Reed Coleman - Empty ever after

The worst part was I hadn’t told Carmella about this little arrangement between Doyle and me. I had no intention of telling her, not yet, anyway. She would murder me, and rightfully so, for going behind her back. But so far I wasn’t getting much return on my investment. Brian was batting zero for two days. He hadn’t found any of Martello’s friends or family or fellow cops who either matched the mystery man’s description or knew of someone who did. I thought it was kind of strange that Doyle had gotten nowhere. The one-eyed man, from everything Mira Mira and the desk clerk in Kentucky had said, was a hard man to forget. Let’s face it, the eye patch alone would be pretty memorable.

“Anything?” I asked, squeezing the cell phone between my neck and ear.

“Nada, boss. No one knows this guy and believe me, Moe, I talked to a lotta people. I mean, I was going to hell anyways before you had me do this little job for you, but I’ve lied so much to so many people in the last coupla days…I couldn’t say enough Our Fathers or Hail Marys or light enough candles to atone for the bullshit I’ve been spreading. I’m telling the cops I’m Martello’s brother. I’m telling his family I’m a Suffolk cop. I’m telling some of his friends that I’m a cop and some that I’m family. I’m lying so much, I can’t even keep track. I wouldn’t mind so much if it was getting me somewheres.”

“Okay, listen, get into Brooklyn and canvass Manhattan Court.”

“Where Martello killed the kid?”

“Right. Describe both Martello and our mystery man to the neighbors. Ask if they remember either man being around that day or ever.”

“What’s the point, boss? I mean, we know Martello murdered the kid.”

“Maybe it’s time to pretend we don’t know anything for sure. Just do it, Doyle. For what I’m paying your lazy ass, you shouldn’t be asking why.”

“I’ll leave in a few minutes. I’ll be happy to get outta here. Long Island is creepy. Too quiet for me.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

“Where you headed, boss?”

“Long Island.” I hung up before he could ask any other questions. The last thing I needed was to try and explain my dating Connie Geary to him. I’d have to explain it to myself first.

At eight in late June or July, the sun would have still been pretty well up. That’s how I had seen the Geary manse the first time I came calling. Back then, I’d also gotten to meet Senator Steven Brightman. He was full of promise and full of shit: the perfect con man and consummate politician. I should’ve known I was being played by how hard everyone was working me. Thomas Geary threatened and bribed. Brightman charmed. In my own defense, I had been bullied into taking the case in the wake of Katy’s miscarriage. I was still reeling from the turmoil that followed in its wake. On the heels of losing a baby of my own, how could I not take the case of a missing daughter of an ex-NYPD cop? How could I not save the politician who was going to save us all?

Brightman was the serpent to my Eve and I bit the apple hard. Not unlike Judas Wannsee, Brightman had that magical ability to make you feel like you were the most important person in the room, the only person in the room. He could talk to a crowd, but you felt-no, you knew-he was talking directly to you. And when we met that evening in 1983, he worked his stuff. The myth is that great politicians know when to lie. The opposite is the reality. It’s how they parse the truth. The night we met, Brightman answered my questions directly, even admitting that he and Moira Heaton had slept together. He had inoculated himself by telling me a negative truth. It was brilliant, just not brilliant enough.

I’m not necessarily a big believer in the truth. Katy will tell you that about me, but that’s not how I mean it. What I mean is that the truth doesn’t conform to the rules of Sunday school or sermons, to cliches or adages. The truth doesn’t always come out in the wash or in the end and it’s frequently not for the best. The truth often makes things worse, much worse. The truth can be as much poison as elixir, cancer as cure. And I knew some ugly truths about Steven Brightman that had put an end to his political career, but that gave no comfort to the dead and grieving.

I put Steven Brightman out of my head. It was an August sun falling down over the brim of the earth. The sky was a heavy shade of dusk, the stars more than vague hints of light. The darkening air was rich with the sweet scent of nicotina and lavender from the gardens-their sweetness playing nicely against the predominant smell of fresh-cut grass drifting over from the golf course next door. I pulled up to the house, my shirt slightly damp from nervous sweat. But I was enjoying the delicate buzz of excitement and anticipation I had going. It had been a very long time.

Connie met me at the door, her blond hair swept back, her white smile and clear blue eyes sparkling. We sort of stared awkwardly across the threshold at each other, not knowing quite what to do. She reached out, taking my hand, and pulled me into the house. When I was inside, she kissed me shyly on the lips. I kissed her back as shyly. No one ran screaming. We had gotten by the first hurdle. Both of us took deep breaths.

“Hi, Moe. God, I’ve been so nervous all week. I was worried you’d cancel. A scotch?”

“Sure.”

“Come on into the den.”

I followed. She was dressed in a clingy floral print and open-toed shoes with a low heel. Her muscular calves flexed as she walked to the bar. I noticed not only what she was wearing and how she looked, but the pleasant effect it was having on me.

“I’ve been looking forward to this as well, I think even more than I knew,” I said.

“Really?” She handed me my scotch and we clinked glasses. “What’s been going on in your life?”

I thought about not answering or deflecting the question with the usual nonsense, but thought it would be a bad precedent. I told her.

“My lord,” she said, refilling my glass. “What madness. Can revenge really be such an obsession?”

“Apparently. It was so important to my father-in-to my late father-in-law, that he wanted it from his grave. Good scotch.”

“You sold it to me. Your store did, at least.”

“Listen, Connie, can we stay off the subject of graves and revenge for now? I’ve spent a little too much time in cemeteries lately.”

“Absolutely.”

Connie put her drink down, pressed herself against me, and kissed me in a way I would not describe as shyly. I returned her kiss and then some. Connie had other talents besides playing the piano. Kissing Connie didn’t come with the baggage of kissing Katy nor with the depth of feeling and darkness of kissing Carmella. It was, in any case, an amazing sensation. Other than those two weak moments I shared with Carmella and the spontaneous moment with Tina Martell, Connie was the only woman beside Katy I had kissed in the last twenty years.

“How’s your dad doing?” I changed subjects.

“I’m afraid he’s taken a bit of a bad turn. He’s in the hospital, but should be home next week some time.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“What can one do? It’s the nature of the disease. Mom will be back by then. At least my son doesn’t have to deal with it. He’s up at football camp for the next two weeks. Come, let’s get out of here and leave these depressing things behind us. In fact,” she said, reaching into her clutch and pulling out her cell phone, “can we make a deal? How about we shut out the rest of the world for the evening and focus only on the two of us?”

“Deal,” I said, making a show of shutting off my cell phone.

She put hers down on the bar.

“I’ll drive,” I said.