“He owes you
money? Are you sure you got the right guy?”
“I think I can remember who owes me money,” Derf answered,
assuredly.
He had a point. He’d always been the
owe-er, seldom, if ever, the owe-ee. Like a list of 80s heavy metal hair bands
that aged gracefully, one of folks in arrears to him was short. On the contrary
Derf was into everybody for something. A walking advertisement for the
reinstitution of Debtor’s Prison I could swear when we lived together he once
received a letter from Publisher’s Clearing House saying he owed Ed McMahon
$10,000,000. I pressed for more information.
“So how did this happen?”
“Well I’d just cashed for six bills
on a show wheel off a bridge jumper at Sam Houston,” he began, cryptically.
“Meanwhile he just went bust when the top of his tri-key got blind-switched at
The Red Mile. So he hit me up for C-note and then disappeared.”
“Oh well, that clears it all up,” I
said mid-eye roll, and then tried a more specific tack. “When did this happen?”
“About 5-6 weeks ago I’d guess.”
“And how’d you meet?” I questioned
while scrambling to take notes on a beer can-ringed Post-It.
“What can I say? He was there at the
dog track three nights in a row,” Derf added. “Losers of a feather, eventually, flock together.”
I’d seen this particular phenomenon
in action. Anytime Derf entered a Boston area racetrack or OTB he was greeted
like Norm walking into Cheers complete with a witty rejoinder. Slouching his
6-foot 5-inch frame through the crowd bestowing his benevolent betting
benediction on all and sundry- May the horse
be with you- like some sort of Pope of Degenerate Village.
This was all too freakish. It had to
be connected to Sheehan and Carson, but how? I drained the remnants of the
Natty Ice and tossed the empty. I overshot the blue recycling basket, but it landed
in the regular trash which was just as good since I knew from working late that
the 4’9” Spanish cleaning lady just dumped both baskets into a larger can and
tossed the whole contents indiscriminately into the dumpster out back. “What
time will you be here Thursday?” I asked, not wanting to waste any more time on
the phone when there was drinking and brooding, in that order, to do.
“Do they still have that dog track
in Pownal?”
“Yes, but no live racing. Simulcast
only.”
“That works,” he announced, agreeably.
“I’m doing a demo near there at one. How ‘bout I meet you at the track say
3:30?”
“You’ll be done by then?” I
questioned, but felt stupid before the words even left my mouth.
“Usually I put in three good hours a
day. I mean what are they expecting…I’m not a machine.”
“Indeed…they probably don’t know how
lucky they are,” I replied. “OK, see you there and if you can recall anything
about your exchanges with Bowden let me know. We might have whole thing going
on up here.”
Derf signed off and I grabbed
another Natty Ice. From the front I could hear the door open and Naomi- screw
it, that’s what I’m calling her- speaking, “He’s in the back, check his
office.” Her nonchalant tone made me assume it was Gladys back from her errand
so I didn’t bother to hide the beer. She’d long ago accepted that drinking on the
job was part of my muse, as if I were Charles Bukowski with (slightly) better
hygiene. However just as I popped the top through the door from reception came
a complete stranger.
It was a woman who could best be described
as bland; to the female form she was what Air Supply was to classic rock. A
veritable plain rice cake of a woman. Of middle height and slender build she wore a
formless denim dress beneath a faded black raincoat. Her middle-parted and coal
black hair fell limply on each side with the top of an alabaster white ear
poking out left and right. She looked under-nourished, underfed, anemic and
wore an expression that led me to believe the Oxford English Dictionary might
want to consider “miserablesucks” for their upcoming edition…like Shelly Duvall
on Day 3 of a juice fast.
“Hi, are you Luke Williams?” she
began as I groped for a flat surface to ditch the cocktail. Finding none I
switched hands for no good reason and she went on. “A police officer named
Andrew said I should talk to you. I’m Debra Townes…uh, Monica Carson’s mom.”
“Oh crap!” was my first thought then
considering the situation I offered Gladys’ desk chair which was the only one
not piled high with paper, books or boxes. She accepted and sat at the very
edge of the seat like Kayla used to do on my sofa, but for different reasons.
Now if Pascal was correct and all
men’s problems did stem from an inability to sit in a room quietly alone then
I’d be the happiest S.O.B. around. Solitude was my jam, so to speak, but it was
becoming obvious if I wanted to continue this investigation I’d be "jammin’" out
less in the coming days. Barton’s revelation and Derf’s Bowden connection were
about all I could handle at that point, but it was obvious more was coming.
