Gunmetal Blue Page 9

  Too late for that. Too late for anything.

  Is there anything else you need to tell me, sir? Because I am afraid I won’t be able to continue under the conditions…

  Under the conditions, you would do well to leave me alone. That’s all I have to say.

  OK, then, this interview is done.

  I stopped the recorder.

  Have a nice day, I told him.

  He pushed the table so it cut into my gut, and tilting his head said: You already crossed the line. I'm on to you, detective.

  Abruptly, he was gone.

  I watched him disappear down the sidewalk. He had a loping stride. His arms seemed powerful, dangerous. He wore work boots coated in dried concrete. I tried to imagine what he would do to me. Beat me over the head with those hands of his? A red bandana hung from his rear pocket and swung in cadence to his walk. He turned left around the corner and was gone out of my life.

  •

  I called Cal. What are you doing?

  I’m lifting weights and pluming pot smoke out my window. I’m still paranoid my mom is going to catch me smoking weed.

  Cal, you’re a grown man. Are you telling me she doesn’t know you smoke weed?

  I never told her.

  Surely she can smell it on you, don’t you think? After all these years?

  I’ve never been certain what my mom can smell or not. I’m not sure her nose is very good. If she were a bird dog, we’d have to retire her. Thankfully, she’s just a fluffy old poodle with bad joints. Now what do you want Art? You caught me between reps. I’m trying to build up my pecs.

  Your pecs?

  Yeah. Right now, they're too loose and flabby. Like a girl’s breasts. I want to get rid of them. I’ve been bench pressing.

  You and I used to bench press, if I remember…

  At Steinmetz. That’s how we met, big guy. You always had the muscle and the brains, Art. That’s why I stuck with you.

  The question is, Cal, why have I stuck with you?

  Because you’re a loyal son of a bitch? I don’t know. Because I showed you how to fire a gun and not kill yourself in the process?

  Speaking of which, Cal, are you available to go shooting? I just finished up an interview and I’m at loose ends. I wouldn’t mind firing off a few rounds to release stress.

  An interview. Look at you go.

  It’s what I do. It’s my job.

  Yeah, Art, but I never hear you talk about your work. Sometimes I wonder if you really do run your own business.

  It’s just business is slow. Nothing more than that. How about I be over in a half hour?

  How ‘bout I just pick you up instead, Art?

  How about?

  I’ll meet you at your office in fifteen.

  Sounds like a plan.

  •

  There were a bunch of people in front of my building on Wabash: office workers, commuters, smokers. I pushed through and took the elevator up.

  I deposited the recorder in a safe I kept in my desk.

  Wanda was playing solitaire on the computer.

  How’d it go, Art?

  How’d what go?

  The interview, is what.

  Which interview are you talking about?

  The only one you’ve had the past three weeks. The one with the bricklayer.

  We met at a coffee shop. I interviewed him.

  And…

  He certainly doesn’t want to break up with his wife.

  When she came in here it was sure as hell clear she wanted to break up with him.

  It doesn’t work so well if the break-up is coming from one side and not both.

  No. I don’t suppose it ever does.

  Speaking of marriages, how’s Ed?

  He’s wonderful, Art. Thank you for asking. He’s taking me to the opera tonight. That’s why I’m playing solitaire.

  I don’t get it. What’s the connection?

  It empties my brain. I like to have a clear mind before the opera.

  When I stepped outside, the commuters were still thick in front of the building. A moment later, Cal pulled up doing fifty miles an hour and came to a screeching halt sending gravel and bits of debris from the curb flying against my shins. Folks at the edge of the sidewalk reflexively leaped back.

  Hurry up! Get in, Art! He banged the horn like something important was about to happen.

  I hopped into the car and off he went, screeching the tires as he pulled out.

  What’s the rush? The faces of the crowd were blurred for a second in the windshield glass.

  No rush, Art! No rush at all! Who’s in a rush? I’m just antsy sitting all day nothing to do! It drives me nuts!

  •

  At the range, he fired his Uzi. BLURT. BLURT. When he was done, I stood ready and fired my gun.

  Pop. Pop. Pop.

