A Smudge of Gray: A Novel Page 11

  “They’re blowing them out,” Laura said to Trevor.

  “And he doesn’t even look tired.”

  As Katie sat close to her father, she felt a vibration on his waist, even before he did. “Dad, your phone.”

  Trevor saw “Megan” displayed on the screen.

  “It’s the office. Excuse me, honey. It’s too loud in here to talk.” Trevor got up and scurried out a side door.

  Jonathan passed Kevin the ball who tossed it with all of his energy from the three-point line. It arced high in the air and came close to the basket, but missed. Jonathan grabbed the air ball and put it back up, scoring two points. Katie and her mother cheered.

  Laura noticed a woman wearing a thick coat run into the gym and down the sideline. She waved at Jonathan. Laura recognized her; it was Anne Marie Boise. Laura signaled her over as Anne Marie took a seat next to her.

  “Geesh. I almost missed it,” Anne Marie said, flustered.

  “They’re really killing them,” Laura said, feeling the chill still attached to her new seatmate.

  “Hi there.” Anne Marie smiled at Katie. The nine-year-old returned the gesture. “I was waiting for my husband. I thought he would drive us together, but he’s working…as always.”

  “Trevor was just here. He had to step out.”

  “Oh, am I in his seat?” Anne Marie said.

  “Don’t worry. The game’s nearly over.”

  Anne Marie felt like an imposter as if she had invented the story of her husband to mask the reality of single parenthood. She saw less and less of Brian and she feared that any less would make him vanish from her memories. Anne Marie thought that perhaps Brian was a lie, a figment of her imagination implanted by some peculiar experiment. As she watched the chaos on the court, the buzzer blasted, taking her breath away.

  “They won!” Laura exclaimed.

  The crowd turned to the court as the blue team flailed. Laura and Katie cheered in tandem. Anne Marie joined them as she saw Jonathan see her. The crowd quickly died down as the slow death of the orange team finally occurred.

  “Easy game today,” Laura said.

  The ladies walked onto the court to reunite with their respective sons.

  “Great game,” Anne Marie said to the boys.

  “Where’s Dad?” Jonathan asked.

  “He had to work,” Anne Marie revealed. She looked into her son’s eyes and saw sorrow cloud them. She hugged him. “I know.”

  “I thought Dad was here,” Kevin said.

  “He was. He had to step out for a call.”

  “Did you see my layup?” Kevin asked.

  “I saw all of them. And that three you almost made,” Laura replied.

  “I tried so hard.”

  “You need more muscle,” Katie said.

  “Hey! You try to make a three!” Kevin returned.

  “Hey, everyone!” a boy with a blue jersey interrupted.

  The two families saw one of the blue team members holding a camera. “I’m taking pictures of all our families for a photo collection.”

  “How nice,” Anne Marie said.

  “But my husband,” Laura said.

  “Join the club,” Anne Marie joked, sharing laughter with her fellow mom.

  “We can Photoshop them in,” the boy said.

  “I need to Photoshop my husband next to me all the time,” Anne Marie said.

  Jonathan stood in front of Anne Marie as Laura put her arms around Kevin and Katie.

  “Say cheese,” the kid said.

  “Cheeeeese!” the families collectively exclaimed, as the boy clicked the picture. Then, he took off.

  “Mom, can we go for ice cream?” Kevin asked.

  “Yeah!” Katie said.

  Laura glanced back at the side door where Trevor had exited, but all she saw were families leaving. “I guess.”

  The two kids jumped.

  “Can we go too, Mom?” Jonathan asked his mother.

  “We have to go visit your aunt, remember?”

  “But Mom, please…”

  Anne Marie looked at Laura.

  “There’s a place right around the corner,” Laura said.

  “Okay, but let’s get it to go.”

  Jonathan cheered. Laura and Anne Marie led their kids to the front exit.

