Too Late to Say Goodbye, page 26
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Like you don’t know about the fake shoes?”
“They were real Jordans,” Gene says.
Franklin lets it go. “You know what’s real? That fucker messing with me when I was laid up in the hospital from the five gunshots. Here, I’m sitting in a hospital bed and some Pakistani fucker is over there teasing me about the shoes you sold me, telling me, asking, did you get those from Eugene? Like it’s some big fucking inside joke. Like it’s a question he already knew the answer to. He’s asking but not asking. Says you’re known for your knockoffs. I didn’t know that. Who knows that?” Franklin points at Gene. “The cop leaves that shit out there like he’s doing it to make me wonder. Torture me. Like it’s something everyone knows. Made me lay there in that bed, shot five times, thinking about it. I’m shot five times, and I’m there thinking about those damn shoes.”
“Means they were good shoes,” Gene says.
“They were good shoes,” Franklin says. “Made me happy.”
“So, what’s it matter if they were fake or not?” Gene asks, trying to turn the conversation. “If you couldn’t tell, then no one else could have either. And if you can’t tell and they make you happy, then why’s it matter if they’re fake?”
“It matters,” Franklin says. Then, offhand, he slaps Gene’s arm. “It matters to me because I’ve come to appreciate appearances.”
Franklin turns away from Gene and throws himself back in the computer chair. The chair’s casters carry his momentum backward, rolling across the floor.
“Appearances matter; maybe not in your world, but in mine, they matter. They matter a lot. So, you embarrassed me by giving me fake shoes. I can’t have that. Even if I don’t know. They’re fake and others know.”
“They weren’t fake.”
“You really going to argue with a man that’s got a gun?” Franklin trains the gun on Gene, using the armrest to lazily prop his arm up in a half-hearted attempt at intimidation.
Gene stays quiet.
“Good choice,” Franklin says. “They were fake. That’s fine. They were. Don’t tell me otherwise or I’m going to shoot you right now. Right in your fucking faggotty fucking face because I’m done, Gene. I’m done being screwed over, and I want some answers. I want to know how this all happened.”
“How what happened?”
Franklin elevates his arms as if he is praying to God, both hands to the ceiling. “All this, this, how I came to be here, wearing this, with a dead man’s gun, talking to you about appearances. How did we get here? Where is here? What is here? Questions with answers. Questions that need to be asked. I want to know. Enquiring minds want to know. I need to know.”
“Last I knew, you were in the hospital.”
Franklin sighs. “I was, and then I wasn’t,” he says. “Guess you wouldn’t know anything about that. It’s not like the guy getting fucked over by the police is told what the police are thinking. No, that comes later when they write their reports and lie.” Franklin shivers, acting as if a chill is running through his body. “I feared for my life … or, get this part, it’s the important one … or others’ lives. Great line. Know what it means. This means they can kill with impunity. That’s it. That’s all she wrote. The fat lady sang. So, I get it. They don’t tell you what’s going on, but that’s not how it is for your side of the conversation, is it?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Gene lies. He knows exactly what Franklin’s saying.
Franklin drops the gun on him again in his half-assed way. “You want to play games?” Gun lazily bounces with his words. “Do I really need to stand up, walk over there, and put this to you just to get you to tell me what I already know? I’ve already killed one man; you want to make it two?”
Gene shakes his head.
“Good choice,” Franklin says, taking the gun off him. “I’m tired, Gene. Being shot does that to a person. But what I want to know is how did this all happen?”
“I—”
“No, don’t answer,” Franklin says. “It’s not one of those conversations. I know how this happened. I just want to tell you about it before I kill you. What do they call that in the movies? Like when James Bond would do it? You know I could never get Kevin to dress nicely. I’d say to him… ‘Look at you. You’re white. You could look like that,’ and I’d point to Sean Connery. He’d say that he didn’t care. Why didn’t he care?”
“Frankie, I’m having a hard time here,” Gene says.
“Following me?” Franklin says. “Guess you would.”
Franklin sinks in the chair. He snaps his fingers. “Monologuing,” he exclaims. “That’s what I’m doing, but I’m not really because I do have a purpose. I want to know how this happened.”
Gene tilts his head to the side.
“You’re working with the cops, right?” he says. “I mean that’s how this had to go. You work with the cops; they’ve got you by the balls or something. Yeah? Okay, but you don’t want to set them up with Siriano because… well we know how he feels about appearances… so you make your protégé do it. That’s how part of what happened, happened. I think.” Franklin winks. “Only you can tell me for sure.”
“You’re on the right track,” Gene says.
“What I need to know is where Casper is,” Franklin says, “Where is he?”
“Are you going to kill me?”
“Haven’t decided yet, but seeing I’m here and you’re there, I’d say chances are likely.”
Gene could fight him on it, but that’d just enrage him more. Or … he could come clean and see if Franklin’s mood changes again. Gene says, “Tony’s.”
“Who’s Tony?”
“The cop that was in the car with you. Casper’s with him.”
