Condolences by Keith Gilman

Officers in black raincoats blocked the road. A red Buick lay at the bottom of a shallow ravine, submerged in four feet of cold, rippling water. The dead guy in the driver’s seat looked bored. Frank Weber was a detective, on the list of people to call when shit happened. He parked the gray Pontiac and lit a cigarette.

One of the uniforms poked him in the chest, “What do you say, Frankie? How they treating you upstairs?”

“No complaints.”

“I’ll handle the paperwork. Don’t worry about it.”

“Thanks. Guy must have been flying.”

“The blood will come back distilled.”

“What about skid marks?”

“None. Driver must have fallen asleep.”

“Works for me. I make it home every night with my eyes closed.”

Frank tossed his cigarette into a puddle of muddy water, “You ID him?”

“Guys name is Bowers, lives in Springfield. License is good. The car’s clean. You just never know.”

“Never know what?”

“What’s going to happen.”

“Sure. Take it easy, Tommy.”

“Hey, Frank. Could you do me a favor?”

“Here it comes.”

“I was hoping you’d make the notification. The guys got a wife. She’ll have to be told.”

Frank looked down at the wet road, at the glistening pavement, the red lights, “Get me the address.”

* * * *

  In Springfield, all the houses looked the same. Brick colonials on manicured lots. Frank found the house, thinking how to make the truth sound nicer than it was. A light was on inside, movement behind the sheer curtains. A woman sat on the sofa in a silky blue nightgown, sipping from a glass of wine. Her bare legs escaped from beneath folds of thin material. She lit a cigarette and blew the smoke over her head. A blue haze filled the room. She was waiting for someone, her husband or someone else. He pushed the buzzer, pulled his badge out. She opened the door, “This is about Joe, isn’t it?"

“I’m afraid so, Mrs. Bowers ... Your husband was in an automobile accident. He went off the road into a creek. He died at the scene. I’m sorry.”

She didn’t say anything. She poured the last glass of wine from the bottle. She took three long swallows and dropped the bottle onto the table. It spun to the floor. Frank picked it up, read the label as if he knew the difference between Burgundy and Bordeaux.

Her arms went around him. Her body shook. Her hair fell over his face. Her skin was warm, “I’m sorry, Detective. Please forgive me.”

She pushed herself away. Frank moved toward her.

“I’m all right. Joe and I fought constantly. He’d hit me when he was drunk. I deserve it, maybe. I never thought he’d end up dead.”

“It’s not your fault. There was nothing you could’ve done.”

“You must think I’m crazy.”

“You’re in shock.”

“Joe was jealous. He’d accuse me of the worst things.”

“I better go. I’ll leave my card.”

* * * *

It was too late to go home, too early for the bar. Frank stopped at Ralph’s for breakfast a diner that catered to cops. Tommy D was at a table in the back, “Back so soon?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t see you for two years. Now, twice in one day.”

“Consider yourself lucky.”

The waitress rattled a cup of coffee in front of Frank as if she was feeding a stray cat on her back porch.

“Fortunato’s opens in an hour.”

“You read my mind.”

Fortunato’s wasn’t much different than Ralph’s, same clientele, same intimate charm. Tommy dropped a shot of Jameson into a full glass of beer.

“You’re disgusting.”

“Tell me about it.”

They toasted each other in the clouded mirror behind the bar, “How’d the old lady take it?”

“Pretty well. I’d say, her husband taking a spill and not coming home is par for the course.”

“That don’t sound good, Frankie.”

“She looks better than she sounds. The kind that’ll drive a man to drink.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

They toasted the widow and drained their glasses. After another hour, they ran out of things to toast and called it quits.

* * * *

The phone woke him up. His head ached, his mouth thick as cement. The answering machine picked up. It was her.

“I need to see you, Detective. You saved me from going crazy last night. I can make us a pot of coffee, or wine, if you’d prefer.”

Twenty minutes later he was on her porch. She wore a short black skirt and jacket. Her hair was tied up, a few curling wisps over her face. A pearl necklace circled her narrow neck and reached to the curve of her breasts. She wasn’t wearing much make-up. She didn’t need much. The tears were gone.

She poured two glasses of wine, “Thanks for coming, Detective.”

“Drop the formalities. Call me Frank.”

“I’m afraid I have a guilty conscience, Frank. I meet a cop and I start confessing.”

“A guilty conscience is tough to shake.”

They touched their glasses together. The ring was soft, hollow.

“I should’ve done something. Joe’s drinking, his anger…”

“Like what? You didn’t put the bottle in his hand. You didn’t force him off the road.”

“But I gave up. I drank myself silly and shut my eyes to the truth.”

“Forget about it, Sylvia. It’s over.”

She walked to the window. Frank followed. She sipped her wine, turned to face him, “I don’t want to be alone tonight, Frank.”

They stepped into each other’s arms. Her mouth was soft and inviting. He tasted the wine, the cigarette smoke. He tasted her. He watched her slip out of her dress. Her movements were methodical, rhythmic. She lingered at the foot of the bed, let him see her, her flawless body, a model’s face. She let Frank do things to her, things she did when she was drunk and didn’t remember when she was sober.

Frank struck a match, held it out to her, a cigarette dangling from her lips. She grabbed his wrist, let the smoke drift from her mouth, her liquid blue eyes locked on his. She held his wrist until the flame burned his fingertips. He heard her laugh. It was a mean laugh. He didn’t like the sound of it.

