Sean McGee went to the small altar he had dedicated to his beloved mother. A photo of his father, Patrick, who had died of cancer when he was ten, the yellowed wedding photo showing his parents looking impossibly young, another of his mother, Hanna, sitting with young Sean on her knee, one of Hanna standing in the middle of a blizzard, smiling through squinting eyes at the camera, and a portrait shot that was taken at Sears, her blue eyes smiling and her graying red hair framing her face. The pictures surrounded a tiny candle in a brass holder behind a small statue of Saint Patrick. McGee smiled as he held out her framed portrait photo in his calloused hand.
“Well, mother,” he said softly. “It’s the beginin’ of a new day. Let’s see what cards he’s dealt this time.” He brought the portrait photo of his mother to his lips and kissed the simple wooden frame. He replaced it carefully amongst the other photos, small personal keepsakes and in the corner, a small framed autographed photo of James Cagney. McGee sighed and grabbed his lunch and walked out the door.
McGee wore his customary work boots, black jeans and tight green tee-shirt (with the Hanna McGee finely scripted logo on the front) under his grey windbreaker. As he walked the three short blocks to the pub, his arm swung lazily back and forth, slightly shaking the contents of the old fashioned black tin lunch pail. He had a thermos full of stew and a few thick slices of bread in the pail for lunch, and with a smile, made a mental note to set up ‘They Drive By Night’ during his midday repast.
McGee pulled the ring of keys from his pocket as he turned the corner. His eyes lifted and he looked into Carlton Book’s haunted eyes.
“AHHH!” McGee screamed as he jumped back a few feet, dropping the key ring. McGee placed a hand against his chest.
“Mother Mary and Joseph, Mr. Book!” he gasped. “Warn a man, why don’cha? Jesus Christ!”
“Morning, Sean,” Book said with a tired smile.
McGee ran his fingers through his red hair and shook his head. He bent down and snatched the keys from the street and unlocked the front door.
“Pardon me fer askin’, Mr. Book,” McGee said as he switched on the lights and power. “But what in God’s name are ye doin’ here this early? Not that I don’t mind ye company, ye understand.”
“Had the day off,” Book replied. “Just needed to be around a friendly face.”
Sean McGee quickly noticed his smile didn’t rise to his eyes. He grinned at Book.
“An’ that’s what you’ll get from me, Mr. Book!” he exclaimed. “Y’always done right by me, and that deserves a turn.” He reached beneath the bar and pulled out a bottle of beer, twisted the cap off and placed the frosty bottle on a coaster in front of Book. “That one’s for a friend,” McGee said. He reached beneath the bar again and pulled out another bottle, opened it and held the neck out to Book. “An’ friends never let friends drink alone,” McGee grinned.
Like swords crossing, Book tapped his bottle’s neck against the one in McGee’s hand and took a long pull. He sighed deep as the beer cascaded down his throat. He replaced the bottle on the coaster and held out his hand to McGee. The man smiled and grasped the offered hand and gave it a strong pump.
McGee eyed Book for a moment and nodded his head.“Got just the thing,” he said and walked over to the DVD player behind the bar.
“You put the player in the back of the bar now?” asked Book, remembering it had originally been on the rack holding the projection TV at the end of the bar.
“Aye,” replied McGee. “To prevent any of my fookin’ eejit customers from doin’ somethin’ stupid.”
He tapped the edge of a long door and it popped open revealing four shelves of DVDs; all in alphabetical order. McGee suddenly dropped to one knee, grabbed a DVD and back upright as if he was on a spring while opening the case and loaded the disc. He deftly picked up a remote and turned on the high def monitor. McGee turned back to Book and by the time he opened a fresh beer, Debbie Reynolds, Donald O’Connor and Gene Kelly were tromping through the credits in yellow rain slickers.
“Ma always said when ye can’t decide what to watch, put on ‘Singin’ in the Rain’,” McGee said with a soft smile to his lips.
“A wise woman, your mother,” Book replied raising his bottle in toast. He turned and watched the movie and sipped his beer.
About fifteen minutes into the film, McGee pressed the pause button on the remote.
