Shaunessy Goes West in Winter. by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Chapter 10

Shaunessy was feeling well, slightly buzzed from the beer, while Striker enjoyed the same sensation and the pleasant anticipation of soon making a new good friend. Soon Striker had the car up to eighty and the duo failed to notice the usual dismal appearance of the adjacent land with its plastic and tin structures, both minds entertaining warmer thoughts, though Striker’s dreams concerned flesh and Shaughnessy envisioned warmer weather and precipitation. Their like mindedness was not yet obvious to them. Shaunessy looked at Striker as they passed other cars and saw that the speedometer was up to ninety.

Striker saw the look, clucked his tongue, grinned and said;

“Let’s get this crap over with.”

The wind caused an opening in the persistent dark bulbous clouds, momentarily producing a highly localized splash of radiance, giving Shaunessy a small glimpse of the spring yet to be experienced, seemingly eons away in the throes of December.

Striker slowed down as he negotiated the curving exit ramp, soon putting them in an area with variously aged adobe houses of all sizes and shapes, some flat roofed and some with sloping tin.

Shaunessy eyed the smaller old houses still gracefully standing, accustomed to many seasons of icy blasts. He liked the quirky little houses that showed they would last forever if someone

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took care of them, now the beneficiaries of the direct glow of the cloud beleaguered sun.

He recalled a recent dream he didn’t understand wherein he went to some kind of religious show or gathering. He entered a large plainly decorated hotel type of structure and saw signs directing him to the far side of the first level. Two doors were open and the thirty by thirty rooms were full of people standing or milling about with no obvious purpose, perhaps waiting for the speaker to appear. He noticed that the people there seemed to be in pairs, unlike him, making him, a solitary man , feel out of place.

No one looked his way, which was comforting under his perceived circumstances, so he watched them, unable to comprehend their words. Most were casually chatting and politely making small laughs in front of deep brown stained, wainscoted, windowless walls. He entered one of the rooms and was able to see a bar lining one wall, the artificial dim lighting doing nothing to convince him that it wasn’t still evening, though he remembered the outside street clashed with the perception.

He got the notion that he was looking for someone he didn’t see. What he did see was a table, uninteresting to the others, on which sat a number of pliant rubber masks. Without inspecting them all, he put on the face of a pretty blond female

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with a turned up nose. He was surprised that still no one looked his way. He again looked around the room and continued not seeing the person he was seeking, though he wondered how he could possibly recognize someone unknown to him.

He left the room and entered another, identical to the first, but without a bar. Again, no one paid any attention to him while he surveyed the contents of the room, not seeing anything of interest. He took off the mask and watched the leisurely couples, went back to the first room and put the mask back where he had found it. He eyed the people one last time, before leaving with a vague sense of failure. Returning to the sunlit street he thought; “Maybe I couldn’t find the person I was looking for because they, too, were wearing a mask.”

Striker turned into Venture Way and said; “Hey, wake up.

We’re almost there.”

Shaunessy, mildly perturbed at being pulled from his reverie, straightened up and said; “Sometimes I think I’m the only one here who is awake.”

Striker wasn’t sure if that remark was directed at him personally or if Shaunessy wasn’t just in one of his weird moods. He was getting used to Shaunessy, so he chose to pay no attention to it, instead saying; “You feel all right?”

“Yes, yes. The beer made me a little sleepy, that’s all.”

“I thought you said you were awake.”

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Shaunessy was embarrassed at the apparent contradiction, but thought of; “I didn’t say that I was asleep. I merely said I was a little sleepy. Inglais?”

Striker was glad to see that his partner was back to his old cantankerous self and said; “Ready to give ’em hell?” as he went through the open gate and up the driveway of number 256.

Accosted by nothing other than mature evergreens, they pulled right up to the gray front door, exited the patrol car, pushed the button beside the entranceway and heard melodious chimes.

No answer. Shaunessy pushed the button again, saying; “I like the sound.” Still feeling silly, he kept pushing the button every few seconds, saying; “I know that song. I just can’t place it.”

Striker just looked at him, not knowing what to say, when the door swung open.

They saw a small thin man of about eighty with approximately twenty long strands of white hair disheveled on his bumpy head. He was fastening the belt on the brown bathrobe that covered most of his white cotton pajamas replete with a thousand small blue caricatures of George W. Bush.

Shaunessy’s silliness remained and he said; “Is your son home?”

The little man said; “My son’s in Key West and I hope the hell he stays there.”

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Trying to clear things a bit, Striker said; “That’s Mark, correct?”

The little man said; “No, that’s Jason. I’m Mark. What is it that you want? I had a few beers and fell asleep.”

Striker was momentarily taken aback as he hadn’t pictured the probable mob connected, successful businessman looking like this and was silent.

Shaunessy asked; “What song do those chimes play?”

