C Box - Blue Heaven

Although Newkirk was physically outmatched by Ex-Sergeant Gonzalez, who sat at the table beside him, it was Singer, a head shorter than Newkirk, he feared the most.

Gonzalez let Singer think and sipped his beer. As always, he had chosen the chair with his back toward the wall so he could keep an eye on everything in front of him. Gonzalez was a big man. He worked out daily in his home gym, and he wore jeans and tight black T-shirts that called attention to his thick arms, barrel chest, and massive hard belly. Gonzo was dark, smoldering, and violent. He fostered his image and persona. He was the kind of police officer, and man, who projected a dark malevolence even when he performed a simple, normal task like opening a door for someone or smiling at a joke. People around him, even strangers, always seemed relieved that Gonzalez had not decided to harm them. He had a way of looking up from hooded eyes that chilled the blood. Gonzalez was never troubled by doubt in his own judgment and never hesitated to follow up with his own kind of justice. He was the creator of the infamous L.A. mutilation known as the “guilty smile,” where a man’s cheeks were ripped back from the corners of his mouth to his ears. When the victim’s face eventually healed, the mutilation made it look like a wide, clownish smile.

Singer had barely touched his beer. Newkirk and Gonzalez had emptied the pitcher, and Gonzo tried to get the attention of the bartender by lifting it whenever he thought the man looked over.

“What we’ve got to do is get control of the situation,” Singer said softly, almost to himself. “We can’t wait for things to happen, then react. We’ve got to get ahead of it so we can steer things in our favor.”

“Like waiting for that motherfucker to look over and get us a pitcher,” Gonzalez said.

Newkirk sighed. “I’ll get it.”

He approached the bar. There were only two other drinkers, a skeletal man in stained Carhartts who looked like an old miner, and a much younger man in a brown UPS uniform. Newkirk perched between them and put the pitcher on the bar.

“What was it? Coors?” the bartender asked, rousing himself from where he leaned against the backbar and watched Sportscenter on the television mounted to the ceiling.

“Yes,” Newkirk said. He shot a glance at the old miner, who nodded at him then went back to watching the television. The UPS man seemed to be waiting for Newkirk to say something. Oh no , he thought; a talker.

“Don’t get too close to me,” the UPS man slurred. “I’m radioactive.”

“You are?” Newkirk asked pleasantly, but in a way he hoped would be dismissive.

“I’m fucking poison. I might rub off on you, and you don’t want that.”

Newkirk shifted to look him over. He was built; solid, tight clothes, thick thighs, but a broad friendly face. Newkirk guessed six-two, two-twenty. A brass-colored name tag on his uniform read TOM BOYD. It was unusual to see a package delivery employee in uniform so long after the workday was over. He remembered the truck outside.

“Don’t you have to turn your truck in at night?”

Tom snorted. “S’posed to. But instead I pitched camp right here on this stool when I got done with my route. Right, Marty?” he said to the bartender, who had tilted the empty pitcher to fill it with beer from the tap.

“Yes, Tom,” the bartender said wearily. Newkirk got the impression Tom had already talked Marty’s ear off.

“I’ll take care of that pitcher,” Tom said, fishing a wad of bills out of his pocket and slapping them on the bar. “And another double Jack for me.”

“You sure you need another one?” Marty asked.

“What are you, a bartender or my fucking counselor? A knife could drop out of the sky at any second and kill my poor, pathetic ass. So pour ’em!”

Marty shrugged, and Tom shook his head in drunken exaggeration. “That’s right. That’s right.”

Neither Newkirk nor Marty said anything, not wanting to encourage him.

“I’m poison,” Tom said again. “I’m fucking radioactive. Everything I touch turns to crap.”

Tom was one of those guys, Newkirk thought, who was practically begging to be asked what was wrong and wouldn’t give up until he was.

“Women problems, eh?” Newkirk said, not really interested.

“Is there any other kind? I mean really?”

“Just call her. Let her talk it out and keep your mouth shut while she does. That’s what works for me.” To emphasize his point, Newkirk raised his hand and rotated the wedding band on his finger.

Tom said, “I tried to call her a while ago, and she hung up on me. She said she was waiting for the sheriff to call back and to get off her line. It’s bullshit. That kid is just getting back at her by not coming home. I used to do that shit all the time.”

Newkirk felt a trill race down his spine. “Why is she waiting for the sheriff to call her?”

“Her kids didn’t come home from school,” Tom said, rolling his eyes, smiling ruefully. “Somehow, that’s my fault.”

“What did you say her name was?” Newkirk asked, knowing Tom hadn’t said it yet.

“Monica.”

“Monica Treblehorn? I know her.”

“No, Monica Taylor.”

“Don’t know her,” Newkirk said.

“Consider yourself lucky.”

“What’d you do?” Newkirk asked conversationally.

“Pissed her off,” Tom said. “Forgot to take her little mama’s boy fishing, so she fucking threw me out. Threw me right out. Her and that little bitch daughter of hers-they conspired against me.”

Boy and girl , Newkirk thought. Taylor.

“So they went on their own, huh?” Newkirk said, realizing as he said it that he should have kept quiet. Tom hadn’t told him the kids were on their own. But no matter, Tom didn’t catch it.

“Took my SIX-HUNDRED-DOLLAR SAGE ROD, too!”

“That sucks, doesn’t it?”

“Let me give you a little bit of advice, my friend,” Tom said, reaching out and gripping Newkirk’s arm. “Don’t go out with a woman who has kids.”

“I’m married,” Newkirk said. “I’ve got kids of my own.”

“Then don’t go out with her ,” Tom said, smiling stupidly. “They’ll all conspire against you. They’ll win, too. We’re outnumbered by the women and the kids and the pansies. We’re endangered species, us men, just like that fucking owl that stopped all the logging in the woods.”

“Hear hear!” the old miner shouted from the end of the bar, raising his glass.

“Tom,” Marty said, handing the pitcher to Newkirk, “advice is frowned on in this place.” To Newkirk, Marty said, “Keep it on the tab?” Ignoring Tom Boyd’s offer.

“Yes, and buy my new friend here another,” Newkirk said.

When he returned to the table, Newkirk said, “You won’t believe who I just met. Monica Taylor’s boyfriend. And we’ve got a problem. He said she’s waiting for the sheriff to call her back. Things might be moving faster than we thought. I’m guessing they’ll form a search team to look for those kids. What if they find them?”

“Jesus Christ,” Gonzalez whispered angrily. “Does everybody know?”

“Not like that. He just talked with her,” Newkirk said, shaking his head. “He says she threw him out of her house tonight.”

Singer looked at Newkirk, his face expressionless. Then, oddly, a tight faint smile.

“This isn’t a problem,” he said. “It’s an opportunity.”

“What?”

“See how his mind works?” Gonzalez said with admiration.

THEY WAITED until Marty cut Tom off. While Tom pleaded for a last drink, Gonzalez and Singer slipped outside.

Newkirk settled the tab at the bar while Tom stumbled from table to table on his way to the door.