CHAPTER 50

“Whoa, looks like someone got a little too fresh for a first date. Remind me not to mess with that vet,” Stacey said over the exited barking of Ginger as I walked through the front door of Stevie’s place.

Ginger jumped up, front paws on my stomach, and it was a little painful to push her away because of the skin loss on each of my palms. I should have been grateful that she even wanted to greet me. I was probably quite a sight to behold.

Jackie had insisted on taking me to her office and treating my wounds, so there were large band aids on each of my palms and larger cotton gauze pads taped onto each of my knees, which were visible through the bloody torn fabric of each pant leg. She had stuffed two small wads of cotton up my nostrils to stop the bleeding from my nose. I couldn’t tell, but I had a feeling dark bruising was developing under my eyes.

Besides cleaning and treating the torn skin on my hands and knees, Jackie had also, as delicately as possible, straightened my broken nose back into place. I had undelicately screamed like a two-year old when she did so. Afterward, I had asked her how many broken noses she had treated in her career. She told me broken noses were really not a common injury in the animal world, so I was her first. As a matter of fact, she informed me that I was the first two legged animal she had ever treated, not counting a few parrots and parakeets. If I wasn’t so embarrassed and in so much pain, I would have been honored.

“Actually, the date was going very well--until a certain Ferdinand Crawford wanted to have a word with me,” I began saying in a very nasal voice due to the cotton in my nostrils. Ginger again raised up and placed her paws against my stomach. “Down, girl, c’mon please.” I pushed her gently and Ginger obeyed and returned her front paws to the floor.

“Crawford? He did that to you at the restaurant?” Stacey asked.

“Out back,” I continued, pulling the cotton from my nose because I couldn’t stand the sound of my voice. The cotton was bloodied but the bleeding appeared to have stopped. “He lured me into the alley behind the place and--AHHHHHH.”

Ginger had now firmly pressed her cold nose against the gauze covering my right skinned knee and was inhaling in short but powerful bursts like a bloodhound tracking an escaped convict. The pain was excruciating. I tried to back up but she switched her attention to my left knee and pressed in harder. I couldn’t shake her.

“Help, pull her off,” I called out to Stacey.

He put down the blue masking tape he had been using to prepare the walls in the living room for the paint job, came over, and dragged Ginger back off my knee by the collar. “It’s the blood. Drives dogs crazy,” he explained to me. “C’mon, Ginger,” he said to the dog, “go to your bed.”

She strained but eventually relented, gave my knees one last longing look, and then turned and went to lie down on the dog pillow that sat in the corner of the room. Stacey took a good long look at me.

“So, tell me what happened,” Stacey said.

“Not much really. A couple of his guys threw me on the ground out back of the place where Ferdie was waiting. He told me to get out of town, and that was pretty much it,” I answered.

I left out the part about him threatening to hurt people if I didn’t. I wasn’t going to tell anyone about that, except maybe Hoppy. There was no need to spread any unnecessary fear. “I need a drink,” I said, passed Stacey, and headed down the hall toward the kitchen.

He followed. “I’m sorry, man. I probably should have been there. Damn, this shit only seems to happen when I’m not around. Some bodyguard,” he said.

I reached the kitchen, opened a cabinet door, and pulled out two glasses and the bottle of Powers.

“It’s not your fault. I really didn’t want you chaperoning my night out and didn’t think I had anything to worry about at a nice place like Chez Maurice.”

I poured some whiskey into the two glasses and handed one of them to Stacey.

“Yeah, well, from now on I don’t leave your side, man. These guys are beginning to really tick me off,” he said.

I reached out and we clinked our glasses together. “I appreciate that but I don’t think it’s going to be necessary,” I said, “unless you want to escort me all the way down to Florida.” I emptied my glass in one long swallow.

“Florida? What do ya mean, Florida?” Stacey asked, not bothering to take a sip of his whiskey. “You’re gonna let them run you off?”

I poured another couple of fingers worth of whiskey into my glass. “I most certainly am,” I answered, draining about half my drink this time.

“You’re gonna to let them get away with this?” he said, pointing at my body from bloodied knees to blackened eyes. “What about the story? You must finally be on to something to draw Ferdie Crawford out in person. This ain’t the time to run,” he said, putting his untouched drink on the counter. His eyes were piercing.

