The Dead Soul (22 page)

42

Thursday, September 11, 6:22 P.M.

Ribbons of smoke from the oil tankers docked in Mystic River near Alford Street rose in perfect corkscrews. For the first time all year it actually felt like September. There was a bite in the evening air. By nightfall a damp, cold mantle of Canadian air would settle on the city. It would be a comforter night.

The game was going well for the Jaguars. Dawn’s team was ahead by four goals. Watching things wind down, Dawn realized she couldn’t get Denny Garcia out of her mind. She needed to focus on helping the boy. As if things weren’t bad enough for the kid already, his foster father had hit Denny the day before. He was okay. But the open hand slap was so hard, Denny walked into school with a black-and-blue handprint on his face. The authorities got involved. Denny was moved to another home. Fifth one in four years.

Dawn wanted to cry.

The ref blew a whistle. Held up a forefinger. “One minute to go.”

Dawn snapped out of it and turned to look at Brendan. As usual, he was in the sandbox just behind her, playing with his Hot Wheels. Such a gentle, agreeable kid. His one lot in life these days was to convince Mom and Dad that the playscape he wanted—$3,000 worth of pressure-treated bliss—was well worth the money because Aden, a fifth grader up the street, had one, but he was too old for Brendan to play with.

Dawn had a bead on her son this time. He was fine. What kind of world was it that a kid couldn’t play in a sandbox by himself, his mother twenty-five yards away? Dawn wasn’t interested in living in that place, regardless what Jake warned. Didn’t matter how dangerous those Catch a Predator shows on television made life seem. There was so much to fear today. It was a wonder anyone sent their kids out to play at all. Dawn was not about to shield her only child from, well, his childhood.

As she turned to call Brendan over—he liked to help collect the balls and pick up the equipment after games—the ref blew his whistle. Two girls were involved in a shoving match in the middle of the field.

“Now?” Dawn said to herself. She ran out onto the field. Grabbed Tyisha Harris by the shirt. “Stop that, Ty. Stop it right now.”

The other girl screamed obscenities.

The ref got carried away with his whistle.

Dawn yelled, “Stop it, Ty. Calm down now. Let her go.”

Tyisha said something and released the girl. Everyone’s hearts thumped out of their chests.

Dawn walked back to the sidelines, scolding Tyisha for allowing her anger to get the best of her. As she started to say, “You should know better than …” Dawn glanced over at Brendan and her heart raced. There was a man standing beside him. Brendan sat on the sand, looking up. It was hard to make out who it was because darkness had settled and the park lights weren’t bright enough.

Dawn ran toward her son.

Arriving at the sandbox, Dawn realized the guy was nothing more than the neighborhood mail carrier. Coming up on the two of them, she let out a deep sigh. It was okay.

He’s just a mailman.

Dawn was out of breath. With her hands on her knees, she asked, “Bren, everything cool here?”

The mailman didn’t speak. He looked at Brendan.

“Yes, Mommy … this is a mailman, you know.”

“I know, honey.” To the mailman, “What do you want with my son? No, in fact, what are you doin’ here?”

She wondered if she was overreacting.

“Oh, gees. Sorry to alarm you. I was passing through after finishing my route, heading toward my Jeep over there.” He pointed. It was parked along the road in front of them. “Saw that your boy here was playing Hot Wheels.” He reached down and picked up a Corvette, held it eye-level, and stared in through its little window. “God, did I love these cars. Brought back so many memories. I had to stop.”

“He’s okay, Mommy. He just wanted to know what was my favorite car.”

“The Hummer!”

Brendan said it with him, adding, “Jinx.”

“Double jinx.”

They laughed.

“Just brought back so many memories. Déjà vu … you know. I looked over and saw myself as a child, having grown up in this very same neighborhood, sitting, playing with my cars, not a care in the world. Didn’t mean to alarm you. I apologize.”

“It’s fine. I’m sorry. I worry. My husband’s a cop. Lots of crazy people in this world.”

Dawn felt she was making a big deal out of nothing. Too many late night television shows. Too many “Stranger Danger” infomercials. Too many lectures by Jake.

The mailman walked away. “You have a good day now, Mrs. Cooper.”

“You too, sir.”

“Bye, Mr. Mailman.”

