Home is where the telephone is, was, and unfortunately always will be. I grabbed the receiver hoping it was Boots. It had been almost a week since we’d met for breakfast, and I still hadn’t left her completely behind.

It wasn’t Boots, or even some administrator with a belated summons to monitor the day’s shopping lust. It was that noxious, nasal voice of gloom and doom. Still, I was almost glad to hear from him, a definite testament to the week’s three mall blues.

“Is this Jake, I mean Matt Jacobs the gumshoe?” He accented and dragged out the last word. “Jacob, Blackhead. Without the ‘s.’”

“Stop calling me Blackhead, will ya? I hate that fucking name.” “Sorry. Emil, right?”

“It’s good to see that you’re not totally stupid. After you told me you were a cop I wondered.” My streak of glad faded. “I’m not a cop, Blackhead.”

“Not much difference in being paid by the State or by the people the State works for, is there?”

“Did you call to lecture me about my role as a running dog lackey for the capitalists?” Despite the bark, my words didn’t contain much bite. When I saw past Blackhead and Megan, I realized a lingering affection for The End.

“Some,” he admitted without the sarcasm. “I’m sick and tired of everyone who supposedly had principles during the Sixties, chasing the green just as hard as the people they said they hated.”

I’d chased a lot of things, but money wasn’t one of them. “You got no one else to talk to about this? You want a shrink referral?”

“I don’t remember you having a wise mouth.”

“Has to do with age.” I suddenly wanted off. “What did you call about, Blackhead?” “Emil. Don’t be a shithead.”

“Okay, Emil. What is this about?”

His voice dropped into a conspiratorial whisper. “I want you to look into something for me.” “I’m not a social worker anymore,” I reminded.

“If I needed a social worker I’d stick a butterfly net out my window and catch half a dozen.”

I chuckled. The End had always been locked and loaded with workers. Just graduate from social work school? Work in The End. Want to relate to the tired, poor, and the wretched? Work in The End! Want to play with psychotics? Work in The End!! There used to be constant debate whether there were more workers than clients. But all of us social workers were afraid to count.

“Emil, you call, insult my job, then ask for help.” I hesitated, then added, “I don’t think you can afford it.” I wondered why I’d given him an opening; I didn’t want to be a detective “worker” in The End.

“What do you charge?”

When I told him he exploded. “That’s what you get paid for catching people with their pants down? Do you get extra for photos or are they included?”

“I don’t do divorce work. If that’s what you are looking for, I can’t help.” “That’s not why I called,” he said sullenly.

I wasn’t surprised. It was hard to imagine Blackhead married. “Emil, I told you what I charge if—and it’s a big if—I take the job.”

“I can afford it.”

It didn’t sound like a lie, and my growing curiosity was suddenly spiked with suspicion. “You get nailed stealing socks; now you tell me you can afford my cost. I don’t do illegal work, Blackhead. I don’t fuck with the law.”

“It’s got nothing to do with illegal. Anyhow, don’t talk shit over the phone.”

I knew better than to stay on the line. I knew better than to even consider working for Emil. The last time I’d worked for someone I knew, I had exchanged my best friend for a permanent keepsake—I could feel the bullet wiggle in my thigh.

But something had me hooked. Maybe it was The End, or maybe it was seeing people I’d known twenty years earlier. Maybe it was that unfinished business Boots had talked about.

I did know I was still holding the damn receiver. “So what is it?” “I don’t want to talk on the phone. Where do you live?”

I wasn’t that hooked. “No way, Blackhead.”

For a moment his sarcasm returned. “Are you afraid I’ll trail in End Disease?”

Before I could say goodbye he downshifted his mouth. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’ve been stressed out. We can meet at the Wagon Wheel. I’ll be there in an hour.”

I was almost willing to be mollified. “Well, I can’t. I’ll meet you around nine.” “You’re so busy I got to wait until nine? My money is green.”

“I’m busy enough not to take your mouth.”

“I’ll watch my mouth. Just meet me there, will you? I need the help.”

I looked at my face’s reflection in the mirror and counted the creases. “I’ll meet you for old times’ sake, Emil, but I’m not promising to take the job. I’ll listen, that’s all.”

After he’d hung up I continued to stare into the mirror until I caught a glimpse of Megan over my shoulder. Whatever lingering affection I had for The End evaporated. I jammed the dead receiver down on the table next to its base. One call a day was enough.

