Mike Faricy - Russian Roulette

“Well, we don’t know why or by who. As to where you were shot? The bullet grazed your thick skull. Looks like it was probably a small caliber, maybe a.22 short. We couldn’t find the round or any impact point for that matter. Doc last night said you’d have a hell of a headache for a while but you should be okay. You heard what nurse Sweet Cheeks said. They’re kicking you out this afternoon. You’re just in overnight for observation. Hell, if you’re injured, the hospital is the worst place for you anyway. So it’ll be good to just get your worthless ass home.”

“Well, I mean do you have any leads? Any idea who it was?”

“Me? Hey look, pal, this deal is out of my hands, it’s an attempted homicide. Nothing I can do to help, well, except maybe offer to give the shooter some target practice so they don’t miss next time.”

Later that morning I spent the better part of an hour being interviewed by a homicide investigator. Aaron had left by this time. Not that I could tell the investigator anything. Aside from her name the only thing I could provide on Kerri was her apparent business phone number. I didn’t even have an address. When he asked me what sort of business she was in I got pretty vague.

“I’m not sure, it was some sort of service they provided.”

“Service? You mean like cleaning or accounting?”

“Well, not exactly. I’m just not sure. I wasn’t investigating Kerri Mathias, I was just trying to find her sister.”

“And you didn’t find this arrangement unusual?”

“No,” I answered beginning to sound a little defensive.

“Really bright,” he said half to himself, making a quick note.

“She came into my office and we discussed her sister. She paid me for a few days in advance. Nothing too unusual about that,” I failed to mention her hundred-dollar “professional consideration”.

“She find your name in the yellow pages?”

“I don’t really advertise.”

“Don’t advertise. Interesting. Where’s your office Mr. Haskell?”

“Well it’s not really an office, I mean, I was sort of joking there. I was in the Spot Bar, actually.”

“The Spot? That joint down on Randolph?”

“Yeah, you know it?”

“Afraid so,” he said, not elaborating.

For the last ten minutes he complained about the Twins pitching. I told him I was a St. Paul Saints fan.

“The Saints, interesting,” he said, clearly not interested, then proceeded to repeat everything he’d complained about regarding the Twins. After I mentioned my splitting headache the third or fourth time he closed his notebook, handed me his card, and left.

Later that afternoon, driving home, Aaron stopped and got two takeout pizzas, then ran into a liquor store and picked up a twelve-pack of Leinenkugel’s.

“I don’t think I’m supposed to drink alcohol for a few days,” I said.

“Exactly, but I’m not making a second trip, and as per usual I’m sure you won’t have enough beer for me at your place.”

“Define enough?” I said.

“How’s the head?” he asked ignoring my question.

“Pounding.”

“You better follow the doctor’s orders then and stay away from the beer. They give you some pain pills?”

“Yeah, but you know I hate even taking aspirin. I’d just as soon not take any pain killers, if it’s all the same.”

“Fine with me. We’ll see how you do.”

Being trained to spot clues I had a suspicion someone had been in my place. I think the open front door as we pulled up was my first tipoff.

“Shit. Wait here, man,” Aaron said hopping out of the car and pulling a very large, black, nine millimeter handgun from underneath his shirt. I followed him up the steps and across my front porch.

He wasn’t kidding, with both arms extended, the pistol moving from side to side. He was moving forward, stepping ahead with his left foot, cautiously bringing his right foot along. He carefully poked his head into my living room, looked around the corner. I shuffled up behind him.

“Police! Don’t move!” he suddenly yelled.

“Oh, for Christ sake, Dev! You almost made me drop these damn flowers.”

“Stay where you are!”

“What the hell’s your problem?” a woman’s voice replied, the tone was familiar.

“Put your hands up!” Aaron commanded.

“Oh for God’s sake, where’s Dev?”

I recognized the frizzy blonde hair and the lack of compliance.

“Heidi?”

“Dev? Hell of a way to treat a girl who brought you dinner and flowers? I see you finally got someone to keep you in line?” she nodded at Aaron.

“It’s okay, Aaron. She’s a friend.”

“Oh, just a friend?” Heidi replied.

Aaron returned his pistol to the small of his back.

Depending on the week Heidi was a blond or brunette, she tried being a redhead once and vowed never again. She carried a few extra pounds extremely well and had the sexual appetite of a professional athlete. She was smarter than just about everyone I knew, undergraduate degree from some big-name Ivy League school, a Masters in Finance from the University of Chicago, and she traded or sold bonds, stocks, derivatives, or some damn thing. To paraphrase Woody Guthrie, she stole more money with a fountain pen then any ten guys with a six shooter.

“Sorry Heidi, we saw the door wide open. How’d you know?”

“You kidding’, it’s been all over the news. ‘Course, once they said someone was shot in the head yesterday and going to be released today you came immediately to mind. I thought I’d bring you a little comfort food. I got in here and the joint reeked of stale perfume. You should try a different brand. I had to open the door just to air things out.”

“Heidi, Aaron LaZelle, my bodyguard. Aaron, Heidi Bauer, great friend.”

“Yeah and one of the few exes who still talks to him. Actually, I figured I should get over here so you can eliminate my name from the list of the dozens of women who want to kill you,” Heidi said.

“I think the list is a lot longer than that,” Aaron laughed.

“I think I’ll take that pain medication,” I said.

“Good idea, did you really bring dinner?” Aaron asked, missing my worried look, about the only thing Heidi did in the kitchen was make coffee.

“Yeah, sort of, I got a tub of ice cream and a frozen pizza. Let me fire up the oven.”

“No need, I got take out and beer in the car.” Aaron turned and walked out the front door.

“Hey, your cop friend, he seeing anyone?” Heidi asked. I’d seen that spark in her eye before.

“At least wait until after dinner, okay?” I suddenly had a pounding headache and swallowed two of the pain pills I swore I wouldn’t take.

I woke in the middle of the night and used the bathroom, climbed back into bed. Heidi was there.

“You okay?” she asked, on the verge of awake if my answer was in the negative.

“Yeah fine, I think I’ll live. Heidi, thanks for being here. You’re a real friend.”

“Yeah and real stupid, but glad you’re all right. You had me worried.” Then she snuggled closer, put her head on my shoulder and started to snore softly.

I woke with the sort of headache that felt like someone was driving a rusty ten-penny nail into my forehead, slowly. It increased in ferocity the second I opened my eyes. Something was pounding on the nail in perfect rhythm to my heartbeat. A glass of water and my brown plastic prescription bottle sat on the table next to my bed. I could hear Heidi talking to someone out in the kitchen.

“’Bout time you’re up. How you feeling, fathead?” Heidi was sitting on a stool at my kitchen counter, writing what looked like a doctoral dissertation on a yellow legal pad.