The Bleeding Season Page 22

  Bernard grinned. “A lot’s changed.”

  “Yes,” Donald said quickly, “Bernard’s become a wild stud while you were away. King of the Titty Bars is what we call him now. It beats Moronic Dipshit and looks better on a t-shirt.”

  “At least I like titties,” Bernard said, laughing now too.

  “Yes, but do titties like you?” Donald plucked the cigarette from Bernard’s lips, took a drag then stuffed it back into his mouth. “That is the question.”

  “You know better than to ever get into it with Donny.” Rick put an arm around Bernard, looked at me and winked as they headed back toward the car. “Sorry that whole thing with the Marines didn’t work out.”

  “Fucking training platform,” Bernard grunted. “I was kicking ass and taking names until I fell off that goddamn thing. Wrecked my knee. It’s better now though.”

  “Still, that took a lot of balls, joining up like that. I’m proud of you, man.”

  Bernard looked back at Donald and me and beamed.

  “Like a kid with a cookie,” I mumbled.

  “True,” Donald agreed. “But which one’s the cookie?”

  As we followed behind them I heard Bernard say, “I told you, Rick, a lot’s changed.”

  And while I had no idea just how right he was, things had changed for each of us in our own way. Tommy was a few years dead, Rick was already fighting to find an old self he’d never quite fully recover, Donald had begun to lose the battle against depression and the alcoholism that accompanied it, I was within months of being engaged to Toni—so certain marrying her would somehow salvage us both, make us complete—and Bernard…Bernard, like Tommy, while not yet buried, was already a couple years dead too, slowly rotting from the inside out. Only no one knew it. Or maybe no one wanted to know it. No one wanted to know anything. Not about Bernard, not even about ourselves.

  Later that same night, while Donald and Bernard walked along the beach, Rick and I managed a quiet moment. We had taken up position at a small gazebo set back from the tall grass and overlooking the sand and ocean. After sitting quietly for several minutes, listening to the waves and the wind, I finally said, “It’s getting cold.”

  “Yeah, I like it though.” Sensing my discomfort he said, “Alan, it is what is. We just got to keep moving. Like sharks, right? We stop, we die.”

  “I just want to be sure you’re OK. I mean really OK.”

  “Eventually we’ll all be OK.”

  So many years later, we were still waiting.

  * * *

  A pounding on the front door brought me back. I hadn’t really been sleeping, but wasn’t totally awake either, so it took me a few seconds to realize I was on the floor, next to the couch, having apparently rolled off at some point during the night. Bright sunshine powered through the windows. I was stiff and sore, my muscles and joints ached and my head was throbbing. I struggled to my knees, and using the edge of the couch for leverage, hoisted myself to my feet. The knocking on the door resumed, harder this time. “Yeah, I’m coming,” I called. “Hold on, for Christ’s sake.” I rubbed my eyes, stretched, and staggered to the door.

  I found Rick and Donald standing there when I pulled it open, along with a blinding shaft of sunshine that felt like it had gone directly through my skull. I vaguely remembered making plans with them, telling them to be here because I had wanted to pursue the Chris Bentley angle. But I’d had so much to drink I wasn’t even sure how long I’d been passed out, or what day it was. The inside of my mouth felt like it had been lined with cotton. “What are you guys doing here so early?”

  “We called four times and never got an answer,” Donald scolded. “It’s almost three o’clock in the afternoon.”

  I shielded my eyes and squinted at my watch. He was right. “Shouldn’t you be at work then, Donald?”

  Rick shook his head. “It’s Saturday, you daffy fuck.”

  Donald launched a disapproving glance. After what had happened with Toni apparently he felt name-calling—even in fun—qualified as piling on at that point. Even in the midst of madness, Donald retained his flair for fair play and a sense of decorum, as if etiquette might tame an otherwise untenable situation. He meant well, but it reminded me of the way characters in those old British novels would stop to change into freshly pressed shirts in the middle of a war zone. “Alan,” he said patiently, “it’s the weekend.”

  “You been on a couple day drunk there, paisan,” Rick said, as if he truly believed this would be news to me. “Now, we supposed to stand out here like two dicks swinging in the breeze or you gonna let us in?”

  I motioned them in and they shuffled into the kitchen. Donald was dressed in a short-sleeved striped oxford, khaki pants and a pair of loafers. In typical contrast, Rick was wearing black lightweight sweatpants and a tight t-back muscle shirt with no sleeves at all, his powerful chest and sculpted arms displayed like the trophies he considered them. I, on the other hand, looked and felt like I’d been run over by a fleet of oil trucks.

  I went to the refrigerator, found the orange juice and chugged some right out of the carton. “Aren’t you two looking summery,” I said. “J.C. Penny have a sale?”

  “You been out cold since last night?” Rick asked.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Then you didn’t hear the news?”

  I leaned against the counter; my legs didn’t feel sturdy. “No.”

  Rick looked to Donald and gave him the signal to tell me what they already knew. “They found another one, Alan. Buried in the sand down at the public beach in the tall grass between the beach house and the water. They found another body.”

  “Jesus.” A wave of nausea and darkness swept through me. “Another woman?”

  Rick, with the nervous energy of a child, and equally uncertain of how to dispense it, gave a quirky nod. “What was left of her.”

  “They haven’t released a lot of details yet,” Donald said, “but like the first, she’s been dead for quite a while.”

  “Give me ten minutes.” I started for the bedroom. “I need a quick shower and a change of clothes before we head out.”

  Rick struck one of his heroic poses. “Where we going this time?”

  “One step closer to the truth, hopefully.”