See Debra Townes had a story to
tell. It was going to be sad and I was going to sit and listen sympathetically.
As a reporter I should’ve been excited, but as a functioning alcoholic with a
more than mild case of agoraphobia I was chagrined. Still, I’m not a monster. She had just lost her daughter. I
have a conscience and since conscience is inversely proportional to ego I also had
a problem moving forward. But that was a dysfunction to deal with later.
See, if I had more ego and less conscience I’d listen to her
tale, file it away with the others, then nod and look sad before stripping it all
down to what it was worth to me and the headline grabbing story I’d
write and be on my semi-merry way. Not being of this ilk is why I had crapped
out at the Boston Globe several years
before though several women, my sister and mother included, would add lazy,
passionless and indolent to the list. Thus I sat on a milk crate full of back
issues, tucked my beer on the floor behind me and waited for her to begin.
“Thank you for seeing me,” she started, soft but steady. “They
said they couldn’t give me any info at the police station. That there would be a
press conference tomorrow or the next day with details. Then the Andrew fellow
pulled me aside and said you might know some details.”
It sounded like they were pushing the revelatory press
conference back already. Suspicious, but why…a theme, like most in life, that
was becoming less and less interesting the more I encountered it. “Not sure how
much I can help you,” I replied, keeping my cards close, mostly
because I was confused as anyone. “It was a fairly gruesome scene I’m told.”
“I know. They wouldn’t let me see the bodies. Due to
procedures, but I was probably better off they said.”
“You may want to take their advice on that. Particularly in
Curly’s case. Head wounds are never clean like in the movies.”
She shifted in the chair, crossing her right leg over her
left knee, the raincoat falling back and the dress riding up till I was
reminded I needed chicken. “Oh, not Curly. I was done with him long ago. It’s
Monica and Ted I wanted to get a last look at.”
“You knew Ted Sheehan?” Once again I was aroused, momentarily, till the tide of lethargy rolled back over me. A feeling that could also pass as the
story of my sex life.
“Yes. I guess I should give you some background,” she began
as the alcohol and shifting stack of papers made my perch ever more precarious.
“Curly and I married right out of high school. It was a beautiful ceremony,
shotgun and all, if you get my drift. By 25 we were divorced. I stayed close
and we shared custody of Monica till she was 15 and entering Artfield High.”
This sounded like it was going to be long so I reached behind
me and groped for the beer. I took a pull without shame because she’d already
seen it, wasn’t going to stop and, least proudly, because I had no intention of
wanting to sleep with her.
“That’s when I got a job over in Mount Olive, New York,” she
continued while I bit my tongue on the old joke- last time I went to Mount
Olive…Popeye kicked the crap out of me. “Monica wanted to stay here with her
friends and though it broke my heart I left her with Curly. Ted Sheehan was the
Orientation Coordinator. I met with him to make sure she’d be OK and had
someone to turn to at AHS. I guess we hit it off and started seeing each
other…”
“Whoa, whoa..,” I said a little too excitedly and slid off
the papers.
“Oh! Are you okay?”
“No problem,” I responded, getting to a knee, beer can held
overhead like the Olympic torch. “Not a drop spilled. But what do you mean you
were ‘seeing’ Ted Sheehan.”
“Just getting together, sharing a bottle of wine, talking,
that type of thing.” Obviously my poker face (and balance) needed work because
she quickly added, “Not dating. It was nothing like that. He was just a
sympathetic ear.”
“Did Curly know? Could he have been jealous?”
“That was long ago, but no, we met at Ted’s place. It was
very discreet.”
“I guess it would be,” I said, thinking of Sheehan’s place at
the end of that desolate road. “He was out where the corn don’t grow.”
“Oh no, not the house where the murder happened,” she
interrupted. “He was still a struggling teacher then. We met at his apartment
in that building next to the Episcopal Church. I’d use the back stairs. I’m
sure no one saw me.”
I recalled the good Reverend getting up in my face and
pressed the issue. “Wasn’t Curly attending AA meetings next door?”
“Not at that time Curly was still a practicing, as opposed to
recovering, alcoholic then. It was one of the reasons I wanted to make sure Ted
was looking out for Monica.”
“What about this Random Acts of Kindness Club?” I began,
hoping to see how deep the Monica/Sheehan relationship went when suddenly
Gladys swept into the room bun wildly askew which except for “one in the oven” was
the most frightening “bun situation” I could imagine. The look on my face
easily cut Debra Townes short. It was obvious…
We had a PROBLEM!