“Why is he… you know what, never mind,” Franklin says as his face twists, perplexed. “Where’s he live?”
Gene says nothing.
Franklin smiles. “Backbone. Nice. I like seeing that. You don’t take shit from no one, do you? You just work both sides to stay out of it, but I’d say you’re in it.”
“I can give you the address,” Gene says. “And it helps to know some things others don’t think you know.”
Franklin leaps to his feet.
Gene stands his ground, legs like putty.
Franklin sticks the muzzle of the gun against the side of Gene’s head. “Did you ever love my friend?”
Eyes forward and without hesitation, Gene says, “With every inch of my heart.”
“Pity, he never felt the same way about you,” Franklin says.
“That’s why it didn’t work out.”
With the gun against his ear, Gene doesn’t move, not one muscle, except his heart pummels his ribcage. Time passes slowly. Then, Franklin removes the gun and chuckles. He steps around Gene to leave.
“You want to know how it happened?” Gene asks as the door opens but doesn’t close. Gene concentrates on breathing as he dares to turn around, and when he does, he sees Franklin hasn’t left the store. He has one hand still on the handle, one leg out the door. “Kevin set you up. All of it. His idea. Even the cops.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT:
IRIS KING
IRIS ASKS RENALDO, who sits at the foot of his hospital bed before getting dressed, “Something has changed hasn’t it?”
“Yeah, sure, okay,” Renaldo says, dismissing her in the way he usually does.
It’s afternoon. She stands near the window looking out over the parking lot. The dying sunlight casts its winter glow across the pavement below the window. This is her favorite time of year when she can step outside to smoke, wrap herself in something warm, and feel the cool air wash over her skin. She talks into the window. “I mean yes, I know you got shot in the head, that would change anyone, but something’s going on. Something’s bothering you. What’s going on?”
Renaldo doesn’t respond, so she turns around to face him.
And he just looks at her as he buttons his salmon-colored dress shirt, fingers working, not saying anything. He’s been like this since she came back to the room.
“I can see it. Something’s bothering you, and I’m trying to figure out why you won’t tell me,” Iris says. “When I walked in after you woke up, your eyes lit up. You were happy to see me, but now, something’s changed. I can tell.” She pauses. “What’s going on? You can’t just call me, tell me you need some clothes, and expect me to hop without any explanation. Are you sure you want to check out?”
“The hospital isn’t a hotel.”
Iris says, “You know, in all the time we’ve been … doing whatever this is, I don’t think I’ve ever been to your place. It was interesting walking through it. The landlord let me in. The door opened, and it was like stepping into a new world, like that book about the wardrobe, but without the satyrs and shit, like seeing a whole new side of you for the first time.”
What struck her the most was how empty his place was. Sure, his closet had clothes and cabinets had dishes, his rooms had a bare minimum of furniture, and the place had the expected appliances, but something about it was empty. Almost hollow. She realized there was a whole side of Renaldo she didn’t know anything about. She’d heard about it, been told about it, and Wilson explained how he might react when they started this, but she’d never seen it. So maybe the change she’s seeing now has nothing to do with the head injury and everything to do with him and how he got to be the bagman for Siriano.
But then again, maybe it does have to do with the head injury.
“Maybe you’re acting the way you are because you were shot,” Iris says, guessing at the matter. “The doctors said traumatic brain injuries can do that in someone like you, someone who’s taken a bullet bounced off their skull.” She repeats what happened to him to try to press upon him the seriousness of the injury. “Doctor told me there’s no telling what’s happened or how much damage could be lasting. Said right now you have a pretty severe concussion but seem to be doing fine. But they said there was one guy who took a nail in the skull, three inches into his brain. Said his wife told them he was a nice man before that. Now, not so much. He’s prone to violent mood swings and severe anger, but the upside is he’s now a well-respected painter. He couldn’t paint before. The doctor said that’s the nature of such injuries and the aftereffects. Said they’re still medical mysteries.”
Renaldo interjects, “Did they stay married? The guy with the nail in the head?”
Iris shakes her head. “The doctor said the wife didn’t love the stranger her husband had become.”
All Renaldo does is nod to her story as if everything she said just washed over him without leaving an impression. He finishes with the shirt and pats his thighs with both hands before standing. He sways a bit. He mechanically tucks the shirt into his slacks.
“So why can’t you tell me what’s going on?” Iris says. “You seemed fine before I left, but now, now you seem so much more determined, focused. What’s going on, Reni?”
“We need to leave,” Renaldo says. “I don’t have time to explain.”
“To go where?” she asks, crossing her arms. Clyde hated when she did this, called this a preamble to a fight, her digging in and battening the hatches. “We’ve been through this six times over the last hour, and you’ve not said anything that makes sense. They don’t want you to leave. You got shot in the head for goodness’ sake.”
“We just need to get out of here,” Renaldo says.
“Why?” Iris asks, even though she knows better. He won’t tell her. He’s been like this since she got back with his clothes. He even threatened to leave naked when she wouldn’t hand them to him without an explanation.
“Police might show up,” Renaldo says. “I need to get out of here before that happens.”
