It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Murder, page 11
"The accident was your fault. If you don't want to report it, that's fine with me. Gimme five hundred cash, and we can be done right now."
"I don't carry that kind of cash," Oliver said.
"Then I need to see your license and registration."
Oliver traded identification information with the truck driver, and when they were finished, he pulled back out into traffic. He slowed his car to old-lady speed and puttered along in the right lane, angry drivers cutting around him, but he made it home without further mishap.
As Oliver pulled into his apartment complex a thought came to him unbidden. What if the accident had been staged by Little Mack? The driver had written down his address. What if Little Mack knew where he lived?
One Forty-Six a.m.
The first thing Oliver did was to turn on all the lights in his apartment. Even so, he discovered dark corners in the apartment, where the light thrown off by his cheap lamps failed to penetrate the shadows. Or perhaps the darkness was all in his imagination. Oliver couldn't be certain. He switched on the television and watched footage from Oliver Berryhill Day. He watched as Mayor Harbrough read her proclamation. Barely ten hours had elapsed since the clip being shown on the TV, but to Oliver it seemed quaint, archival footage from a more innocent era. A line had been drawn in the sand that was Oliver's life. "I will see you again, Mr. Local Hero."
Oliver lay in bed but could not sleep. An old movie came on after the news. Oliver loved the old movies, but this one was colorized. Edward G. Robinson did not belong in color. He flipped channels, but nothing held his attention. Finally he felt himself nodding off.
Oliver was sleeping deeply when the telephone jolted him awake. He sat up in bed, disoriented and disturbed. He looked at his clock radio. One forty-six a.m. Feeling clammy and feverish, Oliver reached for the phone.
"Hello."
The phone line was silent.
"Hello?" asked Oliver.
Silence. Oliver thought he might have heard someone breathing into the receiver.
"Is anyone there?"
It promised to be a long night.
Sleep was no longer an option. Oliver lay in bed and listened to the sound of night inside and outside his apartment, the odd creaking, the clock ticking, the occasional car in the parking lot, neighbors at odd hours coming and going, but mostly the deep silence of insomnia mixed with fear. It was a toxic mixture.
Oliver lay in bed and tried to focus on the positives. He was a big shot at the Mall of New Jersey, having jumped from the bottom of the mall's pecking order to the very top. He was known by everyone at work, respected by many, liked by some. No longer hanging around on the edge of life, Oliver had become the center of attention. He hoped to parlay that attention into a job with the local media; with a little luck, one day he'd be making films for real. Anything was possible. After all, he was a local hero.
"I will see you again, Mr. Local Hero."
Oliver broke into a cold sweat, remembering Little Mack's promise. With the first light of morning, he dragged his tired body from bed and got ready for work. Oliver looked forward to spending the day surrounded by crowds in the very public spaces at the Mall of New Jersey. He put on a clean Mall of New Jersey security uniform, ready for work. He looked at his watch. It was only six-thirty.
It was a long night, as well, in Woodbine. Morris barely slept as the off-again, on-again argument between Beejit Bhait and his mother raged throughout the night. As usual, Morris could not make out the words as they bled through the adjoining wall, but the tones were especially nasty. Morris buried his head under his pillow in an unsuccessful attempt to block out the Bhait family dispute.
He looked at his watch sitting on the nightstand. One forty-six a.m. Morris slept fitfully, grateful at least that the argument offered distraction from his own mounting troubles.
At six fifteen, Morris climbed from bed and took a quick shower, the old motel plumbing giving complaint as the hot water heater came to life. Cassie told him to be ready by noon. At six thirty, Morris was ready to check-out.
He was tired of hiding from Little Mack. Morris stepped outside into the early morning, early winter chill. He walked toward the rear of the motel property. There was no sign of Little Mack's Town Car. Cabin twelve was empty. Little Mack, apparently, had not returned.
Morris walked down the street in search of breakfast. Beejit's cousin Gupta welcomed him warmly. "Ah, good sir, yes, the restaurant is open. Please to be sitting." Gupta offered Morris the choice of a table or a seat at the counter. Morris sat at the counter and examined the breakfast menu before ordering a cup of coffee and a plate of curried eggs and potatoes.