  As the crowd dissipated, a man fought past the exiting people through the rear door. He had tangled hair parted to the right, and the sleeves of his blue dress shirt were rolled up one too many times. It was Brian. He scanned the court as a couple kids in blue jerseys shot free throws, the kid with the camera taking their picture. Brian saw people sprinkled in the bleachers, but none of them resembled his wife. As he walked around the side of the bleachers, he saw a man open the side door and locked eyes with him. The man was a similar height, had the same jaw line, the same physique, but his hair was parted in the opposite direction and his clothes were arresting. It was Trevor.

  “Did they win?” Trevor asked.

  “I have the same question,” Brian said.

  “I had to step out when there was only a minute left and my son’s team was leading by a lot.”

  “Are you blue or orange?” Brian asked.

  “Blue.”

  “Me too. My son’s Jonathan.”

  “My son’s Kevin. He’s new.”

  “Ah, my wife mentioned him. She was telling me about you and your family,” Brian said.

  “My wife too. I’m Trevor Malloy.”

  “Brian Boise.”

  Both men raised arms at the same time and joined hands. They attempted to dominate the other with their squeeze and their shake. As each man looked deep into the other’s eyes, he saw his own reflection. Each man waited for the other to break his stare, to relinquish his grip. After the handshake finally broke, Trevor lowered his eyes first. But he was now staring at Brian’s crotch.

  “Your fly’s down,” Trevor whispered to Brian.

  Brian zipped up, the embarrassment of it all hitting him once he heard the action.

  “Rule number seven in the gentleman’s handbook,” Trevor chuckled.

  “There’s a gentleman’s handbook?”

  Trevor returned only a coy smirk, a smirk that didn’t answer Brian’s question, yet at the same time, it did.

  “So your wife tells me you’re a police detective,” Trevor said.

  “Yep.”

  “Does that keep you busy?”

  “Lately, it’s been consuming my life.”

  “I hear ya. It’s tough these days to balance family life with a career. What kind of cases are you working on?” Trevor pried.

  “Mainly homicide. I try not to let my family know many details of my work. I track some of the most brutal killers.”

  “Killers? Must be tough on the family.”

  “Family comes first,” Brian replied.

  “We all say that,” Trevor laughed. “I keep work and family separated as well. It’s easier that way.”

  “What do you do?” Brian asked in an attempt to remove himself from the subject.

  “I own a consulting service.”

  “What market do you target?” Brian asked.

  Before Trevor could respond, a boy wearing a blue jersey scampered between them. The boy’s size six sneakers stepped on Trevor’s size eleven dress shoes, as if the businessman were not even there.

  “Whoa! Watch the shoes,” Trevor yelped.

  Trevor looked down and saw a scuff mark near the white leather patch on one of his shoes. He propped it on the bottom bleacher and buffed it lightly with his handkerchief.

  “Let me guess, rule number eight in the gentleman’s handbook—always carry a handkerchief,” Brian said.

  “No. You just never know when you need a cloth. These are special import from Italy.”

  “Are you a father?” the kid with the camera said.

  Both men turned. “Yes, my son’s on your team,” both said at the same time. They laughed.

  “I’m taking pictures of the players a
nd their families for a photo collection. Can I take your picture?”

  Trevor and Brian looked at each other and shrugged. They both stood with the gym floor in the background.

  “Okay. Say cheese,” the boy said.

  Trevor said the word and smiled, while Brian remained stone-faced as if he were taking a picture for the newspaper.

  Then, the boy pressed the camera’s button. Its lens automatically adjusted focus as it measured light and distance to the focus point. The flash ignited and the lens captured the light in front of it during 1/60th of a second. The man on the left looked cool and collected. He sported an expression that had layers, an expression that his menacing eyes dominated. But the man on the right looked like his antithesis. His face was emotionless. He did not smile. He did not squint. It was as if he lacked life. The picture was a brief moment frozen in time, a moment that would never be lived again, but a moment that would be stored indefinitely by digital ones and zeros on its memory card.

  “Thank you,” the boy said, and then scurried away.

  A sudden ring jarred the two men.

  “Excuse me,” Trevor said as he grabbed his phone and stepped away into an isolated shell.

