Dead In Red (31 page)

I grabbed it. “Is he dying?”

“
I thought you didn’t
care?”

“
I don’t.” The ball hit the backboard,
missed the hoop.

“
Yeah, he’s dying.” His back to me,
Richard dribbled, turned, went for a long shot. Two
points.

I captured the ball. “Did he know who you
were?”

“
I said my name a couple of times, but
I don’t think it registered.”

I bounced the ball, threw it. It danced
around the rim. Missed.

Richard seized it.

“
Are you sure it was him?” I
asked.

“
Chester Resnick. Do you want me to
get his address?”

“
What for?”

“
I know you’ll want to send flowers
after he’s gone.” He tossed the ball at me, and hit me in the
chest.

“
Screw you. I wouldn’t waste my
time—let alone money.”

I bounced the ball a few times, went to
throw and he blocked me, and took back the ball. I wiped the sweat
from my eyes. “When will you see him again?”

“
I’ll find out his next appointment
and make sure I see him instead of one of the other
doctors.”

“
Don’t bother. He left us. Never got
in touch with me. Why the
hell
would I want to see him?” I took a deep breath. “Look, I’m
sorry. I guess this got to me more than I’d like.”

Richard dribbled, dribbled, dribbled. For
such an old guy, he kept maneuvering out of my reach. I made a grab
for the ball, but he was too quick.

“
Gimme the damn ball,” I
growled.

Dribble, dribble. “If you decide you do want
to meet him, don’t wait too long.” He took a shot. It soared
through the hoop and net. Perfect.

I snatched the ball, and started getting one
of those feelings—the ones I know better than to ignore—about my
father. Richard ducked quick, took it from me again. I hadn’t even
known the old man was alive, and now I knew with certainty he’d
soon be dead. One of my skull-pounding headaches, a remnant of the
mugging that had nearly killed me, stirred.

“
Don’t worry, Jeff. Nothing says you
have to see him or talk to him, let alone make your peace with
him.”

Slam dunk.

I picked up the ball and started for my
apartment over the garage. “I’ve got to get ready for work.”

“
Think about it,” he called after
me.

“
Sure,” I grumbled.
“Later.”

Much later.

That night
I
tended bar at a local tavern where I work part-time. The Whole Nine
Yards was nothing fancy, just a neighborhood sports bar with one
large-screen TV and a middle-class clientele. I was grateful for a
slow night, because thoughts of my father kept me preoccupied.
After screwing up my fourth drink order, my boss, Tom Link, asked
if I was trying to drive him into bankruptcy. I apologized, but he
laughed, gave me a thumbs-up, and headed down the bar to talk to
one of his cronies.

I was drawing beers for two guys watching
the Sabres pregame show on the tube when Maggie Brennan, my lady of
five months, walked in. The bar wasn’t on her usual route home from
work. She looked professional in her business suit, her
shoulder-length auburn hair wind-tossed and sexy.

“
Hey, baby,” I said, using my best
Bogie slur. “Can I buy you a drink?”

She slid smoothly onto a bar stool. “I think
I could be coaxed into it.”

“
Cosmopolitan?” I offered.

“
How about a glass of
cabernet?”

“
Coming right up.” I poured the wine
and put out a fresh bowl of pretzels. “What brings you here?” As if
I didn’t know.

“
A little bird called and said you
might need a friendly face to talk to.”

“
This
little
bird wouldn’t happen to be six-two and
sporting a mustache, would he?”

“
He might.” Her expression softened.
“Richard told me about your dad.”

“
He’s not my dad,” I snapped,
instantly regretting it. “Sorry, babe, but he was there for my
conception—and not much else.”

“
I know about how he left your mom and
you.”

“
Yeah, so the hell with
him.”

She raised her glass in salute. “The hell
with him.”

“
Right. Why would I want to meet him,
let alone get to know him?”

“
He’s not worth your time.”

I frowned at her too-casual attitude.