"Would you be liking bread with your eggs and potatoes? We have onion kulcha this morning."
"No bread this morning," Morris said. "Thank you."
Gupta returned with a carafe and poured Morris a cup of viscous coffee. It poured slowly, in a thick, black stream, more solid than liquid. Morris added cream, but the coffee held tight to its deep black color. He continued to pour cream into the mug, waiting for the coffee to lighten, but he gave up when the mug began to overflow, the coffee still dark black and evil. Morris sipped cautiously and waited for his eggs.
Gupta was in a talkative mood. "You are enjoying your vacation, good sir?"
Morris nodded and sipped his coffee.
"And my cousin Beejit, it is a fine motel, yes?
Again Morris nodded, not wanting to appear ungrateful.
Gupta excused himself and disappeared into the kitchen, returning with Morris's breakfast. "There is much to be sightseeing in Woodbine. Please to enjoy your breakfast, good sir." Gupta retreated so that Morris might enjoy his eggs undisturbed.
Morris made short work of the curried eggs and potatoes, which were surprisingly good. He sipped the intense cup of coffee and perused the morning paper. Morris had lost touch with the news during his time in Woodbine. He looked at the photograph on the front page. "Local hero honored at the Mall of New Jersey," the caption read.
"I don't understand," said Cassie. Sitting with Morris in his cabin at the Bhait's Motel. There was a lot she didn't understand, but for the moment she was referring specifically to Morris's finances.
"It's really not very complicated," Morris began again. "I needed the money."
"But the magazine was doing well."
Morris stared past Cassie at a stain on the cabin's wood paneled wall. "Maybe it wasn't high art, but we did find our niche in the marketplace. I should have brought someone in to help me with the business though."
"I always thought you did a good job managing the business end of things."
Morris laughed. "That's why you're a writer and not an accountant, Cassie. The magazine did well, but all I was building in the ledger book was debt." Morris remembered just how bad things got. "I had to keep borrowing to cover the cost of operations."
Cassie was beginning to understand why Morris sold the magazine. "But if the debt was piling up all that time, why'd you wait so long to sell?"
Morris couldn't meet Cassie's gaze.
"Oh. Morris. No." Cassie shook her head sadly. "For me?"
Morris put on a half-hearted smile. "For you."
"You didn't think . . . ?" Cassie didn't finish her thought, and thankfully Morris didn't answer.
Cassie asked a different question instead. "So these guys who are looking for you? You owe them money?"
Morris nodded.
"And one of them tracked you to the motel?"
Again he nodded.
"And you didn't leave because you couldn't afford to pay for the repair to your car?"
Morris sat there, too embarrassed to answer.
"Oh, Morris."
Cassie and Morris sat in cabin one at the Bhait's Motel saying nothing because there was nothing left to say. There was a polite knock on the door.
"Please, good sir, but guests are not allowed to be having visitors in the room."
Morris let out a mournful laugh. "That's all right. Ms. O'Malley is here to give me a ride home."
Beejit Bhait looked troubled. "You will be leaving us then, good sir?"
"Yes."
"It is a good motel?"
"It is a fine motel, Mr. Bhait."
"But you still have to be meeting my mother."
Morris exited the cabin. "I am sorry."
Beejit scurried after him. "Perhaps you will be coming here again?"
Morris grinned. "Perhaps I will. Thank you, Mr. Bhait. For everything."
Of Cumin and Coriander
Cassie popped a disc in the Mustang's CD player, picking something powerful, McCoy Tyner, because she loved the music, but, even more, because she didn't want to talk and she didn't want to think. She liked Morris when he was the iconoclastic magazine owner. He was tough-minded, independent, verging on the obnoxious, nothing special in the looks department, her long-time editor and friend. She was not prepared for this new Morris, the needy, moonfaced, pathetic debtor. She wanted to yell at him, to shake some sense into him, to smack him upside the head. She wanted to . . . Cassie turned the volume up even louder, focusing her attention on Tyner's poly-rhythms, on his powerful left hand, and as circumstances required, on the local traffic. She just wanted to get Morris home and then get home safely herself.
