Hard Play (9 page)

Amy put her arm over Carrie’s shoulder and guided her into the living room. The silhouettes of the two officers on the porch were prominent behind the thin, white curtains. Amy offered Carrie a seat as she herself sat upon the couch. Crossing her legs and pulling her skirt down to cover her thighs, Amy rested the clipboard in her lap and gripped a pen in her hand.

She turned to Carrie and reiterated, “Now, tell me about the last time you saw Chad Campbell, Carrie.”

If only Carrie was lying on the nearby loveseat, Amy would look just like a therapist taking notes on her patient’s various psychological issues. Instead, she was questioning a young girl about the last time she saw the man her parents deemed her rapist. The man that she was in love with. The man who assaulted her dad. The man that tore apart her family. The man who murdered her dad and left him in the Hollywood Hills to be found by any nobody who happened to pass him by.

“It was just once. He was a lot bigger,” Carrie said. “I mean, since he went in. He was a lot bigger. It was just after he got released. I missed him so bad. I thought about him every day he was gone. I guess he had nothing to do but work out in there. Maybe that had something to do with it. He just wasn’t Chad anymore.”

She bit her lip and closed her eyes for a second, then continued, “It wasn’t the same. He was different. Mean. Angry. Empty. Prison changed him. He acted like he didn’t even know me. Like he didn’t care. I didn’t know prison would do that to someone. You know? Make them forget?”

She looked deeply into Amy’s eyes, looking for confirmation. “You know?” she pressed.

Finally, Amy nodded.

“Yes, it does change people,” she said. “Sometimes for the better.”

“Not this time,” Carrie said.

“Where did you meet with him?”

“His girlfriend’s house, I think. Some stripper. He said he couldn’t have visitors where they had him living so I took the bus to her place. She was nice. She called me a cab when Chad threw his fit and left me there.”

“Her name?” asked Amy.

After a moment of contemplation, Carrie replied, “I think her name was Rose.”

Amy scrawled the name on the page before her.

“Do you remember where Rose lived?”

Carrie nodded, sniffled, and recited the cross streets, saying, “I think it was 6209, or maybe 6229. Either way, it’s right there, a small townhome.”

Amy’s pen moved across her clipboard. As she wrote, Mrs. Allen appeared in the doorway. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying. She rubbed the heavy sleeve of her robe across her mouth, wiping her upper lip clean. She held a new mug in her other hand. The steam rose up, returning a bit of the color that she’d been missing from her cheeks. She dabbed her nose with a tissue and watched her only daughter stare down into her lap as Amy questioned her.

“And did Chad hurt you?”

Staring into her sweat pants, Carrie breathed, “No.”

“Thank you, Carrie,” Amy said. “You’ve been very helpful. Your dad would be proud.”

“You know he’s...” Carrie paused and corrected, “He
was
a doctor.”

She sniffled and wiped her nose, saying, “He saved people.”

Amy nodded. “I know, dear. A cardiologist, right?”

“That’s right,” Carrie confirmed. “A heart doctor. He helped a lot of people.”

“I know he did,” Amy comforted. “I’m sure he did a lot of good.”

The young girl tucked her knees to her chest, hiking her sweatpants to reveal the rainbow pattern stitched into the ankles of her socks. She rocked back and forth, gripping her knees, hugging herself, letting her feet dangle from the sofa. Her stare was empty and still. While the rest of her body bobbed back and forth, her eyes remained frozen on some distant point in the room that no one but her could see. After a moment of silence, she sniffled, rubbed her nose into her shoulder and fixed her eyes back on Amy.

“Mrs. Van?” she whispered.

“Yes, Carrie?”

“Then why’d this happen?”

The words burst from her lips. She couldn’t keep them in any longer. The girl didn’t know if she’d find her answer in the pretty detective, but that wasn’t the reason for the question—not anymore. It was a desire boiling inside her, a void that couldn’t be filled by the recitations of her mother or the condolences of her friends and family. It spilled from her lungs like a storm of anguish, tears flowing out behind her words. She looked over at her mother with apology written all over her face. Then Carrie broke down. She sobbed, her hands reaching for her mouth, clutching at the empty gasps, trying to hold the tears back but they flowed without restraint.

“I’m... so... sorry...,” she cried, “This is... all my... fault... I should’ve never gone to visit him.”