  Brian stared at his new acquaintance, the gentle man who seemed too perfect. Brian watched the way Trevor held his cell phone with his left hand. He watched him clutch it tightly like the way he had clutched his own gun. The detective observed the silver on Trevor’s wristwatch glimmering in the gym lights. Brian kept his head straight, but moved his eyes down Trevor’s faultless outfit. As Trevor’s image flowed over Brian as if he were studying an artist’s masterpiece, he rested his gaze on the charcoal gray shoes protecting the heels of the businessman. Suddenly, the shoes stepped in place. Brian watched Trevor return his phone to his belt.

  “I have to run. It was a pleasure meeting you,” Trevor said with confidence as he offered his hand once again.

  Brian accepted the gesture as his hand went limp inside Trevor’s grip. “Likewise.”

  Brian watched the man he had just met glide toward the side door, and then sneak out. The detective felt his thigh twitching. It was sudden and constant, a muscle out of control. But then he realized it was his cell phone inside his pocket.

  “Hello?” Brian said.

  “Where are you?” Anne Marie asked.

  “Standing in the gym.”

  “The game’s over, Brian.”

  “I can see that. I’m sorry. I got tied up.”

  “Save it.”

  “I just met Kevin’s father, Trevor.”

  “Oh, really. I just got done buying ice cream for Jonathan with his wife and kids.”

  “Something strange about that guy,” Brian said.

  “From what I hear, I think he seems to be a very devoted father.”

  “I don’t know. What did you say their last name was?”

  “Malloy,” Anne Marie said without thinking, but then she thought. “Wait, are you going to run a check on him? You’re paranoid! At least he shows up to his kid’s game on time! Not when it’s over!”

  “I’m sorry, honey. Forget it.”

  “Go back to work!” she barked, and then hung up.

  Brian took a seat on the bench and rubbed his face. His stubble stung his hands. His brain hurt again. He realized that darkness had breached the safe that he had kept hidden deep inside his mind, the safe that contained the most coveted feelings of his wife and son. Brian sat alone on the bleacher as the life in the gym had faded into a coma.

  Chapter 18

  A truck tire pummeled a pothole shaving off a chunk of macadam. Vehicles filled the busy downtown as the stars blanketed the sky. A downtown shopping mall lined both sides of the city block. Taxis picked up shoppers and dropped off potential ones. A large walkway, some thirty feet over the road, connected the two blocks. Life flourished.

  An Asian woman stepped from a taxi. She tightened the belt on her coat from the brisk night air. A sound of clicking caught her attention. Even though a thousand people filled the sidewalks, the sound wiggled its way through the masses and entered her eardrums. The woman turned toward the busy walkway next to her as she followed the guidance of her ears. And there amongst the crowd she saw what produced the sound—two charcoal gray shoes.

  Trevor walked without a thought through the mass like a shadow in the night. His black uniform, cleaned and pressed, framed him. Trevor carried his briefcase firmly in his right gloved hand. He walked with his eyes fixated on something at the end of the block, something that trumped even a glance at the fetching females on the posters of Victoria’s Secret. Trevor saw his destination only a few steps away, a traditional phone booth still offering its landline service to a phoneless customer.

  A thug with a shaved head and goatee stood inside the booth engrossed in his phone conversation. He talked with his hands and looked like an inmate getting his weekly phone call.

  Trevor stopped outside the booth. He peered at his watch. The hands of his Rolex displayed one minute to nine. Trevor shook his head, and then opened the booth.

  “Hey, buddy!” the man with the goatee roared at his intruder.

  “This phone’s out of service.” Trevor reached in and pressed the receiver.

  “What the fuck!?”

  The man clenched his fist. Trevor flipped open his coat. The brute lowered his hand and his expression as Trevor’s silver pistol spoke louder than words.

  “Alright,” the man conceded, and then walked away.

