Day One (9 page)

I don’t like admitting that, but I know he’s right. I’m sure I’m wearing the denial on my face, but Michael has other things to worry about. I can feel him pulling away, but he throws me one last bone.

“Where would he go if he is still on his feet?”

There is one place where I might find, if not Eager, then someone who knows him. Trick’ll be getting them to answer my questions. But my car is still inside the perimeter.

“Michael, you got anyone heading downtown, maybe I could hitch a ride?”

He thinks, and then smiles indulgently. “Give me a minute.” It takes him two, but then Masliah connects me with a taciturn sergeant named Kuhl who could give a lesson to a cucumber. He’s on his way back to Central Precinct and agrees to drop me on the way. I try to make small talk, but his responses are monosyllabic. Then, when I mention I used to be on the job, he lets me have it.

“Yeah, I know what you
used
to be, Kadash. And I know you also stood by and let a suspect pop one of your own. So how about you shut your yap, unless you’d rather get out and walk.”

So that’s it. He’s a friend of Richard Owen, a former colleague, former boss—a man I’d never gotten along with. It’s true enough that I’d let a citizen hit Owen and done nothing, but the fellow in question wasn’t a suspect and Owen more than deserved it. His retirement, at my encouragement, made room for Susan to move up to commander of Person Crimes. The encouragement hadn’t been friendly, and clearly Owen wasn’t the only one who knew it. I shut my yap.

Kuhl doesn’t speak again until he drops me at the corner of Burnside and MLK. I walk to Ankeny, then a couple of blocks down to 2nd through a brief spit of rain followed by a sudden sun break that threatens warmth. My destination is tucked under the Burnside Bridge. To a certain kind of person, the place is world famous, a destination feared by the skittish and admired by the recklessly skilled. To the rest of us, it’s a strange landscape of curves and ramps sculpted of discarded fill and smooth-skimmed concrete.

The Burnside Skatepark came about as a result of a little organized anarchy, such as it was, when a group of determined skaters started building banks and transitions under the east end of the bridge back in the early 90s. Squatters, but squatters with their shit together. The early work was good, and with time and growing commitment the later work got better and better. A trash-filled vacant lot under the bridge grew into one of the premier skateparks in the world. Eventually the city sanctioned the park, and improvements are ongoing. I’ve been here when as many as two hundred skaters sparred for space and status in a kind of Brownian alpha skirmish. Master of the board, a position coveted by a species of stringy, agile creature, male and female alike, who don’t give a fuck about anything except not being anybody’s bitch.

In my age range, there are three kinds of men who linger at the margins of a place like the Burnside Skatepark. You got the
man with a few dollars in his pocket and a taste for the young, taut skin hinted at beneath the hoodies and baggie shorts. Then there’s the man with a mission, salvation on his mind, hoping to peel off a soul or two from among skate punks for whom the only real danger is wiping out on a monster tranny or getting hassled by some asshole straight who can’t mind his own fucking business. And then there’s the cops, but they stick their heads in no more than necessary to make sure there’s no obvious dealing or hooking. They’re too busy, the guys on patrol, to waste time tracking every street kid with authority issues and a skateboard. And at Burnside, the skaters know they have something good; they police themselves well enough.

Finally there’s me. No one confuses me with the first type, and I’ve made it clear I’m not interested in lost souls or any misdemeanors and minor felonies that might go down in the shadows on the far side of the bridge wall. Some of the guys know me, nod when I show up to stand at the fence and watch the action. Some only offer the barest acknowledgment, letting me know we got nothing in common, but we got no beef either.

There’s not a whole lot of action when I arrive this morning. A dozen guys, a few girls, standing board-ready at the top of the banks or staring through the chain-link fence on the north side of park. Only a few are skating. I take up a spot behind the street-side bank and watch the skaters work their lines. My usual habit. After a few minutes a fellow I know skates up the ramp and skids to a stop, stares down at me. He’s tall and thin, buzzed hair under an orange knit skullcap. No clue if he’s fifteen or twenty-five, if he has a job or a home or a just cardboard box to sleep in. But he’s always here and he talks to me. Goes by Push.

“You’re looking more raggedy than usual, old man.” He taps his neck with the first two fingers of his right hand. His knuckles are tattooed with little red stars.