“Bullshit,” Iris says. “If that were true, you would have told me the first six times, but each time I ask, your answer changes. First, it was just because. Then, it was so we could run off. Then, it was so you could go talk to someone. Then, it was you were scared to stick around; the people that shot you might come back, and now it’s the police. If it were just one answer it would be the same, right? Plus, why would they show up? And just how did you get shot in the head?”
He doesn’t answer.
So, Iris presses. “Is it because of what’s on the news?”
She’s referring to the reports of the shootout outside the hospital, the two dead DEA agents, and the escaped prisoner.
“I’m not stupid. I know it has everything to do with that, but I want you to say it. I want to hear it. I have to hear it. It’s not about being right; it’s about what you’re willing to tell me. Do you even trust me?”
Renaldo’s eyes scan her body, which makes her almost uncomfortable, but for the first time, she sees the man she’s heard so much about: the dark pupils, the expressionless features.
Does he trust her? He should but he shouldn’t but trusting her works for her plans. But then, that just means she’s using him. She uses everyone. Clyde trusted her and look where that got him, an unintended consequence.
“You can trust me Reni, but you have to talk to me. Talk to me.”
“I trust you.” Renaldo picks up his left shoe.
Iris purses her lips. “Do you?”
“I do.” Renaldo pauses just long enough to reinforce his words. “But there’s no truth in who we trust. No choice either. Nor in those we fall in love with.”
Iris presses harder. “Do you trust me enough to tell me what’s going on?”
“We need to get out of here.”
“Where would we go? And that doesn’t answer my question.”
Renaldo slips his other foot into the shoe. “I wasn’t kidding about the police,” he says. “Do you want to know what’s going on?”
“God, you are frustrating at times but also beautiful, even with that bandage around your head. That’s why I’m asking; I want to know what’s going on with you.”
“Do you?”
This reminds her of arguments with Clyde, circular.
Iris says, “I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true.”
Renaldo stiffens and drops his hands to his side. He faces her, trying to decide if he’s going to trust her or not, even though he already told her he does. But nothing in his body language says that’s true.
“I don’t even know why I am here,” she says, going over her actions over the last twenty-four hours, or even the last week. Everything feels like it’s her fault, and if she were capable of accepting responsibility, she might agree, it is her fault. But of course, she’s not capable of it.
Tony was right; she uses people.
She tells Renaldo, “I just buried my husband. I shouldn’t be here. Just as you shouldn’t have come to the funeral. Except when I received the phone call telling me you were in the hospital, I came running. I don’t know why I did that. There was no thought, no hesitation, nothing like I’d expected. Even when that bitch told me my husband was dead, I didn’t react, but when the nurse called and told me you had been shot, I came running.”
What she doesn’t say is how much that surprised her. Then, when her senses returned to her, at the first opportunity, she dumped her husband’s ashes off with Tony without a second thought as if grieving Clyde’s death was as easy as ending a book: close the cover and put it away. That surprised her too.
Is she a terrible person?
Do terrible people think they are terrible? Do they know they are bad, or do they just lie to themselves and pretend they’re something they aren’t?
Iris asked Wilson if she’s terrible for being the reason her husband’s dead. Wilson told her people lie to themselves all the time. They tell themselves they’re something different, but they’re not. They’re who they are, and that’s all they are. He said people think they’re free, but they really aren’t; they’re all imprisoned one way or another. People don’t go around telling themselves they’re the bad guys. They go around living their lives, lying to themselves about who they are, and at the end of the day, they do what they do.
A shadow flicks across Renaldo’s face as if he’s about to admit he’s been cheating on a spouse for years. He says, “I used you,” while at the same time his whole body collapses under the strain of the admission, shoulders sinking, chest collapsing in on itself like it’s causing him physical pain. “I used you to get close to your husband. I didn’t know I’d fall in love with you. So, if you want to know what’s going on, then I might as well start there so there’s no misunderstandings between us.”
“What’s that mean?” Iris asks, even though she’s already figured it out and accepted that about their relationship. Why doesn’t he see she knew? That’s why she invited him to the house.
“It means I love you, and that scares me.”
“Why would that scare you?” she asks, and then says, “Wait what?”
“Honesty, being honest scares me. I’ve had no one my entire life I could trust. My mother worked nights. She left me in the care of strangers. Oftentimes, I’d sleep in some attorney’s office, under a desk, or under something in the building she worked at. Sometimes sleep on their waiting benches and couches. Sometimes on the floor. Sometimes I’d help her clean, but I spent my time there. Not at home. Not with friends, but with her.”
“You’ve never mentioned your mother before.” Iris uncrosses her arms and takes a step towards him. “Does she live … live close?”
Renaldo checks himself in the mirror. “Works three miles from here and owns the building now.” He points out the window. “But that’s not… forget about that. Just listen. As I got older, you know school gets harder, teachers assign you homework. I guess that’s not much of a thing now, but you know what it was like growing up then. They assign you homework and send you home with hours and hours of reading and math.”