“You wanna jaw about what’s botherin’ you, Mr. Book?” asked McGee softly.
“Nothing’s bothering me, Se ... “ Book began.
“I can see the pain in your eyes, Mr. Book,” McGee said with iron in his tone. “Yer not watching the movie. Yer tryin’ to puzzle somethin’ out.”
Book stared at McGee, feeling very open and very vulnerable under the man’s unwavering stare. He wanted to run back to his apartment. He wanted his life back.
Instead, he smiled at McGee and took a pull from the bottle.
“Have you ever done something ... questionable?” asked Book.
McGee leaned back against the rear shelves and folded his arms across his chest.
“Could you define ‘questionable’?” asked McGee.
“Let’s leave that open-ended,” Book said. “But that ‘questionable’ thing was done to make money. Nothing more. And I found that I was quite good at it. And in time, as I got better at my ... job, I began to branch out; sort of make myself ‘in demand’. And with the money coming in, I had no real reason to stop. ”
“Go on,” McGee said nodding.
“And one day I met someone who does the same ... thing,” Book said taking another sip; this time deeper. McGee opened and placed a fresh beer on the bar. “The only difference between the two of us is I look at what I do as business, and my new ... friend truly enjoys the work. And that person made me see the ... job in a new perspective. And it made me realize what I’ve been doing is, well, questionable.”
McGee stared at Book for a few seconds. “I know you’d like me to say, ‘Oh, Mr. Book! I know exactly what you mean’ and sprout off some of the famous McGee pearls of wisdom,” McGee said with a gentle smile. “Problem is I understand part of what you mean, but not all.” McGee opened up a fresh bottle and drank half in a few gulps. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and leaned back against the bar. “I do know what it’s like, doin’ somethin’ fer the money,” he said. “Ye heart’s not innit and you become nothin’ better than a machine; a robot, if you will.” McGee tapped the side of his head with a finger. “It’s all up here,” he said. “The mappin’, the plannin’; everythin’ to get you from point A to point B.” Then he tapped his chest. “But it ain’t here, ye understand.” McGee laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. “Then when both spots meet, ye wake up one fine day and find yerself questionin’ everything.” McGee smiled. “But when ye do find somethin’ ye really like; so much so it becomes a passion, like a good woman, a good cigar and a fine movie all rolled into one, that day ye’ll wake up and find yerself in a lovely establishment, such as this.”
“Then I’d like to wake up to that now, please,” said Book grinning. It felt strange on his face.
“Wouldn’t we all?” said McGee.
“And I feel a lot better, Sean,” Book said. “Thank you.”
“Hush yerself!” McGee said. “We all need someone to vent to from time to time. It’s only natural.”
“Don’t mind my asking,” Book began in a passable Irish brogue. “But is this what ye wake up to?” He watched McGee’s eyebrow shoot upward and he chuckled. “Sorry,” he said. “Couldn’t resist that.”
“Aye, it is,” McGee replied nodding. “I wake up each mornin’ knowing that I’ll be fillin’ glasses and talkin’ shite and watchin’ a good film and puttin’ a smile on the faces of good people just like yerself. An’ I go to bed each night knowin’ in me heart that it’s a grand life I have and thank him for it.” McGee drained the beer and looked at Book for a few beats. “Changin’ the subject for a speck let me ask you a question, Mr. Book. Ye ever hear that screamin’ voice in the back of yer head, warnin’ ye not to do something that’ll show the world that yer a tit?”
“Uh, yes, I have,” said Book.
McGee nodded, his eyes turning inwards. “Ma always asked me that question after I mucked somethin’ up,” McGee said wistfully. “An’ I always answered the same as you. An’ she would put her arm around me wee shoulders, lean real close to me and whisper, ‘It’s screamin’ for a reason, ye daft bastard!’” McGee chuckled deep in his chest. “She’d say that just before she boxed me ears.” McGee went to the tap and drew a mug of club soda. He took a deep sip and raised his eyes to Book. “Y’know why I asked ye that, don’t ye?” he asked.
Book swallowed and turned a deep crimson.
