Reed Coleman - Little Easter

“Do you know what question couples forever wonder about but never ask until it’s too late?” Barnum spoke into the night.

“No,” I answered, somehow relieved that she felt the absence, too.

“Where did it go? That’s what they ask. Where did it go?”

And I did not respond. What was there to say, anyway? In any case, I was in no shape to look any harder at myself than I was already. She got up to find the bathroom and the bottle and a pack of cigarettes. I also think she went to take a look.

My black eyes had just about finished their technicolor journey through the contusion spectrum. Their deep purple stage was definitely my favorite. I looked good in dark colors. As for my ribs. . They were still sore, but it now took more than the brush of a careless hand to set me into convulsions. I decided to skip my follow-up visit with Doc Cohen until the painkillers ran out. MacClough and I were avoiding a rematch by avoiding each other. We both knew I couldn’t leave things alone, but hey, stuff happens. Right?

Kate Barnum was splitting her time between two newspapers. Her articles in the Whaler concerning subtle changes in the local zoning ordinance were right on, but about as compelling as a compost heap. Covering this kind of stuff would kill her way before the butts and the booze. I could almost understand her desperation. Barnum’s spare moments were spent digging at the Times; unofficially, of course, and without result.

I was sitting at the word processor watching the eleventh snowfall of the winter. Eleven stuck in my head because that was one more page than my short story about the Japanese contained. That’s how many pages it had two weeks ago. That’s how many pages it was going to have. I’d been making lots of lists lately of writers I’d never be. I caught myself praying for the phone to ring. Sometimes prayers get answered.

“This Klein?” the man’s vaguely familiar voice wanted to know.

“This Klein. You Jane.” I took a weak shot a humor.

“Huh?” My shot missed. “Funny man. Real funny.” Johnny’s ex-partner Terence O’Toole lashed out scornfully. “You remember me, funny man?”

“I remember you, O’Toole. I guess you’re callin’ about Johnny.”

“Yeah, I been thinking about him and that bitch.”

“What you been thinking about ‘em?” I tried moving things along.

“You remember where I live?” The ex-cop was in a nasty mood.

“I remember.”

“Get here. I got something to sell you.” he laughed uncomfortably.

“What about the snow?”

“Fuck the snow. And hey, Klein, I’m almost dry. Bring me something for my throat. Maybe I’ll knock a few bucks off the price,” the old giant burped into my ear.

“One thing O’Toole,” I didn’t let him hang up.

“What?”

“The girl’s name. Was it Azrael?”

“You been doing your homework, Klein,” I could hear him smile. “Yeah, that was the Jew cunt’s name,” he stuck the verbal knife in and twisted it. “It’s good that you done your homework. It’ll make our business easier. Be here soon!”

I got there, but it wasn’t soon. Old Volkswagens don’t like the snow. I played my one cassette of British Invasion hits twice. It might’ve had time for a third go around, but I couldn’t stand to hear “Pictures of Matchstick Men” again. Like most things in my VW, the fast forward and rewind buttons hadn’t worked in a decade. I kept pulling the new fifth bottle of Murphy’s Irish out of the sack, but no combination of bad traffic, bad weather, bad ribs and bad music could make me take a sip.

O’Toole’s block was beehive busy with snow day kids hitting up their neighbors for snow shoveling money. In one form or another every driveway and every inch of sidewalk on the street had been dug out or cleared. No, not every driveway, not every inch. O’Toole’s driveway was still a field of beaten egg whites and his sidewalk was invisible under the white snow. I didn’t like it. I don’t know why. I just didn’t.

There were two sets of footprints leading up the steps to the old cop’s door. One set was small and irregular. Probably the result of a neighbor kid fighting the accumulation, looking for snow removal work. The other set was widely spaced and deep and made by an adult foot. I’d guess a man’s foot, but what the fuck did I know from footprints. The bigger prints had come first. I could tell that much. More snow had re-accumulated in their cavities than in the small prints. I thought about the print Azrael had left in the snow outside the Rusty Scupper and then rang O’Toole’s bell.

He didn’t answer and he never would. He woud never drink the Murphy’s or throw a shot glass at his dead son’s photo. He’d never again call anyone nigger or Jew cunt or spic or dot head. He’d just rot in a grave like everyone he hated.

I opened the storm door and put some light pressure on the front door. It fell back at my touch. The hallway was dark. Not the black dark of night, but the beige-brown shadows of frayed canvas shades and deep green wallpapers that only the blind would not find depressing. I slid along the hallway expecting to find death in the kitchen. I was not disappointed.

The giant lay on his belly, head away from me, legs twisted, disheveled and still. He looked like a magic trick that someone had forgotten to finish. I flipped on the chandelier, but somehow the room didn’t brighten much. There’d be no profit in checking for signs of life, so I didn’t. Funny thing was, I couldn’t immediately make out what killed him. On my hands and knees now, I looked for clues in his glassy, opened eyes that reminded me of those on the freshly dead fishes in Sheepshead Bay.

There was blood; a hint, a trickle where his lumberjack shirt over lapped his cheap belt. When I lifted him up a bit, the hint became a flood. I stepped out of its path. He’d been belly-shot at close range. I couldn’t say how many times. A shirt full of scarlet goo sort of obscures things. I patted him down, checking for whatever it was he was trying to sell me. Unless it was an empty pocket, he didn’t have it on him. For a flicker I considered the possibility that he was bluffing, but I pushed that thought away. O’Toole wasn’t the type.

There would be cops. I couldn’t sidestep them, but I made another call first. The phone rang a few times before someone picked up. The voice at the other end was one I hadn’t heard for awhile.

“MacClough’s Rusty Scupper.”

“Johnny?” I asked out of nerves more than anything.

“How’s the ribs?” he wondered matter-of-factly.

“I’ll live,” I answered, unconsciously running my hand along the tape beneath my shirt. “You know where your old partner O’Toole’s house is?”

“Why?” McClough’s tone cooled considerably with one syllable.

“I’m there right now. I think you should join me.”

“Put that old donkey on the line,” the bar owner demanded.

“Let’s just say he’s indisposed, Johnny,” I offered sardonically, looking down at the dead man. “I’ll wait for you.” I hung up.

I sat down in the chair I’d parked in during my last trip here. I didn’t like the fact that Johnny didn’t need directions to the house. O’Toole and Johnny didn’t strike me as two guys who would’ve kept in touch. I asked the lifeless giant about that. He didn’t answer. I asked him what it was he was trying to pawn off on me and where it might be hiding? He was as mum as the fishes in Sheeps-head Bay or the ones on the Scupper’s walls. I got tired of not getting answers, so I stopped asking questions.

I wanted to do a cursory search of the dead cop’s joint, but couldn’t risk how that might look to the detectives when they showed. And they would show. Besides, I didn’t know what I was hunting for. I just looked around from my seat and saw what there was to see in the diffuse brown light. That took a quick fifteen seconds, give or take ten.