 

I pulled my stash from the drawer and sat staring at its contents. It was time to prepare for the Wagon Wheel, but I wasn’t certain how. Before making any final decision, I walked into the bedroom and dragged my gun case out from under the bed. I carried the .38 and holster back into the kitchen and plunked them down on the table next to the pharmacy. It was mid-month, which meant I could anticipate a visit from Julius. It had taken a little time, but he was finally convinced my new building owner rank didn’t threaten our unspoken drugs-for-rent arrangement. He’d even gone back to his practice of breaking in and leaving the package on my kitchen table. To maintain tradition, I instituted frequent lock changes. I didn’t really expect to stop him and hadn’t. Praise the Lord.

I rolled a city-slicker and poured a double bourbon. No use wasting money trying to get high on bar whiskey; I’d just use that to keep dehydration at bay. I slowed down enough to realize I was anxious, considered a Valium, and settled on a half. Something dragged on my gut but I didn’t know if it was The End or the gun. I hadn’t worn it since the time it had been fired.

In the old days, if I was forced to retrieve someone from the Wagon Wheel, I carried a length of lead pipe. Now I strapped on the holster, surprised by its familiarity and comfort; along with age had come evolution.

I debated another double, then settled on a small single. I felt excited to be going where I’d been twenty years before. It made me feel young.

I might have believed the feeling a little longer, but the bar had a full-width mirror stretched behind its fancy bottles of fake fancy liquor. Everything in the grim tavern seemed unchanged with the notable exceptions of my face and a caged, bare-breasted woman shaking mournfully to Hank Williams Jr. The new brass did nothing but add to the old sleaze. The Wagon Wheel remained a tough tavern, rife with the smell of sweat, piss, and unfinished fights. Between the cracks you could feel the hostile frustrations of broken lives.

I added to the gray cloud overhead as I lit a cigarette and ordered a double. At least the bartender didn’t ask if I wanted Jack Daniel’s. It was reassuring not to be mistaken for a tourist. Then I looked at the other regulars, and reconsidered.

When I faced the crowded tables in the back I saw Blackhead staring at the dancer. As the song ended she squatted like Johnny Bench, and swigged from a beer bottle on the cage floor. I watched Blackhead pull himself from his reverie and look around the room. He spotted me and waved, teeth cracking through the forest on his face. I threaded through the crowd, careful not to brush against anyone. I might be twenty years older and carrying a gun instead of a lead stick, but my apprehension hadn’t slackened. Too many drunken customers stumbled out of this bar surprised to discover knife wounds or empty wallet pockets.

I got to the booth and Blackhead bobbed his head. “I didn’t think you were going to show.” I sat and waved to the waitress. “Still without that trusting spirit, huh?”

He grimaced. “Look around. These people been trusting their government for two hundred years and what’s it got them? A broad with bouncing silicone. Takes their mind off the fact that none of ‘em gets laid.”

“You seemed smitten yourself, Emil.”

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “How long were you spying on me?”

“Looking for you. Looking for you.” I turned to the waitress, who’d finally made it through the sea of groping hands. She wore a miniskirt, cowboy boots, a wide, white-lipsticked smile, and blue paint over dead eyes. I ordered a single refill for the dregs in my hand, waited for Blackhead who shook his head, and watched the lady fight her way back to the bar.

Blackhead had no glass. “They let you sit here without drinking?” “I don’t like paying for colored water.”

“And they let you stay?”

“I have friends. Let’s leave it at that.” “I find it difficult to believe.”

He suddenly shook his head. “Why do you keep insulting me?”

I drained the rest of my own colored water. “I don’t know. You bring out my best.” I grew impatient. “Okay, so what’s this all about?”

“Don’t you want to wait for your drink?”

“Are you kidding? By the time it shows, the girl will be dancing and you won’t be able to talk.”

“You weren’t always this funny.” “Come on, Emil, I don’t like it here.”

“What’s the matter? You spend all your time in the Rich Man’s World? This ain’t no fancy mall, but at least there are real people here. Not the phonies who think a hard time is finding a tax shelter.”

I started to stand. “I quit college, Blackhead. If I want a political sociology course I’ll go to night school.”

“Okay, take it easy, will you? Sit down. I don’t want to keep fighting, man. Come on, sit. For Christ sake, you haven’t been in the neighborhood since dirt, now you want to run right out.”

I sat. “Well, make it quick.”