  One thing, he said, placing his hand on my shoulder. He was wearing earplugs. I was wearing muffs, so he had to shout.

  What?

  One thing, Art…

  What’s that? I asked. I fired six more shots into the target and was disappointed to see my accuracy was for shit.

  I never liked that Ruger. It’s old and it doesn’t shoot well. I’m surprised you’re so attached to it.

  It’s not attachment.

  Then why don’t you upgrade, Art?

  Because I bought a shitload of Federal high-velocity 40 grain ammo. A bulk purchase. It was a fire sale, and I paid for it with a one-time-only cash bonus I got back when times were flush in telecom. Until it’s gone, this is the only gun I’m gonna shoot.

  I fired off a few more rounds.

  Are you going for the nuts? Or is that just bad shooting?

  Do I have to answer that?

  Try hitting the target instead.

  I loaded up and gave it another go.

  Pathetic, Cal said. No wonder all you do is divorce cases. If you actually knew how to shoot a gun…if you actually had a real gun to shoot, maybe you’d do better in life.

  You think?

  I know. In fact…

  Cal disappeared a moment. When he came back, he handed me a gun case.

  Try this on for size. It might work better for you. It’s a Glock 26 semi-automatic with the seventeen-round magazine. See how it fits.

  He opened the case and handed me the gun. The gun was a matte black Glock with a rubberized handle.

  Go ahead, Art, try it on for size. I’m tired of watching you shoot that rusted .22. It makes no sense.

  I don’t want your gun, Cal.

  I bought that gun two years ago down at a gun show in Hollywood, Florida, and I keep it in my glove compartment for safety purposes. But it ain’t doing me no good in my glove compartment. I’ve been meaning to give it to you because I don’t like that Ruger. But now in your job you can actually use it. Take it, you’re a friend. I feel responsible for you. Also, with a gun like this, who knows? You might actually move up in the world as a detective.

  Move up? I shook my head.

  Nobody is gonna ever take you seriously if they see you carrying a .22. Don’t you want to do something interesting in your business other than divorce cases?

  My business is interesting enough. Besides I got all this ammo.

  That’s a lame excuse, Art. Just try the gun, for fuck’s sake!

  I stepped into the lane and worked a round into the chamber and I started firing just like that. Pow. Pow. Pow. Pow. Pow. Immediately, I felt adrenalized.

  Excellent shooting Art! You’re actually hitting the target. Try again.

  I took aim and shot. Pow. Pow. Pow.

  Nice shooting, Art. That’s the best I’ve ever seen you do. How’s it feel?

  I don’t know. It’s a good looking gun. I’m not used to firing something so beautiful.

  It is a beautiful piece, cowboy!

  Now you’re starting to sound like John Wayne.

  You make me want to sound like John Wayne. Now shoot, cowboy!

  I closed my eyes and pulled the trig
ger in rapid succession and I couldn’t believe what a remarkable gun it was. Hail Mary full of grace, I said, and fired off the rest of the rounds in the clip. Cal had another clip loaded and he handed it to me. Have at it, big guy.

  I started shooting again, and he was there behind my shoulder, sighting along with me.

  You got much better control with this gun than you have with that Ruger.

  Yes, I agree, I told him. I kept shooting.

  I am slightly concerned that it’s too small in those big fucking hands of yours. I might have to get the gun adjusted for you.

  It’s fine. No need to worry.

  Also, how does it sight?

  Well I seem able to hit the target, so I guess it sights just fine. Pow. Pow. Pow. Pow. Pow. Pow.

  Hole in one, Cal said, when we drew the target up to see my tight pattern. Excellent job, my friend. So it ain’t your skill that’s been the problem, it’s that fucking Ruger.

  Or maybe I’m just lucky today.

  How do you like the gun?

  It’s a beautiful gun, Cal. Thanks for letting me shoot it.

  Keep it, he said. It’s yours. I have a few magazines for you and three boxes of ammo. Keep it in your office. In your job I don’t like to see you fucking around with a pussy gun.

  No thanks, Cal.

  Yes thanks. Take it, pally, and don’t fuck with me.

  Can I pay you for it?

  Yeah, pay me by using it! Pay me by getting rid of that shitty Ruger.