“So what do you do when you’re not getting policeman drunk and seducing them?”

“That’s not funny, Frank.”

“Forgive me.”

“I’m a cocktail waitress at the Eldorado.”

“That’s tough territory.”

“Not really. I started hanging around the bar and that’s when Joe went off the deep end.”

“I bet.”

“One night, he showed up after hours, kicked in the front door, fought with Tony, the owner.”

She peeled herself off him, ran into the bathroom and slammed the door. Frank pulled on his pants and got the hell out of there.

* * * *

Tommy D was pulling into Ralph’s. Frank held the door, “After you, your honor.”

“You’re becoming a regular.”

“It’s the food.”

“You’re working up quite an appetite.”

“It’s here or the bar.”

“You never did stay home much.”

“Fuck you.”

“Did you get the word on the toxicology report?”

“That was fast.”

“Just preliminary. They found traces of Thallium. If the accident hadn’t killed him, the poison would have. Someone wanted him dead.”

Frank sat stone-faced, “I’m tired. See ya, Tommy.”

“Sweet dreams.”

* * * *

Frank stretched out on the bed. The sunlight warmed the room. He couldn’t sleep. The phone rang.

“Why did you leave?”

“You needed some time alone.”

“Is that what you thought?”

“Yeah.”

“The funeral is tomorrow. Will you be there?”

“No.”

“You’ll call?”

“Yeah.”

* * * *

  The small chapel was practically empty. Sylvia sat near the casket, her hands in her lap. Frank stayed in the back. He didn’t stay long. There wasn’t anybody else coming. Joe Bowers wasn’t a very popular guy. On the way home, he picked up a fifth of Jameson. He drove past Fortunato’s, saw Tommy’s car in the lot. He didn’t stop. He had to get her out of his system.

The phone calls started. He tried to ignore them.

“Frank, pick up. I know you’re there.”

He closed his eyes. He could still smell her, still taste her.

“My god, Frank. It’s an emergency.”

“Sylvia, where are you?”

“The Eldorado. Frank, hurry.”

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Tony. He wants to kill me. You’ve got to get me out of here.”

“I’m coming.”

She was standing in the shadows, wearing a man’s dark raincoat. She leaped into the front seat and the raincoat fell open. Her blouse was torn, her breasts straining through a sheer black bra, “Get moving, Frank.”

“Why would Tony want to kill you?”

“He got the crazy idea I wanted to marry him, now that Joe was out of the way.”

Frank hit the gas. Police cars flew past, speeding toward the Eldorado.

“What happened in there?”

“He’s dead, Frank. He attacked me, had his fucking hands all over me. He threw me onto the desk and I grabbed a pair of scissors. There was nothing else I could do.”

“We’re going back.”

“I can’t, Frank. Don’t make me.”

“We have to. They’ll be looking for you.”

“You can protect me.”

“How? Where would we go?”

“Anywhere, as long as we’re together.”

“It won’t work, Sylvia.”

She moved closer, her hands all over him, “Do I have to beg, Frank?”

He felt her lips on his neck, the point of her tongue on his skin.

“I can’t go through with this.”

“Yes you can.”

Her mouth was moving, following her hands down to his pants. He pushed her away.

“What’s wrong? You going soft on me, Frank.”

Frank whipped the car around. They saw flashing lights ahead, yellow police tape.

“You’re making a mistake, Frank. I’ll tell them we were in it together. They’ll buy it. You know they will.”

“What about Tony?”

“That was self-defense.”

A crowd gathered in front of the Eldorado.

“How will you explain the poison, Sylvia?”

“I’ll say you pressured me into it. You were possessed.”

“I told Tommy Dickerson. He has the reports. He knows everything.”

  Sylvia lunged, grabbed the wheel. The car careened out of control, caught the curb and flipped over. Gasoline ran onto the road. Frank crawled through the broken window, over shards of jagged glass. Sylvia’s legs were crushed.

  She reached for her lighter. He knew she’d never let him escape. The car burned in an explosion of searing heat and white light.

* * * *

Tommy D rang the doorbell. A woman answered, her face puffy with sleep. Frank’s old sweatshirt hung over her hips, “C’mon in, Tommy. It’s freezing.”

“Thanks, Dot.”

“Coffee?”

“Black’s fine.”

“This is one of those visits, isn’t it Tommy.”

“Frankie’s dead, Dot. Last night, in a bad crash. We were there in seconds but he was already gone.”

Her coffee had grown cold.

“On the job?”

“On his way to a murder scene, a stabbing at the Eldorado.”

“Was he drunk?”

“Dot, please.”

“Well, was he! You knew him.”

“I don’t know.”

She was looking out the window, at the frost on the grass, at the dead brown leaves, at the branches left bare by the wind.

“You don’t see the guy for months and he ends up dead.”

“You going to be all right.”

“I’ll be fine. Nothing about him can surprise me anymore.”

Tommy looked her up and down, the slender hips, the thin legs. She kept herself nice.

“You’ve been divorced all this time and never remarried? I’m sure you’ve had opportunities.”

She lit a cigarette, slid the pack across the table.

“Thanks, Tommy. Nice of you to notice.”

© Keith Gilman 2007 All Rights Reserved