“Should I?”
“Two-bit dealer. Wannabe player. He has a house at Water Street and Tenth, one of those little rentals. Your boy crashes there.”
“If the information’s good, I’ll owe you one.”
“Yes, you will, Detective. One commensurate fucking favor.”
* * *
French made his way down the filthy hall, ignoring the laughter that trailed him. He felt angry and unclean, and took those feelings all the way to Water Street and Tenth, a quiet intersection in a working-class neighborhood of small houses with small yards, of people good and bad. He’d known the area since his years as a uniformed rookie. Most calls were for domestic disturbances or vandalism or public drunkenness. There was little violent crime, almost never a homicide. Taking his time to study the houses near the intersection, he keyed the radio, and asked dispatch for the make and model of any vehicle owned by one Charlie Spellman. It didn’t take long.
“Records show a 1969 Ford Maverick, license number LMR-719, registered to Charles Spellman, DOB 9/21/50.”
“Thanks, Dispatch. Got it.”
He found the Maverick in a narrow driveway, five houses up on the west side of the block. It had bald tires. Spots of primer dulled the paint. A flashlight through the glass showed trash on the floor but nothing illegal. Approaching the house, French saw movement through the curtains, heard music and laughter. He knocked, and a pretty girl opened the door. She wore bell-bottoms, a tube top, and blue eye shadow that glittered in the light. She was drunk, but friendly. Small freckles crossed the bridge of her nose.
“Hey, come on in. Booze is in the kitchen. Charlie’s around here somewhere.”
She turned, and left the door open, so he went inside. A dozen people filled the first room, and he saw more down the hall and in the adjacent room. Blue smoke hung in the air. Some of it was weed. Moving into the house, French caught a few unhappy looks, but ignored them. Everyone else was blissful and vague. A couple was making out on the stairs. A few girls were dancing in the corner as “Brown Eyed Girl” spun on the turntable.
In the narrow hall, he turned sideways to fit his large frame past a good-looking kid and a group of women in their twenties. “Jason French?” he asked the first one to catch his eyes, but she shook her head. At the end of the hall, he peered into the kitchen. Two beer kegs sat in tubs of ice, and open bottles ran the length of both counters. The men there were older, with mustaches and sideburns. “Anybody here seen Jason French?” No one answered, so French picked the one who looked most out of place and uncertain. “How about you? You know Jason French?”
The young man glanced at his friends. “Uh, upstairs, man. But he’s not exactly looking for visitors.”
“What room?”
“Uh…”
“Shut up, dude. We don’t talk about Jason ’less Jason says.”
After that, the group closed ranks, a common reaction. To certain men, Jason held a near godlike appeal. He’d enlisted to avenge a dead brother, done three tours, and kicked ass. He had the scars and attitude, the prison time, done clean. The aura of it still hung on Jason, but French was tired of it, all of it. He rolled back the edge of his jacket, exposing the shield, the holstered weapon. “I said, what room.” After thirty years of cop, he was good at this kind of thing. He could deliver a beating; take a beating. It gave him confidence that went beyond the badge and gun. “Come on, boys, it’s a simple question. No? No one? All right. That’s fine, too. But I’m going upstairs to look for Jason, and if I find any of you boys behind me on the stairs or in the hall or anywhere else near me, I’ll take it personally. Understand?”
He gave it a five count, then turned for the stairs. No one followed. On the second floor, he found a landing and four closed doors. Behind the first was a bathroom, empty. The second was a bedroom, and the door was locked. “Jason?”
He heard a stirring inside, then faintly, Ah, shit …
“Open up, son. I just want to talk.”
“Now is not a good time.”
“There never is with you.”
“I said, fuck off.”
“Right, then…”
French took the knob in one hand, put his shoulder on the door and felt the lock give. Cheap metal. Cheap door. Inside, a single lamp burned beneath a red cloth that softened the light and put shadows on the young woman’s skin. She straddled Jason at the hips, riding him with a slow and steady roll. Her hands were raised behind her neck and linked beneath a spill of long, dark hair. Maybe she didn’t hear the door give. Maybe she didn’t care. “Tyra, baby. Hang on.” Jason lifted his chin, and patted her hip. “Why don’t you give us a minute?”
Sliding off the bed, she dressed with an utter lack of shame or embarrassment. French averted his eyes, but she took her time, moving around the room to collect bits of discarded clothing. Dressed at last, she kissed Jason long on the mouth, then brushed past French, and said, “Pig.”
“Nice,” he replied. “Thanks for that.”
She gave him the finger, and he watched her go. On the bed, Jason was covered to the waist, the combat scars glinting in the reddish light. He reached for a pack of smokes, shook one out, and lit it. “Fresh out of prison, Dad. You couldn’t give a man five minutes?”
“I doubt that’s the first girl you’ve been with since prison.”
Jason hooked a hand behind his head and blew smoke at his father. “What do you want?”
“You didn’t tell us you were coming home.”
“I didn’t think you’d want to know.” Anger. Distance. Another jet of smoke. “So what’s with the drop-in? You heard about tomorrow?”
“What happens tomorrow?”
“Brothers doing brotherly things. I assumed you were here to stop it, Gibby being the favorite son and all, and Mom being such a flower.”
“Please don’t be disrespectful.”
“It’s the right word, isn’t it? Flower. Snowflake. Ash in a sudden wind.”
Jason made a gesture, as if sprinkling ash with his fingers. “Are you high?” French asked. “Are you using right now?”
“Does George Dickel count?”
Jason tipped up a bottle, and all the resentment showed on his face: the intrusion, the questions, the last years of his life.
“Gibby is not a favorite son. He’s just young.”
“Same age as Robert when he was drafted.”
“That’s different.”
“It’s not a bit different. And you know the tragedy of it all, the inside joke?” Another slug of whiskey. “Gibby was the toughest of us all, back in the day. Thirteen years old, and he could keep up with us both: hiking and dirt bikes, hunting, fighting. The kid was unflinching. And what is he now?” Jason pointed with the cigarette. “It’s pitiful, what you’ve done to him.”
“That is patently unfair.”
Jason sighed as if suddenly bored. “What do you want, Dad? You want me to fuck off or leave town or stay away from my only brother? If that’s it, then say it and leave. Nothing good will come of it, but at least we’ll understand each other.”
French struggled for a response, but was out of simple answers. He loved the boy, but didn’t know him. “Tomorrow, then? Brotherly things?”