Too Late to Say Goodbye, page 11
Casper rolls his eyes and blows air over his lips. “Whatever.”
“Don’t whatever me.” God, he sounds like a parent talking to a teenager because that’s how he feels. That’s what they are. That’s how he sees his relationship with the kid. Gene says, “You’re like a dumb kid. I’m over here, telling you we got to save your ass—”
“—and why is that?” Venom touches each word. Casper rolls his eyes again. “Because of you? Because you’re trying to fuck me over? Or is it because of the robbery? Or, as you say, I don’t know what’s happening, it could be for something else.”
The kid’s got a point.
“‘Cause…” Gene starts but then pauses to think about how to phrase things without actually revealing his hand. Playing it like a poker hand. “I told you. I’m getting fucked over every which way but Sunday.”
“Oh, so because you’re getting ass raped you thought, what? That you’d just throw me in as a side piece?”
“I’m trying to help you.”
“You’re trying to help yourself,” Casper says.
It is true, so Gene half-shrugs. “Yeah, I guess I am, but now I got to help you.”
“Because you fucked me over, and now you’re having second thoughts about it?”
“Well, yeah,” Gene says. “That’s the whole point of putting you up some place safe and talking to you now. I’m trying to tell you that I’m sorry and get us on the same page so that we can figure a way out of this mess because we’re in a fucking mess… You might not see it, but I do.”
The kid slams a shirt back on the rack with a metallic screech and walks away. “No, I don’t see it.”
“I need the drives.”
Talking without turning, still walking away with Gene following, Casper says, “You’re not getting them.”
Gene, behind the kid, utters, “Don’t act like that.”
The kid wheels around. “Act like what?”
Gene talks with his hands. “Don’t act like the stupid teenager you were when I met you. Act like we’ve been through something. Act like you understand what I’m trying to do here. I’m trying to make it right. Renaldo’s a scary fuck, and he’ll kill you.”
“I know that.” Casper points at him. “Why do you think I’ve not gone anywhere or why I’m wearing this stupid shit? I know how serious he is. After you cracked his guy over the head with your gun, I realized who we robbed, and I know I’m fucked if he figures it out.”
Gene finds the familiarity in the situation. “You’re like me. I see it in you. I came from nothing, and I made something. Sure, I had to do some stupid shit to get to that point, but you’re a lot like me. Maybe that’s why I took you in? I don’t know, but like me you got no family to speak of. You hustle. You work hard when you want to, but you’re like every other two-bit criminal, you’ve got the brains to turn a battery, paperclip, and a light socket into a lighter. But you can’t keep a job for more than three days or see when things are outside of your control. Don’t have blind ambition. That’s a lesson you need to learn. I’m asking you to trust me, so trust me.”
“I’m not like you at all,” Casper says. “And you’re not my parent. That’s not what this is.”
“No, I’m something more and something less.”
Casper looks him over, real good, considering what he’s told him.
“Don’t be stupid,” Gene says, concern in his voice, genuine concern. “You’re not stupid. I know that; I’m just hoping you can see it too,” he pleads softly. “You’re not stupid. You got to see what’s going on. You can see angles just as well as I can. You got to see how this is going to end with someone like Renaldo being involved.”
Casper shrugs, shoulders sinking in defeat. “I don’t want to be fucked,” he says. “I mean… I do… but not like the way you’re talking about… I don’t want to die, and I don’t want Renaldo finding me. What do I need to do?”
Gene nods. “Our options are limited, but I think I know a way out of this… maybe, we’ll see… but if I do this right, I won’t be getting fucked over anymore. And we can get you some place safe, but you have to trust me and do what I say.”
Casper bobs his head a few times. “Alright, but you have to tell me what’s going on… all of it.”
