Gunmetal Blue Page 3

  I like that Luger.

  It's what got me fired from the railroad.

  Oh yeah. How so?

  When I was working at the Union Pacific as a brakeman I got canned for ‘reckless behavior.’

  How do you get fired for reckless behavior?

  You only get fired for reckless behavior when someone higher up don’t like you. If they have no other reason to fire you then they choose ‘reckless behavior.’

  But what about the union? Didn’t they protect you?

  Well to tell the truth, Art, I’d been caught shooting at coyotes in the railroad yard with this Luger. I’d shoot them and skin them out and sell the pelts. And one of the supervisors was watching me through his binoculars and caught me shooting. That’s when I got fired for reckless behavior. Then my dad passed, and not long after he died I started receiving checks from his insurance policy.

  He takes aim until he empties all the rounds in his Luger. Then he puts it down and picks up the Uzi and starts shooting single-shot.

  About this girl I met at the track…I got close to fucking her in the elevator. I thought I was going to get lucky for sure, so I told her we could go back to my place. She would have done it in the elevator, too. When I told her about my mom, though, something inside of her broke.

  It’s OK, pally, I tell him. It’s OK. It happens.

  It makes me feel like shit when it happens to me. RAT. TAT. TAT. TAT.

  Well she’ll come to no good.

  Of course she won’t. RAT. TAT. TAT. TAT. She’ll find someone else to do it to. That’s the way with women like these.

  He clears out and I step into the lane and he gives me space to shoot until I empty the clip. He hands me more loaded clips as I need them. I shoot mostly in silence, and for once I start hitting the target.

  Maybe it's you, I tell Cal.

  Maybe me? How so, Art?

  If you just shut up for a minute and let me shoot rather than talk to me and distract me, I can actually hit the target.

  Ha—Art! You just hit the target because for once you got lucky, unlike me with that girl.

  I suppose I am lucky. Blurt. Blurt. Blurt.

  You are lucky, Art. You have no idea, he says, stepping up to the line for one more round going Blurt Blurt Blurt with the shells flying all over the place, and when he’s through he pulls his safety glasses off his face and smiles at me as if he were the Red Baron just finished blasting away at some poor fool staring at the sun.

  Feels good, don’t it? He smiles at me.

  Yessir. It does. It always feels good. Whenever I’m feeling blue, it’s nice to shoot.

  Yessir, it is.

  •

  Hey, wait a second. You’re rhyming again.

  I suppose I am.

  Blurt. Blurt.

  Pop. Pop. Pop.

  •

  After shooting, I visit Rita.

  Rita works the counter. She smokes more than she should smoke. Smiles less than she should smile and complains her tips are bad. Her joints ache. Her teeth hurt. Besides that, she’s a bundle of joy.

  When I visit her these days I feel like a dog sniffing over a dead corpse.

  As opposed to a living corpse?

  Our relationship is a corpse.

  Whether it’s a living corpse or a dead corpse remains to be seen.

  I walk through the doors of the restaurant and try to smile at Rita. I try to imitate the smile I used to smile at her when we were first in love.

  When were we in love?

  Were we ever in love?

  Love.

  I smile an approximate smile at Rita, not a real smile. My smile when I walk through the doors is just like our relationship. Our relationship is an approximate relationship, not a real relationship.

  I should have never become a waitress, she says when I sit down at the counter.

  What would you rather do?

  She hands me a cup of coffee.

  Anything under the sun.

  Like what?

  Like what I just said, anything under the sun. I’d get out of Chicago and move south. Head to Florida or something. Become a bartender at one of those beach resorts. That’s what I’d like to do. But working in Chicago. For one I can’t stand the cold, and with another winter coming on I feel like a fool being stuck here waiting for it. No way out.

  But Chicago has things Florida doesn’t have.

  Like what?

  Spring and fall.

  She laughs. Ha. Ha. It’s cold here most of the year, and when it’s not cold it’s hot.

  Is not.