“
I’m just agreeing with you,” she
said, and took another sip of wine. “Yeah, why would you want to
know the man who gave you life? You don’t need to find out what
went wrong with his marriage to your mother. But what if he’d
wanted to be more to you? What if leaving was a mistake he always
regretted?”

“
And what if it wasn’t? What if he is
just some piece of shit who isn’t worth my time?”

“
And what if he isn’t and you never
prove it to yourself before he dies? Will
you
be able to live with that?”

I glared at her, yet some part of me was
thinking exactly the same thing.

“
Jeff?” Tom caught my eye, thumbed
toward the hockey fans.

I poured another round and rang up the sale.
I took my time washing the glasses, thinking over what Maggie had
said.

A couple of guys came in and ordered mixed
drinks. “I’d better go,” she told me and collected her purse, then
leaned across the bar to give me a kiss. “You don’t have to make a
decision tonight. Just think about the pros and cons of meeting
him.”

I rested my fingers on top of her hand.
Because of this psychic crap I’m cursed with, she was one of the
few people I felt comfortable touching. “Okay.”

“
I’ll be home if you want to talk
later,” she said, and headed out the door.

Despite my efforts to keep busy, the rest of
the evening dragged, leaving me plenty of time to consider all
she’d said.

I kept catching sight of myself in the
mirror behind the bar. Did I look like the old man? How much of my
character reflected his? That sobering thought haunted me in the
form of relentless self-examination, reigniting thirty-two years of
submerged anger.

“
Don’t wait too long,” Richard had
said.

I’d already waited thirty-two years.

Far too long.

I didn’t
sleep well that night, obsessed with vague, unpleasant
dreams. Images of a dead, faceless, white-haired man, and an
overpowering feeling of dread haunted my sleep. I didn’t need a
shrink to help me figure out the significance of that subconscious
message.

I chose the phone book as reading material
to go with my morning coffee. Only two Resnicks were listed—I was
one of them. The other was C. Resnick. I didn’t call. That might
indicate I gave a shit about a man I barely remembered.

I wasn’t scheduled to work that evening and
spent the day staring out the window or pacing the confines of my
apartment. Finally I hiked down the road to the community golf
course and shot a roll of black-and-white film. The temperature had
reverted to autumn norms, and the gray sky made the landscape look
as bleak as I felt. I returned to my darkroom and developed the
negatives, but didn’t bother with more than making a contact sheet.
Photography’s a hobby that sometimes lands me money. That day it
merely kept me occupied.

Twilight came and I grew tired of my own
company. Almost five months before, I’d moved into the apartment
above the garage —or the carriage house, as Richard’s grandmother
used to call it. The big house, where Richard and his wife, Brenda,
lived, was across the driveway. Located in Amherst, at the edge of
Buffalo, New York, it was less than an estate—but not by much. The
neighborhood screamed old money, although I think Richard was the
last remaining descendent of that wealth.

Using my key, I let myself in.
Richard’s kitchen was cavernous and gloomy compared to my snug
digs. I hit the light switch, grabbed a chair at the table, and
thumbed through the local section of that morning’s edition
of
The
Buffalo
News
to kill time.

The Police Blotter was full of the usual:
DUI, assaults, robbery, rape. The State round-up on the side column
caught my eye. A shooting somewhere in the Southern Tier. A one
paragraph story told where, when, and how, but not who, pending
notification of next of kin. Poor bastard. Just another deer season
fatality. Right?

Maybe not.

I stared at the paragraph until the words
began to blur. Something about the assemblage of facts bothered me,
but I didn't have time to think about it as Richard’s Lincoln Town
Car pulled up the drive. I tossed the paper aside. The door handle
rattled, and a few moments later a tired, depressed-looking Richard
came through the butler's pantry and entered the kitchen.

I looked over my shoulder. “Tough day?”

“
Yeah.”

“
Where’s Brenda going?” I asked, as
the car backed down the driveway again.