  Well then thank you, Cal, I said.

  When I was done, Cal stepped to the lane with his Uzi and shot at the target without discrimination, tearing it up, the gun going BLURT! BLURT! BLURT! BLURT! BLURT! The shell casings flew out of the gun and littered the floor; the tattered paper target danced on the clips, then fell like confetti. When he was done he gave a little chuckle like he was proud of himself.

  Man! That cleaned my clock like smelling salts! All day long pent up in my house wasting time. I thought I was going to go crazy, Art.

  He reloaded a clip, dropped one in the chamber, and let loose. Wham. Bam. Thank you ma’am! BLURT. BLURT. BLURT! Then he unloaded again…Wango zee tango! Wango, tango! Blam! Blam! Blam! BLURT. BLURT. BLURT! And again. BLURT. BLURT. BLURT!

  When it’s all over he removed his earplugs and he was as happy as a clam.

  You’re as happy as a clam, aren’t you!

  I sure am! And you know what I like about clams?

  No I don’t.

  The soft slippery interior.

  I chuckled and shook my head and said: You’re a funny guy, Cal!

  •

  After shooting we had a couple beers and he told me about his life.

  How are you getting along, buddy? I asked. It’s a question I never asked. In fact, I didn’t know much about the guy.

  Wonderfully, he said. I couldn’t be happier. I live in a small house with my aging mother. Did I tell you I started to go to church again?

  Again? I didn’t know you ever went to church.

  I used to go religiously. My father was a great believer in the Church. He held the coin basket. Hell, I was even an altar boy for a few years. Let me tell you. The church I went to. In the winter it was freezing, in the summer it was hotter than hell. It was a crazy place to be an altar boy. Anyways I started going again.

  Why?

  I don’t know exactly. Though a month or two ago I found in the bottom of my underwear drawer this cross someone gave me for my First Communion. I was cleaning, believe it or not, and I found it there in the back of the drawer. I used to wear that cross all the time during my pimply years. Then the little washer that held the cross to the neck chain got loose, and the cross kept falling off. I used to love that cross. Here, I carry it in my pocket now. Let me show you.

  He handed me the cross.

  The thing I like about it is what it says on the back.

  I flipped it over to look.

  There…that expression: “I am a Catholic. In case of an accident, please call a priest.” When I saw it again it really got to me. There was something there that I responded to all of a sudden.

  Like what? I handed the cross back to him and tilted my beer bottle. Cheers.

  God bless.

  It’s only a phrase.

  Yes, but the way it says it: I am a Catholic. Art, you know as well as I do, all my life I have drifted. I have never felt like I belonged to anything. Ask me what I am or who I am and all I could tell you was my name. For the most part that’s all I have. I’ve been in and out of so many jobs I can’t even tell you for certain what I do for a living or what my so-called expertise is. And now that I’ve been out of work so long, I don’t know what to tell others it is I do. When I go for job interviews I don’t know how to put myself all together so that the identity of a single person emerges from the picture. I’ve been on this earth too long to have such a vague resume. Most people after they have lived as long as I have can define themselves. Say what they do. Me, I can’t. At heart I take care of my mom. She’s the personality in my family. She’s the one with all the friends. She plays bingo like crazy and card games with all of her lady friends—they come over to the house. She entertains them, and I make sure everything is OK. I make sure we don’t run out of tea or cookies or cake, and the thermostat is set just right, and that we have a little brandy for later in the night. But my mother is in the center of it all. She’s laughing. She’s telling stories of my father. She tells stories of me. I can tell she’s still proud of me, but I feel I’ve let her down. But she’s got her place in the world. Me, my place in the world has so far been to look after her. And to look after you, I suppose.

  Me?

  You, Art. You’re my only friend in the whole goddamned world.

  Oh, come on.

  No, serious. So when I saw that cross again with the expression, “I am a Catholic,” well, by God, I thought…I suppose I am. After all, I was raised Catholic. I was confirmed. I know the prayers. I’ve done confession. It’s something I can claim for myself and try to be. And so I’ve been going to church to see what it’s like being a Catholic. I think it’s who I am.

  But do you believe in that Jesus shit?