  Is too.

  Is not.

  You only say is not because you’ve got a faulty memory.

  Yes. Now I’ll agree with you there. It’s a faulty memory that keeps me plugging away.

  It’s a faulty memory that’s going to land you in an institution sooner than you think. Alzheimer’s disease.

  There’s perks though, I point out. For one: I keep forgetting I hate my work, and that allows me to keep going to it in the morning.

  It’s probably what keeps you loving me too, by that logic. You keep loving me because you’re always forgetting that you hate me.

  Not true. Not true.

  Your problem is, Art…

  Wait a second—I have a problem?

  Your problem is…Let me finish here…your problem is, you’re faithful like a dog.

  I didn’t know fidelity was a problem.

  It can be a problem. Too much fidelity can definitely be a problem.

  So can infidelity.

  You’re too faithful to your wife’s memory.

  It’s who I am.

  Well.

  Well.

  Well?

  I can’t forget her…

  Nobody’s asking you to forget. I haven’t forgotten my mom. All’s we’re asking here is you learn to let it go.

  Let what go?

  Let the grief go.

  It is gone. Poof.

  It is?

  It’s the fifth anniversary of her burial, that’s all.

  It’s the fifth anniversary of mom’s, and look at me. I’m still standing. You look like you were just hit by a truck. You’re suffering too much. Put it behind you, Art.

  Gee, aren’t you friendly today?

  It’s just this job…

  Rita sets a platter of eggs and bacon in front of me, refreshes my coffee, and gives me a small orange juice that she pulled from a dispenser.

  And I’m tired. She attempts a smile. I never can figure out why they settled in Chicago.

  Why who?

  The original people who settled Chicago. Such a godawful place. Too cold or too hot.

  Honey, what are you complaining about the cold for? It’s a beautiful day out there.

  I felt winter out there today. And I don’t like winter. My joints permanently ache from the cold.

  Then why don’t you move to Florida? Or some spa town with hot springs, Epson salt, and mud?

  Epsom salt. Easy for you to say, Art. With all your millions…You can go down to Fort Lauderdale at the drop of a hat and snap up one of those mansions in…what do they call it? I saw a show on it the other day. Little Venice. Yeah. You with your millions! Solving crime. I’m trying not to laugh. Some of us, however, have to work for a living. Some of us actually have to do something to earn a living.

  But Rita…Look, you don’t like the heat, either. You’re always complaining about the heat. It’s either too hot or too cold for you.

  I like the heat, Art. Don’t get me wrong. It’s just this heat—this stupid, muggy Chicago heat—I don’t like it. Never have.

  She frowns at me and sighs.

  Chicago has an unrepenting heat. Just like it has an unrepenting cold. And I just don’t like it.

  What’s unrepenting?

  You know what I mean…

  Are you talking about the Catholic Church? Unrepenting? Maybe you ought to see a priest.

  And confess my sins?

  Y
ou don’t have any sins.

  Working in this dump is a sin. Staying with you for five years is probably a sin too.

  Nothing in the Old Testament says staying with a guy like me is a sin.

  Oh, it’s a sin, Art. Believe you me. This funny relationship we have is a sin. The way you smile at me these days. I feel it in my bones. It’s a sin.

  Are you confessing something to me? Spill it out. I’m here to listen.

  You know what I’m saying.

  I do?

  Let this be a warning to you, Art. My love only goes so deep.

  What does that mean?

  You know what it means.

  And then I’ll be out on my ear living with my mom?

  Just like all your other loser friends.

  Speaking of Cal, he and his mom live off his father’s life-insurance policy. That was his big reveal today.

  That’s nice. I suppose he plans on gambling it all away.

  He doesn’t want to, but he can’t help himself.

  He should get a job instead of mooching off his parents.

  I think he’s tried. He had a job at Waste Management all lined up but he forgot to go to the interview.

  Well then, he’s crazy. Tell him to see a shrink.

  He’d never see a shrink. Are you kidding me!

