Paul Cleave - The Laughterhouse

“Caleb Cole,” Albert says, then sips at his own coffee, which he was already working at when Caleb arrived.

“That’s right,” Caleb says, picking his coffee back up and blowing at it, trying to cool it down. People on the TV are chanting at something, yelling at somebody to “jump, jump, jump.” Maybe reality TV is all about people standing on rooftops. The room is hot. There is a fan suspended just below the ceiling, slowly circulating the sticky air. If the future he’d meant to have had come true, he’s not so sure he’d have liked living in a place like this.

“Can’t say it rings a bell.”

“Think back,” Caleb says. “Seventeen years.”

The edges of Albert’s face turn downward, and his face seems to shrink in on itself. “Seventeen years? Jesus, son, I’m lucky if I can remember back seventeen hours.”

“There was a legal case you were involved with.”

“A case? You got the wrong man, son. I’m not a lawyer. I used to be a teacher. A damn good one too. Why, some of my students still write me. I have letters, a whole bunch of them, maybe two dozen from kids who have grown up and made something of themselves. Ah, hell, that’s where I know you from, right? You used to be a student. Which year, son? How old are you?”

“Fifty,” Cole says. “I turned fifty last year.”

“Fifty! Well now, no way you can be one of my grandkids, and I don’t see how I would have taught you,” he says. “You’ve got the wrong teacher. What did you say you were? A lawyer? What kind of lawyer?”

“No. I used to be a teacher too.”

“You’re a teacher? You teach law?”

“I taught high school. At least I used to, I gave it up fifteen years ago.”

“Ah, that’s what I did. Did that for over forty years. You’d have been ten at the time when I started, unless my math is wrong, which means-ah, hell, you could have been one of my students. Is that where I know you from?”

Caleb shakes his head. “No.” He keeps blowing at his coffee, cooling it down. “You were on a case,” he says, “seventeen years ago. You were involved in a trial. You were a character witness.”

“A witness? Oh, that takes me back. I haven’t thought about that in years. When was that? Twenty years ago.”

“It was seventeen.”

“Seventeen? Well, if you say so. It was an awful case,” he says. “Was my first and only time in court. I’d never want to do that again. But what could I do? I had to go. And that poor little girl,” he says, “kidnapped and. . and. . the things he did to her. She was lucky to have survived. That boy, he was something. Scary as shit. But it wasn’t his fault, you know? That’s what I said. He used to be one of my students.”

“I know.”

Albert leans forward and adjusts the flow on his oxygen machine, turning one of the dials up from a three to a three and a half. “I mean, it was pretty obvious he was messed up in the head. His mother, she’d done a hell of a job on him. Ruined him for life. Made him completely mental. Poor bastard never had a chance. The same year he was in my class, she put him into a coma. Beat the shit out of him. He tried coming back later that year, but it just didn’t work.”

Caleb is nodding. The coffee is finally cool enough to sip at. He’s going to either need to clean the cup when he’s done or take it with him. “So you got up in the witness box and told the jury and the judge that what he did wasn’t his fault.”

The old man fixes him an annoyed look. “It wasn’t like that. Sure, I got up there and I had to tell everybody what he’d been like as a kid at school. I had to explain how much he changed after the beating, and yeah, of course I said things weren’t his fault. He was a victim too. I didn’t get up there and say it was okay what he did. If I remember right, he still got locked away. Went to a hospital, didn’t he? Jury found him not guilty because he wasn’t competent. Not sure how long he got. Ten years. Twenty, maybe.”

“Two.”

“Two? Are you sure, son?”

“Very.”

Caleb keeps drinking, staring over the top of the cup as he does so. When a quarter of it is gone, he looks down at it. “This is good coffee, Al. Do you mind if I call you Al?” And before Al can answer, he puts the coffee back onto the table and stands up. “Let me ask you a question, Al. If I were to kill you right now do you think a jury like the one you spoke to would make the same decision? Do you think they would find I wasn’t competent and put me away for two years?”

“How did you say we know each other exactly?” Al asks, his tired old face forming concern.

“Well, I didn’t say exactly,” Caleb says, “and the truth of the matter is we’ve never really met until tonight,” he says, and he reaches around to his back where he has the handle of the knife tucked into his belt, the blade safely flat against his spine. He pulls it out. “But we’re meeting now, so how about I explain why I’m here, see if I can get you to remember why it was only two years and not ten,” he says, and then the explaining begins.

There are already minivan cabs pulling up outside Popular Consensus. They’re filling up with cops and slowly pulling away. The water in the gutters and road is reflecting the lights coming from all the bars and streetlights. There’s no sign of the moon, no sign of any stars, just endless clouds. At least it’s stopped raining, but what rain has already fallen splashes off the street as cars pass us, and it feels like it’s going to come back. Nobody seems to be able to walk in a straight line. I have no idea what’s happened, and unless it’s a call to stop a local brewery from flooding, none of these people should be allowed to be involved. If they were sober, they’d know that. I suspect they even know it drunk. Problem is the police force is understaffed, there are no other options, and whatever has happened is important enough for all of these off-duty detectives to pile themselves inside the arriving minivans.

“You gonna fill me in?” I ask, leading Schroder back to the parking garage.

“Christ, I really need to take a piss.”

“I’ll wait here.”

“It’s okay. I can hold on.”

“Where we heading?”

“I gotta make another call,” he says, and pulls out his cell phone. We take the elevator up to the top floor and he leans against the wall of it the entire trip, pulling his cell phone away from his ear and studying it every few seconds or so. “No signal,” he says.

We reach my car.

“Does this seat belt work?” he asks, tugging at it.

“I don’t know. I’ve never had any passengers.”

“You lose a bet?” he asks.

“What?”

“That why you driving this thing?”

“I’m happy if you want to walk.”

“Might be safer. And quicker.”

“And wetter. Just tell me where we’re heading.”

“The retirement community.”

“Which one?” I ask, taking the ramps down to the bottom floor.

“What do you mean which one? Oh, shit. . hang on, let me think a second. It’s. . ah, shit, hang on.” He’s halfway through composing a text to find out when he remembers. “Lakeview Homes. You know where it is?”

“Listen, Carl, I don’t think it’s a good idea you going there.”

“I’ve only had a couple of beers, Theo.”

“You were starting your fourth. And that’s four too many.”

“Jesus, I should have gone with the others.”

“And what? Lose your job along with the rest of them?”

“No chance of that. Who the hell would they replace us with?”

I get his point. I pull into traffic and one of the taxis loaded up with cops cuts me off, almost taking out the side of my car. I try to toot at him but my horn doesn’t work. There is a small amount of drizzle back in the air. I turn on the wipers. The one on Schroder’s side gets to its apex with short, jerking motions, shudders at the top, then dies up there. Schroder taps the inside of the windshield.