Princes of Arkwright (3 page)

Tucker had taken this same route home every day since he first started work as a patrolman. Today, just as he was about to head down a side street toward his apartment, he glanced across the
Lovecraft Street Bridge at Wallbangers at the other end.

He hadn
’t set foot inside it since that fateful night four months ago. He even found it difficult to pass by in the car, and would often change his route to avoid it altogether – a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by his fellow officers.

The trio of criminals had all pleaded guilty, testifying separately that it had been Tucker who overpowered them that night, even though he had been completely unarmed. It was enough to make him the youngest sergeant in the history of the department, but it left him feeling emptier than he normally did. He hadn
’t told anyone about the stranger, or the mysterious light that blinded and knocked out everyone in the bar.

Something held him at the crossroads that evening for the first time in four months. He had to know. He had to find out if the stranger really existed or was just a figment of his imagination. He had heard of other cops losing it in stressful situations – even hallucinating. With one deep breath, he set out across the long bridge that spanned the
Arkwright River. As he made his way to the front door, he wondered what balding, pot-bellied bartender had replaced Bobby. The city certainly had no shortage.

“
Oh my God! Tucker Bromley! I haven’t seen you in like 10 years,” said a lyrical voice as he stepped across the threshold. It wasn’t the same bar he had been in before. The bright red tile was still there. The same sports memorabilia crowded the walls. But it seemed brighter and cheerier somehow. Tucker looked around to see the source of the angelic voice and was surprised to see a girl behind the bar. She was short and slender with black hair in a pixie cut. Her brown eyes sparkled as she leaned forward onto the bar and laughed.

“
What can I get you, Tuck?”

“
Um, cranberry juice,” stammered Tucker, as he stared at the girl intently. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

The girl stuck out her lower lip and adopted a hurt expression.

“Glad to know I’m so memorable,” she said, faking offense as near she could. “We went to Arkwright High together.”

Tucker stared at her more intently, but still said nothing.

“Jeez Louise,” she laughed. “No idea? I’m Victoria Lemieux! We were on the chess team ? Remember? Lots of chess, lots of free pizza?”

Tucker
’s first reaction was to look over his shoulder to make certain that nobody heard he had been on the chess team. His second reaction was to flash a dimpled smile at his old classmate.

“
Oh my God! Victoria! I didn’t recognize you. You look great. So what have you been doing for the past 10 years?”

“
Well, let’s see. I graduated, got pregnant, got married, gave birth to a little girl named Lenore, got divorced, got kicked out by my parents and got a job as a bartender in a place where nobody else wanted to work because the last bartender got stabbed.”

She
spoke without stopping for a breath. But before Tucker could respond, she added, “So, cranberry juice, you said? Wow, that’s pretty strong. What are you, on duty?”

“
No,” said Tucker, “kidney trouble.”

“
Well that sucks,” said Victoria, pouring his cranberry juice and giving another coquettish pout.

“
Wait a minute,” said Tucker. “How do you know I’m a cop?”

“
Tucker,” she answered, rolling her eyes. “There’s not a person in this city who doesn’t know who you are after what happened here.”

Victoria
thought she saw Tucker’s shoulders sag and she imagined a dark look move across his face.

“Besides,” she added brightly, reaching across the counter and tugging his sleeve, “
I always had a little crush on you when we were in school. And I love a man in uniform —especially one who can rock a blitz tournament. Do you still play? You were a wicked good player, that I remember.”

She continued before Tucker could respond. “Oh my God! Remember that year we beat
St. Albertus Academy? We kicked ass. And that kid, Randy ... I forget his last name. Remember he was so psyched and then someone dared him to pound two milkshakes and Mr. Farley was driving us home and Randy couldn’t get the window down; he couldn’t find the button and then he threw up all over the inside of the window? I thought Mr. Farley was going to leave him on the side of the road,” she said, laughing. Tucker smiled at her. He remembered her now. She was leaner. But she was always quick to laugh.

“
Say, Victoria, um, I take it you still hate being called Vicky.”

“
Awww, see, you do remember me!” she said, smiling and biting her lip. “it was the vomit story that brought it back, right? I knew we had bonded that night.” She winked at him.

This time Tucker blushed.
“Have you ever seen a guy in here about 35 years old, six feet tall, short dark hair and iridescent eyes, kind of good looking?”

“
No,” said Victoria, “but I’d like to. Is he married?”

“
No. I mean ... actually, I don’t know. I’m just looking for him.”

“So you are
on duty,” she said. “Is he a criminal?”

“
Well, no. I just want to find him.”

Victoria
shook her head. “Most of the customers in here are 50-somethings in the pool leagues. I never see any young, good-looking guys in here – except you, of course. I hope this is the start of a trend.”

Tucker pulled out a card and wrote his cell phone number on the back of it.

“Being a little forward aren’t you?” Victoria joked, taking the card.

“
I want you to call me if you ever see him in here, OK? The last time I saw him he was wearing khakis with a green T-shirt and a black button-down shirt over it.”

Victoria
nodded. She looked at the card, then tucked it into her jeans and walked away to take care of some of the other customers.

It was getting louder now.
It was about the same time as it was when Tucker had last come to the bar, but now it was already half full. Tucker couldn’t help glancing over at Victoria as she bent over a table to wipe it off. She was wearing tight black jeans and tall boots. She turned around quickly and caught Tucker looking. He went back to examining his cranberry juice.

“
So, you ever see anyone from school,” she asked when she finally got back to Tucker.

