M Sellars - Crone’s Moon

“That depends on if you’re going to hit me again,” I answered, slightly miffed.

“Sorry ‘bout that, whyman,” he mumbled. “Didn’t mean ta’ hitcha’ that hard. Was jes’ s’posed ta’ be a frenly punch ya’know.”

I rotated my shoulder as I rubbed it with my hand. There was still a good deal of dull pain working its way through the joint, and I winced as it popped. I suppose it didn’t help any that he had connected with my left shoulder which was the one Eldon Porter had driven an ice pick into the first time he’d tried to kill me. I’d had surgery to repair the damage that had occurred from both that and the subsequent struggle, but to this day, it still bothered me. I guessed it probably always would.

“I’ll live,” I told him, my voice still a bit edgy. “Just don’t do it again, please.”

“Yeah, no prob, Kemonas… Kesomob… Kenomos…”

“Kemosabe?” I offered.

“Yeah, that.”

The glazed look in his eyes and the slurred speech were the first two indicators to grab my attention, so I didn’t actually need to smell the brewery riding along on his breath to know he was all but obliterated. However, there was no avoiding it. I could only recall having seen him this far gone once before, and that was very early on in his career as a police officer. He was a young, far from streetwise uniform, and he had been the first to respond to a particularly heinous murder-suicide. It had affected him deeply then, and as seasoned-almost even jaded- as he had become now, I was certain that it still did to some extent. Evidence that the old adage about never forgetting your first time applied to just about anything, good or bad.

“Tell me you didn’t drive yourself over here,” I said, refraining from making any drunken Indian jokes. Sober, I knew he would laugh. In this condition, well, let’s just say I didn’t want to test any theories.

“‘Kay, I won’t.” He pushed away from the doorframe and stepped in, stumbling over the threshold in the process. “Ya’oughta have somon fis that.”

“Gods, you’re even more cliche when you’re drunk,” I muttered.

“Whassat?”

“Nothing.” I shook my head and pushed the door open wider as I motioned him in. “Get in here and sit down, Tonto. I’ll go put some coffee on.”

“I’ll hava’beer,” he told me as he dropped himself onto the sofa with a heavy thump.

“Don’t have any,” I lied.

I stepped forward and looked out into the driveway. His van was nosed in diagonally across the double lane of concrete, effectively blocking any entry or exit. I had already made a mental note to at some point get his keys away from him. I appended it to include repositioning the vehicle so Felicity would be able to pull in when she got home.

“Scosh then,” he announced.

“Don’t have any of that either.” I continued down the path of untruthfulness as I closed the door and bolted it.

“Burrbahn?”

“Nope.” I was heading for the kitchen now, letting him run down whatever list he could come up with.

“Vokka.”

“Can’t say as that I have any of that either,” I called out.

“How’bout killya?”

I poked my head back out of the kitchen to look at him with a furrowed brow. “What?”

“Killya,” he repeated. “Ya’know, killya. Iss Messican.”

“No,” I replied as I made the connection. “I don’t have any Tequila. But I do have coffee.”

“Shit,” he mumbled.

I stepped back into the kitchen and started the coffeemaker’s carafe filling from the filtered tap. While the water was rising, I reached into the cabinet and retrieved the coffee grinder and a bag of beans labeled ‘breakfast blend’. I poured a measure of the roasted coffee into the bowl of the grinder, thought about it for a moment and then added an extra handful. I wasn’t going to be able to duplicate Ben’s ‘cop coffee’, but I could at least make it a little stronger than usual.

“Yo whyman,” Ben’s voice boomed through the house. “Wheresa squaw?”

“Coven meeting,” I called back.

“Spooky,” I heard him say, then pause. “Why you ain’t there?”

“Long story,” I answered.

“Tell me a shtory.”

“Some other time,” I said.

After adding the fresh grounds along with a small pinch of coarse salt to the filter basket, I poured in the water and switched the device on. I started to return the grinder and bag of beans to the cabinet but decided against it and left them where they were. I had a feeling it was going to be a long night.

My own earlier introspection was still floating around in the back of my head, but I consciously put it aside for the time being. I had my suspicions about why my friend was currently parked on my couch in a state of advanced inebriation, but my brain was also developing new theories with each passing second. The only way I was going to know for sure was to hear it directly from him.

Still, whatever it was that had brought him to this state, he had sought refuge here for a reason; and it was a good bet that the reason was to talk.

He was loyal to a fault and had been there for me more times than I could count, so the very least I could do was listen and be there for him.

I walked back into the living room to find my friend in a staring contest with Dickens, our black cat, who was perched on the end table quietly inspecting the boisterous human anomaly. As I pulled my rocking chair around to face the sofa, I took the opportunity to look him over myself. The fact that I could see a pistol riding on his hip and his badge clipped to his belt immediately dispelled one of my theories- he hadn’t been fired or suspended.

“Coffee will be ready in a few minutes,” I offered. “Here’s an idea. Why don’t you tell ME a story?”

He pointed at Dickens and then looked over at me. “I thing yer cat hase me.”

“I think he’s confused by you,” I replied. “Can’t say as that I blame him.”

“You confused,” he asked, his head bobbing as he tried to focus on me.

“A little, maybe,” I returned. “Mainly wondering why you’re sitting in my living room totally wasted.”

“‘Caush I’ve been drinkin’.”

“No kidding. But I’ve known you a long time, Ben. You don’t drink like this.”

“New hobby,” he mumbled.

“You might want to think about picking a different one.”

“Yathink?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“‘Kay, I thought ‘bout it,” he said almost immediately.

“Yeah, well you might want to try it again when you’re sober,” I instructed. “So, why don’t you tell me what’s up.”

“Opposite of down,” he cackled.

“Yeah, you’re a regular comedian,” I returned with a frown.

“Oh’yeah,” he said suddenly, a distant but serious look washing over his face. “Iss her.”

“What?” I asked with a shake of my head.

“Her,” he repeated, tossing his hand limply outward in an uncoordinated attempt to point. “Iss her.”

I followed the haphazard thrust with my eyes and looked back over my shoulder at the muted television. A news update was playing out on the glowing screen, with a picture of Tamara Linwood inset at the upper corner.

“You mean they identified the remains?” I asked as I turned back to him.

“Uh-huh,” he grunted. “Iss her.”

I wanted to seize on that point and run with it, but I knew he was in no condition to follow through. I resigned myself to the fact that this was something that would need to be addressed later. How much later was the question.

“I don’t think that’s why you came here, Ben,” I pressed.

“Hellno, I came here ta’ visit my friend. You seen ‘im? Shortguy, rise a broom.” He cackled again.