The Jigsaw Man

JIGSAW

M A N

G O R D R O L L O

L E I S U R E B O O K S

1 =

N E W Y O R K C I T Y

This novel is dedicated to my father, James Rollo, who gave

me my love for reading and helped inspire my first steps to—

ward becoming a writer. While this book might not exactly be

his cup of tea, I think he'll get a kick out of it....

No book is ever truly written alone, so I'd be remiss if I didn't

acknowledge some of the people who have helped make this

happen: Gene O'Neill, MichaelLaimo, J. E Gonzalez, Da

vid Nordhaus, Brian Keene, Jimmy ZJohnston Shane Stal-

ey, and Don D 'Auria I also want to give a shout-out to my

brothers Tony, Brian, and Stuart, and a special thank-you to

my wife Debbie for putting up with me.

The Reason

Drummond Brothers Rock and Bowl,

North Tonawanda, New York

Hell of a place, Drummond's, an old-fashioned, family-run

bowling alley suffering from an identity crisis of late. The

comfy wooden tables and chairs have been replaced with ugly

black plastic stools with shiny chrome legs; the soft overhead

fluorescent lighting with purple and red retina-destroying

spotlights; the soothing background music with bass-heavy,

blow-out-your-eardrums heavy alternative rock. People used

to come here with family and friends to bowl, have some good

clean fun, and the best damn cola floats in Western New

York. Now the rowdy young crowds come to get drunk, fight,

shot put the bowling balls at their buddy's head, and scream

out obscenities and pickup lines over the horrendously loud

musk.

If old Mr. Drummond were still around to see what his

sons had done to the family business, he'd have burned the

place to the ground, his good-for-nothing prodigies still

trapped inside. Still, the Rock and Bowl, with all its gaudi-

ness and utter contempt for its humbler beginnings, was

making money hand over fist—even the old man couldn't

have argued with that.

Thursday night. A big crowd.

Two guys sitting at the end of the bar, a bit older than the

usual early twenties crowd, three more friends standing at

their backs cheering wildly as the seated pair raise their frosty

mugs to their lips and start chugging.

The phone rings on the wall behind the bar, twice, three

times, hard to hear over the pulsing hypnotic beat of Rob

Zombies
" L i v i n g D e a d G i r l "
blaring on the overhead speak

ers. Finally, the overweight bartender waddles over, answers

it, cupping his free band around the earpiece to hear what the

caller wants. His face drains ofcolor as he slowly turns to look

at one of the beer drinkers.

He lays the phone down on the back counter, approaches

the group offve men joking and arguing over who won the

chug contest, and leans over the bar to interrupt them.

"It's the police," he tells the thin drunk sitting on the right.

"Lookinforyou. You'd better come take this"

The man looks worried but is still trying to play it cool in

front of his friends. He rises to his feet, almost trips over the

chair, and stumbles and weaves his way toward the far end of

the bar where it's open and he can walk around to grab the

phone. Fear has him by the short hairs but he isn't sure why.

For a moment, vertigo hits hard and the noisy room starts to

spin. He grabs the counter to steady himself, closing bis eyes

tightly until the nauseous sensation passes. Then, the phone—

"Hello?"

MichaelFox?"A cold voice. Irish accent.

"Ub-bub. Who's this?"

The inebriated man listens quietly for several minutes,

swaying on his feet, threatening to go down at any minute.

He remains upright, it's the phone that drops to the floor,

already forgotten as the man screams and runs for the exit.

Outside, ifs raining hard. He's bad far too much to drink

tonight to be sprinting but that doesn't stop him from trying,

the police officer's words still haunting him, urging him on—

ward.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Fox, but there's been an accident. ... "

PART ONE

T H E B R I D G E

Asleep in the gutter, middle of the afternoon, the con

crete curb not a very comfortable pillow. I don't actu

ally remember waking up, but I know I lay there for

several minutes in the grip of the dragon, shaking like I

had Parkinson's, waiting for the pain in my bones to go

away before even trying to open my eyes. W h e n I did,

it was a mistake, the sunlight burning into my head,

setting my drug-saturated brain on fire. My skull felt

like it was going to crack wide open. Part of me wished

it would.

Why the fuck do I keep doing this to myself? How can I be

so weak? So stupid?

Good questions. N o t so easy to answer. Everyone on

the street has their own dragon,, their own personal

demon that keeps them in check. Whatever it is, it'll

make you feel good, sure, let you soar with the eagles

for a while, but it's a hell of a fall back to ground level.

Dreams were for regular people, not guys like me. Ev¬

ery time I got too cocky, started thinking I might make

it out of here back to the real world, the dragon reared

up and bit me on the ass again, making damn sure I

knew my place.

