J. Wachowski - In Plain View

“What do you know?” T mumbled.

The question sunk into my silence.

Not much.

My guess was Tom Jost killed himself because he discovered Mr. Vegas scheming and scamming something big-time. They fought about it. Tom couldn’t stop him and couldn’t keep the secret inside.

Pat tried to ensure no one would believe Tom if-or when-he spilled the beans, by setting Tom up with a trunk full of porno. And the men at station six turned on Tom.

When Tom reached out for the girl he’d hung the last of his dreams on, he found himself more alone than ever and raging with despair. He phoned his father, the fire station, and the fourth estate to witness his death. He went gunning for both Pat and his daddy, with his elaborate suicide set up-calls, binoculars, trust funds.

Tom wasn’t a suicide victim. He was a suicide vigilante. This was para-misery of the sacrificial type.

And Rachel? Maybe Tom meant to give her choices by leaving Rachel all his savings. Maybe he meant to say sorry for the episode in the car, or worse, split her from her father forever.

Bits and pieces of conversations tumbled around in my head.

Number no longer in service.

Old phone’s gone, I’d heard Pat say to the man behind the curtain.

Had Pat ditched his cell phone to try and cover for Tom’s suicide calls? The first time we met, Pat seemed genuinely unhappy about Tom’s death. Maybe he didn’t mean to hurt Tom as badly as he did. For an extroverted loose-screw like Pat, a trunkload of magazines was probably the kindest way he could imagine to ruin a man’s reputation. That weird scenario in the chapel was all the proof I needed-in the planning department, Pat was an idiot.

That worried me most of all. Idiots could be tricky.

Was Pat the Player driving the silver car that College saw parked at the Jost farm, the silver car that had been following me?

What if Mr. Jost was right about Rachel having a gentleman caller?

They both died.

I traced the timeline in my head again. Pat knew my sister. She died. Player moved on. If Pat started seeing Rachel next, Tom would have been in quite a twist.

Rachel hadn’t said anything about another guy. But that girl was half clam. If she was seeing Pat, she would certainly know how to keep it to herself.

Had my story gotten between Pat and his girl?

“Anybody want a bagel?” Ainsley knocked once as he came through the door with a wave for Tonya and a full-blast smile for Jenny. He’d changed into clean clothes and his hands were freshly bandaged.

“Hallelujah and pass the bag,” Tonya said. “Welcome to the real world, where people eat food. They don’t just talk about it.”

“You talking to me? I’ve seen the shoes you wear on Saturday night. You live nowhere near reality.”

“And it ain’t heaven either. Just look at these cards.” She discarded a queen. Jenny snatched it, tucked it into her hand and threw down all of her cards.

Tonya shrieked and stamped her feet to Jenny’s obvious delight.

“Want to play?” Jenny asked. “Four people are just right. It’s crazy eights.”

“Sure,” College said. He dragged another uncomfortable chair to the side of the bed where Tonya was sitting. It took some arranging but he finally got his legs situated under the bed. What is it about long-legged boys? My legs are almost that long and you don’t see me fussing like a debutante in a ball gown.

“What’s your plan for today?” Ainsley asked.

“We’re hanging out here.”

“Jenny can’t go home ’til tomorrow,” Tonya said.

Ainsley looked at me.

“For observation,” I said.

“My turn to deal.” Jenny reached for the cards. The dark hair bordering her face exaggerated the shadows under her eyes. I wanted to carry her out into the sun and tell her every knock-knock joke I knew.

“Heard you quit,” Ainsley said.

“Yeah.”

Jenny froze, mid-deal. “I’ll figure something out,” I told her, gently pulling the card from her fingers. “Keep dealing.”

“Why didn’t you tell Uncle Rich anything about-the circumstances?”

“I was pressed for time.” I gave Ainsley the shut-the-hell-up eyeball. “We’re playing cards here, College. You in or you out?”

“In.” His cheeks darkened with the flush of self-conscious emotion. “Somebody told me the only way to survive the bad days is to get back in the game.”

Tonya snorted. I don’t think it was the cards she was holding.

“I’ve got all our raw footage with me. And a monitor and some other stuff.”

That would include Pat’s interview at the firehouse. I wanted to throw my arms around him. I shifted my cards around.

“Other stuff? Editing equipment?”

“Enough to do a rough-cut. We could set it up in here. Maybe fiddle around a little.”

“Did your uncle send you?”

“No.” He sighed. “This morning, maybe I misunderstood where you were coming from, you know?”

Tonya stared at me. Jenny stared at me. Ainsley stared at his feet.

“Yeah,” I said. “Me, too.”

“Uncle Rich said you promised him a story.” Ainsley sounded hopeful.

“Did I? Maybe after I kick your butt in crazy eights, we’ll get the tapes and give these two a private showing.”

He held up his bandaged hands. His fingers were exposed from the second knuckle down. He demonstrated button pushing and dial twisting abilities. “Ready, boss.”

“Finish the deal, Jen,” I told her.

“Eat-your-ownies round.”

Something changed in her face as she tossed cards at all of us. A shadow passed.

Finally, I’d done something right.

Uplink Telestar 2 10:59CST. 00:05:51 (“Suicide Vigilante” O’Hara/Prescott. Chicago West. Blurb: “Mystery of an Amish firefighter’s death.” No promo incl.)

8:49:16 a.m.

“You been at it all night?” Mick popped his head through the door of edit bay one. He had a cup of coffee in one hand. With the other, he pat himself down for cigarettes and lighter.

The fresh light sliced through our privacy. It made me wince. The editing bay is a cave, no telling day or night, sun or rain, when you’re inside. Time is counted in hundredths of a second and passes without notice.

“Clock?” Ainsley asked.

“Almost nine-A,” Mick told us. “The troops are gathering. I’ve been on since midnight. Headed out. There’s a call for O’Hara on line three.”

Jenny. The fear hit me hard as I realized how completely I’d been sucked into the work. “Yeah?”

“‘Hello’ is the way the rest of the world starts a phone conversation, O’Hara.”

Curzon and relief didn’t normally combine in my head. At least five seconds of dead airtime passed while my nerves settled.

I cleared my throat with, “Ha. Thanks for the tip, Sheriff. I love a public servant who provides good service for my tax dollars.”

“How’s Jenny?”

“Better,” I said. “She’s getting out this morning. I’m headed to the hospital as soon as I send this feed.”

“And what will you be driving?”

“Holy shit! Quick, tell me. How’s my other girl?”

Curzon clucked. “Motorcycle like that is not a girl. That one is all woman. And every guy in this place has a hard-on for her, judging from the requests I’ve been getting.”

“Keep those animals away from Peg.”

“I might be able to work something out for you in that regard,” he agreed, his voice dripping the promise of slippery compromises. “With appropriate reciprocity.”

What was I doing with a guy like Curzon? Apparently, my hormonal coup had put a figurehead Maddy in charge. She appeared to be a bit of a hussy. I shifted back in my chair. Bounced out a little rhythm. Had one of those stomach-crunching after flashes that a good kiss will set off.