  No, I don’t suppose he would. Art, you sure know how to pick ‘em!

  I eat my eggs and bacon and watch Rita work the line. She looks tired, exhausted. She looks like someone who left this place years ago, her eyes have left this place, but her body is still here. Her body is trying to figure out how to get to that place her eyes already escaped to. Her eyes went somewhere—south, perhaps—but she remains here waiting and waiting for something—for me perhaps, for her chances to up turn, for an opportune moment to quietly slip away when no one is looking. In the meantime she goes about her work and complains about the work, the customers, her tips…

  I wish these idiots…

  They’re idiots now?

  Now? Where have you been Art? They’ve always been idiots and I wish they…

  What?

  I wish they knew the old fifteen percent rule. Unfortunately none of them know how to tip. The best I do these days is ten percent. A person can hardly live on fifteen percent, much less ten percent. I’m dying in this job.

  Then get a new one. You could work anywhere you want.

  Oh? And how would I manage that? Remember I don’t even have a diploma.

  But you have experience. You have tons of experience.

  That and arch support will get you nowhere fast in today’s economy. Believe you me, Art. And I would appreciate it if you figured out how to talk to me without belittling me.

  Can I have another coffee?

  Are you going to tip me?

  Fifteen percent.

  All right, then, you can have another coffee. But some folks come in here sit all day drinking my coffee and walk out leaving two dollars to cover the cup of coffee, no tip included.

  Don’t worry about it Rita. Things are bound to improve. It’s only an unlucky streak is all.

  But I’m tired of being unlucky. All day I watch people come and go and I can’t help feel they’re all luckier than me.

  That’s not true and you know it.

  It is true, Art. They get to come and go as they please but I’m stuck working all day in this shithole going nowhere fast.

  You have me.

  Like I say, I’m unlucky. And I did nothing to deserve it.

  Smile honey. A smile is the beginning of a winning streak, I promise you.

  She looks at me like she wants to kill me, then she crosses her eyes and sticks out her tongue.

  I’m sorry, Rita.

  It’s OK.

  I love you, Rita.

  I love you too, I suppose.

  No supposing about it.

  No, let me suppose, Art. It’s all I have. It’s my fifteen percent margin, this supposing.

  Rita, hang in there. Business is bound to upturn. I promise.

  You and your promises, Art. That’s all you have are promises. But you never seem able to deliver.

  I look at my watch and smile at Rita.

  Well, darling…

  Well?

  Am I going to see you tonight?

  Not tonight, Art.

  Oh, come on baby.

  I don’t feel like it tonight. I’m sorry, Art. I’m tired.

  Come on over. I’ll rub your feet and spread mentholated ointment on your calves.

  I’ve got to go home, Art. Take care of my cats. Get my mail. That sort of thing. Pay the bills. How about you spend a few days alone and think about this?

  What’s there to think about?

  I’ll give you a few days to come up with an answer to that.

  Until then…

  Until then you’re on your own.

  •

  I walk out the door and buy a loaf of Wonder Bread at the corner store. I head for the park where I feed the pigeons. I find a bench near the fountain and already the birds are coming from everywhere to gather round me. They know me by sight, these birds. They’re pretty smart. Either that or I have them well-trained. Dog walkers pass on either side, kids on skateboards, office workers loaded down with satchels carrying their laptops stride past me like I’m crazy.

  It’s the least I can do, feed these birds.

  Everything else I’ve managed to botch up, but taking care of these birds. It’s the least I can do.

  I’m one of those who never had anything against pigeons. Everybody hates them. Then they hate crows. Then they hate the common grackle. In that order. The problem with pigeons, they’ll tell you, is that pigeons are dirty filthy birds. Flying rats. The problem with crows, they’ll tell you, is that crows are raucous birds that make too much noise and are generally just pests, and the problem with grackles is that they raid the nests and eat the young of other species.

