Homicide Related (10 page)

“It is the same as every other day, right, Dooley?” She was frowning now. “God, don't tell me you broke up with Wonder Girl.”

“No,” Dooley said. Jesus, where had that come from? Did Linelle know something he didn't?

“The way you look, it's either that or someone died,” Linelle said.

She looked at him again, like she actually cared, which must have been why Dooley said, “My mother.”

Linelle stopped sweeping the scanner across the bar codes.

“Your mother what?”

“She died. My mother died.” Linelle was the first person he had told.

“I didn't even know you had a mother, Dooley.”

He didn't say anything.

“Shit,” she said. “That was a dumb thing to say. I'm sorry. It's just that you never mentioned her. What happened?”

“She just died. The funeral was today.”

“Today?” She shook her head, like she couldn't believe it. “You should have called in. You should have taken the day off. Bereavement leave. You're entitled. It's in the manual.” The employee manual, she meant. Dooley was surprised that she'd read it.

The electronic bell over the door sounded and they both turned. It was Kevin, back from his break and eyeballing the smattering of customers in the store, looking for furtive or suspicious behavior, before checking on the employees to make sure they were doing something productive. Linelle stared directly at him as she passed the scanner over one DVD case, then another, then another,
blip, blip, blip
.

“I don't like to talk about her,” Dooley said quietly. “Forget I said anything.”

Linelle glanced at him, a question in her eyes, but she didn't say anything. She just kept waving the scanner over the DVD cases.

Twenty minutes later, Dooley's cell phone vibrated. He pulled it out of his pocket to read the display. From halfway down an aisle, Kevin noticed and looked pointedly from Dooley to his cell phone. The store had a rule: No personal calls during work hours. Dooley glanced at the phone's display—Jeffie—then shoved the phone back into his pocket. It vibrated again a minute later. Then again and again—a total of five calls in less than ten minutes—until Dooley started to feel like he had a vibrator in his pants. The next time it went off, Dooley clocked the aisles. Kevin was nowhere in sight. He pulled out the phone, checked the display, flipped it open and said, “You'd better not be calling to tell me you don't have the money. I'm expecting to see you at nine o'clock. You got that, Jeffie?” He ended the call, returned the phone to his pocket, and turned to find Kevin watching him again. Dooley retreated to the front of the store before Kevin could tell him off.

Forty-five minutes later, Dooley glanced up from the cash and saw Jeffie, an hour early and right there in the store instead of at the Greek place across the street. Dooley didn't like it. Kevin, at the back of the store, spun around at the sound of the electronic bell and frowned when he saw a scrawny brown guy in big pants, an extra-large T-shirt that hung down to his knees, a jacket over top—Jeffie aligning perfectly with Kevin's profile of a gangbanger out to liberate a little product. He started up the aisle toward Jeffie. Kevin's tactic with shoplifters: Get into their personal space immediately and stay there until they called it quits and left
his
personal space, which is to say, his store.

Jeffie veered left, making straight for Dooley's cash and greeting him by name, which did nothing to allay Kevin's suspicions. Terrific. On the basis of Jeffie's knowing Dooley, Kevin would probably start getting into Dooley's personal space.

“I'll be right back,” he said to Linelle. He slipped out from behind the counter, grabbed Jeffie by the arm, and dragged him out of the store.

“I told you to meet me across the street,” he said when they were out on the sidewalk. “I don't want you in there. I
work
in there.”

“It's a
video
store,” Jeffie said, as if that meant anything. What was it with people and video stores? They all copped an attitude about video store employees, like a person had to be practically brain-dead or at least down a few pints in ambition to work there, but they all came in regularly to rent stuff, and they all bitched and whined and expected miracles when they couldn't find what they wanted.

“Why'd you call me, Jeffie? And what are you doing here so early?” Dooley said. “You better not be going to stiff me on my money.”

“Hey, no, nothing like that,” Jeffie said. “You're going to get it, every cent, I promise. It's just—”

“It's just what?” Dooley said. He should have known. Jeffie was a screwup. He should never have given him the time of day, let alone a wad of money.

“One more day,” Jeffie said. “That's all I need.”

“You said you were going to pay me back today. That was the deal, Jeffie.”

“That's why I came down here in person, you know, man to man,” Jeffie said. Dooley crossed his arms over his chest and waited. “The thing is … things didn't go the way I planned and—”

Dooley cut him off. “That's not my problem.”

“No, you're right. It's not. And it's going to be all good. I got it covered. See, I was just coming out from a meeting the other night and I saw this guy back behind Jay-Zee's—you remember the guy I told you about, Dooley? I'm pretty sure he didn't see me. He was—”

“I don't care about any guy, Jeffie,” Dooley said. “I just want my money.”

“Right. I know that. And you're going to get it. It's just that I didn't get it at the time, but I saw the guy and he was with this—”

Jesus.

“You're not listening to me, Jeffie.” Dooley stepped in close so that Jeffie had to back up a pace to get comfortable.

“I'm gonna pay you back,” Jeffie said. “That's what I came here to tell you. I just need one more day. I'm about to score some serious money, Dooley. If I'd been thinking, I would have taken a picture. But, hey, he doesn't know I didn't—”

“Picture? What are you talking about, picture?”