As the sobs took control of her body, Carrie reached out for Amy’s shoulder. She wanted to comfort the young woman but instead she stiffened. She felt her lip begin to curl and tried to hide the sneer as she reached our a rigid arm and absently patted Carrie’s shoulder. Carrie hung her head in her lap as she sobbed. Amy’s hand repeated the light up-and-down motion on the girl’s shoulder, her fingers stiff and her palm unforgiving. Amy knew she could do nothing for this girl, say nothing to her, give her nothing, but for finding the man that did this to them.

Fortunately for Amy, Mrs. Allen pushed her way past them and reached her arms out for her daughter.

Kneeling on the ground and holding her against her chest, Mrs. Allen stroked Carrie’s hair and said, “No, Honey. None of this was your fault.”

Amy got up and straightened her skirt.

Looking down on mother and daughter, she reinforced, “Carrie, it’s not always about what we’ve done that makes someone hurt us. It’s not about our own choices, our own greatness or our own shortcomings. I’ve been at this for some time now. I’ve seen a lot of people hurt for various reasons and it’s all about how they perceive your actions, not what you’ve done. It’s all about how they
think
you’ve wronged them. What they think you’ve done
to
them. And because of that, sometimes the worst of things happen to the best of people.”

Holding her baby in her arms, both of them missing the man that held their house together, Mrs. Allen turned her head up to Amy. Her jaw was tight. Her brows were turned downward in anger. Tears hung from the edges of her eyes and hatred seethed through her clenched teeth.

“Find that monster,” she demanded. “Find him and make him pay for what he’s done to this family.”

Chapter 11

Rose and Felicia sat
on Frank’s cramped couch amongst the piles of papers and overturned boxes strewn everywhere. The two beauties stood out against the tattered backdrop of Frank’s apartment. They sat in silence but for the hum of the box unit in the window. Frank stood beside the noisy air conditioner as he poured himself a glass of Laphroaig. Holding the open bottle in one hand, he swirled the alcohol around in his glass, sniffing its fragrance and letting out a long sigh.

“God,” Frank said, “This is exactly what I need.”

“You drink a lot, don’t you?” Felicia chirped.

Rose shot her a look, saying in her gaze,
There’s some things we just don’t mention
, but the young girl didn’t see it. She was too busy watching Frank.

“Why’s your place such a mess?” Felicia pressed as she spun her curls around, looking about his jumbled studio.

Frank stared blankly at the pretty blonde on his couch as he topped off his glass and set the bottle down.

When she realized he wasn’t going to answer, she called her next observation out across the coffee table, “So you’re not a cop.”

Frank grunted, “Keen eye.”

Rose stared at the two as she rubbed her jaw. Her hand moved from her face to the muscle above her collar bone, massaging her sore body, attempting to soothe the sting, calm the throbbing, relieve the lingering pain. In silence she kneaded her skin and stared, watching their exchange through one eye, not blinking, as though she was watching a tiny deer nudge a lion as he drank, waiting for him to pounce and tear the fresh meat to bits. She chuckled a little under her breath, a rare smile beneath the bruises. It was enough to catch Frank’s attention. It wasn’t much, but enough an excuse to turn away. Frank moved toward the couch.

“So what do you do?” Felicia asked.

“A little bit of this. A little bit of that.”

He said it without looking at Felicia. Letting his weight fall to his ass, Frank plopped down on the coffee table before them. He unbuttoned his slacks and leaned back. He rubbed his temple with his free hand and glanced back and forth between the girls. Taking a long whiff of his glass yet again, he tipped it back and glugged down the scotch. After a moment, he stopped drinking and stared down into his near-empty glass.

Rose noticed the blankness in his stare. She stopped rubbing the bones beneath her bruised eye and nudged him with her foot, asking, “Everything okay, Frank?”

He sighed, long and loud, then lifted his eyes from the glass and grumbled, “Just can’t believe he broke that damn bottle of Laphroaig.”

Rose laughed, the first laugh since Chad bashed up her face, and said, “You’re kidding right?”

“Not at all,” Frank assured, “There was a whole bottle of Jack right there, unopened. He could have killed me with that, but instead he grabbed the half-empty bottle of scotch, the one that wouldn’t even knock me out, and slammed it to bits. Like he was
trying
to upset me.”

