Dave Zeltserman - Bad Karma

Another back spasm stopped him in his tracks. When it passed and he could breathe again, he took the bottle of aspirin out, stared at it disgustedly, and popped a couple of tablets into his mouth.

He’d already been at the condo complex a half hour and had talked to the people in the townhouse next to the murdered students. The setup was the same, one unit had the first floor, the other the second. The couple in the second floor unit had little to offer. They never had much to do with Carver or Gibson, never saw anything to make them think they’d dealt drugs, and neither of them saw or heard anything the night they were killed. The husband, a professor in civil engineering at the university, told Shannon that the firewall between the two townhouses was well constructed and had a fair amount of soundproofing material packed around it. He didn’t think he would’ve been able to hear anything from that unit unless windows were open in both his apartment and the students’. The investment banker who owned the lower level unit seemed more interested in finding out about the fight Shannon had been in than talking about the students. He made it a point to mention that he had a black belt in Tae Kwon Do, and throughout gave Shannon a tough guy look as if he were going to challenge him to go a few rounds. Just about the only thing Shannon was able to get out of him was that he never saw anything that made him think the two students were involved with drugs.

Shannon waited until his back spasm eased before trying the next townhouse over. No one answered the door for the upstairs unit. He stood outside it for a while listening, but it didn’t sound like anyone was home. Noise from a TV came from the first floor apartment. He knocked, then after waiting a minute, knocked again. He had a sense that someone was looking at him through the peephole. When he knocked a third time, a woman shouted through the door for him to leave or she’d call the police.

“Ma’am,” Shannon told her, “I’m an investigator. I’d just like to ask you questions about the two students who were killed.”

“I don’t care who you say you are, I’m calling the police!”

“I can give you my cell phone number if you’d like and we could talk over the phone.”

“You think I’m going to fall for that?”

“No, ma’am-”

“I’m warning you, I’m calling the police! Right now!”

He heard the beeping sound of a phone being dialed. He apologized for disturbing her and left, moving like an arthritic old man from all of his stiffness. He had tried Maguire’s unit when he first arrived at the complex but got no answer and couldn’t find Maguire’s BMW out front. He went back to their townhouse and saw there was still no sign of the car. He knocked on the door and listened long enough to decide that no one was home, then tried Maguire’s cell phone. After the fifth ring Maguire answered, asking who the fuck was there.

“Bill Shannon. We were supposed to talk more tonight.”

There was a long pause, then, “Bill, my buddy from Boston. I’m sorry, Cambridge . How’ya doin’?” Maguire stopped talking as the sound of people cheering and feet stamping roared in the background. After the noise died down, he came back on. “Fuck,” he groaned. “Sox just hit into a double-play. They’re actually losing to this shitty Rockies team.” A couple of people yelled at him to go fuck himself, another asked why if his team was so fucking great they’re getting their asses whipped. Someone else commented that the Rockies were opening up a nice fresh can of whoop-ass on Boston. Maguire yelled back for them to have patience, that a baseball game’s nine innings not six. That elicited a few more jeers.

“Are you at the game?” Shannon asked.

“What? Fuck no. I’m watching it at a sports bar, one next to the Harvest House. Why don’cha come over and watch it with me? I can tell you about the amazingly shitty day I’ve had. And you can ask me anything you goddamn want to.”

“I was hoping to talk to your wife also.”

“Ha! Wait ’til I tell you all about that. Pretty fucking funny joke if you ask me. So what do you say? Keep me company and show these punk Rockies fans what true baseball fans are like?”

“How much have you been drinking?”

“Not enough, brother, not nearly enough.”

Shannon told him he’d meet him. The sports bar was a five minute drive from the condo complex, and when he got there he spotted Maguire sitting alone at a table looking morose as the other patrons were up on their feet cheering. A glance at the screen showed a Colorado player in the middle of a homerun trot. A big guy with a large ruddy face and stringy black hair that fell down to his shoulders got in Maguire’s face and yelled, “Thirteen to one, asshole, thirteen to one!” Maguire had the same pasty, surly look that Shannon had seen on dozens of drunks over the years right before they’d throw their first punch.

The Colorado fan showed a big grin as he sat back down. He looked over his shoulder to leer at Maguire, then turned back to the game. Maguire started to push himself up, spotted Shannon and wavered as he lost his train of thought. As he squinted in Shannon’s direction, the belligerence in his round, red face faded to confusion. Then a light seemed to go on in his eyes.

“Fuck, I’m glad to see you,” he yelled as he waved Shannon over to his table. “I need some help explaining to these hicks that one game doesn’t mean shit.”

“That so? Then why were you shooting your mouth off before?” a bald guy with glazed eyes and a thick mustache asked. Outside of Maguire, there were maybe twenty other bar patrons watching the game, most of them men in their twenties and thirties, a few women in the mix. A number of the patrons gave Shannon a hard eye as he joined Maguire, but turned away when they noticed his bruises and bandaged hand. One of them started laughing and mumbled something under his breath how it looked like another guy from Boston had gotten his ass whooped.

As Shannon’s condition registered on Maguire, he showed a wide, toothy smile. “Fuck,” he said. “You might even’ve had a worse day than me.” He picked up his glass, drained it, and signaled the barmaid for another draft.

“Wa’cha drinking?” He slapped his forehead. “Doh! That’s right, you don’t drink booze. So wa’cha want, water, ice tea?” He broke out laughing over some private joke.

“How many drinks have you had?”

Maguire wiped a few tears away from his eyes, his stomach still convulsing with laugher. “Don’t know,” he said. “Nine, ten. Lost count. All I know is I’m not even halfway done.”

“About talking to your wife…?”

Maguire’s laugh died in his throat. He sat motionless, then gave Shannon the type of dull-eyed stare that only drunks can muster. Smiling savagely, he told Shannon good luck with that.

“Why’s that?”

“Nancy left me today.” The pink faded from his cheeks. He stared down at his hands as he batted his empty beer glass between them. “What a fucking miserable day. Lost my wife, my job, and now the Sox are getting blown out by a team that shouldn’t even be allowed in Single A.” Raising his voice, he added, “And I got to listen to shit from a bunch of ignorant rednecks, none of which could probably even tell me what the infield fly rule is.”

That caused a few of the other patrons to turn his way, but other than some mumbling and one guy calling him pathetic, no one bothered to say anything.

“I’m sorry to hear about your wife and job,” Shannon said.

Maguire kept batting the empty glass between his hands, and as he did, he seemed to sober up. “I should’ve seen both coming. Eh, shit, probably did, just didn’t want to admit it.”