Deadout (7 page)

The bodyguards were huffing and rolling their eyes, probably having seen this show a few times too many. But when Teddy put up his hand to block Blue, they jumped into action. Unfortunately, so did I. If I'd stayed where I was, Teddy probably would have gotten his ass handed to him, and that would have been the end of it. I should have stayed where I was.

Instead, Tyrique cocked his arm for a punch that would have been lights out for Teddy, giving almost as much notice as his boss had done. I stepped up and gave him a jab in the armpit. He dropped hard, rolling in the peanut shells on the floor.

Benjy and Pete got to their feet and stepped forward, while Teddy stepped back behind them, holding up his hands. Blessed are the peacemakers. The two suits in the back had come forward as well, but when Teddy stepped back, they did, too.

The second goon, Dawson, grabbed Benjy by the front of his shirt and lifted him with one hand, pulling back to flatten his face. I don't know where these guys had learned to fight. They seemed plenty strong but the extent of their finesse was “Hulk smash.” If I'd been closer, I might have punched him in the armpit, too, since that seemed so effective with his friend. But the place was packed tight to start with, and there was a mountain of flesh on the floor between us. Benjy's eyes went wide, staring at the massive fist aimed at his face.

Without thinking, I grabbed the empty metal pizza pan from our table and flung it, Frisbee style, catching Dawson in the temple. The thing rang like a cheap gong and bounced up into the air. Dawson gave Benjy a shove that took out Pete and Moose as well and snatched the pan out of the air as it fell.

With a growl, he flung it back at me, but he overextended and forgot to flick his wrist. I could see it was headed right at Annalisa. I sprang across the table and snagged it, fully extended. I may have knocked over a few beers, but it was a very athletic move. When I looked up, I saw Annalisa smiling down at me. Clearly, she approved. Then I saw Nola. Clearly, she did not. Before I could ponder their different reactions, I felt a hand on my waistband, and then I was off, flying through the air.

My ribs clipped one of the chairs at the next table, an instant after its occupant dove for cover. Tyrique and Dawson were coming around the table after me, one on each side. I met Dawson halfway, rushing him with a flurry of punches to his big meaty face. I had definitely softened him up and slowed him down, but he was still moving forward when Tyrique came up behind me and clamped his hands on my upper arms.

Dawson pulled his arm back, winding up for a massive punch, and I was sheepishly apologizing to God for having been so bad about keeping in touch, when a booming voice from the front of the room said, “Freeze!”

It was a masterful rendition, and I froze, not that I'd been all that mobile to begin with. But everybody else froze, too, and that's not always the case.

From the sound of his voice, I expected to see some hard-ass two-handing his revolver in front of him. Instead, he was a little older than me, wearing a rumpled work jacket. Still, definitely a cop.

“What the hell's going on in here?”

Tyrique let me go and Dawson lowered his fist, flashing me a grin that was probably supposed to be menacing. The menacing grin can be trickier than it sounds, and if it goes wrong it can get all sorts of goofy. I almost suggested he practice it in the mirror, but he didn't seem the type to take the advice constructively.

The bartender came out from behind the bar, brought the cop a beer, and said, “Here you go, Jimmy.” Then he spoke into his ear, his finger pointing at us one by one. The cop drank the beer while he listened. At one point the bartender did a little mime of a Frisbee throw, and they both snickered.

When he was done, the cop asked the bartender, “Do you want to press charges?”

The bartender shrugged and shook his head.

The cop drained his glass and put it on the bar as he walked toward us. He took out his notebook and a pen, using the pen to point at us. “I want to see some IDs, you, you, and you.” The two goons and me. “I know who you are,” he said, pointing at Johnny Blue.

“This ain't Vineyard Haven,” Blue protested.

“Shut up, Blue,” the cop said. “I'm covering for Chief Bonner.”

He started with the goons, taking their driver's licenses and writing down their names. When he got to me, I opened my wallet and showed him my badge.

