Bad People (20 page)

“That’s working,” he said.

The window blind slats continued to dance, ghostly white lines touching back and forth.

“Luke.”

“Yes.”

“Do you ever think you’re a bad person?”

He stopped.

“No,” he said.

No of course not. He was young, why would he? But when you’re older and you’re involved with people….

The white lines danced, one blind slat for everyone she knew current and past: for Stephen-David, for Robb, for Erika, for Barry, for the fat cop with Robb’s gun, slats for all those women who booked her seminars, too many slats, too many expectant people.

“Why would I think that?” asked Luke.

“What?”

“Why would
I
think I’m a bad person? “

She rolled over and encircled his chest. “Why would you?” She kissed his pec, hard and nearly hairless. He smelled clean.
Get away
, she knew she ought to tell him,
get away before I bring you down to my level, before I sink you too
. She knew she should tell him, but she didn’t, because she didn’t want to. Not yet. Outside something was tapping on the window, or scratching it. Beneath the insistent air-con something was crying slightly. She hung on to his chest because it felt good, and because she was not a good person.

Chapter 22: Ethan, Tommy

Ethan Starvold had drifted off when the pounding came—not inside his head, too soon for that—but against his door. The woman was still in his bed and barely stirred when he tugged and pulled at his pants, which were underneath her. It had to be Tommy pounding at the door. It had better be, anyway, because Ethan would pound anyone else who tried bothering him this late, right back.

Tommy. Ethan could tell that as he crossed the living room, even before opening the door. No one rattled a door near off its hinges the way his hulk of a partner did.

Ethan pulled open the door and saw that Tommy was not drunk. Not drunk enough anyway. That was a bad sign. A sufficiently drunken partner can be put down on the sofa and covered with an old sleeping bag. A buzzed partner would want to talk half the night away.

He stepped aside to let Tommy in. “Keep it down, I have a guest,” Ethan said.

Tommy grunted, beelined for the sofa, and sat. The sofa let out a helpless squeak of submission.

“Rough day at the office, sweetie?” said Ethan.

“Fuck it, Starvold.” said Tommy, looking at his shoes.

“Fuck it hard,” said Ethan. He went to the kitchen to get Tommy a beer. While he was in there he poured the dregs of mojito from the blender into the nearest glass for himself.

He came back, and went around behind the sofa. He slapped the cold can of beer between Tommy’s neck and shoulder. “Incoming,” he said. “Silver bullet.”

The coldness didn’t seem to startle Tommy all that much. Ethan released the beer and Tommy caught it, but only by the time it had slid partway down his right-side man-
boob
. Ethan went to his leather chair, rocked back, then swiveled to-and-fro in it while he waited for Tommy to speak. Tommy would eventually speak, in Tommy code, old-cop tongue, but he would eventually speak.

“Fucking city,” said Tommy.

“Seattle? Oh yeah, cesspool.” Ethan had worked in L.A. awhile.
That
was a cesspool. But you could never tell Seattleites like Tommy, who would never leave the state, how good they had it. Not that they wouldn’t tell
you
all about it.

“And the fuck all of it is….” Tommy did not immediately finish the thought. He might not get around to finishing it for a while, Ethan knew. Tommy could go on saying
fuck this
and
fuck that
all night if Ethan didn’t move the conversation along. But pressing Tommy would just piss him off, which would do nothing to shorten the night. Instead Ethan settled for saying, “Keep the voice down please, like I told you.” He nodded toward his bedroom.

Tommy grunted. He popped his beer. “Tell me something.”

“Anything.”

“That girl in there. Do you even know her name?”

Then Ethan got it. This was still about the Hart murder.

“Let it go, brother.”

“I have.”

Ethan looked at the body of his partner, still wrapped in the same clothes it had been in twenty hours earlier. In that time he had stained the armpits and collar wet, and must have felt them dry out and soak again several times over. His white socks had snapped their thin upper thread of elastic and fallen down in surrender, so that Ethan would have seen the red and green stripes at their tops even if Tommy’s wore slacks that came down to the correct length.
Jesus
, thought Ethan.
What do I do? Wheel in the full-length mirror in the bedroom and make him look at himself?

Ethan sighed inwardly. He had to say something, even though it was going to involve him more, and probably makes things worse, lots worse, if there was ever any hope they got better.

“Tommy,” Ethan said. “This is no way to be. No way to be for Chrystal.”

Tommy lunged off the couch. Though his legs refused to respond fully at his sudden insistence they bear his weight, he was close enough to fall on Ethan. His leather lounge chair tumbled backward. Ethan caught a blow from Tommy in the left side, lower ribs. Tommy could still punch like a donkey’s kick.

Ethan rolled away, and Tommy slid down to the floor. He immediately tried to push himself up on old ruined knees, but Ethan got his own balance first. He placed both palms on Tommy’s straining forehead, and pushed the bigger man down. That is, Ethan’s push
started
the downward motion. Gravity did most of the work. Tommy, stunned to be on his ass, swiped at the air, not very close to Ethan. “Talk about
my daughter
?” he roared.

Ethan pushed the moisture suddenly on his temples back into his hair. He came back at Tommy. “Come in my
home
and behave like this!” In his own mind, the location had nothing to do with it, but long experience had taught him the kind of things Tommy cared about. The right way to talk to him. Ethan had been stupid to so nakedly mention the touchy subject of his partner’s family life, directly saying Tommy’s kid’s name out loud. Heaven forefend. But Ethan was back on track now, putting the onus on the ever-sensitive Tommy. Words like “family” and “home” meant everything to him.

Tommy leaned back against the base of the couch. He put a hand up briefly to surrender, and worked on getting his breathing back in control.

Ethan rubbed his ribs.

“How’s your side?” asked Tommy.