  Trevor slid into the phone booth and set his briefcase down. He picked up the dangling phone with his left hand and held the receiver with a finger from his right. Trevor stared at the black dial on his wrist—the second hand swept around the number nine. He remained motionless like a statue sculpted from the darkest clay. His mind had no thoughts, no regrets, no fears; his eyes only saw the sweep of the second hand. Finally, it hit twelve. The minute hand followed it and locked into place. As the watch showed exactly nine o’clock, a moment in time that lasted only, and exactly, one second, the phone rang. Trevor released his leathered finger and placed the phone on his ear.

  “The sunset leads to darkness,” the chilled voice sprayed into Trevor.

  “And darkness leads to death,” Trevor replied in a tone he kept hidden inside the bowels of his mind.

  “This contract is for April Benko. Twelve Eighth Street. Apartment Four C.”

  “My fee has gone up another fifty percent since last time.”

  “You’re out pricing yourself,” the mysterious man replied with a chuckle.

  “The risk for my capture escalates with each contract. And more risk equals more compensation.”

  A void of nothingness replied, a pause while the devil deliberated.

  “Alright, that can be arranged,” the voice finally said.

  Trevor placed the receiver back into its cradle and slithered out from the confining glass into the crowd. But as he took a few steps away from the booth, two men blocked his path. One man was the offended thug with the goatee; the other was his friend, equally as abrupt with tattoos weighing him down.

  “How was the phone call, huh?” the man with the goatee said as he opened his coat and flashed a gun.

  Trevor remained still. He licked his lips, amused by the rubbish in front of him. He had no time to entertain.

  “What’d you got in that briefcase of yours?” his friend asked. The man with the tattoos reached for Trevor’s briefcase, but as soon as he touched it, Trevor grabbed his hand and tossed him into the other man. The crowd on the sidewalk fluttered. Finally, both men regained control. The one with the goatee grabbed the back of the man in a trench coat, but it was not Trevor. Both men spun with angry eyes searching for the businessman on the sidewalk, but Trevor had vanished into the darkness.

  * * *

  At forty minutes after nine, some eight blocks away, two men worked diligently, performing their duties to the best of their abilities. One man received immediate recognition for his efforts bec
ause he was a janitor. As he flexed his biceps to slosh the mop back and forth on the floor, the result of his sweat was clean tiles that reflected the fluorescent lights. The other man, however, worked just as hard as he flexed his mental muscle at his desk searching a computer database. This man did not see immediate gratitude for his efforts. His floor was darker and dirtier after he slid his mop across it.

  Brian moved the mechanical ball on his antiquated mouse across the wood on his desk, dodging the stale half-empty coffee in front of him. He clicked through the police records. His blue dress shirt still covered his body with his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Brian selected the “Name” field on the screen and used his right hand to peck at the keyboard. He entered “Malloy, Trevor” one letter at a time as if he only had one chance to enter it. Then, he clicked the “Go” button as the word “Processing” filled the screen. He stared at the three little dancing dots after the “g.” After what seemed like an hour, but was only ten seconds, the computer screen spit “No Police Records Found.”

  “Hmm,” Brian sighed.

  The detective rubbed his stubble. He switched to another screen with the words “Bar Records – Official Use Only” plastered in Courier font. He scrolled to the bottom of the busy screen, which was filled with advanced search features. He bypassed the “Name” field and selected the “Occupation” field with his mouse. Carefully, Brian entered “Prosecuting Attorney,” only using the backspace once to fix his fat fingering. Then he moved his mouse, clicked a “Radius” drop down box, and selected the maximum, “25 miles.” Brian hit “Search” as the screen displayed “Processing” again. As the computer calculated, Brian used a Taco Bell napkin to wipe the deposited grime on his monitor that had settled from the spoiled air. As he smeared the screen even more, the CRT monitor beamed “49 Records Found.”

  “Good evening, sir,” the janitor said as he slid his way around Brian’s desk.

  “Hey, Charlie. How’s it going?” Brian asked.

  “Ah, another day. How ’bout you?”

  “Fuckin’ exhausted.”

  “You should get out of here, sir. Go down to the girlie club. That always cheers me up.”

  “I’m about ready to get out of here, but I get a free ticket into the girlie club at my house,” Brian chuckled.