Jeffie fumbled in his pocket for something—a pack of cigarettes. When he pulled it out, half a dozen scraps of paper fluttered to the ground. Dooley glanced at them as Jeffie ducked to pick them up. Phone numbers. Jeffie always had a pocketful of phone numbers because he could never keep them in his head. Dooley had told him one time that he could program them into his cell phone, but Jeffie hadn't liked that idea. Too risky, he said. Right. Like a pocketful of paper was top security.

“Jesus, Jeffie, I hope your downtown guy isn't one of those. What if the cops stop you?”

Jeffie grinned. “I don't need to write down his number. He's got one of those ones, you'd have to be a moron not to remember it.” Dooley shook his head. Did Jeffie ever look in a mirror? “It's like a pizza number. It's only once I'm in that I need—”

“Never mind,” Dooley said, impatient now. He didn't care about Jeffie's business. “Just make sure I get my money.”

“You will. I swear. I'm going to make out on this one, Dooley. I mean, really make out. I've even been thinking, you know, I could get out of here, maybe go back home.”

Jeffie had told him one time that he was from down east somewhere, but Dooley hadn't asked where. What difference did it make? All he knew was that when Jeffie was high or when he was hungry and cold or when he was jammed up, he'd talk about how one time when he was in foster care, he'd lived in a house that was right on the ocean. It wasn't a big house. In fact, he'd said, the place was cramped and kind of run-down. But you could look out the front window and see nothing but water forever and ever. You could smell it, too, that salty tang in the air all year round. And the best part, according to Jeffie, you could hear it and watch it, like a movie or TV. It was always changing. Big deal, Dooley thought. It was just water—salt water; you couldn't even drink it. But Jeffie would get this faraway look in his eyes and tell Dooley he didn't understand. He'd tell him, too, someday he was going to have his own place right on the ocean, and it wasn't going to be some crappy run-down place, either. It was going to be a nice place, and he was going to get himself a big chair and sit out there in his front yard and watch the water and listen to it and smell it.

Jeffie sighed. “Remember I told you Teresa was talking about a kid? It turns out she's pregnant. Nearly four months. Can you believe it?” He shook his head like he sure couldn't. Then he saw the annoyed look on Dooley's face. “Tomorrow,” he said. “That's all I'm asking. Meet me tomorrow. I'll have your money; I'll be golden, you'll see.”

Dooley grabbed Jeffie by the lapels of his jacket and pulled him close. “My money, Jeffie,” he said, slow but loud, so Jeffie wouldn't miss what he was saying. “Get it or else.”

That's when Dooley registered the electronic bong over the door. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Kevin standing there, arms crossed over his chest, waiting for Dooley to get back inside where he belonged.

Dooley told Jeffie where to meet him—a place across from his school.

“Three-thirty, Jeffie,” he said. “Be there.”

“Three-thirty,” Jeffie said, squirming. “No problem.”

Dooley released him and watched him scuttle away. Then he turned and brushed past Kevin on his way back into the store.

Five

A
t four-thirty the next day, Dooley was sitting in a booth facing the door of the restaurant directly across from his school, working on his second cup of coffee. Big surprise, Jeffie was an hour A late, which made Dooley think he wasn't coming at all, which, in turn, put Dooley in a bad mood because he'd given Jeffie a lot of money and he wanted it back. And that put him in an even worse mood because it underlined just how fucked up his life was. Lorraine had just died. If she'd been a normal mother—and if he'd been a normal kid—the absolute last thing on his mind right now would have been money, right? But there he was, his eyes glued to the door, his mind working on all the things he would do to Jeffie if Jeffie tried to stiff him. He had tried Jeffie on his cell phone half a dozen times already and had ended up in Jeffie's voice mail every time. The first time, he left a message: “It's me. Be here, Jeffie, or else.” The second time: “Get your ass over here if you know what's good for you.” The third time: “I told you, Jeffie. You fuck this up and you're gonna be sorry.” The other times, he just ended the call. It didn't make any difference. Jeffie didn't walk through the door. Dooley swallowed what was left of his coffee, checked his watch and the clock above the counter one more time, and decided that if Jeffie wasn't here by now, he wasn't coming. He put some money on the table to pay for his coffee and left the restaurant.

When the doorbell rang just before supper the next night, Dooley looked through the glass in the door and saw the round florid face of Jerry Panelli, retired cop, friend of his uncle's, a cynical son of a bitch whose bitter-eyed world view extended to Dooley, as in, “You're gonna tell me a kid like that's ever gonna fly straight? That's like asking a dog to stop smelling shit.” He knew Jerry had seen him, but Jerry pressed the doorbell again anyway, letting Dooley know exactly what he thought of him. Dooley swung the door open.

“Your uncle here?” Jerry said, already looking past Dooley.

And a good evening to you, too, Jerry.

“He's in the kitchen,” Dooley said.

He stepped aside to let Jerry through, and then he went back into the dining room where he had his homework spread out. Jerry glanced at the textbooks and binders as he went by. He paused when he got to the kitchen door and stood there for a second until Dooley sat down and dug into a math assignment. Jerry looked at him a moment longer. When he went through into the kitchen, he closed the door behind him. Dooley heard the rumble of Jerry's voice, but he couldn't make out what he was saying. He sat there for a minute, staring at the table, then, what the hell, he crept to the door and held his breath as he listened.