Frank took out his pack of Pall Malls and lit a cigarette, saying, “I mean, why not the Jack?”

Rose smiled. “It’s a good thing he didn’t.”

Felicia jumped in with a grin, “Like you said, he probably would have killed you.”

Frank puffed on his cigarette, inspecting the two beautiful girls sitting on his couch, the bubbly blonde wannabe actress to his right and the dark-haired working girl with porcelain skin on his left. He looked them up and down from head to toe, settling on the bruise below Rose’s eye.

After a moment of contemplation he said, “Yeah. I suppose.”

Then, not wanting to be rude, Frank flipped open his pack and offered them both a cigarette.

“No thanks,” Felicia said as she stood. Pointing to Rose, she added, “Where are your hand towels? We need to clean her up.”

Frank nodded to the faux-wood linen closet beside the bathroom and turned back to Rose, dropping the pack of smokes on the coffee table.

He said, “While she cleans you up, you tell me
about
what that was about. I’ve been looking for that guy.”

Felicia rummaged through the linen closet. As she bent over, Frank’s eyes drifted from Rose. He couldn’t help but notice Felicia’s round ass and slender legs as she bent herself into the closet. She was obviously showing off for Frank. Somehow she knew he was looking. The white cotton of a hand-towel stuck out from her clenched fist as she rocked her butt back and forth, her head lost in the closet.

“I need you to know how you know that piece of work,” Frank said as he turned back to Rose.

Rose held her swollen eye as she reached for Frank’s open pack of cigarettes.

“I think I will have one,” she said, her breath fluttering just a bit beneath her words.

He pulled one from the pack and slipped it between her ruby lips. Clicking open his Zippo, he held the flame for her. As she puffed, her pretty lips pursed around the cotton filter of Frank’s cigarette. Once it was lit, she took the smoke in her hand, pulling it from her mouth. Frank watched her shaky hand guide the cigarette down to her lap then back to her moist lips, staining the end in lipstick with each draw. He could tell she was shook up. He knew her well and he’d never seen her let a man treat her the way Chad did. Frank bit down hard on his own cigarette as he stood up to pour himself another drink.

“Take your time,” he said. Though it came out like a recitation, a phrase he’d said a thousand times before, it held no less sincerity. Frank meant it.

He poured more scotch into his glass and Felicia sat, taking his place on the coffee table. With towel clenched in hand, she set down her makeup bag and gripped a glass of water in her lap. Wrapping the
the
corner of the hand towel around her index finger, she dipped it in the water and applied the corner to Rose’s cheek.

“He did a number on you didn’t he, Sugar?” she said as she cleaned the streaks of mascara from Rose’s face.

“A regular detective,” Frank grumbled. His words echoed from his glass and into his ears. It wasn’t loud enough for anyone but him to hear the snide remark. He laughed to himself as he drew on his Pall Mall.

Rose nodded to Felicia. Trying not to cringe, she kept her face bunched up and her eyes half-closed.

Standing at the bar with glass in hand, smoke billowed around Frank as he said to Rose, “Tell me, Doll. What was it all about?”

Felicia had finished wiping the stray makeup from Rose’s face and had brought the glass of water to Rose’s cheek. She dabbed at the tiny cut below Rose’s eye.

“I used to date Chad,” Rose said. “He was a regular at Eazy’s a few years back. We were an item for years.”

She cringed and cried out, “Ow!” swatting Felicia’s hand away.

Frank took the few steps it took to traverse his living room and slipped behind Rose. He flipped open his record player and placed the needle on the record already resting on the turntable. The jazz flutes burst back into life. Felicia’s young ears made her cringe at the old sound.

Rose tried to turn her neck to follow Frank, but Felicia held her head still.

“Stay still,” Felicia said.

“Soundtrack while we talk,” Frank said as he sat himself down beside Rose. “Continue.”

“We were dating for years while he finished up nursing school. Then, well, then he started cheating on me, I suppose.”

Felicia’s ears perked up.

“What makes you suppose that?” Frank pried.

Rose tried her best to keep her hands in her lap, away from her bruised face. She clasped her hands tight and twiddled her thumbs as she went on.

“Well, I’m not the girl he raped. He went to jail for two years for statutory rape,” Rose confessed. “I broke up with him while he was in.”

Frank turned to Felicia.

“Did you know that?” Frank asked her. “You know about the company you were keeping?”