“
To pick up a pizza. You want to
stay?”

“
I’ll think about it.”

He dumped his coat on the back of a kitchen
chair and headed straight for the scotch bottle in a cabinet above
the sink. He plunked ice into an old-fashioned glass and filled
it.

“
What happened?”

He took a deep swallow. “I had to tell a
woman that her three-year-old daughter’s brain tumor was malignant
and inoperable. We discussed radiation and chemotherapy, but that
sweet little girl is going to die.”

My gut tightened.

“Then not ten minutes later, an older woman came in.
Her son’s pit bull attacked her a week ago. She didn’t think her
health insurance would cover an emergency room visit, so she made
an appointment and waited. Between the infection and nerve damage,
she’ll probably lose the use of her hand.” He took a shuddering
breath, and then another long pull of the scotch.

I listened to Richard vent for another ten
minutes. He was always too hard on himself when he couldn’t help
his patients. We rarely talked about his own situation. Five months
before, he’d tended to a shooting victim. He hadn’t been wearing
latex gloves. Five tests for HIV had been negative. He had one more
to go before we could all breathe easier. After hearing about his
day, I couldn’t ask if he’d remembered to dig up information on my
father. Especially since I supposedly didn’t care.

Brenda came in at last, carrying a pizza
box. “Oh, good, I was hoping you’d be here. There’s no way the two
of us can eat all this.” She gave me a quick peck on the cheek,
deposited the pizza on the counter and went off to hang up her
coat.

Richard and Brenda are a study in contrasts.
He’s tall, she’s petite; he’s into computers, she’s into antiques;
he’s white, she’s black. She would’ve made one helluva Boy Scout:
loyal, trustworthy and sometimes she’s got the gift of second
sight. Not like me, but she’s a kindred spirit. Most important,
she’s family.

When she came back, she took plates out of
the cupboard while I gathered a knife, spatula and napkins, and
Richard poured a caffeine-free Coke for her and got me a beer. We
sat at the table, each taking a slice of pizza.

“
Did you tell him?” Brenda asked, and
took a big bite.

“
I completely forgot,” Richard said.
“I saw your father today.”

Every muscle in my body tensed. “And?”

“
When I told him who I was, he cried.
Apparently he has a lot of regrets.”

Was I one of them?

“
He didn’t know you were back in
Buffalo,” Richard continued.

“
How’d he know I ever
left?”

Richard shrugged. “He knew you were in the
Army, and that you’d lived in New York. He even knew your wife was
murdered. He seemed to know more about your past than I do.”

I wasn’t sure how to react to that—anger
came close. “Then why didn’t he ever contact me? Why—?”

“
I don’t know. But he wants you to
call him.” Richard reached into his pocket and withdrew a slip of
paper.

Spidery handwriting noted my father’s name,
address and phone number.

“
He said he goes to bed around
nine-thirty, so if it isn’t convenient tonight you can call him
after eight tomorrow morning.”

I didn’t know
if
I wanted to call him, let alone
when.

I stuffed the paper in my pocket and turned
my attention to the pizza on my plate. Too many things crowded my
brain. Too many conflicting emotions threatened to choke me.

Richard and Brenda ate in awkward silence
for a minute or two. I sipped my beer and tried not to think.
Finally, Richard broke the quiet. “Peterson is out for the next six
weeks. They asked me to cover for him.”

Brenda looked up. “Oh, hell.”

“
Who’s Peterson?” I asked.

“
One of the clinic doctors. He broke
his leg rollerblading with his son over the weekend.” He looked at
Brenda. “I’m going to need some serious time off by Christmas. How
about a trip?”

“
The Quebec Winter Carnival is in
January,” she said.

He nodded. “Maybe.”

Despite talk of vacation plans, the tension
seemed to grow. I pretended not to notice.

“
Jeffy,” Brenda said casually. “Can
you drive me to the clinic tomorrow?”