John Goldbach - The Devil and the Detective

‘Man, I’d feel a lot better if I knew that some of this blood money was paying for your school. And use some of it to replace the window and fix whatever other injuries this car’s sustained,’ I said, smacking the hood for emphasis.

Darren took a swig of beer. ‘So, we’re not turning Bouvert and Adamson in?’

‘No, not yet,’ I said. ‘I don’t think we can make anything stick. Something’s taking its course and we can’t interfere any more than we already have or we’ll be killed. At least right now. We’ll keep the photos. You were right — if they can kill O’Meara with impunity, a police detective, they can kill us. Things need to cool down.’

We drove to the flower shop. Julie had waited up for us. She sat at a table, drinking red wine, and messing around with tarot cards. And I’m pretty sure Schubert’s Piano Trio No. 2 in E Flat Major was playing softly in the background, though it was hard to say for certain. Darren passed me a beer and offered one to Julie, but she just held up her glass of vin rouge . I’d ask her to give me a reading, though I knew she’d just pull up cards XV and O, I thought, the Devil and the Fool, respectively.

‘Are you two okay?’ she asked.

‘We’re okay,’ said Darren. ‘No injuries sustained.’

‘What happened?’

‘They sh — ’

‘Nothing,’ I said, stopping Darren. ‘It was a bust.’

Julie looked at Darren and me and smiled delicately, I thought. I drank back some beer.

‘I should be going home soon,’ I said and yawned. ‘Long night.’

‘I’ll give you a lift,’ said Darren.

‘Thanks, man.’

‘I can drop you off first, Julie.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Okay,’ said Darren to Julie. ‘ Allons-y, allons-o .’

Julie didn’t live too far from the shop, and of course I wasn’t going home. For all intents and purposes, I thought, I didn’t have a home. I’d decided I’d go east. I’d go to the coast and lie low for a while. I’d work on my case notes. I’d get some badly needed rest. I’d escape suffocating, soul-sucking people, I thought, for a while at least. We pulled up to Julie’s walkup, with its black iron spiral staircase and small garden out front.

‘Nice to meet you, Bob,’ said Julie, and I turned around and looked in the back seat and she was smiling. ‘See you soon.’

‘ À bientôt ,’ I said (I hope, I thought).

‘ À bientôt , Bob,’ she said and leaned in and kissed both my cheeks lightly. ‘Bye.’

‘Bye,’ we said.

‘Do you want another drink for the road?’ said Darren.

‘What are you thinking?’

‘Chez Carlos … ’

‘I really should be hittin’ the trail.’

‘What about the bar in the train station?’

‘Naw. That place is dead trousers. Just drop me at the metro up here. It’s dangerous for you to be seen with me right now.’

‘Am I gonna hear from you?’

‘Yes. Soon. I’ll write, or call. I’ve got your card.’

‘Bob, man, thanks for everything,’ said Darren.

We pulled up to the metro stop. ‘There’s a little over twelve grand in the glovebox. Don’t forget to pay for any damages to the car. Be well, comrade, and thank you for all your help. You’re a good detective, Darren.’

‘Thank you. But no one’s getting punished and you have to skip town. I mean, as far as the case goes, we failed.’

‘Well, yes, probably,’ I said. ‘But we know more about it than we did in the beginning, I think.’

‘Maybe.’

‘I’ll be in touch and make sure everything’s jake.’

‘Good. Farewell, Bob.’

‘Talk soon.’

‘ Leb wohl .’

I took the escalator down into the metro and grabbed a newspaper and a pack of gum and a bottle of water at the newsstand. When I got on the train to the station, I flipped through the paper ( The Examiner , i.e., the local rag) looking for anything on the case. I found an article saying that the police suspected a drug addict of breaking into the Andrewses’ and stabbing Gerald Andrews to death. They had an unnamed suspect in custody, I read. He had priors. The article also said that the murderer stole antique jewellery from the Andrewses. Tomorrow’s paper will say that O’Meara was killed by a crazed vagrant , I thought. We pulled into the station and I left my newspaper on the seat for whoever wanted to read that bullshit and I took an escalator to the station’s main floor and I went to the ticket counter and bought a ticket to a small coastal town. There was a night train, so I didn’t have to wait long, and I drank a large bottle of water while waiting, which wasn’t long, as I said. The train ride was nice, relaxing, even, as I watched the fields with cattle and crops go by and lightning flash in the distance and the cows were clearly agitated. I thought of O’Meara lying on the ground, ventilated, with blood globules all over his hands and more blood gushing out of his chest and stomach. I thought about Bouvert, with wine and food on his clothes and his back to the wall while I held him there at gunpoint. I thought about Elaine — about how I fell for her and about how she’d deceived me and about how she’d disappeared. At least she was alive, I thought, if in fact she was alive, which I suspected she was. She considers me a sad sap, I thought, and a crummy detective, if she considers me at all, which she most likely doesn’t. I was merely a stepping stone, I thought, an incidental player — and this was incontrovertible fact. I drank two miniature bottles of Johnnie Walker. I even slept dreamlessly for a couple of hours. Around five-thirty in the a.m., the train pulled into the station and the only luggage I had on me was the small gym bag full of cash: about twelve grand or a little more. I’d have to go in to town and buy clothes and toiletries, I thought, but that would have to wait. It was late — or early, rather — but there were taxis out front of the station. It was still dark out and cold. I got in a taxi and said, ‘ Une auberge, s’il vous plaît. ’ No one knows me here, I thought, and it felt incredible — anonymity’s unburdening power was unexpected and welcomed. I’d live quietly, I thought, try to go unnoticed. I got a room at a small inn with an ocean view and went upstairs and collapsed on the bed. I was exhausted, of course, but still rattled, a little wired. I fell asleep briefly, for a few minutes maybe, dreaming of I’m not sure what, but woke with a hypnic jerk. I stood up and walked over to the window, which looked out onto the sea. Waves smashed up against a giant rock formation, slowly and insistently eroding the peninsula. The sky was dark and overcast. And the ocean looked like billions of tons of shimmering mercury, rising and falling, lit greyly by the dim moon.

The author would like to thank the following:

A. Carless, K. Hutchinson, M. Iossel, E. Munday, L. Nash, J. Novakovich, P. Powell, A. Szymanski, C. Tucker, H. Waechtler, E. Walsh and (esp.) A. Wilcox. And his friends and family, &c.

John Goldbachis the author of Selected Blackouts , a collection of stories. He lives in Montreal.