He looked at it and then looked at me, studying my face for a second. Then he nodded, like, yeah, that made sense. He wrote down my name, then looked back up at me. “Not very professional behavior, huh?”

I didn't know if he was referring to me getting involved in the fight or him sucking down a fine pilsner in the middle of an investigation. I figured it was safer to assume the former.

“They started it,” I said.

He laughed. “Yeah, with those knuckleheads, I kinda figured. Still, be better if you tried to calm things down, rather than jumping into the fray. How long you here for?”

“Leaving tomorrow morning.”

“You think you can stay out of trouble that long?”

“Yeah, I can manage that.”

“Safe trip home, then.”

*   *   *

We gathered outside the bar, huddling against the cold, and said our good-byes. There was some awkward laughter about the brawl. Benjy slapped me on the shoulder and thanked me for averting the flattening of his face. Teddy didn't. Instead he solemnly said how sorry he was that things had to deteriorate into violence, which is never the answer.

Nola looked at him as if he were a cross between Gandhi and Martin Luther King. And maybe a little Brad Pitt.

We both hugged Moose, and I found myself surprisingly caught up in the emotion of it. I missed the little guy more than I had realized, and I was sad to be leaving.

Teddy offered to give us a lift back to the hotel, and I was relieved when Nola cheerfully declined. Then we finally left, and I realized the reason was that she couldn't maintain her cheerful façade any longer.

As soon as we turned to go, the bright smile fell off her face, replaced by stone. We walked quickly against the cold, and as soon as we turned the corner, she said, “That was humiliating.”

“What?”

“You! We're here for two days and you can't resist getting into a fight? Jesus, Doyle, it's an embarrassment.”

“Are you kidding me? I didn't start that. Your friend Teddy did.”

“There's a difference between words and fists, Doyle. Or maybe that's what you don't get.”

“Are you kidding me? He was about to get flattened. I saved him, and I don't even like the guy.”

She spun to face me. “You don't even like him? Why, because he believes in something other than himself? Because he sees something wrong with the world and is working to make it better?”

“No, because he's a douchebag.”

She growled and stormed off ahead of me.

I took two fast steps, then slowed down, realizing the conversation wasn't likely to improve.

By the time I got to the hotel, she was inside. I walked up to the front door, but instead of opening it, I plopped down in one of the rocking chairs looking out over the harbor. It was beautiful, but it was cold. When I couldn't take it anymore, I went inside. Nola had the decency to pretend she was asleep, so I climbed into bed beside her and did the same.

Driving home the next day, we spoke about as much as we had on the drive up, only this time Nola was awake for the whole ride. Seven hours of awkward silence. By the time we got home and unpacked, it was close enough to bedtime to call it a night. I got a polite peck on the cheek before we went to sleep.

It was as if we'd never left.

 

11

The next day, I left for work before Nola woke up, a little earlier than I had to. I was dreading going in, dreading the bullshit that seemed to be waiting for me there every day. I'd probably taken two mental health days in my life, and it bugged me that the one time I really could have used one I had more stress waiting for me at home than at work.

“You're back,” Danny said when I walked in. He seemed disappointed, closing the folders he'd been working on and sticking them in a drawer. “Kinda thought you'd come to your senses up on the island and take some time off.”

“Whatcha working on?” I asked.

“Nothing, now that you're back,” he said with a sigh, pawing through a small pile of paper on his desk. “‘Our' assignment is to work the front table as part of the security detail for a conference of municipal planners.… In case there's trouble.”

The conference was as uneventful as expected. I stopped on my way home from work to get Nola some flowers, organic, from a co-op in West Philly. Seemed like maybe I should. But when I got home, the apartment was empty. A note on the fridge said, “Had to go out. Be home later.”

I ate dinner by myself, canned chili and toast, then caught up on some stupid TV I had been missing. Nola came home around ten, and it wasn't until she walked in that I realized I didn't know whether or not I was supposed to ask her where she'd been.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” she replied, sighing. Then she looked over my shoulder and smiled. “You got me flowers.”