“Oh please,” I said, “I’ve got nothing, absolutely nothing. I’ve given it my best shot. I never intended to stay here. I mean, I only came here for the damn funeral, but everybody just kept--” I finished my drink.

“Really?” His eyes were damning. “You’re serious? That’s it? Just like that? Now I know you ain’t no hot-shot reporter.”

“Never said I was,” I answered. “I’ve gotta pack,” I said.

I poured another two fingers worth of Powers into my glass and moved past him into the hallway.

“You’re not even going to say goodbye to Sue Ellen or Hoppy or Ronald or any of your other friends? Just pack it all up and drive off in the middle of the night?” he said, following me.

I turned. “You just don’t understand. Everybody will be a lot better off if I leave. I’m just getting people’s hopes up. It’s time to just drop it.”

“Oh, I understand. I see it now. You’re afraid. You’ve been afraid the whole time, just looking for an excuse to run away, and now Crawford’s gone and done given you one,” Stacey answered, an edge to his voice.

I hadn’t known him long, but Stacey was not a difficult person to read. He came at things straight on, said what was on his mind, and didn’t give a damn about hurt feelings or ruffling feathers. I admired him for that--quite a bit. Maybe he was right. Hell, I knew he was right. I had been scared, but I fought it, best I could. I’d actually begun to think that this time maybe I could set everything right.

What an idiot. In Boston, I fought and lost a career. Before that, I’d fought and, well, hurt some dear friends. Now I was older, I’d like to think wiser, and I saw that my actions had ramifications. This time was different. It wasn’t about a job or a few bruised feelings. It was about real pain, real loss, for innocent people, and I wasn’t going to be the cause of it this time. “Look, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me--” I started to say to him.

He let out a loud, derisive snort. “Sure, man. Sure,” he said as he gave a disgusted wave and turned to head back to the living room.

I should have let him go and just gone to my room, packed, and hit the road. Instead, I followed him. He was the only one I was going to say good-bye to, and I hoped I could make him understand, just a little. I’d probably call Hoppy in the morning from the road. I owed him that, but I didn’t want it to end quite this way with Stacey.

Once in the living room, he walked over to the large, empty bookcase along wall. All the furniture in the room was pushed to the center of the room except for the bookcase and the desk. Both were empty and we’d cleared everything else out of the room as part of my fruitless search of the place for something Stevie might have squirreled away. I’d gone over the entire house. If nothing else, it was the one good deed I felt I did for Sue Ellen--going through Stevie’s stuff and boxing it up. I remembered how hard it was to pack Jan’s things. The way the memories flooded back and finality of it all. It was her scent on things that affected me the most--her lingering fragrance on clothing, hair brushes, even some of her text books that she must have rested her head on like a pillow after hours of studying.

It was the most painful part, or at least another very painful part, of losing her--the finality of losing her smell. I had spared Sue Ellen that.

Stacey grabbed one side of the bookcase. He tried to move it, but even as strong as he was, and as much as he seemed to want to channel his anger at me onto that piece of furniture, he could only manage to inch it a little way from the wall. It was obviously pretty heavy.

“Listen,” I said. “You don’t have to do that. It can wait. I’m not moving in here so there’s no need to kill yourself moving furniture tonight. Maybe Ronald can help you in the morning.”

He gave me a hard look. “I finish what I start,” he said and turned his attention back to the bookcase. He crouched down a bit to get more leverage, grabbed a shelf with his right hand, and lifted with his legs while pushing the bookcase from behind with his left hand. He let out a loud grunt. The bookcase moved slightly. “Damn,” he said, frustrated.

I shook my head in resignation. “Okay,” I said. “Let me help.”

“No, man, I got this. You go pack and get on your way,” Stacey said.

I ignored him and walked over by his side. There was probably no way for me to do this without pain, but maybe I deserved it.

“I’ll lift from the bottom, you push up from a top shelf. I think we can angle it away from the wall enough for you to get behind it,” I said.

“I told you, you don’t--” he began.

“Let’s just get this done, okay? On three,” I answered.

