William Lashner - Past Due

“Nothing too serious,” she said. “You’ll live. What happened?”

“Just a mugging. They wanted my wallet. The money I didn’t mind, but I’m partial to the photograph on my license. It makes me look dangerously deranged, which is helpful in my racket. Did you see them?”

“Only from behind,” said the man. “They were running away. Two dudes. One older, the other taller.”

“Do you want us to call the police for you, Victor?” said the woman.

My chin lifted, my eyes opened wide. “How do you know my name?”

“From your mail,” said the man, quickly.

“How did you happen to be at my apartment building?”

“We were just walking,” said the man.

“We’re only trying to help,” said the woman. “Do you want us to call the police and report what happened?”

Through the fear and pain and sudden paranoia that had enveloped me, I peered more carefully at the two Samaritans standing in my apartment. The man was stocky, bearded, dressed for a motorcycle rally with a T-shirt, boots, denim vest. He wore a ponytail and was as hyperactive as a teenager, but the gray in his beard and lines around his pale blue eyes put him in his forties.

The woman was tall and thin, with long straight hair and bell-bottom jeans. She was older than me, but not by much. To get a sense of the state of my condition you need only know that just then was the first time I noticed how startlingly beautiful she was, with a narrow face and big brown Asian eyes that held a lovely sadness. It was a strange sight, the two of them, the woman, who could have been a model, and the motorcycle man, utter strangers, dressed as if the eighties and nineties had never happened, standing in my apartment, standing over me as I slumped on the couch, and it sent my already jagged nerves into a jig.

I looked at them for a moment longer and tried to think things through and failed. My head ached, my ribs hurt, I still felt pressure on my nose, yet even as I struggled through the pain to make sense of everything that had happened that night, one thing became clear, one thing shone with absolute certainty.

“No,” I said, finally. “Don’t call the police. It was just a spoiled mugging. They got nothing, so there’s nothing the police can do. But thank you for helping. I don’t know how long I would have lay there if you hadn’t come along.”

“We were glad we could help,” said the woman. “Do you want something to drink?”

“Yeah, sure. That would be great. There are beers in the fridge. Why don’t you take out three?”

“Dude,” said the man.

His name was Lonnie. Her name was Chelsea. He fixed motorcycles in a small shop he owned in Queens Village. She worked in an insurance office. They were just old friends, out for a walk, and I liked them, I liked them both. Lonnie was jittery and funny and his eyes were bright. Chelsea was like an ocean of calm, sitting lovely and straight in her chair, her long legs together, her hands in her lap. When I told them I was a lawyer they groaned good-naturedly, but she started asking me questions about her landlord. And then, watching them carefully, and without mentioning any names, I told them about what happened to Joey Cheaps and about the deposition of Derek Manley and about the crime that was committed twenty years ago. I told it well, used my jury skills to keep it dramatic, stretched it out, watched the reactions. Lonnie leaned forward as I did the telling, his knee bouncing. Chelsea kept glancing at Lonnie.

“So that wasn’t just a mugging, was it?” said Chelsea.

“No.”

“What did they want?”

“To scare me off, to stop me from looking into the past. They said I was trespassing, as if the past is piece of land governed by the laws of property.”

“So what’s it all about?” said Lonnie. “You got any idea?”

“Some,” I said. “I asked some questions of an important man today and that seemed to get a lot of people rattled.”

“Who was he?” said Chelsea.

I looked into her pretty eyes, saw there a curiosity that was more than idle.

“He’s a State Supreme Court justice,” I said. “A long time ago one of his friends was the head of a huge cocaine ring. The ring was busted by the FBI and the friend disappeared. I think the ring, the friend, the long-ago crime, the murder on the riverfront, I think everything is related.”

“What are you going to do?” said Chelsea. “Are you going to stop asking questions like they told you?”

“What do you think I should do?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “We have a friend who lives in New Mexico and has become kind of a spiritual mentor. He always says that the past can be a pretty dangerous place.”

“And, Dude, think about it,” said Lonnie. “You could be getting into something way way over your head. You could be stepping into a serious firestorm. If two dudes came up to me and started playing handball with my head, I’d be doing more than wondering what the hell I was getting myself into. I’d be thinking it might be a good time to check out the Baja for a while, work on my tan.”

“That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think? I’m sure nothing I’m involved with is as dangerous as a tan.”

Chelsea flicked her hair and laughed.

“If you want, some of my customers are definite muscle heads,” said Lonnie. “You need any backup, give me a call.” He reached into his vest, pulled out a card. THE CHOP SHOP. LONNIE CHAMBERS, PRO-PRIETOR. WE FIX EVERYTHING SO LONG AS IT’S A HARLEY.

“No need to turn a little collection case into Altamonte,” I said, “but I appreciate the gesture. I appreciate everything.”

That was the cue, I suppose. Lonnie stood and then Chelsea stood and then I stood, towel still on my head, the water from the ice now dripping down my temple in a steady stream and onto my bloodied shirt.

At the door I shook Lonnie’s hand, hard, rough, and then Chelsea’s hand. She smiled at me and her eyes lit and she squeezed my hand, softly but still hard enough to convey a message of sorts.

“Thank you for everything,” I said.

“It wasn’t nothing,” said Lonnie.

“Oh yes, it was. I’d like to show my appreciation.” Chelsea smiled at me and I felt it in my chest. “How about if you let me buy you both a drink in gratitude. There’s a place in Lonnie’s neighborhood. You guys know the Continental?”

“Not my usual hangout,” he said.

“Mine neither, that’s what will make it fun. Say tomorrow night? Nine?”

“I don’t know,” said Lonnie, but then Chelsea spoke up.

“That would be great. Really. We’ll both be there.”

“Terrific,” I said. “See you then.”

I stood at the door and watched them go down the stairs and listened for the front door to open and close and then I went inside and peered out the window and watched as they made their way, side by side but not holding hands, definitely not holding hands, east on Spruce, back to the section of the city where they lived, with all its bars and restaurants, far from this mainly residential edge of center city.

As soon as they left my sight I put down the bloody towel, picked up the phone, and dialed.

“Telushkin here,” said the voice on the other end.

“Mr. Telushkin, this is Victor Carl.”

“Oh, Victor, yes. I’m so glad you called. How are things going? Have you checked out that lead I gave you?”

“I called about something else,” I said quickly, not wanting to discuss with Telushkin my meeting with the justice. “Was there anyone in Tommy Greeley’s crew named Lonnie Chambers, or was there a woman named Chelsea?”

“Let me think, let me think. Oh yes, of course. There was a man named Chambers, I think they called him Lonnie. He was a mule, mostly, and a debt collector when that was needed.”