J. Jance - Fire and Ice

It was a fair question. And it shouldn’t have been hard to answer, but it was. During our dinner at the 13 Coins, I somehow hadn’t mentioned that Tom Wojeck and I had once shared a partner. I can see being squeamish about talking about former spouses or girlfriends with new spouses or girlfriends, but the truth was Big Al was a part of my old life, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to bring him into my new one.

“I’ve got something I want to check out first,” I told her. “I’ll come down in my own car.”

She gave me one of her freeze-your-balls blue-eyed stares. “Okeydokey,” she said cheerily, “but do me a favor. Don’t leave home without taking some Aleve.”

In the old days, if Karen had said those same words, I probably would have regarded them as nagging. Now I recognized them for what they are-one person looking out for another.

“Thanks,” I said. “I will. And once I get there, shall we do lunch?” I added.

She gave me a brushing kiss on her way past. “You tell me. Call me later.”

Forty-five minutes after that, I headed for Big Al’s place in Ballard’s Blue Ridge neighborhood. Despite two cups of coffee, two Aleve, a very long shower, my back was in a world of hurt.

Big Al and Molly Lindstrom’s Craftsman bungalow still looked much the same as it had back when he and I were partners, including that awful night when I had come here straight from a crime scene to tell Molly that her seriously wounded husband had been transported to Harborview Hospital. The small front yard was pristine, without a weed in sight. The azaleas on either side of a small wooden porch were awash in bright pink blossoms. They looked far more cheerful than I felt. Since I hadn’t called in advance to let Molly and Big Al know I was coming, I wasn’t sure of how I’d be received. But I put my misgivings aside and rang the bell. What was the worst that could happen? I’d either find out Big Al had died while my back was turned or he’d be so disgusted when I finally showed my face that he’d bodily throw me out of the house.

Big Al himself came to the door. Having heard about the bypass situation, I expected him to look frail and gray. He didn’t. He looked as rosy-cheeked and hearty as ever, but he was leaning on a cane. He gave my face a dubious once-over. I remember seeing that wary look a thousand times when I was out selling Fuller Brush. It means: Who the hell are you and what are you doing ringing my bell? But then he recognized me, and his scowl transformed into a wide grin.

“I’ll be damned!” he exclaimed, reaching out to pump my hand. “Look what the cat dragged in. You’ll never guess who’s here, Molly,” he called over his shoulder. “It’s J.P.”

“As in J. P. Beaumont?” a woman’s voice inquired from somewhere inside the house. “After all this time? You’ve got to be kidding.”

Molly Lindstrom appeared then, with her face wreathed in smiles and looking the way I remembered her, apron and all. Her hair was grayer-whiter, really-but other than that she seemed just the same. She grabbed me and hugged me. “Boy,” she said. “If you aren’t a sight for sore eyes.”

I glanced at Big Al, with particular emphasis on the cane. “What’s that all about?”

Big Al held it up and looked at it as if he weren’t sure what it was. “This old thing? Hopefully I won’t have to use it much longer. I kept griping to Molly about how much my knees hurt. She asked me if I was going to complain about it all my life or have them fixed. Now I’ve got two bionic knees. This is the second one. No telling what Homeland Security will say the next time I try to get on a plane.” With that he turned and limped back into their cozy living room. “Come on in,” he said to me. “Mol, do you mind getting us some coffee?”

Molly left without a word. Big Al took a seat in an easy chair with tall arms and then set his cane down next to him, carefully making sure it was within easy reach. “So what’s this all about?” he asked. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

“You know I’ve gone to work for S.H.I.T.?” I asked.

Big Al nodded. “For the Attorney General’s Special Homicide Investigation Team. I heard you’re working with that wild and crazy guy from up in Bellingham. What’s his name again?”

“Harry I. Ball,” I said.

“That’s right. Good old Harry. People used to complain about him…”

“They still do,” I said with a smile.

“…but as far as I could tell, he always struck me as a pretty squared-away guy.”

“He is,” I said.

Big Al straightened in his chair. “It’s been a long time, Beau,” he said. “So what’s up? What brings you here?”

It was a fair question that deserved a fair answer.

“Tom Wojeck,” I said. “I seem to remember the two of you were partners at one time. What can you tell me about him?”

“You mean to tell me he’s still alive?” Big Al asked, looking surprised. “I thought he died a long time ago.”

“No,” I said. “He’s still around. As a matter of fact, I saw him just last night. He seems to have done very well for himself. Lives in a mansion out by Black Diamond with a woman named Mama Rose Brotsky.”

Molly came into the room carrying two mugs of coffee. “Who’s still around?” she asked.

“Tommy,” Big Al told her. “Tommy Wojeck.”

“And he’s got a girlfriend?” Molly asked. “That figures.”

Molly Lindstrom’s disapproval was obvious, but I had to ask. “What do you mean?”

“He was married at one time,” she said, “but that never kept him from fooling around.”

Big Al nodded. “Tommy liked to walk the wild side.”

“I’ll say,” Molly agreed. “Believe you me, he didn’t do that poor wife of his any favors.” With that, she turned on her heel and left the room.

“How so?” I asked.

Big Al sighed. “He got himself involved with a gentlemen’s club down in Tacoma.”

“You mean a strip club?”

“Yes. That’s what it was really. Word about Tommy’s extracurricular activities got back to the department up here. Internal Affairs was gearing up to do an investigation, but he quit before they had a chance. Not quit exactly. In the middle of all that, he got sick. The powers that be decided they’d be better off medically retiring him rather than putting on a dog-and-pony show and airing all that departmental dirty laundry in public. So they sent Tommy down the road with a one-hundred-percent disability. No muss, no fuss. Besides, they all probably thought he’d be dead and gone within a matter of months. But then he fooled them,” Big Al added with a shrug. “When he didn’t die on schedule the way he was supposed to, there wasn’t a whole lot they could do about it.”

I thought about the man I had seen in Black Diamond the night before. He hadn’t looked like someone who needed to be on one-hundred-percent disability.

“That’s medical science for you,” Big Al continued. “What they did to fix my knees wasn’t remotely possible not all that long ago. It’s the same thing with AIDS. People still come down with it, I’m sure, but not as many are dying of it now as there were when it first showed up back in the eighties. Or maybe they’re just not dying as fast-at least not in this country.”

“You’re telling me Tom Wojeck has AIDS?”

“Sure,” Big Al said. “Didn’t you know that?”

“No,” I said. “I had no idea.”

But I did now.

When it came time to leave Big Al’s house a little while later, he walked me as far as the door. On a table in the front entry sat a framed photo of a handsome young black man. The suit and tie meant it was probably a senior photo. Big Al caught me studying it.

“That’s Benjy,” he said in answer to my unasked question. “His daddy would be so proud of him. He’s going to Gonzaga in the fall on a full basketball scholarship.”