“Because of the, uh, Irish brogue?” he asked in a small voice.
McGee nodded. “Aye,” he said. “So we’ll let that go with the understandin’ that if ye try that heinous imitation again, Ma will come out of her grave an’ beat ye around the head until ye’r a fookin’ eejit.” He took another sip from the mug. “If ye don’t mind me sayin’.”
* * *
“Can I get you anything, Detective?” asked Lena as she stood in the middle of her living room.
Fine was seated on one end of her couch, his legs crossed and a notepad perched on his knee. In his hand he held a thick pen that had small black pads to protect the user from calluses. The rays of light coming from the window did not cross the section of the couch Fine sat on, making him appear to be in a shadow.
“A glass of water will be fine, Miss Truman,” he said.
Lena smiled shyly and walked into the kitchen, grabbed a glass from the drain board and poured the water from a carafe in the refrigerator. She brought it back and Fine took it, smiling and nodding his thanks at her. He took a deep swallow and looked around for a spot to place it. Lena slid a cork coaster over to him on the coffee table, which was where Fine placed the glass. She turned off the television and sat on the opposite end of the couch, her hands folded in her lap. The light from the window shone on that area, putting her in a solar spotlight.
“Muffin?” Lena asked pointing at the muffins on the plate.
The detective smiled. “Thank you, no, Ms. Truman,” he said. “I already had one.”
“You said you wanted to talk about Carlton?” she asked.
Fine smiled again and nodded. “How long have you known Mr. Book?” he asked.
She chuckled nervously. “Oh, I’ve known Carlton for years!” she said. “We’re seeing each other, you know.”
“Yes,” Fine said, making a note on his pad. “I found that out just recently.” He watched her eyebrows dip slightly. “Been talking to a few people at your office.”
Lena smiled through a frown. “Well, it’s not like we’re keeping it a secret,” she said.
Fine shrugged. “Why would you?” he asked. “You’re both adults, I mean. How long has Mr. Book worked for Boone, Fitzsimmons, and Parnell?”
“Well, Carlton doesn’t actually work for the company, Detective,” Lena said.
“He doesn’t?” asked Fine.
“Not really,” she answered. “He’s a freelance accountant. Boone, Fitzsimmons, and Parnell is just one of his clients.”
Fine scribbled something on the pad. “So he comes in when he’s needed?”
“That’s right,” Lena answered.
“And that’s the only time you see him?” he asked.
“Well,” she said, a red hue appearing on her cheeks, “he comes in to see me when he’s in the neighborhood. His business takes him out of the area for the most part. Sometimes out of town.”
“Really?” Fine asked, adding another scribble to the pad.
“Yes,” she said. “Carlton has clients in most of the five boroughs and in Connecticut.”
“Please don’t get insulted,” began Fine, “But how does his freelance work fit into your relationship?”
“Well, he stops by for coffee or lunch a few times during the week, and we see each other on weekends,” she said.
“No evenings?” asked the detective.
Lena’s eyes stopped blinking. “Infrequent,” she answered.
“Otherwise than that,” said Fine, “You don’t know his whereabouts?”
Lena frowned. The questioning, along with the light in her eyes, was bringing back the headache. “Carlton is either with his clients or home crunching numbers. May I ask you a question, Detective?”
Fine looked up from his pad and smiled. “Please,” he said. “Fire away.”
“Why are you inquiring about Carlton?’ she asked. “Does this have to do with Mr. Parnell?”
“That was two questions, Miss Truman,” Fine grinned. “Just setting up a timeline and seeing how deep Mr. Book’s involvement with Parnell was.”
Lena stood abruptly from the couch and rapped her knee against the edge of the coffee table. She winced but leveled Fine with a hard stare.
“You don’t think that Carlton had anything to do with ... “
Fine flipped the pad closed and stood to face her.
“Not at all,” he said smiling. “Do you know Parnell was heavily into cocaine and that Mr. Book dropped a dime on his connection, Phillip Byers?”
Lena’s mouth parted slightly. “Mr. Byers?” she asked. “From the bank?”
Fine nodded.