I bent my knees a little and crouched down. It hurt immediately and the tape holding the gauze stretched and pulled away a little from my skin. I turned my left hand palm up and tried to grab the low shelf primarily with my just my fingers, but it was quickly obvious I’d have to use my entire hand, skinned palms or not. I was hoping we’d make quick work of moving the bookcase, at least. I counted to three.

No way. The bookcase was solid oak, thick and heavy, built to last, and I understood why Stevie had never bothered to move it. It was a bear of a piece of furniture, and there was no easy way to get leverage to lift it. It could only be shifted away from the wall in small increments of exertion. By the time Stacey and I had managed to slide the entire thing away from the wall enough for him to get behind and eventually tape the wall and paint it, we were both sweating and the bandages and gauze were hanging uselessly from my wounds.

I looked over at the old desk. It was another solid piece of furniture, but not near as daunting as the bookcase. I turned to look at Stacey, and he met my gaze.

“Let’s do it,” he said, wiping a little sweat off his brow and back over his hair.

We walked over to the desk and each took our place at the far ends. Once again, we both crouched and prepared for the strain. This time it was Stacey who began to count.

“One...two...three,” he said.

We put our backs into it and had to hold onto the desk for dear life as it unexpectedly and easily rolled away from the wall and into the center of the room. It must have been on caster rollers, not visible but positioned beneath the four corners of the desk, so that it could be moved by the slightest effort.

“I didn’t see that coming,” Stacey said, laughing, when the desk had come to rest.

“Me neither,” I said. “You know, for a second, I felt really strong.” I joined him in laughter.

After a moment or two, we walked over to the wall where the desk had sat. It was obvious right away that the floorboards that had been under the desk were loose.

“Son of a bitch,” Stacey said, “You don’t think?”

“I don’t know,” I answered.

I was so excited seeing about what might lie beneath those loose floorboards that I forgot all about my skinned knees, now exposed because of the slackened gauze, and knelt down on my left one to get at those planks. The pain was instantly severe--so much so that, for a moment, I couldn’t move or even scream, though my mouth was wide open. My eyes filled with tears. I managed to fall to the side, onto my left thigh and buttock, but in doing so I leaned out and onto the palm of my left hand, no longer protected by the Band-Aid, for support. More pain, a different pain.

“Holy mother of--ahhh,” I managed to spit out through clenched teeth as I rocked to my right and squarely on my ass. My left hand had formed into a spasming claw. I rocked forward and squeezed my knees to my chest, careful to keep my palms up and to grip my legs at the shins, below each knee, feet flat on the floor. Clenching seemed to help focus the pain away.

“Whoa, man. Take it easy there. That’s gotta hurt,” Stacey said.

“You think?” I hissed at him.

After a few deep breaths, I rotated on my butt so that I sat parallel to the floorboards, my legs spread out straight. There were three boards, each about a foot and a half long and a foot wide, which had been sawed and fitted back in place above the floor joists.

“Here,” Stacey said, handing me his Swiss Army Knife. I pulled out the largest blade from its nesting place on the knife and used it to pry each board up, handing them to Stacey, one after the other. Fitting snugly into the space no longer covered by the boards sat three large rectangular, covered, Tupperware containers.

“Whaddaya think’s in them?” Stacey asked.

“Only one way to find out,” I said, reaching down and pulling one of the containers up and placing it on my lap. The container was opaque, so it was not easy to see what it held, but there was something heavy inside. I pushed up on the tab of the green lid that hung over one corner. It opened easily.

“Oh, baby,” Stacey said when I removed the cover.

Inside the Tupperware container was three thick rolls of bills, what denomination wasn’t clear, each held tight by a thick rubber bands. There was a Glock 19 handgun and four boxes of nine-millimeter cartridges for the weapon. There were also two bags of pot, maybe each containing about an ounce, a couple packs of rolling papers, and two unlabeled brown pill vials.

Stacey bent over, took the container off my lap, stood up, and carried it over to the desk. The flat back of the desk faced us so he put the container on the top ledge. He pulled out the Glock and slid the clip out. It was empty. He pulled back on the slide. It held no ammo. He slid the clip back into the grip, balanced the weapon in his hand, sighted down the barrel, and pulled the trigger, which clicked sharply. He smiled at me. “Nice gun. Can’t tell if it’s ever been fired. Judging from the unopened boxes of cartridges, I’d say no,” he said. Then he put the gun back into the container. “Looks like Stevie wanted a little protection.”

