William Lashner - Falls The Shadow

“If he was so clean,” I said, figuring I could ignore the DJ, “what was he doing in the crack house where he was killed?”

Gleason closed his eyes for a moment. “I don’t know.”

“You ever find out?”

“I tried.”

Come on, Franz, no hiding. Let’s hear it for Franz, everybody. The crowd started chanting, “Franz, Franz, Franz!” Where are you, Franz?

“It’s hard to find the truth with a bullet,” I said.

“I didn’t go out there to kill that man, not that he didn’t deserve it. I was just looking for answers, but maybe, yeah, I was looking a little too hard. I saw Seamus’s body and I went a little over the edge.”

There you are, Franz. Sitting with our own Patrick Gleason. Franz, Franz, Franz. Come on down, Franz.

Gleason looked at the stage, then at me. “You’re Franz?”

“That’s my nickname in the lawyers’ bund.”

“It’s your turn then, big boy. Go on up.”

“I didn’t come here to sing.”

“You don’t have any choice,” said Detective Gleason. “Everybody sings. It’s karaoke night.”

I was caught in a trap. I couldn’t walk out. So instead I snatched down the rest of my Blue Hawaii, marched right to the stage, hopped on up, grabbed the mike, shielded my eyes from the spotlight. Sometimes there’s nothing to do but barrel forward with misplaced confidence.

“This is for the ladies out there,” I said, loosening my tie. “Just toss on up those hotel keys.”

That got a laugh, which was good, because then the music started.

A numb, dumb silence fell across the crowd at the first note. Jaws dropped and stayed dropped, eyes glazed, thumbs reached for ears. I don’t know if it was the beat, the tone, the key, maybe it was the lack of all three, but as I sang out on “Suspicious Minds,” I could feel the recoil of the audience. And there were grimaces of horror when I shook my hips, gut-wrenching, bladder-loosening horror. I was the Texas Chain Saw Massacre of karaoke night. At one point, during the chorus, I thought a cat was screeching somewhere in the corner of the room, and then I realized it was my voice coming out of the speakers.

Thank you, Franz, for that interesting rendition of a number one hit from 1969, said the DJ as the music faded out. It used to be one of our favorites.

I again shielded my eyes from the spotlight. “That seemed really short, didn’t it?”

Not to us it didn’t, Franz, said the DJ as heads shook in agreement across the club. Thank you so much for coming on down, and take care of that head cold .

“But there are more words scrolling up on the screen,” I said. “And what about the slow part? I was really looking forward to that slow part.”

And so were we, Franz, but trust us, there’s only so much damage a song can take. Next, all the way from Mantua, singing one of the good old old ones, and good advice for Franz on his singing career, let’s hear it for Marvelous Marv, performing “Surrender.”

An old bald man with a bent back and gnarled hands climbed onto the stage. His ears came up to my hip. He grabbed the mike out of my hands, shooed me away. “Get off my stage, you butcher,” said Marv in his rasp of a voice. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

And he did, the little crapper.

When I got back to the booth, Gleason was collapsed on the table, his head resting on his arms. I thought for a moment he had passed out, drunk with sorrow over the sad fate of Seamus Dent, but then I noticed his shoulders shaking with laughter.

“I told you I didn’t come here to sing,” I said.

“Is that what you call it?” He lifted his head, his cheeks wet with his tears.

“Was it that bad?”

“Like the bleat of a goat in heat.”

“Cute. You ever bring Seamus here?”

“Oh, yeah.” He smiled at the memory.

“How’d he do?”

“Seamus could sing. He did a version of ‘American Trilogy’ that would send you right straight to the army recruitment office. And his ‘In My Father’s House’ would bring even an atheist to tears.”

“So what happened? What was he doing with Red Rover? What was the fight about?”

“I don’t know,” said Gleason. “I just don’t know. I traced that bastard Red Rover back to his mother. I went alone, that was my mistake. My partner was on something else, and I should have waited, but I wanted to know. I knocked on the door. The mother answered. I was just identifying myself. Next thing I know, the bastard runs over me on his way out. I charge after him. He stops, whirls, pulls something out of his waistband. I didn’t have any choice.”

“Was there an investigation of the shooting?”

“There always is.”

“What did they find?”

“I came up clean.”

“What did he pull out of his waistband?”

“A knife.”

“And you standing there with your revolver.”

“He whirled. He pulled something out of his belt. I wasn’t waiting to see if it was a cell phone. I came up clean.”

“But still you’re in the auto squad.”

“It made the papers, the shooting, and Internal said I was wrong to have gone there without backup. The brass transferred me to the auto squad to get the stink out of homicide. So now I chase cars. Like a dog.”

Just then Priscilla returned to the table. “Nice job, cowboy,” she said as she placed another Blue Hawaii in front of me.

“I’ll be here all week,” I said.

“Let’s hope not,” she said. “It would be hell on tips.”

I took a long draft of the blue drink, winced.

“What’s the matter?” said Gleason.

“I got this tooth…”

“You ought to get that looked at.”

“So I been told.”

“The guy who took care of Seamus did an amazing job.”

“I have someone in mind,” I said.

“Think about it. Seamus’s teeth were like Stonehenge before, and after they looked pretty damn good.”

“Was he grateful for what you did?”

“Oh, yeah. That was the thing. He was a good kid and appreciated everything. The more you did for him, the more you wanted to do.”

Thank you, Marv, that was beautiful and heartfelt. The ladies here would surrender to you in a minute. A squeal went up. Let’s give Marvelous Marv a hand. Next up, the always popular, always terrific, our own Officer Patrick Gleason, singing something from the King’s 1968 Comeback Special. Come on up, Patrick.

Gleason downed his bourbon, belched to clear his throat, gave me a wink before standing and walking with authority to the stage. On his way up, he motioned for the three sirens at the bar, with their rising hair and plunging necklines, to follow, and they did, climbing to the stage with him, forming a row behind.

“This is for a kid I used to know,” said Gleason.

He lowered his head, shook his knee, waited as the music started, a muted trumpet, the humming of his background singers swaying slowly in their row, a slip of strings floating over the bridge.

When Gleason raised his head, his eyes were now focused high and there was something different about him, something transported. He began to sing in a lovely and deep gospel voice about lights burning brighter and birds flying higher, about bluer skies and better lands and brothers walking hand in hand.

It was a sappy song, maudlin and obvious, without a hint of irony. And here was this Elvis wannabe, standing on a karaoke stage, in a pathetic tribute bar, singing to a sparse crowd already punched into submission by the likes of Harvey from Huntingdon Valley and Marvelous Marv, by the likes of me. Yet with the emotional music, the background singers, the way Gleason’s voice roughed with passion as it strived to reach the high notes and higher emotions, it also seemed, for a moment, as true as pain. And his apparent belief in every word shamed me.