To each his own, but my dragon's name was Sterno,

that stinky blue-flamed fuel people used to warm their

hands on ski trips or to caramelize brandy inside those

big glasses when they ordered dessert coffees in fancy

restaurants. You can buy Sterno easily enough but it's

expensive and to be honest, I didn't need to buy it. I

broke into cars for mine. It's common knowledge for

hardcore street folks, especially the people who've sur

vived long enough to learn what's what up here in the

colder climates, that the emergency kits people carry

around in the glove box or under their front seat are

mini gold mines. They held the kind of things we reg

ularly needed: matches, Band-Aids, aspirins, needle and

thread, chocolate, and—surprise—a little container of

Sterno fuel, in case you broke down in the snow and

needed a little heat to make it through a cold night un

til help arrived.

You strained it through a slice of bread, which got rid

of most of the poisonous shit, then drank the alcohol

base that was left. Don't try it; it's horrible tasting, a lot

like wood alcohol, but man does it make your problems

go away in a hurry.

So I finally dry-heaved my way into a sitting posi

tion, reminding myself that it had been a few days

since my last meal. I was thirsty. Really thirsty, and like

magic this bottle of water appeared in front of my

eyes. There's a hand attached to the bottle, and my

eyes followed the dark-skinned arm up, surprised to

see the only real friend I had left in the world smiling

down at me. -

Blue J was an all right dude, once you got by his ever-

increasing penchant for sniffing glue, and his rather

nasty habit of vomiting on himself while sleeping it

off.

His name had been Jason when I first met him, a

real good-looking guy. Tall, dark piercing eyes, smooth

black skin—looked a bit like Wesley Snipes, without

the attitude. Unfortunately, life on the street had sto

len his good looks. His pretty-boy ebony skin had

turned pasty and discolored, for some strange reason

turning a shade closer to blue than black. I didn't know

it it was all the glue he sniffed or the cheap booze he

guzzled, but that was why I changed his name. What

ever I called him,
he
was a decent guy, bad complexion

and all.

"Hey, buddy," he said. "Wanna sip?"

Man, did I. I had this god-awful taste in my mouth,

and I could just imagine the foul smell of my breath

right now. I grabbed the water and drained the whole

bottle in a greedy series of gulps. It wasn't until I was

done and handing the bottle back that I noticed my

friend wasn't alone. He had a woman with him. Well,

more of a girl than a woman, but who was I to judge.

She was pretty: dark hair, nice legs, and a big set of cans

squeezed into a dress two sizes too small. She was a lit

tle dirty and rough-looking around the edges but hey,

weren't we all?

"This here's my man, Mike," Blue J said to her.

She nodded, apparently satisfied. I might have asked

what her name was but I had a good idea where this was

leading so her name wasn't really important. I put a half

smile on my face—the best I could do with my head

still pounding—and went with the flow.

"What's up, J?" I asked, eyeing the girl's curvy body,

quickly moving from one vice to the next as I climbed

shakily to my feet.

"Well, unless you got 'portant places to go, this here

fine lady say she wanna party with us. Dig?"

I dug.

Blue J wasn't the handsome man he'd once been, and

Lord knows I wasn't anyone's definition of a lady-killer,

but we still made out all right. Why? Simple: at the

start of each month—for as long as they lasted—we had

drugs. J received a monthly prescription of Valium,

clonazepam, and Haldol as part of his Vets disability.

He'd only spent five months over in Desert Storm, but

he'd convinced some doctor at the VA hospital he was

suffering from depression and combat dementia. He

rarely took any of his own drugs, instead saving them

to barter for food, booze, and, like today, the services

of a young runaway.

Don't read too much into that. J and I weren't bad

guys. This was just the way life worked on the street, a

business deal for people who had nothing else to offer.

Drugs for sex—where was the harm in that?

"I'm in," I said. "Lead the way."

Blue J winked at me, dug in his pocket to hand each

of us a blue pill. The girl and I dry-swallowed the pills

without even asking what they were, then she marched

off down the sidewalk. J and I hurried to keep pace.

She took us several blocks uptown, then veered into

an alleyway between a Chinese restaurant and a Bank

of America. She was living beneath a rusty, metal stair

case that led to the second floor of the restaurant.

Somewhere she'd found a big green tarp and had strung

it under the stairs to make a fairly effective roof. The

tarp draped down near the ground, giving her shelter

from the elements and, more importantly, us a small

degree of privacy.

Inside, J and I went right to work, getting her out of

her gear in a hurry. None of us were expecting romance,

and foreplay just wasn't happening when three drugged-

up losers were huddled inside a four-by-ten-foot shel

ter. I was getting ready to do my thing when J blew the

whole deal.