“Oh, do you mean where you hammered it? You mean right here? It fuckin’ hurts, thanks.”

Tommy shrugged. What are you gonna do.

Ethan rubbed his side more, bent down, righted his chair and sat. In a moment he said: “I’ll drive you home.”

“What about the girl?” Tommy nodded toward the bedroom.

“She seems like a heavy sleeper.” The drive wasn’t long.

“I went to see Connie Wexler tonight,” said Tommy. He was still on the floor, and looking down.

Ethan took a breath. “And?”

“Gave her her husband’s gun back.”

Ethan leaned in. “
And
?”

Tommy looked up, surprised. “And nothing! What do you think?”

Ethan, frankly, didn’t know what to think. “Tommy?”

Tommy swiped his hand. “Shut up. I’m done.”

“You need to be done. Whatever bug you have up your ass, about that lady you need to be done. What did you do?”

Tommy told her about going to Connie’s house, getting inside and giving her the gun.

“What did she do?”

“She just looked at me.”

Maybe she wouldn’t escalate it. Probably she wouldn’t.

“And what are you going to do to her next, Tommy.”

“What? Nothing. I’m done I said.”

“You need to be.”

“Belabor the point why don’t you?”

“I fucking will. They’re not worth it.”

“Fucking right, they’re not. None of them. Except Chrystal. She’s one of them.”

“One of who?” Then he realized Tommy wasn’t talking about the principals in the Hart murder; he was talking about girls. Women. They were the ones who weren’t worth it.

Ethan had nothing to say to Tommy about that. This was about Tommy’s wife who fucked a coworker of hers and left with him for Arizona. Left Tommy and their daughter Chrystal. Tommy was never going to get over that. He wasn’t the type.

“So fuck it,” said Ethan aloud. “Get up. You’re going home now, Tommy.”

Ethan helped his partner stand. He walked him to the nearest wall and let him lean there. He wasn’t about to let Tommy sit down again. They were leaving as soon as Ethan got his shoes and keys.

He drove Tommy home and took him inside. They didn’t talk anymore about Connie Wexler. If she was going to make a complaint against Tommy she would. There was nothing to do about that tonight. They didn’t talk about Tommy’s errant wife either. They didn’t talk about anything.

Pulling into Tommy’s driveway, Ethan noticed a light on in a small upstairs window. He thought that was Chrystal’s room. She was probably up, and worried sick about her father. Ethan turned off the ignition and Tommy started to get out. So did Ethan.

“What, you’re going to tuck me in too?” said Tommy.

“You might need it,” said Ethan. “But, nah, I just need to take a piss.” He wanted to get a look at things, how Tommy and Chrystal were living. Ethan hadn’t been over since the wife’s escape.

Tommy grunted. “What’s wrong with
your
toilet?” he said almost inaudibly. But he didn’t stop Ethan from following him inside.

The house looked decent. Either Tommy had hired a cleaner or Chrystal was doing it, or maybe slovenly, lumpy Tommy had tapped some heretofore depths of domestic acumen, but the place was well-ordered and clean. No open bottles. All the booze was contained in a glass lockable cabinet. Ethan passed through the kitchen on the way to the downstairs toilet: dishes put away, and clean countertops. He opened the fridge. Well stocked: milk, eggs, lettuce, among the other items he’d expected to see more of: only a six pack of Coors Light in bottles, and two old pizza slices on a paper plate with Cellophane over them.
Okay, Tommy not bad
.

Now for the acid test. He went back into the living room, where Tommy was still standing, still wearing his coat, like a stranger in his own house.

“I’m going to say hello to Chrystal,” Ethan said.

“She’s sleeping,” said Tommy.

“Her light is on.” He had noticed that on the way in, and a kid shouldn’t be up that late. “I haven’t seen the kid since…” he paused. If Tommy noticed what he had not finished saying, he didn’t let on. So without another word to him, Ethan went up to see Tommy’s daughter. What would she be now, thirteen? No, he’d been to her twelfth birthday party, and that was more than a year ago. Ethan almost hooked up with one of the Moms of another kid at that party, until she turned out to not be as single as she led him to believe. Chrystal was probably fourteen.

At the stairs, he saw the light in her room coming out from under the door, but he still knocked extra quietly in case she had fallen asleep with those lights on. If she was in fact still awake, he didn’t know if it was strange or not that she hadn’t come out when he and Tommy came in. What do kids these days do when their single parent gets escorted home at three in the morning?

“What?” came the voice from inside. Awake certainly, and alert, not exactly friendly.

“It’s Ethan,” he said, “Tommy’s—your Dad’s partner.”

“Ethan?” The voice had changed tone. “Wait.”

Then followed moments of rustling and when Chrystal opened the door he knew why. Chrystal was fully dressed: jeans, pullover, even shoes and socks. Clearly she’d gotten herself fully dressed before opening the door, rather than throwing on a robe or something. He estimated he was right in guessing her about fourteen, and that must be into the age of adolescent embarrassment. She was quite thin, and wore an teenager’s excess of makeup. Ethan probably wouldn’t have recognized the kid if he passed her on the street.

“Chrystal,” he said, “look at you. You’re taller than your—taller than your Dad!” He had almost said taller than her mother, and glad he’d caught himself. “What are you, fourteen, I bet?”

A cross look almost formed on her face but she shook it off. “Sixteen.”

Ethan shook his head. It was official. He had become one of those old fucks who couldn’t tell a kid’s age. Or who is surprised to learn “last year’s” birthday party was over four years ago.

“Brought your dad home,” Ethan explained, rolling his eyes.

She nodded.

An unsettlingly mature nod, and Ethan didn’t like that. Sixteen or fourteen she was still a kid and it shouldn’t be the kid that nods sadly and knowingly when the Dad comes home. “Everything all right here?” Tommy asked her.