  A bird is a bird to me. I don’t hate them. What’s there to hate? They’re animals that manage to get along in the city and survive. It seems admirable to me. The idea of judging a bird for how it chooses to get along is a bit ludicrous. Judging people on the other hand, seems OK. People are open game. I like birds because they’re not people. I don’t find birds particularly dirty. I often find people to be dirty, or if not dirty, unpleasant in ways that suggest they are dirty. Pigeons and sparrows possess their own wonder and beauty and it’s not so hard to see if you only look. I don’t mind feeding pigeons and sparrows even if they are common. Who am I to turn my nose up at a bird because it happens to be common? I’m common. What’s wrong with common? I see a friend in these birds. They gather around me when I feed them. They swoop down from the tree tops and they accept my offerings with gratitude. I try to cluck like them. I give them names and try to recognize them from feeding to feeding. Bernie or Tweet or Apple or Broken Toe or Split Wing. It gives me pleasure to name the birds and peace of mind to feed them.

  I didn’t think I’d be one of those people—bird people—and in particular a person who feeds pigeons and sparrows. For the longest time I was always zipping around. My life was too busy to consider the birds. When I was too busy, I thought them dirty and pesky like everyone else. But now I have more time and I see the beauty of these ordinary city birds. I toss the pieces of Wonder Bread into the sky. The pigeons can swoop down from the trees and gather the bread in their beaks before the bread hits the ground. The grace and skill and beauty of this is sometimes too much for me. It’s the sort of thing that makes me grateful to still be alive. I don’t always feel that gratitude, but sitting in the park, tossing torn bread slices to the pigeons and sparrows fills my soul with gratitude.

  There are dog walkers in the park, and a few lovers sitting on the bench across from me. I had that sort of love with Adeleine but never had it with Rita. I probably won’t have that type of love again. Love is for the young. Love is for the unwounded. Love is for someone else. I don’t know how to love any more. I
’m a private eye whose business is slowly disappearing into oblivion and I could care less. I can’t even build up the energy to swoop down from the treetops, like the pigeons, and gather the few breadcrumbs that are tossed to me

  After feeding the birds I go back to the office to see if there’s anything going on. Wanda is long gone. I can't believe how meticulously clean my office is. Ever since Adeleine was gunned down, Wanda has been obsessed with keeping it hospital clean. The phone rings. I pick up. A voice on the other end suggesting business.

  Triple A Detective AAAgency…

  Triple A what?

  Detective AAAgency. Can I help you.

  Is this the plumber?

  The plumber?

  Is this Triple AAA Plumbing?

  No, I say, it’s the detective agency. Do you. Would you like to contract a detective?

  It’s plumbing. I need a plumber.

  Before I can get another word out to try and lure this voice into my business, the phone goes dead.

  ¤

  As I said before, prior to becoming a detective, I had worked for nearly two decades as an anonymous cog in a large telecom business.

  All I was there was a clerk in a large office building. I was a waterboy always running to get water for some higher-up who was thirsty. I would read inventory reports on antiquated computers. Huge reports that took all day to read. It was terribly dull work on a green screen with a cursor prompt. Then there were better computers with better programs, and a chunk of my work went away. Then my company went under, and let me tell you it happened faster than I thought these things could happen. One day we were a healthy company, the next week we were filing for Chapter 11 bankruptcy, and I was out on my ear looking for another job. You know how they say: the rug was pulled out from under me? Well it was literally like that. The rug had been pulled out. I had been called into the HR office, and an HR personnel explained the situation to me.

  The HR personnel pointed out that the new computer programs could handle the majority of my job, and so it made sense from the company’s point of view to eliminate my job. The HR personnel was very sorry to inform me of the restructuring but there was nothing to be done to keep me on. I was given a check to fill out my pay period and told to go home.

  HR smiled, then frowned. I frowned, then smiled. I gathered my check. I was polite. How could I not be polite? I knew it hurt the HR personnel more than it hurt me, at least until it didn’t hurt the HR personnel. That was at the moment the door closed behind me.