  I don’t know that I do. But I believe in the Church. I believe in kneeling in the pews. I believe in the light that filters through the stained-glass windows. And by the way, I volunteered to take the collection basket around, and now I’m doing that, just like my dad did. It’s a good feeling. I feel better about myself.

  Good. I’m glad.

  It beats everything else I do.

  Like what?

  Like when my mother’s not around, I watch porn. I’m tired of porn. Do you have any idea how much porn I watch? I don’t understand it. I don’t understand why I watch it so much. It’s not like I like it. It’s alien to me. I don’t understand the people in it. It’s pussy and cock. It’s not even people. Just items. I’ve watched too much of it. I’m worried it’s soured me and made me useless for the real thing. I don’t want two-dimensional pussy, and the jack that everlastingly screws it. What I want is the thing that goes with the pussy. I want the woman. The real thing: the person. Hell, I don’t even give a damn about pussy, when you come right down to it. When you come right down to it, I’d be content just to hold hands with a woman who cared to listen to me and smile with me at the sunset.

  A romantic…

  A romantic, yes, and there’s nothing wrong with that, Art.

  I agree.

  I’m hoping going to church again will help me clear up some of these issues. I already feel like I’m cutting down on my porn. I went to confession and told the priest about it, and I’ve been two weeks now without it.

  Wow, good.

  I’m hoping that by going to church I may even meet a woman. It’s a long shot, but it’s just one of my thoughts.

  Here’s hoping.

  All my life, I’ve been looking for women at bars or the racetrack. Or even the shooting range. Remember that crazy woman
I took home from the shooting range who wanted to ‘play’ that I was killing her? The one that had me bind and gag her and shoot blanks at her?

  She left you too.

  Yes, thank God. But not before extracting several hundred dollars from me. But I was glad to get rid of her. I would have paid much more than that to see her go. Anyways, these are all the wrong places to find a woman. You want a drunk? Go looking for her in the bar. You want a gambling addict? You’ll find her at the horse track. You want a freak? You’ll meet one at the gun club. But if you want a wife, well maybe the place to look is at church.

  Then you just end up with a religious freak.

  Not necessarily, Art. Not necessarily. That’s why you’re so damned lucky.

  Me? I don’t go to church.

  You have your wife, Adeleine, and your beautiful daughter. I don’t know how you do it, big guy, but I admire your abilities. You’re a lucky son of a bitch, to have found decent female company. And God, on top of that, if your wife ever left you, I’m sure you’d be able to find another one just like that. Women just seem to like you.

  Thanks.

  You’re lucky, Art. You are.

  You’re telling me?

  How are you and Adeleine doing anyways?

  Me and Adeleine? We have our problems. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not all roses. And Meg’s a handful. At least for her dad…

  But it’s something, Art, right? At least you have people to go home to at the end of the day. You have people to think about. That’s a good thing.

  Yes, I suppose it is.

  I’m happy for you, Art. I really am.

  Cheers. To you.

  No, to you, Art. You’re my inspiration. God bless.

  When I returned to the office I dropped my new gun and the rounds of ammo on the shelf next to the champagne glasses. Where else was I going to put it? In the safe? Maybe the safe was the right answer, but I was too tired or lazy to fuck with the combo. And maybe Cal was right, maybe you needed to be able to get to a gun quickly or it was no good.

  After that I went home to bed and just forgot about it.

  ¤

  I stand over my wife’s grave and I can’t believe she’s dead.

  She has been dead five years, and after five years the difficulty of believing she is dead has not gone away.

  People always telling me to forget it. Get it behind you. What’s done is done. The past is dead. Move forward. But I always say, it’s so easy telling somebody to forget. Telling someone is easy as pie. All you have to do is say it, and you move on unscathed. But for me, I wasn’t unscathed by the incident. It really broke me. I mean snapped me in two. Broken. Broken. Busted. Just cracked in half. Unfixable. I didn’t think at first I would be so broken by this. But time doesn’t seem to have made it any easier. I kept figuring time was going to be my friend on this, but time has failed me. Let time heal you, as they say. But time hasn’t healed a thing. Only made things worse. None of my wounds are healed. If anything, it’s only gotten more painful with time.