“Your mother name you Push, or is that what she wants to do when she runs into you on a busy street corner?”

“I hatched from an egg, man.” He grins and kicks off the bank, rides across to the big hip opposite and performs a perfect, unconscious ollie, then swerves back among other skaters and rejoins me. Can’t stand still for long.

“So what’s the word?”

“No word. Just need a laugh and thought I’d come watch you amateurs fall on your asses for a while.”

“If you weren’t such a pussy, I’d let you give my board a try. But I hate to see someone’s granny cry.”

I chuckle and he starts to kick off again. “Hey, you seen Eager Gillespie lately?”

Push’s smirk is made sinister by a pattern of black filigree tattooed around his eyes and across his cheekbones. “He steal your social security check?”

“Something like that.”

He tugs at his cap, thinks for a moment. “Ain’t seen Eager in I don’t know how long. I heard he moved.”

“He’s back. You know anyone he hangs out with, maybe someone who knows where he’s staying?”

“You should ask Jase.”

“Jase Bronstein? Is he here?”

Push laughs now, picking up on my obvious interest. He points toward the fence opening where a clump of skaters are smoking and jawing. Among them I see Jase’s beefy figure. “Maybe you catch him, he don’t see you coming first.” Then he rolls off.

I move along the back of the bank, head down. Push skates over to a group sitting at the top of the bridge wall bank. After a moment they all hop onto their boards and skate in different directions. I don’t know why he’s giving me cover. Maybe he likes the fact I’m an old guy who doesn’t mind being fucked with. I round the bridge
support at the northeast corner of the park, my footsteps masked by the skirr of wheels echoing under the bridge. Jase stands with his back to me, hands waving as he talks to some other kids. His plaid boxers bulge with ass between his sagging pants and a black Raider’s jacket at least one size too small. I hunch my shoulders and move along like I have no interest in anything, just a fellow walking from here to there, maybe a guy heading to work at Pacific Fruit the next block up. No one pays me any mind until I’m standing behind the cluster of boys.

“Jason.” He turns his head my way, but doesn’t respond. Then his eyes pop. He starts to back away and I raise my hands, palms out. “No one is with me, no cops, nothing. No one knows I’m even here.”

“Fuck off.”

“Not until we have a chat.”

His friends have already scattered. He turns, ready to bolt, then sees Push at the top of the bank above us. Push stands with his arms folded across his chest, chin down. He shakes his head and Jase surrenders. He drops his board. It rolls to a forlorn stop against the park wall. “What do you want?” Over Jase’s shoulder, I see Eager’s tag on the wall, an EG® the size of my palm, faded and partly obscured by other graffiti, drawn with a fat black marker.

“I was hoping you could clear something up for me.”

“Don’t know nothing about what happened this morning. Dad flips out, bang bang, and I run. That’s it.”

“I’m more interested in Eager.”

His face goes carefully blank. “Eager.”

“Yeah. Eager.”

“I don’t know what to tell you.”

“He was there this morning.”

“So were like a million other people.”

“I’m only interested in one. What was he doing there?”

“Like I give two shits what Eager does.”

“How many shits you give when he tagged your house a few months ago?”

That catches him off guard, but he recovers quickly. “That was my dad’s thing, not mine.” Then he smirks. “He thought you were gonna go all
Magnum, PI
for him.”

“He didn’t need me. He had you.”

Jase looks back toward Push, who is skating in lazy circles close by and not paying obvious attention to anything.

“Why didn’t you tell your father that was Eager’s tag?”

“If he’s so out of it he can’t figure out EGR, why should I care? Not my problem.”

“Wasn’t it you out there scrubbing it off?”

A shadow passes over his eyes. “So fucking what?”

“What did Luellen say about it?”

“Nothing. I don’t know.”

“Then what did Eager say about it?”

“The dude moved away.”

“His mother may have moved, but he stuck around. Which you know. I’ve seen you two running around together since she left.”

He throws his hands out, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Eyes twitching, refusing to look back at me. I’m boring him, or making him nervous. I try a new tack.

“Didn’t you two try out for that Gus Van Sant movie together, the one they filmed here at the park? That was after his mom left.”