But Morris had been holed up in a motel in Woodbine for a week. His body craved conversation. Cassie turned down the volume on the CD and listened as Morris talked about the mess that was his life. When she got to Morris's house, Cassie agreed to go inside for just a minute. And when she got inside, she agreed to have one drink. Morris uncorked an inexpensive bottle of merlot. She drank the first glass quickly, too quickly, or perhaps just as quickly as she needed, and held her wine glass out for a refill.
Cassie found Morris's music and put on Marvin Gaye. They talked quietly and sipped red wine, lapsing into silence, listening to Marvin Gaye, "Let's get it on." Morris leaned in toward Cassie.
She had spent the last fifteen years avoiding just such a moment with her friend and editor, and they both expected that she would pull back, mumbling well-practiced excuses. But this was a different Morris now, or perhaps she was a different Cassie, and she did not pull away this time. Morris kissed her on the lips.
His kiss tasted vaguely of turmeric, of cumin and coriander. Otherwise, the kiss was remarkably unremarkable. Cassie wanted the kiss to matter. She tried again. Wrapping her arms around his neck, her lips parted ever so slightly, she gave Morris a languorous kiss. She lingered in his mouth, inviting passion into her life, or at least into her mouth, but the kiss refused to spark. She backed off for a moment, taking a breath and looking into Morris's eyes. "That was . . ."
Morris finished her thought. ". . . Ordinary."
Cassie laughed. "Very ordinary."
Morris grinned. "Well, at least we found out."
Cassie wasn't certain if the feeling in her chest was relief or disappointment. "You know what I miss?" She didn't wait for Morris to answer. "I miss talking story ideas with you."
Morris refilled their wine glasses. "So what are you working on?"
Cassie began telling him all about Oliver Berryhill Day.
"I think I saw something in the newspaper at breakfast," Morris said, "but I've been out of the loop these past few days. What's your take on the story?"
Cassie jumped up. "I've got pictures in the car. I'll be right back." She ran out to her car and returned with her digital camera. "I haven't had a chance to look at these yet. Let's see if I got anything good." She popped the memory card into Morris's computer.
The slide show booted up automatically, pictures popping up in sequence, pictures of Oliver Berryhill, of Mayor Harbrough, of Dick Joakes and Lou Spowels, pictures of random shoppers shaking Oliver's hand, pictures of . . .
"Holy shit, Cassie! That's him!"
Cassie looked at the photo of the very large man whispering in Oliver's ear. "Who's him?"
Morris was astounded. "That's Little Mack . . . the guy I've been hiding from."
"Are you sure it's him?"
"Look at him, Cassie. Do you think I'd mistake him for someone else? Except maybe his father."
"His father?"
"Yeah, the Macks. Double-wide loans harks."
"I don't know what this is all about," Cassie said, "but his father, Teddy Maciborski, Big Mack as you know him, I'm pretty sure that's the same guy died in the confrontation with Oliver Berryhill."
Morris was stunned. "Big Mack is dead?"
"Yeah." Cassie described Oliver's version of the fatal encounter in the men's room.
"I'll be damned."
"How well did you know Big Mack?" asked Cassie.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, was he really a tough guy, or was it just an image?"
"No, Cassie. He was dangerous . . . the real deal. Where are you going with this? What's your angle on the story?"
Cassie thought for a moment before responding. "Does the security guard's story sound plausible to you? I mean, if Big Mack really got into it with Oliver Berryhill, do you think that Big Mack would be the one turns up dead?"
Morris tried to imagine the scene in the men's room. "Look, Cassie, I don't know squat about the rent-a-cop, but I do know Big Mack. Seems to me, you'd have to be pretty tough or pretty desperate to survive that kind of confrontation with Big Mack."
"You mean desperate, like late on loan payments desperate?"
Morris nodded. "Yeah . . . hey, wait a minute. You don't think I had anything to do with this?"
