

  Yessir. Sit, detective. Please. Sit down. Please. I’m glad you came. Now sit down. Relax. I want you to sit and be calm, detective. This is between friends, because I want to ask you something.

  Shoot.

  No, sit first. Please sit, detective.

  So I sat. I looked at my watch and I informed him I wasn’t getting paid for this.

  No need for payment here. This is just a friendly visit, but I want to ask you a question. A serious question. You asked me some questions, a few weeks ago. Now do you mind if I ask you a question or two, detective?

  I remained silent.

  OK then. Let me speak and I will ask it. Suppose someone, detective. Suppose some person tried to take your wife away from you.

  Yes.

  Let me ask you that again, detective. Suppose there were some person who tried to take your wife away from you…

  Yes. I heard the question. What’s your point?

  My point is this. If someone tried to legally or physically take your wife away from you…

  Listen, I said, interrupting him. I don’t know what this is about. But I’m not trying to take your wife or anybody else’s wife away from them. I’m off your case. I signed off on your case. I don’t want your case. Frankly, I don’t need the business. What’s happening to you is between you and your wife. If your wife is leaving you or asking you to leave her then I recommend you take it up with her. Or get your own lawyer to defend you. But frankly, there’s no reason for us to be having this discussion right now. I wish you well. I also wash my hands of all this. Now if you don’t mind, this conversation is over.

  But detective. The thing you don’t understand is…

  The thing I don’t understand? Are you trying to tell me I don’t understand? Because if you are, I’m going to ask you to lay off. There’s plenty in this world I don’t understand. That being said I don’t need you to clarify anything for me.

  But the thing you don’t understand, detective, and the reason why I asked you to come out today is because I want to know something, and you’re not answering me.

  I’m leaving. I’m leaving now.

  But supposing, detective. Supposing someone out of the blue tried to take your wife away from you, whether by law or by force. How would you feel about that?

  Someone did take my wife.

  How would you feel if you knew who it was?

  Supposing you shut your mouth.

  Supposing, detective, you answer me. That’s why we’re here today. That’s why we’re meeting like this. It’s just a simple conversation between friends. How would you feel?

  •

  Art, promise me one thing.

  Yes, Adeleine, anything…

  Promise me one thing, is all.

  I promise, honey.

  Promise me that if I should die before you to bury me in a pine box…

  •

  Detective. Do you hear me? Are you listening to me? Suppose…

  What the hell is all this about?

  It was I, detective, who shot your wife.

  I’m listening.

  This is the gun that killed your wife.

  He pulled a gun from his pocket and set it on the table. It was the Glock 26 with the rubberized grip that Cal had given me. I was speechless.

  So he went on: You didn’t know it was gone, did you? You didn’t even know it was gone from your closet.

  Again I couldn’t talk.

  I’m sorry, detective, for killing your wife, but I did it. I killed her. And we can’t go back to fix what has been done, can we? I don’t know what got into me, detective. You got into me, I suppose. You sitting there in your coffee shop trying to steal my wife away from me. I didn’t like your attitude while you sat and asked me those questions and I didn’t like that you recorded me on that recorder of yours without asking me. I didn’t like that you recorded my story without even thinking of asking me if it was OK to record my story. And then later, after we had our little conversation, it occurred to me that I had nothing but a litigious wife, who herself had a lawyer who wanted to do me in, and now a detective who had recorded evidence of our conversation. I couldn’t stand that you stole my voice away from me, detective, on that little recorder of yours, and that once you stole my voice, my voice would be used to steal my wife away from me. What’s more, you got into me so I didn’t feel like myself anymore.

  I just sat there and took it all in. I did not know what I was supposed to say to any of this. So he went on.

  So I wanted to take out my anger on you, detective. I found out where you work. I looked up your AAAgency. I didn’t know what I was doing. I went up the elevator of your building in the early evening, and when I got off the elevator I saw the door to your office was open. Your door wasn’t even locked! I turned the knob. It opened, so I stepped inside. No one was in it. Your office was immaculately clean. I didn’t know what I was doing, exactly, or why I was in your office, but once I got in there I did have an idea to try and find that recording you made of me. I was pissed off like hell at you and that dirty lawyer of hers. I wanted to show you what it means to lose something. You have a nice office, detective. Your business must pay well for such a nice office on Jewelers Row on Wabash Avenue. And what do you do with such a business? Go to coffee shops and try to steal wives away from men who work all day in the hot sun. I sat in your office chair and I tried to imagine what it must be like to be a detective who does such things. I saw the picture of your wife and daughter framed on your desk. I saw you had an office mate who probably took care of your office. I kicked my feet up on your desk, and the phone rang. When I picked it up, someone on the other end was asking for a plumber. I tried not to laugh. Is this how you make money, waiting to intercept people who are looking for someone who does honest work? Tricking them into inquiring about your services? I still didn’t know what I was doing. But I was a detective. I was you, detective!
I said in the calmest voice possible: No, this is the detective agency. Is there something I can do for you? When I said that the phone went dead. I was wearing my dirty work clothes caked in mortar. I wondered what it would be like to work in an air-conditioned office and not have to soil my clothes with mortar. I wondered what it would be like to sit in an air-conditioned office for a living. I noticed there was a small closet in your office with some of your clothes stored there and a shelf where you kept champagne and some glassware. I also saw a gun case, and I opened up, and there it was, your Glock. What the hell? I thought. I put it on the desk and put the case back. I took my clothes off and tried yours on. They looked like a fit. I didn’t have to be a bricklayer. I could be a detective. I could be you! I put on your socks. I found a pair of pants and tried them on. They fit perfectly. I pulled out a flannel shirt, from Farm and Fleet, I think. It was one of the same exact shirts I own, detective. I was surprised to see all the work clothes in your closet! What is it you do that merits a workingman’s clothes? As far as I can tell, detectives like you don’t work for a living. Of course I took your Glock. It was there for the taking. It was loaded. And you didn’t even know it was gone! What kind of detective are you, if you can’t even detect a crime has taken place? But I wanted to be you. I wanted to be more you than you. I combed my hair with a comb you had in your desk drawer—did you notice I took that with me as well? Or did that escape your notice? How many things do you think escape your notice every single day? You go about your business so blithely, but what is it you really notice about your life? What do you really see, detective?