CHAPTER TEN:
TONY MORA
TONY TAKES THE OVERNIGHT SHIFT watching over Clyde’s body at the funeral home with his arm still in the sling—the 8 p.m. to 8 a.m. shift—wearing jeans and a t-shirt with a light jacket. He stands over the casket in the backroom of the home and sips coffee from a gas station cup with a lid. He surveys his fallen brother, his friend, his dead partner. Clyde is in the casket, lying on his back, hands together in front of him, face slack, dressed in a grey suit—he always looked good in grey—which goes with the skin under the makeup.
Laying there, Clyde looks like a cheap version of Bobby De Niro from Heat, if the character had been allowed to age a few years and not get popped in the last five minutes of the movie, but the figure isn’t Clyde. That’s not his friend. Sure, the body has his friend’s face, but like every dead person Tony’s ever encountered, the essence of the person—some call it the soul; others call it the spirit—isn’t present. His friend’s gone.
What’s left is this—nothing but meat and bone. A body but not his friend, a husk.
The room’s rectangular in shape, almost claustrophobic, white and red walls with white trim. It is dark outside just as it is dark in here, except soft lighting, multi-setting orange glowing stand-lamps in the corners of the room. The setting turned to low and soft. On one side of the room, there is nothing, empty space, but along the wall, there are a couple of chairs, and on Tony’s side of the room is the body in a grand-looking polished brown casket, with two flags, the nation’s and the state’s standing guard over Clyde, adjacent to each end of the casket.
That’s good. Clyde believed in his country. He was a Marine.
It’s past midnight, and Tony’s already been in the room for a few hours. Even though he brought a digital e-reader, his gaze has been absorbed with the walls, engrossed with thoughts about Clyde. Him in the casket. Him as he was. What he wanted in life. What he’s missing out on now. Tony processing what happened in the McDonald’s parking lot, the blood in the backseat, the gunshots, going over the events of that day, and deliberating what comes next: what he’s going to do, how does he want to live his life, and most importantly, what’s going to happen to Franklin Hayes or to the Siriano investigation?
Neither Franklin nor Siriano should get away with this.
And they won’t, which is the resolution Tony’s mind confirms in this rectangular, claustrophobic room.
Two hours ago, the night staff left, but before leaving, they offered the entire facility for whatever Tony might need, and for some reason, he and they whispered when they spoke—perhaps it was for the dead contained within the walls.
With them gone, Tony stands over his friend for some time, auditing all the little details the mortician imparted to Clyde with care and precision, to make the body more Clyde and less death, but Clyde’s not here. Looking down at his friend, Tony says to the empty room, “Whoever did your make-up sure got the mustache right.”
Silence—
—greets him.
But what’d he expect? Did he expect his friend to get up and talk back to him? No.
And if he did, what would Clyde say? He might ask Tony why he let this happen? Not the dying part, but the being here in the casket. Tell Tony, “Antonio, you know that’s not what I wanted.”
And it wasn’t what Clyde wanted, but that doesn’t matter. Others more important than Tony made those decisions. Iris made those decisions. And when a compatriot dies in the line of duty, they aren’t left alone. Someone stays with the body from the moment of death until the body’s put in the ground. Just as Tony wouldn’t leave the hospital until Larry promised to stay at Clyde’s side. Larry spent the first night in the Medical Examiner’s building and came out the next morning bitching about the smell.
Someone has been with Clyde ever since, and now, it’s Tony’s turn. This process, this ritual, is beautiful, simple. People don’t see the grief law enforcement officers feel, but this time alone, with the dead, allows them time to grieve the fallen, absent from gathering eyes and attention.
When the funeral does happen, everyone will put forth a stoic front, stone-faced, and wear their dress blues or whatever the official uniform for that agency is, and with Clyde being a Fed, it means others will be coming from all over the country. But Clyde said he didn’t want full honors. Clyde said, “If I’m dead, it’s my right as the dead guy. Don’t do all that pomp. Just cremate me, spread my ashes,”
Bucky wanted it, and after all, Clyde died on Bucky’s little field trip, and so Tony guesses Iris went along with it.
But Clyde had his wishes though: “Antonio, I don’t want people in uniform, twenty-gun salute, a flag to the widow, and all that bullshit, because it makes me feel like I was nothing more than a jackbooted thug.”
