Chapter 9
I dropped Sunny off at her office and drove the Saab to a seedy neighborhood near the Navy Yard. I wasn’t far from the fleet of ships in repair that lined the Intracoastal Waterway just south of Hampton Roads. It was an impressive sight, inspiring and at the same time, depressing. Our country was strong, but the bleeding heart in me wished all of that money could have been spent on hungry children and education. I scolded myself for being such a naïve sonovabitch. Character flaw, I guess, but it is what it is.
I parked on the street and walked up to the second floor of a brick building gone gray with soot and neglect. I knocked, but there was no answer. It was almost ten, but maybe he was sleeping in. After all, the man’s work dictated long hours in the darkness. I knocked again a little harder and the door cracked open.
“Paul, T.K. Fleming. Pam said you would be expecting me.” Still no answer.
I pushed lightly on the peeling paint and the hinges creaked. I eased my head in, seeing no signs of life. The place was dingy, no pictures on the faded walls. A foam green sofa with holes that might have been gnawed by rats, a cheap veneer coffee table with several empty beer cans, and a 40 inch flat screen TV sitting on a rusty wrought iron stand. I closed the door behind me and called again. I moved silently to the entrance of the bedroom and saw him. He was laid out on the mattress in a posture that reminded me of the man on the cross at Calvary.
His eyes were open wide, focused on nothing. A river of blood had escaped his mouth and run down his neck. There were only a few visible tracks on his arm. They were mostly healed, but the last one was a fierce red and seemed to gape. The needle was on the floor, shiny and proud at the grisly work it had done. I put my fingers to the carotid artery, smearing blood on my hand. No pulse. I crossed my palms and pumped hard into his chest. Once, twice, then several more times. No response. I forced myself to look at the prone body. His face was the color of yellowed paste. Rigor mortis had begun to set in. His upper arms each bore a faded purple bruise with the imprints of fingers that had sunk hard and fast into what had been living flesh not that long ago. I touched nothing else but my cell phone. I had Bill O’Mara’s phone number on speed dial.
The cops were there quickly, with the rescue squad, but it didn’t take long to get their reaction. Another junkie . . . this one also a dealer. One more problem for the Norfolk P.D. off the street. I mentioned the bruises to Bill, but he was as skeptical as the rest. There were no signs of a struggle. Paul’s IPhone rested on a plastic fold up table next to the bed. There were baggies of marijuana and cocaine on the kitchen table, a few unused hypos and an open brick of heroin, but no other obvious physical evidence. The forensics people were on their way and Bill assured me they were professional and thorough. It looked like Paul was just another degenerate soul who had ridden the white horse to hell. I quietly asked Bill to update me when the findings were complete. He winked, but said nothing.
The thought made me sick, but I figured maybe it would be better coming from me. I told him I would inform Pam and Shorty. I slid behind the wheel of the Saab and drove slowly back to the boat to clean the stink of death off me. I had an ugly message to deliver. Better to get it over. After I washed my hands, I scrolled my cell to Pam’s number and hit the call button.
“Pam, it’s T.K. I need to see you and Shorty.” I tried to keep the emotion out of my voice, but it didn’t work. She was wary.
“So you saw him?” she asked. Yeah, I saw him, and he was very dead, but I couldn’t say that over the phone. She caught the pause.
“Where are you now? I can meet you any time you say, but it needs to be soon.” She told me they were at their house, actually half of a duplex they owned. They had taken the afternoon off to practice a few new songs. She gave me the address and said she’d be waiting. The building wasn’t far from Paul’s place. I pulled into the driveway and parked next to their dented blue Econoline.
The place was square, faded white cinder blocks, with an attached aluminum carport that probably came from Home Depot. There were a few scraggly azaleas scattered about. The blooms were white and pink, but everything needed a good trim. A couple of boxwoods were struggling around the front stoop. I knocked and Pam appeared immediately.
“I fixed coffee,” she said. I nodded and sat on a moth eaten recliner across from Shorty. Both wore jeans and t-shirts. There were three guitar stands, the red Strat, a natural Telecaster, and a scarred Martin acoustic resting side by side. An old Yamaha keyboard was pushed against the wall and several amps and speakers filled out the musical assortment.
Shorty looked at me, but didn’t speak. He knew, and she probably did, too. But they waited. Pam handed me a white china cup and pointed at the powdered creamer and artificial sweeter on the table.
“So what did he tell you?”
His lips hadn’t moved, I thought.
“Pam, Shorty. Paul passed away sometime this morning. I found him when I got to his apartment. He was gone. The rescue people came, police, too. But it was too late. There will be an investigation, but it looks like an overdose.”
She was silent. Shorty put his arm around her shoulders and patted her as though she were a child. At first she didn’t cry. She cradled the fingers of her left hand in her right and bent them back until they hurt. Then she moved them to her mouth and tried to stifle a choking sound.
“Overdose? Who said? The cops? I don’t believe it. He was always so careful with the needles and the amount. Shot up between the toes, in the thigh . . . moved the injections around so he wouldn’t have tracks in his arms. Wouldn’t hit anything unless he knew exactly where it came from, who the supplier was. He can’t be dead.”
I decided not to hold back. I’m not very good at it anyway. They’d call her to identify the body and she’d know soon enough. Still it was time to be as gentle as I could. I spoke slowly and just above a whisper.
“There were bruises on his arms, like someone had held him down. A big hole at the elbow . . . dried blood, like he’d been stuck with a giant needle.”
“That just wasn’t him. He was too careful. I’m sure the cops will write it off . . . one less junkie to contend with. One less seller on the street. Maybe they’re right. But God help me . . . he was my brother.”
Now she was crying. Shorty had pulled a red cotton handkerchief from his pocket to catch the tears, but it wasn’t enough. Her whole body shook. I put down the cup and got up to leave. Shorty followed me to the door.
“Find Glen,” he said.