“Well, uh, Carlton was obviously trying to help him,” she said.
“Of that, I have no doubt,” said Fine. “In checking your company’s financials, did you know that Parnell was dipping into the accounts to support his habit?”
Lena’s eyes lowered to the floor. “I’ve heard rumors,” she said.
“Well, the rumors are true,” Fine replied. “Because Mr. Book is your firm’s accountant, he traced the withdrawals from your company’s accounts to the deposits made in Byers. That is how he figured out Parnell’s habit. Do you recall any altercations between Parnell and Mr. Book?”
“Altercation?” Lena repeated. “No. But Carlton did visit Mr. Parnell a few weeks ago,” Lena replied.
“Is that out of the ordinary?” Fine asked
“Not really, though he usually meets with Mr. Boone, or Mr. Fitzsimmons,” she replied.
“Did you happen to overhear anything ... odd?” asked Fine.
“Odd in what way?” asked Lena.
“Loud voices,” replied the detective. “A fight?”
Lena’s eyes widened. “No!” she said. “Carlton is not a violent man, by any extreme! He’s always calm and good natured. He doesn’t even raise his voice, even when he’s upset. When he met with Mr. Parnell, he was obviously trying to help him.”
“So you’ve seen Mr. Book angry?” Fine asked.
“I’ve seen him irritated at someone or something, certainly,” she replied. “But never angry in the way that you mean.”
“So, Mr. Book is a lover and not a fighter?” Fine asked.
Lena glared at the detective silently and the temperature of the room dropped.
Fine stared back at Lena for a few second, opened his pad and made another scribble. He closed it and slid it into his pocket.
“Then I thank you for your time and your honesty,” he said smiling. “You have a good afternoon.”
Lena escorted Fine to the door and opened it for him. He was about to walk through when he turned around.
“Oh, last question, Miss Truman,” Fine said. “Has Mr. Book’s manner changed since his meeting with Parnell?”
“His ... manner?” she asked.
“You know,” Fine said. “Has he seemed more irritated or distracted than usual?”
Lena’s lips pressed tightly together and the line of her jaw showed clearly through the skin.
“No,” she said icily. “Carlton’s manner has not changed.”
“Really?” Fine said grinning.
“Really,” answered Lena. “Goodbye, Detective Fine.”
Fine nodded back. “You have a nice day, Miss Truman,” he replied.
Lena shut the door in Fine’s still smiling face.
She turned back and faced the living room, feeling somewhat violated. She went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of orange juice and sat on the chair that faced the couch, staring at the shadowed spot where Fine sat. It looked alien to her. Like the fading Cheshire Cat she could see Fine’s smile floating in the shadows. A chill went up her spine and she walked to the bedroom and grabbed her robe from the hook on the back of the door for extra warmth. When she returned to return to the living room she suddenly became very tired and sat on the edge of the recliner.
Lena stared at a framed photo of her and Carlton on the wall across from where she sat. It was taken at the last Boone, Fitzsimmons, and Parnell summer outing. They each toasted Jerri, the photographer with a bottle of beer, grinning into the camera, with the lake and the setting sun behind them.
Lena recalled saying (and still felt) that it looked like the work of a professional photographer with high tech equipment, not by one of the ladies in the customer service department with a disposable camera. She remembered Carlton saying that she was the reason why the photo was so attractive and recalled the passion of their lovemaking that evening.
Before the detective arrived, she felt like the photo was taken yesterday. Now it seemed like ages ago.
A phrase popped into her head; one she recalled hearing on the few cop shows she watched.
A person of interest.
She looked at the clock and reached for her telephone and tapped the speed dial button, calling Carlton’s apartment. When his answering machine picked up, she hung up the phone. She tapped in the number of Book’s cell and got his voicemail.
“Carlton?” she said. “Lena. Please call me when you have a moment. I think it’s important.”
She looked at the framed photo again and shivered in the warm room.
