(Meatballs)
Years had passed since Jim Tanner relinquished his clunker, selling it for the cost of the tow. Repair bills had been eating him alive, and parking on the streets of Park Ex in winter had become too damn frustrating. The snowbanks were mountainous. As a single dad, he accepted that he was dirt poor. No more wheels for him.
For a time, he bussed to work, until the day a coworker gave him a lift to the plant. A significant portion of employees at Continental Can lived in Park Extension. Ukrainians, Romanians, Hungarians. After that he chipped in a few bucks every week for gas and discovered that he’d landed a new pal. He had wanted a non-criminal friend. Gabor Szabo was unaware of Tanner’s background and might not have cared. He knew him as a single dad who did his job at the plant, what else mattered?
Arriving home, Tanner wanted to say, ‘Gabs, don’t stop. Keep driving.’ He couldn’t say that. He could not admit that the two men clambering out of an unmarked car up ahead struck him as being detectives. They ignited in him an urge to flee as they walked toward his front door.
When he emerged from his friend’s car, he reached back to pick up his lunch pail from the floor and looped his denim jacket over his forearm. Whatever was going on couldn’t be about him. The other option was scarier. If cops were knocking on his door, his daughter might be in trouble.
At first, he hadn’t thought of that. Suddenly, he did.
Jim Tanner strode quickly to his home. The detectives were giving up at that moment and coming away. He could let them leave without identifying himself, except that if this was about Quinn, he needed to know.
‘My house,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’
‘Sir. Hello. I’m Sergeant-Detective Paul Frigault. This is Detective Marcel Caron.’
Caron, who had wild frizzy hair, extended his hand. Tanner shook it. Less willingly, Frigault did the same. Tanner introduced himself. He started in English, and both officers continued in that language.
‘What’s this about? My daughter? Is Quinn all right?’
‘Is she home, sir?’ Frigault asked him.
‘You know better than me. I just got here.’
‘She didn’t answer. Mind checking? We can talk inside.’
If they were looking for her at home, that meant they weren’t about to tell him she was in hospital or a jail cell. Tanner unlocked the door and from the narrow foyer shouted through the house. ‘Quinn! You here? Quinnie!’
The three men listened to the ensuing silence. Tanner said, ‘She’s usually out when the weather’s good. What’s this about?’
The sitting room provided cramped quarters. Each detective took a seat and Tanner chose the sofa, perched forward, wary of their news.
‘Do you know a young man named Dietmar Ferstel?’ Frigault asked him.
‘No. Who’s he?’
‘You don’t know the name?’
‘I’d remember a name like that. What does he have to do with Quinn?’
‘They were boyfriend and girlfriend, some say.’
‘Who says?’
‘His family, his friends,’ Caron told him.
‘When was this?’
‘Sir?’
‘When they were ten? Last month? When?’
‘Recently, sir. Current.’
‘She hasn’t mentioned him. Maybe she was trying him out. Why does it matter?’
‘The boy was killed last night, sir.’
‘Oh God.’ Jim Tanner’s hands had been raised. They dropped to his lap.
‘To our knowledge, Quinn was the last to see him alive. We’d like to talk to her.’
Tanner couldn’t immediately process the news. He’d been running ahead of himself, guessing at possible scenarios that might have precipitated this visit. This one never crossed his mind.
‘Sorry, wha—? What happened? How was …? How did he die? Car crash?’
‘He was murdered.’
‘My God. Wait. Quinn wasn’t involved. She was home last night.’
‘When did she get home?’
Experience warned him to be careful. ‘I’m not sure. I hit the sack early.’
‘We want to talk to her. About the boy, about last night. Routine questions.’
‘This isn’t routine. But sure. She’s usually home for dinner. Sevenish. Oh God, that’s … bad news. I can give you a call.’
Caron was extending a card, which Tanner accepted.
‘You never heard the name, Dietmar Ferstel?’ Frigault probed again. ‘Sir, is your wife home soon?’
‘She passed. Cancer.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir.’
‘I’ll give you a call when Quinn shows up.’
Caron and Frigault were exchanging glances, as if trying to figure something out between them without resorting to direct communication.
‘Something wrong?’ Tanner asked.
Frigault made the executive decision for his cohort. ‘My partner and me, we’re already off-shift. If Quinn could call us tomorrow, we could set up a time to visit.’
‘No problem.’ He was already feeling a hundred percent better. They weren’t gung-ho to interrogate his daughter. ‘She’ll call in the morning. I’ll make sure.’
They shook hands on the stoop. Jim Tanner went back inside. He was starving and needed to think about dinner. Quinn enjoyed spaghetti. With meatballs. He had the fixings. He hoped she’d be home soon. God knows, they needed to talk.
He hoped she knew nothing about the murder. That he’d be breaking the news to her. That would be tough on her, but he hoped she knew nothing.
Jim Tanner changed from his work clothes and went into the kitchen. He put both hands on the sink to keep them from shaking. Two detectives had been seated in his house. The memories provoked were times he did not care to revisit.
Quinnie, he was thinking. Quinn.
He had to do something. He got busy on the meatballs.