Dawn bent down to help Brendan pick up his toys. “Come on, let’s go home.”

They walked back to the team bench. “How did he know your name, Mommy?”-

Dawn turned to look.

The mailman was gone.

43

Thursday, September 11, 7:05 P.M.

Larry’s Café smelled of stale beer and urine. Cigarette butts floated in half-full glasses of brown and black liquids. Pickled eggs sat in a gallon jar on the bar. Beef jerky, Slim Jims and pretzels were in dusty display boxes along a mirror. All of this, as Jake walked in and looked around, made it clear to him that men went to Larry’s to get their drunk on.

Jake spied Mo leaning on the bar, hunched over, his arm slipping off the cushioned bar rail. There was a six-ounce glass of draft beer in front of him, full. A five-dollar bill and some spare change underneath a shot of Jack Daniel’s he had not touched.

Mo didn’t notice as Jake sat down and snapped his fingers for the bartender. Then ordered a Mountain Dew and Bacardi. “With a lime.”

The bartender, a rugged man wearing a stained apron, chewing on the unlit end of a stubby cigar, brown dishrag in hand, laughed. “Yeah, right.”

“Mo, yo?” Jake said. He hit him on the back. Mo couldn’t lift his chin off his chest. “Come on, Mo. Wake up.” Jake slapped him gingerly on both cheeks.

Mo drifted from side to side, mumbling things. He tried to push Jake’s hands off him, unaware it was Jake Cooper trying to revive him. “Leave me … alone …”

“Mo? Hey, man … time to get going.”

Mo said it again: “Leave … me … a … lone.”

Leave me alone
. It sounded so familiar. Martin Cooper’s favorite saying near the end. The first time Jake heard it, he stood outside the door to his father’s bedroom. Jake was eighteen. His life finally on track. He heard his father’s muffled voice through the door: go away. Jake knew Dad was in the bedroom, sprawled out on the floor, drunk and powerless as a skid row bum, and had probably pissed all over himself.

“Jake?” Mo was seeing double. “That you, Jake?”

“Hey, man. Gotta get you outta here.”

“Jake?” Mo rocked slowly, as if he was underwater, back and forth.

The bartender put Jake’s drink down. “Five dollars for the rum and Coke.”

“How long has he been here like this?” Jake gave him a twenty. The bartender looked at it. Turned the bill over and back again. Laughed.

Jake reached into Mo’s front pocket and found a fifty-dollar bill, gave it to the guy.

The bartender said something about Mo sitting there since early afternoon. “He was with some other dude, a fat and really white guy who was definitely a cop.”

“They seem to get along, or was it business?”

“Said he was looking out for a friend. Called himself ‘Sunshine.’” The bartender folded the bill in three, put in his front shirt pocket.

Jake ran through his mental Rolodex.

No Sunshine.

Mo was nodding in and out again.

“This Sunshine, him and this clown argued at times. Toasted at others. He was here for, oh, I don’t know, three hours. Your boy here, he gave ‘Sunshine’ an envelope. Then the fat dude left. All I can tell ya.”

Jake took a sip from his rum and Coke. Took Mo by the arm, placed it around his shoulder. Then hoisted him up and off the stool. Mo was out cold.

“Why keep serving the guy if he’s passing out like this?”

“You got money, you drink.”

“Asshole.”

As Jake and Mo walked toward the door, three guys, rough, backwoods,
Deliverance
types, came up to Jake, stepped in front of him.

“He ain’t leavin’ without paying,” the tall one said. He was rugged. Unwashed. Unshaven. Poster child for grease monkeys everywhere.

According to these clowns, Mo had played pool and lost. Drinking wasn’t enough, apparently. Guy had to gamble, also.

Jake looked the men over. Put Mo down on a chair beside the door. He slumped over. One arm flung off the chair, nearly touched the ground.

“Listen.” Jake addressed the tall one, who seemed to be the leader. “No trouble here. How much?”

“Two hundred.”

Jake gritted his teeth. Put a thumb and middle finger on his temples. Looked up. “This guy wouldn’t bet two large on a guaranteed winner. He’s a cheapshit. Screw you. Get the hell out of my way.”