"Of course not, Morris. I'm just trying to understand is all. Besides, you were stuck in Woodbine." She watched Morris closely. "Weren't you?"
Cassie's Blueberry Pancakes
"So, let me see if I've got this right." Cheyenne looked up from the breakfast menu. "You were with Morris last night. You wanted to do it. He wanted to do it. But you didn't do it. What am I missing here?"
From Cassie's perspective, the answer was simple. "No spark. When we kissed."
"You always were a romantic." Cheyenne chuckled. "Does sex always have to mean something? Can't it just be mindless fun? Aerobic exercise? Can't it just be sex?"
"Do you really want me to answer that, Chey?"
"No, I guess not." Cheyenne put her menu down and looked across the table at Cassie. "Deep down, I always figured you'd wind up with Morris one day. I don't know why exactly, but there's always been something very intimate about your friendship."
Cassie thought about her relationship with Morris. "I don't know, Chey. Maybe."
"So how did Morris take the rejection? It must have crushed him."
"No, Chey. That's not how it was. It was a mutual decision."
"Really? And you believed him?"
Cassie didn't bother to respond. "So how about you, Chey? Any new guys in your life?"
Cheyenne laughed bitterly. "You know the expression, 'Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac?' I guess that's only true if the man's the one with the power."
"I've never known you to go this long without a man."
Cheyenne shook her head. "If I'd known what being mayor was going to do to my sex life, I don't think I would have run for office."
"Are you girls—grr—ready to order breakfast?"
Cassie and Cheyenne, and all the regulars at the Eggery, had grown accustomed to Greta's growl, but this morning it seemed somehow more urgent, demanding their attention.
"Yes, of course, Greta," Cassie said. "I'll have a short stack of blueberry pancakes."
"I'll have two eggs over easy and a side of home fries," added Cheyenne.
"I'll—grr—be right back with your coffee."
When Greta went back into the kitchen, Cassie turned to Cheyenne. "Does Greta seem more—what's the word I'm looking for, Chey?"
"Twitchy?"
"Yeah, does she seem more twitchy today than usual?"
Before Cheyenne could respond, Greta returned with their coffee. She seemed to be struggling not to spill coffee as she set the mugs on the table.
When Greta left, Cheyenne answered Cassie's question. "I guess. Yeah. Maybe."
Cassie sampled her first cup of the day. "Mmmm. Coffee's good this morning." Cheyenne took a sip and nodded. "A fresh pot."
"How are things with your parents?" asked Cassie.
"After forty years, my mother wants love. What is so all-fired important about love all of a sudden?"
"C'mon, Chey. Be fair."
"Okay, so she wants love. I guess I can understand that. But what's wrong with my dad? Why can't she love him?" Cheyenne took a sip of coffee before continuing. "You saw them at Thanksgiving. I invited them both, thinking that maybe they'd take the opportunity to try to work things out." Cheyenne lapsed into silence.
"Do you really want to have this conversation again, Chey? Isn't it time for you to let it go?' asked Cassie.
"I just don't think I'm ready for my mother to be dating." Cheyenne paused. "And really, after forty years, she had to pick Charles Meriwether the third? That's the man she falls in love with?"
"He was a little . . . hard to take," said Cassie.
Cheyenne quickly agreed. "I'm not especially religious, but I don't think I'm anti-religion. Certainly not anti-God. He tried to make it sound like I was the devil incarnate."
"You're not taking any of that seriously, Chey . . . are you?"
"What really bothers me," Cheyenne explained, "is that I think that Mr. Meriwether is using my mother. I think the man has political ambitions. I just don't want my mother to get hurt."
"What do you mean?"
"I think he wants to make God a bigger part of the political debate here in Doah. You remember the outcry during the election?"
"You're not still worrying about the manger at the municipal building? Really, Chey. That decision was made before you were even elected Mayor. Don't you think maybe you're being paranoid."
"Maybe, Cassie. I hope you're right. But I have the feeling I've inherited the problem. And if Mr. Meriwether's Thanksgiving lecture is any indication, he thinks I'm vulnerable on the subject."