Mark, sounding exasperated, said; “’ La Vie en Rose.’ What the hell is this, ‘ Name That Tune?’”

Shaunessy laughed and said; “No, just an aside. We’re here again to ask you a few questions about that lot you own in Vista de la Feria. May we come in?”

Mark stepped aside, allowing them entry, but continued his exasperated tone with; “What do you mean ‘again’? I didn’t see you the first time.”

Striker said; “Right, your lawyer spoke to us, saying you were away on business.”

Mark said; “I haven’t been away on business in ten years.

That crooked asshole just wanted an excuse to bill me for more hours.”

Mark turned his back and led them through the pink-orange tiled, half center hall, muttering; “Son of a bitch” as Striker felt a twinge of mirthfulness and Shaunessy admired the

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pedestals holding the bronze heads of some Italians he didn’t recognize. Mark passed through an ornately carved deep brown wooden door to a “greeting room” with a long thin trestle table, seats on both sides. He sat on the far side and gestured with a sweeping right arm for the cops to take seats on the other. As he again adjusted the belt on his bathrobe, he said; “I guess you mean the lot with the dead body on it. I own a few lots in Vista de la Feria.”

When the cops nodded yes, he continued; “I’m sorry I ever bought the piece of shit. I thought I had finally gotten rid of it and then on the first day of work the construction crew I committed to for a month hit the God damn corpse.”

Striker said; “What do you know about it?”

Mark’s voice went up an octave when he said; “Just what I’ve already said. I didn’t want to buy some fucking graveyard.”

Striker said; “Well, it wasn’t a graveyard when you bought it. It became one three years ago under your ownership.”

Mark said; “So, I got Boris Karloff for a trespasser, too.

Go find Igor.”

Striker didn’t like the reply and didn’t know what movie it applied to, if any, so he sternly said; “Look. It’s in your best interest to help us solve this. We can keep the place roped off as a crime scene as long as we like.”

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Mark didn’t like the idea of the threat and said calmly and firmly; “You look. I don’t know anything about the body. I don’t think I’ve ever been on the property. Keep it roped off and I won’t pay the taxes. Then Vista de la Feria can shove the property up its fucking ass. Simple enough?” He glowered at Striker.

Shaunessy’s amusement was silently creeping up notches as the conversation proceeded and he asked; “Why do you bother with all this stuff at your age? Who needs it?”

Mark extended his arms to each side, shrugged and said;

“What else should I do all day? My wife’s long dead and my number one son thinks he’s Hemingway.”

Shaunessy laughed and said; “I understand. We’ve got something in common.”

Mark said; “You got a Hemingway, too?”

Shaunessy said; “No, not that part. The kids live in other parts of the country and my wife’s been gone a while. I really do this just to keep busy. Why’d you ever get involved with this property?”

Mark brushed back his few strands of hair and said; “That stupid lawyer told me the area was ripe for commercial development and that I could get it for less money than a vacant lot.” He again extended his arms to the sides and continued;

“This is true, but then I find out it’s going to cost me more

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than I paid for the God damned lot to have the old wrecked house removed. And now, this.” He sarcastically chuckled and added;

“Shit on lawyers.”

Shaunessy returned the sentiment by also chuckling and said; “We don’t want to keep you from your dreams. The investigation is leading us to some unaccounted for illegal alien traffickers working in the area three years ago and Little Manny. Know anything about that?”

Mark said; “Only a little. I got my workers through Little Manny and I heard that there was some crap between him and the fly-by-nighters. I didn’t want to get in the middle of that.”

Shaunessy put his hands on his thighs and rose from his chair, saying; “Thanks, Mark. If you remember anything that might be useful, give me a call. We want this cleared up as much as you do. Then we can go back to catching speeders.”

The duo left and drove back to the Vista de la Feria police station, where Shaunessy went directly to his car and drove home. Striker kept on “working” and paid a visit to Carla for further questioning.

At home, Shaunessy checked all the rooms for visitors and, seeing none, he said; “Margaret. You should have seen what I saw today.”

Imagined query.

“The Boobie Hatch.”

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Imagined question regarding mental institutions.

“No, better than that. Big chested girls in bikinis and high heels serving food.”

Imagined chastising remark.

“Don’t say that. It wasn’t my fault. Striker took me there.”

Imagined facetious, shocked and disbelieving response.

“Really, it’s funny at my age.”

Imagined change of subject.

“Yeah, things are working out with him.”

Imagined and real silence.

“What kept you occupied today?”

Imagined reference to Isabel.

“You see her doing any work?”

Imagined negative chuckle.

“Striker warned me.”

Imagined loving and closing partial sentence.

“Love and miss you, too, baby.”

He sat on the couch and dozed while the television played a Spanish channel. It looked much like “The Boobie Hatch.” Since he was not bi-lingual, to him, it had only slightly more than the television’s usual supply of nonsensical words.

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