* * *
Carlton Book staggered up the stairs to his apartment and slid against the wall to the door. After three tries Book opened the door and fell in the apartment. His hand had shot out to catch the doorframe, but missed and he landed heavily on his shoulder. He laid there staring at the fibers of the carpet. It had been a long while since he was falling down drunk and was surprised he had made it home. Book chuckled. He was so pixilated, McGee had closed the bar to half-carry him to his apartment a few blocks away. He vaguely remembered promising McGee he’d go right to bed and had a faint memory of waving goodbye to the man from the vestibule.
Book kicked the door closed (and missing the first time) behind him, crawling to the couch. He pulled himself up on the arm of the couch and into a sitting position. When his rolling eyes landed on the Escher picture, all alcohol and two bowls of pretzels came rushing upwards. He staggered to the bathroom and dropped to the tile floor on his knees in front of the toilet and spewed up the contents of his stomach. When that was done, he continued to expel noxious air into the bowl. Finally done, he fell back hard on his posterior.
Book looked down at himself, at the toilet, at the plastic bowl brush on the hook and began to laugh. As he chortled in the bathroom, tears rolled down his face. The laughter changed abruptly to racking sobs and he buried his face in his hands.
He was a hit man. A contract killer. A murderer. He killed people. He shot them, he stabbed them, he strangled the life from their bodies. He’d check his growing bank account and ignore the fresh corpse attached to every deposit. He wracked his brain as to how he had convinced himself that this was only business, but found he had no answer.
He was no better than that psychopathic murderer.
No! his mind protested. He does it for pleasure, for his understanding of justice. I get no pleasure from killing people! A dense chill went up Book’s spine and his hands lifted to his mouth and covered it, feeling a scream racing up his throat.
“Or do I?” he asked out loud.
Book pulled himself to his feet and turned on the cold tap and let the water run. He leaned forward and splashed the icy water against his face for several minutes, then reached for the hand towel and wiped his face dry. He walked out of the bathroom, not daring to even glance in the basin mirror, fearful of what might be staring back.
Now partially sober, Book slow-stepped into the kitchen and opened the cabinet door under the sink and pulled out a bottle of scotch. The bottle had been there for three years; not because Book did not drink scotch, but he preferred to drink at McGee’s rather than alone. He rinsed out a coffee mug in the sink and filled it halfway, momentarily debating on adding a few cubes of ice. He brought the mug to the living room and swallowed half of it before he placed it on the coffee table.
When did I stop being a human being? he asked himself. He thought backwards, seeing the ghost faces of his victims before his eyes; their still warm bodies at his feet. Book shivered and took another swallow. So many, he thought. I’ve killed so many. He closed his eyes and in doing so, he saw the bodies clearer. He opened them again. No guilt, he thought. No self-loathing. He simply walked into where ever the victim was and killed them. He tried to recall his feelings when he pulled the trigger, drove the blade through the person’s skin and into their hearts, or sensing their slowing struggle as the wire tightened around their throats.
Nothing .
He had focused on the deposit in his account. His mind pictured the growing stacks of cash, the increase in his overseas bank account; him sitting on a beach on some faraway isle, drinking an iced beverage and letting the warmth of the sun sink into his flesh.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the couch’s cushions. He saw his mother’s face, crying, which was odd because his mother was not one to cry. She was always stoic like his father.
No, his mind said. She had cried a lot. So had Dad. Why did I block that out?
Book’s eyes slowly closed as he remembered and found the answer to his question.
* * *
3-Monkey went once more to the whiteboard, hands clean and freshly scrubbed. With a single swipe of the eraser the name ‘Anthony’ disappeared. It was only then did the Killer feel clean.
A baggie that contained a pair of ears, lips and two gray eyes was placed on the countertop. 3-Monkey stayed there staring at his new trophies for several minutes. Later, at the computer, a new entry was made.
NAME: Dean Gerald Anthony, MD
ALIASES: Richard Ziegler, MD
PROFESSION:
The Killer’s fingers stopped on the keyboard suddenly overcome by a deep weariness. A finger tapped the ‘page up’ button and eyes scanned the other entries. 3-Monkey leaned back in the chair and sighed deeply.
So many .
A slow burning anger dissipated the weariness. A cold inner light filled the eyes.
And so many more.
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