Clyde hated authoritarianism; he didn’t want to be remembered as a jackbooted thug. He said he was a living, breathing, human being, who possessed a heart, and although his brothers and sisters behind the badge would remember his heart, all the people, the others as he put it, the civilians, “will only see the shadows of authority in every respect.”
AT A STAKE-OUT, Clyde had told Tony what he wanted to do when he retired; the two of them sat in an old Pontiac Grand-Am, sipping coffee, doing what partners do—talking and waiting. Clyde in the driver seat, turned, put his coffee in the cup holder—he liked to talk with his hands—and said, “You’re a young guy, right? What you want to do when you retire?”
Tony, taking a sip of his coffee, staring out the window, watching the business front, and waiting for the guy to come by and make the delivery, answered, “I don’t know. Haven’t thought about it.”
“I’ve thought about it.” Clyde waited for a beat to see if Tony would say anything. Ask him about his plans. He didn’t. So, Clyde told him anyways: “I want to make health shakes.”
“Health shakes,” Tony said. “What the fuck’s that?”
“You know like protein and vitamins and shit.”
“Why do you want to do that?”
“Something Iris’s got me on,” he said. “I’ve been drinking them.”
“You drink health shakes?” Tony leaned in the seat to get a look at him. “I saw you eating a fucking cheeseburger yesterday.”
“I didn’t say I’m great about it,” Clyde said. “But yeah, in the mornings I’ve taken to having one.” Clyde stopped, took a sip from the coffee, put it back in the cup holder, and continued, “You know, I’ve got the woodworking thing, yeah, but let’s be real, details aren’t my thing—you seen my dining room table—I made that. Got the measurements wrong. So, I had to take off a couple of inches on the legs; it’s lower than it should be. Nothing terribly wrong with it, not what a layperson would notice, but no one would buy that shit. So yeah, when I retire, I got a hobby I enjoy, but I don’t have the touch for it, you know? No talent. That won’t make me health insurance money. But I do have a talent—I can talk to people, and well, we got this idea for when I retire… you know it’s not too far off.” He waves his hand in front of him as if he could see it just over the horizon. “Open a health shake shack or store… still not out on the brick and mortar aspect of it, but I’m telling you, a shack—well not a shack—a food truck.”
“—but without food?”
“No one likes a smart ass, Antonio,” Clyde replied. “But yeah, a food truck, except it’s health shakes, get hooked up with some company, like Herbalife—although I think they’re all a pyramid scheme—have bananas and shit, fruit, granola, tea, and a couple of blenders. Buy those machines that put those fancy little seals on the top of the plastic cup. Invest in some bio-degradable straws—for the environment. Get a food truck, maybe an old one, get like an old ambulance or something, cut a hole in the side, park the truck outside a busy office building or something, a city park, get an awning. I can see it now. Maybe go to Sedona. Do it there. I like it out there. I can breathe. You can’t breathe here.”
Tony said, “I can breathe.”
“I can’t,” Clyde said. “Allergies. I go out of town; I can breathe. I come back to Oklahoma; I can’t breathe. Happens within hours. Too many allergies. Snot wall right here.” He points to his nose. “I like it out there; in Arizona, I can breathe there. Desert air and all that. Clean air, big skies, blue, I like it. You been to the Grand Canyon?”
Tony shook his head. “It’s just a hole in the ground.”
“It’s more than that—you got to go,” Clyde said. “Before you die, you got to go. There’s nothing quite like it. Nothing I’ve seen, media that is—TV, photos, and such—capture what it actually looks like. It’s… majestic… There’s nothing like it… nothing I’ve seen—although, I will say Thomas Moran’s painting’s the closest thing I’ve seen.”
Tony knows Moran’s popular with the Gilcrease Museum in town—Clyde’s favorite place to visit on his day off and favorite painter to see when he’s there.
Clyde said, “Really there’s nothing like it. You got to go. Antonio, promise me you’re going to go.”