“
No,” he replied, “well, unless you count the ones I’ve arrested.” The fact was that Tucker didn’t really have any friends even when he was in school. “How about you?”

“
Do you remember Aly Kat?”

“
Alley Cat? You mean that stupid song you used to play in band?”

“
No. Aly Kat. As in Alyson Katherine?”

Tucker just stared blankly.

“Alyson McLaughlin.”

“
You mean that goth chick with the red hair? And the safety pins in her ears? She was a weirdo.”

“
Yeah, well, she’s my best friend.”

Tucker, having no response ready for this awkward moment, simply gulped down the rest of his cranberry juice and threw a couple of bucks on the bar.

“I guess I’d better be going,” he said as he stood up, knocking over his barstool. “Just call me if you see that guy in here.”

“
I’ll do my best,” she said, waving his business card to show him she hadn’t forgotten it.

“
Thanks,” he said, walking out the door. “You’re an angel.”

4.
WAYNE NEWTON

T
hat night, Tucker dreamed about the stranger in the bar. He could see his Roman nose and sharp iridescent eyes. He was certain it hadn’t been a hallucination. But if it wasn’t, then who was this guy?

He got up and dressed, pulling
on his charcoal gray suit and topping it off with a black raincoat that he didn’t really need. He often wore his badge on his belt, even though it wasn’t part of the department regulations. He wanted everyone to know he was a cop. He was always one of the shorter kids in school and he had tried everything to make himself bigger: working out, drinking raw eggs. But he always felt like a pipsqueak even though the only person who saw him that way was himself. In a way, it was the very thing that attracted him to police work. If people wouldn’t respect him, at least they would respect the badge. Since he no longer wore a uniform, this was the next best thing. He even tried wearing a fedora a few times, but the ridicule from the other cops was more than his ego could endure. So he satisfied himself with the raincoat and a pair of dark aviator glasses. He checked himself in the mirror to see that his costume was complete and headed down the stairs.

“
Hey, Tuck,” said a man at the bottom, carrying a recycling bin packed tightly with green bottles of Heineken. It was Tucker’s neighbor, Wayne Newton. He had malleable cheeks and a bulbous nose. One got the impression that God got drunk one day and sculpted his face out of Play-Doh. He was wearing a purple jump suit, and his ill-fitting toupee was sitting further back on his head than usual.

“
Going out for a run?” asked Tucker, eyeing his outfit.

“
No,” he responded. “No.” Each word took an eternity. As Tucker passed the open door of the first-floor apartment, he caught a strong wet odor.

“
What the hell are you cooking in there?” he asked. “It smells like boiled cabbage.”

“
Yeah,” Wayne replied. “Boiled cabbage.”

They stared at each other for a moment while Tucker nodded a few times. Once the detective felt the silence had been long enough, he headed off. As he reached the threshold of the front door,
Wayne called out to him.

“
Wayne, I’ve really got to get to work,” said Tuck, his hand on the doorknob.

“
Just a sec. Just a sec,” drawled Wayne, his head cocked and his eyes peering out at Tucker through tiny slits. “I’ve decided to run for City Council.”

“
Well, that’s great, Wayne. I wish you luck.”

“
Yeah,” he said, stepping closer to Tucker. “You’re a detective. You know how it is. You’re onto a guy and the necktie gets tighter and tighter. Then, when you finally have him, it’s time to loosen the necktie.”

“
Right,” said Tucker, unwittingly imitating Wayne’s drawl. “Well, I’ve gotta go now. Catch you later.”

As Tucker walked up
Station Street, he couldn’t help smiling as he pictured the road lined with purple campaign signs reading “Vote for Wayne Newton.”

The hours staggered by as Tucker alternately drove to the courthouse, filled out forms and handcuffed petulant prisoners. One suspect, charged with disorderly conduct for driving her daughter to a playground for the purpose of beating up a schoolyard rival, proved particularly difficult to cuff – like trying to dress a toddler.

As he affixed each mug shot to its appropriate file, he saw the face of the stranger in each one. At five o’clock, Tucker slipped out of the office without a word to anyone and breathed a sigh as he approached the door to freedom.

“
Bromley, the colonel wants to see you,” said the desk sergeant as Tucker almost made good his escape. His head fell and he lumbered back up the hallway with the same pit in his stomach he used to get when he was called to the principal’s office.

Tucker rounded the corner and headed to the end of the corridor where an arrow sign marked
“Chief of Police Normand Laboissoiniere” pointed into a spacious office.

“
You wanted to see me, Colonel?” asked Tucker, peeking his head into the doorway. He had spoken before looking, and didn’t realize the chief was on the phone. He waved Tucker in and pointed to a chair. Either he was on hold, or the person he was talking to was extremely long-winded. Finally the chief broke the silence.

“
Uh huh ... Uh huh .... Right.  If you hear a loud bang, that just means I’ve shot myself in the head. But by all means, continue talking.”

He spoke in a gravelly voice and had a hairline somewhere on the other side of his head. In his hand was a pair of bifocals that he always clutched, but almost never wore. After this outburst, he slammed the receiver down and picked up a newspaper with the same force.

“Did you see this?” he asked Tucker, but didn’t bother to wait for a response. “This jerk actually said at a City Council meeting that I’m a Frenchman doing the job of an Irishman. That miserable S.O.B.”

“
Who said that, sir?”

“
City Councilman. Can you believe that? Your girlfriend works for this paper, doesn’t she?”

“
No, sir. Well, yes, I mean, she does, but she’s not my girlfriend. Anymore. We broke up.”