He nodded toward my right shoulder. “You got a license for that?”

I threw my hands up. “You don’t get it, do you? I don’t need new drinking buddies.”

His eyes flicked around the room as he leaned across the table, his whisper barely audible over the jukebox and crowd. “Do you remember Peter Knight?”

It took a minute, but I finally nodded. “He had a sister, right?”

He leaned even closer. “Yeah, Melanie. Do you remember how he died?”

I knew he had died, but not how. It happened after Megan forced us to move from The End because she was tired of living thigh-to-thigh with “losers.” The same reason she eventually gave for taking lovers.

Blackhead used the silence to fill me in. “He accidentally drowned in a quarry. I don’t know whether you were still living here or not. Anyway, I was with him earlier that night, and the pigs hauled my ass over the coals. Stupid fucks wanted to hassle me, so they tried to make it seem like I had something to do with it.”

He scowled silently as if remembering the particular night. “Nothing came of it. Everybody knew that I wouldn’t hurt Peter. Hell, if I’d been there when he went in, I woulda died trying to save him.” He stopped talking and sat back in his seat. I saw his eyes glisten, but it was probably from the smoke in the room.

“What’s this got to do with me?”

“Just hear me out, will you? I got this letter threatening to reopen the whole fucking case. Said there was proof that would put my ass in Walpole. The fucking letter said there was nothing I could do about it, either. I want you to find out who sent the damn thing. I don’t want my ass in Walpole.”

I shrugged. “I don’t think you have much to worry about.”

“Well, I’m worrying anyway. What if someone’s trying to set me up?” “You think Peter was murdered?”

He looked frustrated. “No, man, I don’t think Peter was murdered.”

“Then what are you worried about? The cops have better things to do than run down every crank note that comes their way. Damn, Blackhead, it’s been twenty years. They wouldn’t give a shit even if you did kill him.”

“Stop calling me Blackhead. And don’t fuck around! I know how long it’s been, but I don’t care. I want to know who’s fucking with me.”

“What do you think I can do?”

“You’re a private cop, aren’t you? You can investigate.”

“The city is filthy with private cops.” I decided not to tell him how much they charged: he’d have a heart attack.

“Yeah, but I ran into you. Also, whether you like to admit it or not, you’re sorta from the neighborhood. People knew you and I figure they might talk better.”

My crap detector was firing. “Blackhead, answer me straight. How are you going to get the money to pay me?”

He looked at me scornfully. “I told you not to worry. You’ll get your stinking money.” “That’s not good enough. I want to know how you’ll get it.”

“Look, man, I sell a little grass. That’s why I don’t like to talk on the phone.”

I wondered what he meant by a little. “And your dealing has nothing to do with this letter?”

He looked perplexed. “Why should it?”

I motioned him closer. When he moved I circled his skinny neck with my hand, pinned his arms between his body and the table, and squeezed. I didn’t want to be obvious; free-for-alls used to happen here with even less provocation. Still, I let my hand stay where it was until I saw his eyes flash with fear and pain.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” I had trouble keeping my voice low. “Every night someone turns up dead because of drug jockeying. You deal, and I’m supposed to think drugs have nothing to do with this bullshit?”

I felt a deep-seated rage but knew enough to push him back into his seat.

“Why’d you do that, man?” he croaked. He massaged his neck and looked at me reproachfully. “I’m not lying. There ain’t no turf wars here. Everybody knows everybody. Nobody figures The End is worth the trouble. I’m telling you, I just need to know who’s fucking with me.” He kept rubbing his Adam’s apple. “I even brought money for you,” he added.

When he started to reach into his pocket I grabbed his arm. “I’ll take your money if I decide to work for you. Right now I haven’t decided a damn thing.”

“I’m telling you, Matt, this don’t have nothing to do with drugs. I just got to know who is messing with me.”

“You could be lying. Or you could be wrong.”

He began to protest but I waved it off. The ugly of both the bar and my behavior sickened me. I pulled a pen from my leather and handed it to him. “Don’t talk. Just give me your address and number and I’ll get back to you.”

He scratched on a thin cardboard Bud coaster and pushed it to me. I took it, shook my empty glass, and stood. “Give me back the pen. And use your money to pay the waitress if she shows.”

He flipped the pen and sat staring into the crowd, rubbing his neck. “I don’t understand why you did that, man.”

Blackhead had company; I didn’t either.