“My dad wouldn’t let me, even though it was just extras. Skaters. I don’t know if Eager tried out, but it wouldn’t matter anyway. He’s not that good.”

“He seems pretty good to me.”

“He’s a poser. Got no business skating here, that’s for sure.”

“But I guess he’s good enough when you want to scam money at the off-ramp.”

He shakes his head. “That was a long time ago, man. We were never friends or anything. He just hung around.”

“Why did he hang around if you were such not-friends?”

“I don’t know, man. Maybe because he has a thing for my stepmom.”

“A thing?” I try to keep the sudden interest out of my voice.

“I guess it makes sense. She’s hot enough to give a squeaker like Eager wood.”

It unnerves me a bit to hear Jase speak of his stepmother like this. To me, Luellen is the mom of the little boy who calls me Mister Skin, whose plants I’ve watered during Bronstein family excursions. Still, she possesses a beguiling self-assurance; I can see why Eager would be drawn to her. Her country-girl loveliness and finely turned figure are only a part of it.

“Did she reciprocate?”

“You mean, does she like him back?”

“Yeah.”

“She was nice to him, but she’s nice to everyone.”

“Is that why he tagged your house? Because of how he felt about Luellen?”

“How should I know? We never talked about stuff like that. Whatever he thought about Lu was between him and his right hand.”

The resonating whir of skateboard wheels under the bridge seems to increase in pitch. Jase takes a half step back, finds himself up against the fence. His eyes tell me he thinks I’m going to hit him. I’m tempted. Probably get my ass kicked for my trouble though, if not by Jase then by the other skaters. Burnside Skatepark is not a place that tolerates shit from outsiders, and I doubt I can count on Push to help me if the situation blows up. He might enjoy playing the tough for me with a sloppy tub of attitude like Jase Bronstein, but no more than that. Still, I lower my brow, move a step in on
Jase and ball my fists at my side. There’s more I want to know, and I figure I might as well press while I’ve got him off-balance.

“You know, Jase, I’m not sure why you think it’s a good idea to give me attitude. The cops are looking for you. Cops who are my friends. You can’t run from a crime scene like that.”

“She did.”

“Luellen?”

“She left first. Cop turned his back and she zaps. I wasn’t gonna stick after that.”

“Jase, you were in that house this morning. You saw what happened, and a lot of people wanna know about it. You tell me now, maybe I can keep them off your back.”

“I told you, my dad freaked out and we ran. That’s it.” He’s blinking now, head swinging side to side. I can smell his sweat, vinegar tinted with nicotine. I’m on the edge of something, but he doesn’t want to give it to me. “I got nothing to do with any of this. Never have.”

“What about Danny? Luellen said he was with his grandfather. Do you know who that is? I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.”

“You don’t give a fat fuck about helping me.” Suddenly he draws himself up, kicks the tail of his board. It pops up into the air and he grabs it with one hand, thrusts it toward me like a spear. I jump back in time to avoid taking a jab in the batteries. “This is what I know about, man. This.” The bottom of the board is covered with scratched and faded stickers: band names I don’t recognize, skateboard logos I do. Element, Black Label. “Fuck my father, fuck Luellen, and fuck Eager. I ain’t taking a bullet for bullshit’s got nothing to do with me.”

At that, he turns and sprints under the bridge down 2nd. I let him go; couldn’t catch him if I wanted to. But I can’t help but wonder about the darkening bruise I saw on the back of his neck as he spun away from me.

Push skates up to the fence.

“Everything cool, man?”

“Yeah. No worries.”

But it’s not cool. Jase knows a lot more than he’s telling, not the least why he said his dad was packing heavy metal when all Mitch had was a peashooter. I wave to Push, head in the direction Jase ran. There is no sign of him, just the old brick buildings of Eastside Industrial, the scent of wet asphalt, delivery trucks belching exhaust. I pull out my phone, dial Susan’s cell. She doesn’t answer, but I leave a message telling her I saw Jase at Burnside, summarize our chat. If she wants to send a car down to look for him, she can. As I head up to the bus stop on MLK, I think about how part of me didn’t want to reach out to Susan, considering her attitude toward me earlier. But all the cop hasn’t been burned out of me yet. She’s the lieutenant, after all, and it’s just a phone call.