She came over and put her arms around my neck and squeezed, burying her head against mine. I reached up and hugged her, awkwardly because of the angle. She held on for a few seconds, then a few seconds longer. Her breath sounded congested, and I wondered if she was hiding tears. I wondered if, without those flowers, we would have been breaking up.

 

12

The next day, when I got home from work, Nola was waiting for me with a sparkle in her eye.

“Hey,” I said tentatively. “How's it going?”

“Great,” she said, coming up and giving me a hug. The place smelled of garlicky greens and baked ziti. She came away from the hug, but held my arms, pulling me toward the dinner table. “I got a call from Moose today,” she said, almost singing it.

“How's he doing?”

She came up close and put her hands against my chest, looking up into my eyes. “He got me a job.”

“What? That's … great.”

“It's only a few weeks, but it sounds perfect, working on a vegetable farm. And the money is actually pretty decent.”

“That's excellent. Where is it?”

Her eye twitched when I said it. “It's up there. On Martha's Vineyard.”

“Oh.” I knew I was supposed to have some sort of reaction, but I didn't know what that reaction was supposed to be. She was leaving, but she wasn't breaking up with me. I didn't know if I was supposed to be angry or sad or happy for her.

“The bee thing is getting serious, so they need people to hand-pollinate the spring crops.”

“Hmm,” I said, because “Oh” didn't seem adequate. “When do you start?”

She winced. “This weekend.”

Now I was stumped. “Oh,” I said.

*   *   *

We ate dinner quietly, not talking about her new job or anything else. Several times, she reached across the table to squeeze my hand, and somehow it bothered me that she thought I needed reassurance.

After dinner we talked a bit about the logistics of getting her there. She was planning on taking the train Friday night, which would get her to the 7:00
A.M
. ferry. She'd start work at nine.

“You don't need to take the train,” I said. “I'll drive you.”

She smiled and patted my hand. “That's sweet, but you don't need to do that, drive all the way up and turn around and come back. I'll be fine on the train.”

“I don't mind. I loved it up there and the cycle I'm on, I have Monday off anyway. I wouldn't mind an actual weekend there.”

“Doyle, don't be silly,” she said. “You're probably still tired from last weekend. Besides, I'll be working all weekend, as soon as I get up there. And anyway, I already bought my train ticket.”

I didn't know what to make of the fact that she had bought a train ticket before she'd even told me she was going. We weren't married, but it seemed like the kind of thing normal couples would discuss. Not that I knew much about normal couples.

When we were talked out, she sat next to me on the sofa and put her hand on my cheek.

“I'm coming back,” she said, reassuring me.

This time, it did make me feel better. “Good.”

Then she pulled me to my feet and led me into the bedroom, where she reassured me some more.

*   *   *

Friday I didn't have to be in until noon, which was just as well, because we had been doing a lot of reassuring. I had the next three days off, and I felt like I'd need them to recover. Nola saw me off with a big, reassuring kiss, and said she'd see me in a couple of weeks. I was supposed to be working until midnight, and had offered to get off early to drive her to the station, but she insisted on taking a cab. I got off early anyway, maybe hoping I'd see her before she left, but knowing she'd probably be gone by the time I got home.

I was almost home when she called me in a panic.

“Doyle!” she said, out of breath. “I can't get inside the apartment! They're spraying.” She was breathing fast, almost hyperventilating.

“What? What are you talking about?”

“I don't know, this fat little bald guy is spraying bug killer or something in the hallway. I went out to the drugstore to pick up a few last-minute things, and when I got back, there he was.”

It sounded like Roskov, my landlord. “Look, I'll be there in a second, okay? Just sit tight.”

Two minutes later, I pulled up in front of the apartment. She was standing by the curb, looking at our home with fear in her eyes.

“I asked him to stop, but he wouldn't,” she said, running up to me. “I can't get inside to get my stuff.” She looked at her watch. “I have to catch my train. The cab wouldn't wait.”