He swigged back on his scotch and puffed his cigarette.

Rose continued, “He showed up two months ago trying to get back with me, but I told him it was over. Then he saw what I had been doing while he was inside and left in a rage. Then he showed up today like none of that had happened. He was asking about his fitness magazines and shit. I told him over a year ago I’d gotten rid of all his things. It was over. I thought it was over.”

She hung her head in her lap, dipping her pretty face into her hands as though she were holding in a sob that couldn’t escape, she looked up at Frank. Her eyes begged him.

“Can I get some of that?” she asked as she reached for his glass.

“Sure thing, Doll,” Frank said, handing her his glass and getting up to pour himself another.

Felicia took a palette of makeup from her bag, and started to work on Rose’s face, saying, “I’ll get you all cleaned up, Honey. Don’t you worry. Big bad Frank here took care of him. He won’t be coming back.”

Then Felicia smiled, her straight teeth beaming behind her pouty lips, and said through her grin, “I promise.”

“Let me get this straight,” Frank said, pulling on his slacks and buttoning them back up. “Today was the first day you’d seen this guy in two months.”

Rose nodded.

“But to him?” Frank asked himself, then answered, “To him it hadn’t happened.”

“Sounds fishy,” he declared. “Not fishy enough to clear him of murder, but something to mention when the fuzz comes asking.

He dragged on his smoke and exhaled, saying, “And they will.”

Moving toward the door, Frank finished his drink and dropped his cigarette in the glass.

He slipped his coat over his shoulders and said, “I’ve got some real work to do.”

He looked to Rose as he pulled his phone from the charger and said, “No offense, Doll. This was fun and all but I can’t always work for free. You two are welcome to stay here as long as you need.”

He cracked the door, beckoning a thin sliver of afternoon sun to flood the dim apartment and call for him to don his shades. He patted his coat. Finding his Wayfarers, he slipped them over his eyes.

Felicia stood and cleared her throat.

With her hands on her hips, she cocked her hip to one side and her head to the other, saying, “Are you sure there isn’t anything else we can do to thank you, Frank?”

Frank turned around, his hand still holding the knob.

She placed her hands on her breasts, lifting the tops of them out of her shirt. She kneaded at them with her finger tips, then let her hands slide down to her waist. She poked her painted nails into her waistline, up and down and in and out of her denim, tracing the deep lines of her abs.

She curled her left hand in a loose fist and made a slow stroking motion, jacking her arm up and down at the elbow as she said with a smile, “I’d feel awful letting you go out there all stressed out.”

“Both of us,” Felicia added with a wink.

Felicia stopped stroking the air and turned to Rose.

“You’d be okay with that, wouldn’t you, Shug?” she asked.

Rose smirked and nodded with a shrug, answering, “Sure.”

Frank stood still, his hand tight on the door knob as he considered the possibilities. It wasn’t but a moment before he closed the door and walked back toward Felicia. Frank dipped down to one knee. The stubble on his face brushed the denim of Felicia’s skintight jeans as Frank leaned forward. He reached out past her and grabbed his smokes on the table. Popping to his feet, only inches from Felicia’s face, he grinned.

“You know what you can do?” he said into her fading smile, “Pick up a bit, if you would.”

He waved his hand around him, motioning toward the overturned piles of records, the emptied boxes, the pulled-out desk drawers.

Then he smiled and moved back to the door, adding, “That isn’t a problem?”

Felicia’s head jerked around in disgust, coming to a stop on Rose who was smiling. Rose reached her hand forward and set it on Felicia’s thigh. She rubbed up and down, seeking to calm the young girl.

“Yeah, Frank,” Rose said with a smile, “That’s not a problem.”

The sun spilled in again as Frank reopened the door. Before leaving, he turned back, touched the brim of his invisible hat and leaned his body forward. His eyes sparkled as he looked over the tops of his Wayfarers, offering the two girls a playful smile.

“Thank you, ladies,” he breathed. “If you need anything, Ed is at the end of the balcony here.”

He pointed his thumb out the door and down the way. Then he folded in his thumb and extending his two longest fingers into a gun.

Twisting his wrist inward and pointing his faux gun at Rose, he said, “You should really put some ice on that.”

“Check the bar,” he said, nodding to the corner.

Smiling once more, Frank disappeared behind cheap, splintered wood as the door slid shut.