Next he pulled out one of the rolls of bills. He bounced it in his hand, as if they could tell him something, then peeled the rubber band off the wad and let the bills unfurl. It ended up being about a half inch thick, maybe a little more. He stood the bills in his left hand, length-wise, and thumbed through the wad like a deck of cards with his right thumb. “Mostly twenties and fifties. If the other two are the same, I’d say there was a couple of thousand here.”

He placed the bills into the container without bothering to roll them back up and tossed the rubber band on top of them. Then he lifted one of the bags of pot out, opened the bag, stuck his nose into it, and inhaled. A smile formed immediately as he pulled his nose out of the bag. “Very nice. I heard Stevie always had the best,” he said. He tossed the bag onto the ledge next to the container, pulled one of the packs of rolling paper out of the Tupperware, and put that next to the bag of pot on the ledge. “’Course, I won’t know for sure until I try some,” he said, still smiling.

Finally, he took out one of the brown pill vials, applied downward pressure on the white lid, and unscrewed it. He poured a few white pills into his hand. “Oxy,” he said. He put the pills back into the pill bottle, closed it, and dropped it back into the container. He looked down at me, nodded toward the pills. “Be good for your pain, but the way you’ve been drinking, I wouldn’t recommend it. What’s in the other boxes?”

I pulled out a second Tupperware container. It was opaque like the other, but much lighter. I opened it. Stacey came over and looked down.

“I like the first one better,” he said.

As far as initially being interesting, he had a point. This container held a small spiral bound notebook and sheets of eight-and-one-half-inch-by-eleven-inch paper folded in half and stuffed into a large, clear, zipper-sealed freezer storage bag. I slid open the slider seal and pulled out the sheets of paper and unfolded them. They appeared to be shipping manifests. Across the top of every page was the logo for TSN. Below that was a section that had spaces for information labeled Date, Manifest No., Vehicle ID, Driver ID, Carrier ID, and Destination. Farther down below that were columns with headings for serial number, product, and weight. They were all filled in with information. Not exactly sexy stuff. I put the container aside on the floor beside me.

I pulled up the final opaque Tupperware container. It had a little heft to it, although not as much as the first one. I placed it on my lap, and, as before, Stacey stood over me and waited like a kid at Christmas to see what the container held, watching me pull off the cover.

“I think our man Stevie might have been a spy,” Stacey said and he wasn’t probably too far off. This container held a thirty-five-millimeter digital SLR Canon camera, battery charger, wide strap, and an EF-S ultra-wide zoom lens. “Ya know, between that gun, this camera and shit, and those rolls of bills, he was pulling in some serious coin from somewhere.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I doubt very seriously it was from working the nightshift at TSN.”

I pulled the camera out of the container and pressed the power button. Nothing happened. I checked and found a memory card in the camera.

“Wonder if he got around to using this? If so, I’d love to see what he was shooting with it,” I said.

“Really? I thought you were out of here? Don’t see why you’d give a crap what he was doing. Maybe I should just give everything to Sue Ellen or Hoppy, maybe even the police, and let them follow up on it,” Stacey said, reaching out to take the camera out of my hands.

I shifted so that he couldn’t get the camera and popped out the battery pack. Then I reached into the container and pulled out the charger.

“Oh, I’m still going. There’s no way I’m sticking around this town. Only it’s probably not a good idea for me to go driving anywhere right now...you know...the drinking, and I am still in a little bit of pain. Don’t see why I can’t wait until morning,” I said a little sheepishly. I slipped the battery into the charger. “I mean, after all this, I’ve got to find out what everything might have been about.”

“Sure, sure. I was thinking the same thing. You’re in no shape to drive,” Stacey said with a slight laugh. He took the charger out of my hand, walked over to the nearest wall socket, bent over, and plugged the unit in. A red light came on. “That’ll probably take a coupla hours to juice up,” he said, straightening up. He walked over to the desk and picked up the bag of pot in his right hand. “In the meantime, the oxy’s out but why don’t we see if a little smoke can do something about your pain?”