Clyde just stared at him.
Tony turned away from his eyes. “Yeah, alright, I’ll go.”
“Promise.”
“I promise.”
Clyde touched Tony’s shoulder. “No, not your shitty I’m-pretending-to-say-something-just-so-this-guy-goes-along-with-it-leaves-me-alone promises. I want a real promise.”
“You want me to stick my pinky out?”
“Will that get me a real promise?”
“Just hook yours around it. We’ll say ‘I pinky promise.’ Is that what you want?”
“I ask again, will that get me a real promise?”
“Get outta here with that shit.” Tony play-punched Clyde’s shoulder.
“How about this?” Clyde said. “Make me another promise.”
“What’s with all the promises? The shit about going to Grand Canyon’s done?”
Clyde smiled. “No, well yes, but no. I’ll really ensure you get your ass out there sometime.”
“Oh yeah, how are you going to do that?”
“No one likes to talk about death—”
“—then why are you bringing it up?”
“You know, Antonio, no one likes a smart ass either. You do that too well, and you’re going to find yourself in trouble sometime and be at a loss for words, you fuck,” Clyde said. “But what I was saying is no one likes to talk about death, but you know, we all die. You’ll die. I’ll die. Iris will die, probably fucking because she can’t get enough—she’s wearing me out, Antonio—she’s going to be the death of me. My heart will go.” He grabbed his chest, fingers bunching his shirt, and pretended to have a heart attack while humping the air in his seat. “Get my blood pressure up. Too much, then pop! There goes the old ticker. That’s what I get for marrying a younger woman.”
“Now, I have to scrub the image from my mind. Thanks.”
Clyde slapped Tony’s chest, the back of his hand landing softly against Tony’s shirt. “No, listen, we all die. It’s just a matter of time and numbers. You never know when your number’s going to be up. So, with what you and I do, we’re not exactly what you’d classify low-risk, doing undercover shit. We could kick the bucket at any point.” He waves his hand over the dashboard as he did before like it’s just on the horizon again. “One day we’re here, fucking or whatever—in your case being a smart ass—and then the next, nothing. Gone. It could happen.”
“Yeah, well I don’t want to think about it,” Tony said. “But with you, I know I don’t have a choice, do I? We’re going to talk about it all night long, aren’t we?”
“You know me too well,” Clyde said. He paused and took a drink. “Listen, if I should die in the line of duty—”
“—no, we’re not doing this right now,” Tony declared. “I got it. You don’t want the shit that comes with a death while working. No flags. No guns firing. No nothing. I got it.”
Clyde smiled. “That’s not what I was going to say, but you have that right. All that’s bullshit. I’m nothing. I’m not a hero. I’m a dope cop. Maybe on a bigger scale, working for the Big Man, but I’m still just a simple dope cop. I’m nothing. Nothing. So, you’re right. Don’t do the full honors. I’ve still got enough of my hippie parents in me to not like the fact that all anyone’s ever going to see is a jackbooted thug getting put in the ground. You know I’m not that, and I couldn’t stand people seeing that and that being their final impression of me. I’m not The Man, you know? I just happen to work for him.”
“That’s why you grew the mustache, isn’t it? So that you could be a cop without looking like a cop.”
“You watch TV, growing up?” Clyde asked. “I did—Miami Vice, saw it while in college. You ever see or read or whatever the fuck it is kids do now, something, and know that something’s what you want to do with the rest of your life. That’s what it was like for me. I wanted to be that cop. You know this was the eighties, and it was rip-roaring fun, you know?”
“No, I don’t know,” Tony said. Clyde’s reached his you know quota for the night.
“Look, I like being a dope cop, but that’s only going to last so long. I’m surprised it’s lasted this long. So, here’s what I want to happen. If I should ever die in the line of duty, you’re going to take my ashes to the Grand Canyon and spread them out there. I already got it all written down. That way you get to see the Grand Canyon, and I’m not just some jackbooted thug. You get it?”
Tony nodded. “I get it.”