The three guys moved closer. There were four other patrons in the bar. One sat next to a neon Pabst Blue Ribbon sign buzzing on and off in the window. Another sat at the bar, watching a hunting show on ESPN, sipping from a longneck Miller. Two more were in a booth, a hooker and her john, laughing, touching each other playfully. The bartender put an elbow on the bar, cradled his chin in his palm, stared.

Jake was the entertainment for the night.

“Look, I am not going to be able to take the three of you.” Jake put his hands on his waist. “But bet on this—I’ll put one, maybe two of you, in the hospital before you get me down and kick my ass.”

They looked at each other.

“Eat shit and die,” the greasy dude said. He would have fit the part better if he had a chain in his hand. Or maybe a nightstick to swat against his palm while he spoke.

Jake thought about it. Growing up in Southie, you learned things. One was to never get involved in a fight you knew you couldn’t win. So he opened his suit jacket as if modeling the inside pocket and exposed the shoulder holster fit snug up against his rib cage. The handle end of his Glock was easy to see. “If that doesn’t work, well, I guess my forty-caliber friend here will do the trick. I’m a cop, you assholes. Now help me load this drunken sonofabitch into my car and we’ll see how much money he has left on him.”

44

Thursday, September 11, 8:00 P.M.

The Sea Shore Motor Inn was the first motel Jake came upon. He pulled into the parking lot, Mo passed out on the backseat. Jake could send for Mo’s car later on.

The name of the motel baffled him. There was not a shoreline for fifty miles. The “a” was missing from the sign, several other letters buzzing, not lit up. Grass had grown waist-high around the pool, which was filled in with dirt. The door to the office had one of those black and orange signs you get at the hardware store—help wanted.

Jake rented a room hoping that Mo would sleep off his bender, wake up, and explain what the hell was going on, once and for all.

Inside the room, Jake plopped Mo on the bed. He didn’t blink. But instead started to snore a day’s worth of beers and whiskey away. Jake knew once his former mentor was out, trying to revive him was a waste of good energy.

After tossing his keys on the small desk, Jake locked the door. Took a deep breath. Freshened up inside the bathroom. At the local diner a half-hour later, he had a strong cup of coffee and a plate of homemade pot roast and gravy with a side of mash that bore a striking resemblance to cottage cheese. He spoke to Dawn. Explained that he was staying overnight as he had originally thought. Said he would be home in the morning. Dawn said she was probably taking tomorrow off. Something about being stressed out. “Can’t wait to see you, babe.”

Jake’s pulse raised. “Something happen? Everything go okay at the game?”

Dawn hesitated. She wanted to tell him. But not now. “We won.”

They said goodbye and goodnight.

Matikas called and asked Jake what the hell he was doing way up north. Jake said he’d fill him in first thing tomorrow afternoon. “The case is coming together, Ray,” he lied.

“You better have something substantial here, Cooper.”

Jake rolled his eyes. Didn’t mention Mo. Or what else he was up to. He gave Matikas some excuse about following a lead Dickie had come up with.

When Jake returned to his hotel room, he went to put a hand on the doorknob, but immediately retracted after looking down and noticing that the door was propped open about two inches.

He drew his Glock without thinking. Checked behind him. Then shuffled to one side of the jamb, as low as he could get to the ground.

He couldn’t hear anything inside.

With his Glock leveled in front of his chest, Jake did one of those kick-the-door-open-and-dart-inside moves every cop learned his first week at the academy. The rookie motion made Jake feel like Robert Urich’s
Spencer: For Hire
. Stupid, flashy. Way too Hollywood. Still, the move was effective if you didn’t want to get shot or blindsided.

Inside the room, Mo was still sound asleep. What looked to be a Hallmark card in a white envelope sat atop Mo’s stomach, rising up and down with the drunken cop’s labored breathing.

Jake cleared the room first. Made sure no one was in the shower. Behind a door or under the bed. He grabbed the envelope with a Kleenex, sat down on the sticky chair. With his iPhone set on fingerprint mode, he scanned the envelope. Saved the data.

Detective Jake Cooper
, the front of the card read.

He opened it slowly, without getting his prints or the acid from his hands on it. Inside was a folded card. Jake pulled it out carefully, as if someone had sent him an envelope full of anthrax.

How stupid do I look
? he thought after doing it.

Typed on the inside of the card in all caps was a simple message:

while back … check the PRISON log
.