Konarth, Joe - Jack Daniels 02 - Bloody Mary (22 page)
He didn’t squeeze back.
“Well, that’s wonderful. Jack has wanted that for a long time. She speaks the world of you.”
“How sweet. It’s a shame she never mentioned you.”
I gave Latham another hard squeeze, and then released him to escort my mother before this got worse.
“Excuse us just a moment, Latham. Girl talk.”
I steered Mom into the bedroom and shut the door.
“What is it, Jacqueline?”
“Cut the BS, Mom. You’re acting horrible.”
“Horrible? How?”
I raised an index finger, in scolding mode.
“I’m serious. I happen to love this guy. If you keep—”
“You love him? You never told me you loved him.”
“I never had the chance, Mom. You only started taking my calls recently, and then the conversation has mostly been about you.”
I regretted it as soon as I said it, and my mother’s reaction held no surprises. She seemed to grow smaller before my very eyes.
“You don’t want me here, do you?”
“Mom . . .”
“I would have never chosen to come up here if I’d known you were in love with this man. Has he asked you to move in with him?”
“Mom, we can talk about all of this later.”
“If you love him, why did you kiss Alan this morning?”
It just kept getting better.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“I was faking.”
“That was a mistake. Mom, look, I’ve had a terrible day, I just want to get dressed and go out to eat. Can you please,
please,
go out there and make friends with Latham?”
“I’ll do my best, dear. I’m suddenly not up for conversation.”
I bit my lower lip, wondering how this could possibly get any worse.
Then I heard the front door open.
“Mary? I’ve got the plant.”
Alan. I hurried over, preparing myself for damage control. Latham eyed me as I walked up.
“I should have called.”
“I should have told you. We’ll get through this. Be brave.” I pecked him on the cheek, but he didn’t offer me anything in the way of nonverbal encouragement.
Alan had a large floor plant in his hands, something with long green pointy fronds. He set it down, smiled at me, then noticed Latham and the smile vanished.
“I didn’t mean to barge in.”
“Alan, this is Latham Conger, my boyfriend. Latham, this is Alan Daniels, my ex-husband.”
Neither moved to shake hands, and I watched them size each other up. If they’d been dogs, I would have expected each of them to lift a leg and start marking territory.
“Hello, Alan! What a lovely fern!” Mom made a show of limping up to him and kissing him.
I glanced at Latham. He was staring at his watch.
“So.” I clapped my hands together and put on a big fake smile. “Who’s up for pizza?”
The two slices of pizza I managed to choke down sat like rocks in my stomach. Neither Latham nor Alan had said more than ten words during dinner, having expended most of their energy trying to ignore each other.
That left my mother to dominate the conversation, and she was on her third drink, inhibitions falling away by the sip. She hadn’t mentioned the kiss yet, but it was only a matter of time.
“Spicy.” Mom smacked her lips. “When you get older, your tastebuds—well—don’t taste. But a good bloody Mary with a healthy dose of hot sauce makes this tired old tongue dance a jitterbug. Plus it’s so much fun to order a drink with my name in it.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s a hoot.”
“Are you in town long, Alan?” Latham asked.
“I’m here until Mary settles in.”
“So that’s how long? A week? Two?”
“As long as it takes.”
Latham played with his drink straw, spearing at the ice.
“Don’t you have a job you need to get back to?”
Alan folded his arms—one of his defense postures.
“I’m a freelance writer. I’m not tied to an office job, stuck in that nine-to-five rut, making my employer rich from my efforts. But I’m sure it’s not like that at all in the accounting world.”
“I don’t mind nine-to-five. It pays the bills.”
“Boring, though, isn’t it? Jack usually falls for creative types.”
“Maybe she realized how badly that’s worked for her in the past, and decided she needed a change.”
I raised my hand. “Does anyone want to hear about my day? The crazy guy I put behind bars threatened to kill me.”
I’d intended to provoke sympathy, but Latham took that as a cue to assert dominance. He put his arm around me, like we were drinking buddies.
“Stay at my place tonight, Jack.”
“Jack doesn’t look too thrilled there, Latham. Maybe you’ve begun to bore her already.”
“Why don’t you go run home and write about it?”
“Okay, guys. Enough.” I pulled away from Latham and stood up. “You’re all acting like jerks.” I glanced at my mom, to let her know I included her in the statement.
“I’ll drive you home.” Latham stood up. So did Alan.
“I’ll drive myself home.” I dug into my pocket, threw some bills on the table. Both Alan and Latham fell all over themselves, trying to give me my money back. I left them there, heading for the front door, stepping out into the cold Chicago night air.
Home wasn’t an option. I needed time to think. A Checker cab was at the stoplight, and I yelled to it and climbed in.
“Where you headed?”
Good question. After tonight, I was willing to swear off men forever. Parents too. And police work. Where was I headed? Unemployed orphan spinsterhood.
I settled for Joe’s Pool Hall.
The cab spit me out in front, and I beelined to the bar, ordered a whiskey sour, and scoped the action.
As usual, Joe’s had enough secondhand smoke swirling around to cause cancer in laboratory animals. All twelve tables were in use, but I gave up being shy for my fortieth birthday, and got on the board for pickup games.
Four beers and two hours later, I’d done considerable damage to both my liver and the competition. Pool offered a refuge from my problems, and sinking ball after ball put me into an almost zenlike state. I’d forgotten all about Alan, Latham, Mom, Fuller, Herb, my job, my apartment, my insomnia, my life.
Then the balance shifted. The alcohol that had once calmed my nerves, now made me sloppy. I lost three games in a row, and decided to call it quits.
The night had gotten colder, and my jacket wasn’t enough to keep the chill out.
Mom snored on the couch. My machine had eight messages on it, but I didn’t feel up to dealing with them. I got undressed, curled up fetal on my bed, took my nightly sleeping pill, and cried softly to myself until it kicked in and ushered me into a blessedly dreamless sleep.
They were torturing me with a horrible beeping sound, playing it over and over until it drove me to the brink of madness, and I couldn’t get away and I couldn’t make it stop, and finally something registered in my head and I opened my eyes and glanced groggily at my alarm clock.
Irritating little sound. But I suppose the pleasant melody of whales singing or frogs croaking wouldn’t wake someone up.
I turned it off, and sat up, dizzily, in bed. My head hurt. I yawned, my jaw clicking from overnight calcium deposits, and then spent a minute trying to get my bearings.
Sleeping pill hangover. I forced my feet out of bed, thought about doing some sit-ups, touched the scars on my belly and decided I wasn’t ready yet, and took a cool shower.
The soap, which promised to open my eyes, didn’t. Neither did the cold water. When I got out, I was just as sleepy, and shivering as well.
“No more,” I said to my face in the mirror. Along with making waking up one of the labors of Hercules, the pills also did wondrous things for my complexion. I hadn’t had a pimple since junior prom, but now, staring at me like a third eye on my forehead, was a blemish.
I played fast and loose with my concealer, slapped on the rest of my face, and went to the kitchen to dump yesterday’s coffee and make a fresh pot.
My mom, whom I knew to be an early bird, hadn’t gotten up yet. I went to check on her.
She lay on her back, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. Absolutely still.
I moved closer, looking for the telltale rise and fall of her chest, but I couldn’t see under the blanket. Closer still, holding my breath so I could hear her breathing.
I didn’t hear a thing.
I considered panicking, realized I was being silly, and bent down over her, reaching for her neck.
Her skin was warm, and her carotid flittered with her heartbeat.
“Are you taking my pulse?”
I jumped back, almost screaming in fright.
“Mom! Jeez, you scared me.”
My mother pinned me with her mother-eyes.
“You thought I was dead, and were taking my pulse.”
I made a show of looking at my watch.
“I gotta run, Mom. I’ll call you later.”
“When did you get home last night?”
“Jesus, Mom. I’m forty-six years old. I don’t have a curfew.”
“No, but you have people who care about you, and it’s selfish to make them worry.”
Rather than argue, I went back into the kitchen for coffee. A quick caller ID check saw I had four calls from Latham, and four from the Raphael hotel—Alan. I didn’t bother playing the messages.
I’d purposely added less water, so the coffee had a bigger kick. I added an ice cube to my mug so I could gulp it down quicker.
“Are you okay, Jacqueline?”
Mom had the blanket around her shoulders. She looked like Yoda.
“No, Mom, I’m not. And you really didn’t help matters yesterday.”
“I’m sorry for that. You know I love Alan like a son. Call me a foolish old woman, but I thought, you know, if I made him bring me here—”
“That we’d realize we still loved each other? He left me, Mom. Don’t you remember how much he hurt me?”
“You hurt him too, honey.”
“He’s the one that left.”
“You didn’t give him much of a choice, working eighty-hour weeks, never taking a vacation.”
I poured more coffee.
“You were a cop, Mom. You know how it is.”
“And I regret it. All of those long hours. Working Christmas. I should have been spending more time with you. You practically raised yourself.”
My veneer cracked.
“Mom, you were my hero. I never resented your job. You were out there doing good.”
“I should have been at home doing good. Instead, I screwed you up, made you think nothing should stand in the way of your career.”
“I’m not screwed up. I’m one of the highest ranking female cops in Chicago.”
“And I’m the only woman in my bingo group that doesn’t have grandchildren.”
Mom saw my reaction, and immediately backpedaled.
“Jacqueline, I didn’t mean that. It just came out.”
“I’ll be home late.” I walked past her.
“Honey, I’m sorry.”
I ignored her, grabbed my coat, and closed the door a bit louder than necessary.
If the anger didn’t wake me up, the weather did. Cold, with stinging, freezing drizzle that attacked like biting flies.
I left the window cracked on the drive to Cook County Jail, letting the wind numb my face. The cell phone rang, but I ignored it.
Fuller’s polygraph test was set for twenty minutes from now, and I needed to mentally prepare for seeing him again.
Fuller works the staple under the nail of his big toe, digging it in deep.
There’s very little blood, but the pain is electric.
With a quarter inch of metal left protruding, he puts on his sock and shoe.
It’s lying time.
The guards come to get him, go through the ritual of putting on the restraints. Fuller’s head hurts, but he doesn’t ask for aspirin. A pain reliever wouldn’t be in his best interests at this time.
They march him past other cells. Some cajole him, call out insults. He ignores them, staying focused on the task ahead.
The room is the same as before. Steel doors. Two chairs. A table, with the lie detector machine on it. Fuller is put in the chair, facing away from the machine.
Two of his doctors come into the room: shrinks, in suits. His lawyer, Eric Garcia, a Hollywood hotshot who seeks out high-profile cases so he can show off his five-thousand-dollar suits on television. The assistant DA, Libby something, who looks particularly tasty today in a pale pink jacket and matching skirt. The examiner, a different guy than before, round and soft and wearing a freaking white lab coat, for god’s sake.
There’s also a pleasant surprise: Jack Daniels and her fat partner, Herb Benedict, who doesn’t seem as fat as he had a few months ago.