  “Or another step closer to Hell,” Donald mumbled.

  As it turned out, we were both right.

  CHAPTER 21

  The heat was rising. Spring had become summer with little transition time, as it had become prone to do in recent years. The handful of aspirin I’d popped before we left was finally kicking in and had begun to ease my headache, but the humidity wasn’t helping any. The dealership where Bernard had worked was in the south end of New Bedford, just blocks from the warehouse and the job site I’d been fired from, and less than a mile from the cellar where he’d taken his life. As we drove deeper into the city I wondered if I’d ever again be able to go there without those ghosts tagging along for the ride.

  Rick parked across the street from the car lot. We’d all been there before at one point or another in the past, to pick Bernard up or drop him off or meet him, but as with everything else since his death, it didn’t feel the same. What should have been familiar—even vaguely—seemed distant and alien. I slid a hand into my pocket, touched the photograph of the mystery woman but pulled out the business card instead. I told Donald and Rick I was going alone and wanted to keep it low-key with Bentley. Neither objected.

  I put a pair of dark sunglasses on, hopped out of the Cherokee and crossed the street. The lot was large and filled with rows of used cars—many of them quite nice—and a small office building was set at the rear of the property. I had just hit the lot when a heavyset, moon-faced man emerged from the office and made his way toward me, waving and grinning as if we were old friends.

  “Hey there!” He offered a pudgy hand. “Great gosh all-mighty—hot enough for you? Phew! Welcome to summer! But what a great day to buy a car!”

  I reluctantly shook his hand. It
was damp and made a squishing sound when he tightened his grip. He pumped my arm with the enthusiasm of someone hoping to draw water. I smiled, pulled free and flashed the business card. “Is Chris Bentley around?”

  The jolly routine vanished. “Sure, pal. I’ll get him, he’ll be right with you.”

  I nonchalantly checked out a couple cars while waiting. Within a minute or two a man younger than I’d expected—late twenties at most—strolled out of the office wearing mirrored sunglasses and made his way over to me. “Can I help you, sir?”

  I held up his business card. “Chris Bentley?”

  “That’s right.” We shook hands.

  “I’m Alan Chance, was hoping I could talk to you for a couple minutes.”

  “Absolutely.” He pointed to the card. “Have we talked before? You look vaguely familiar for some reason.”

  “I got your name from a mutual friend.”

  “Terrific. Have you heard about the special financing packages we—”

  “I’m not looking to buy a car.”

  He removed his sunglasses and looked me over. “Then what can I do for you?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you at work, but I wanted to talk to you about Bernard Moore.”

  The veil of defensive hostility he had erected fell away with recognition. “That’s where I’ve heard your name, from Bernard. You’re one of his buddies from Potter’s Cove, right?”

  “Right,” I said.

  “Man, some crazy stuff happening over there these days, huh?” he laughed lightly. “Bodies turning up in a town like that can’t be good. Hell, if you’re not safe in Potter’s Cove you’re not safe anywhere.”

  “True enough.”

  “Hope they catch the psycho.”

  “Me too.”

  Bentley slid the sunglasses back on, folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against one of the cars. “Anyway, I was really sorry to hear about Bernard’s passing. I know he had a hard time after he lost his mom and all, and then when they let him go here he was in rough shape. I didn’t even know he’d died, felt bad. After he left here I’d call him now and then, sometimes we’d hook up and have lunch. I hadn’t heard from him in a while and I knew he was having a hard time, so I called and talked to his—what was it, his cousin’s place he was staying at, right?—and he told me that Bernard…well, you know.”

  “Committed suicide.”

  “Yeah.” He sighed long and hard. “Bernard was—well I don’t have to tell you, being his bud and all—he was kind of out there in some ways, but he was a good guy. He was always cool to me. He was in the biz longer and helped me out when I started, taught me a lot about sales. Most guys won’t do that. They feel threatened by younger salesmen. There’s only so much of the pie to go around, you know? But Bernard was always cool. He talked about you and his friends from Potter’s Cove all the time. Said you guys were all pretty tight.”

  I watched my reflection in the mirrors covering his eyes. “Yeah, we were close.”

  “Well, I’m sorry for your loss, man, truly. Real shame.”

  There was something inherently insincere about Chris Bentley. Like many people, he wore a mask of concern but was apathetic to anything that didn’t affect him directly. His controlled smile promised his indifference was nothing personal.

  Since I’d been thinking rather than speaking, Bentley said, “So…is there something I can do for you, Alan?”

  My mind hadn’t been clear enough to strategize prior to talking with him so I decided to wing it. “Bernard’s cousin Sammy gave us his duffel bag. Toward the end it was the only thing he had, and it had a bunch of his stuff in it—nothing of any real value—just sentimental. We went through it and we found a photograph.” I pulled it from my pocket but kept it down against my thigh while the rest of the lie formed in my mind. “There was a sealed envelope attached to it and a little sticky note saying to forward it to the person in the photograph. The only problem is, none of us know who the person is. I saw your card in his day planner and I remembered Bernard talking about you a lot—you were basically the only guy he worked with he liked—and I thought since you were friends with Bernard too, maybe you’d know who she is.” I displayed the photograph for him.

  He leaned forward and looked at it for what seemed an inordinate amount of time.

  “I’d really like to fulfill his wishes and get that letter to her,” I said, “but we don’t have any idea who she is.”

  “OK, this must be an old picture, but you can still tell it’s her.” Bentley removed his sunglasses and stared at the photograph again. “You don’t know who this is?”

  “Should I?”

  He chuckled, shrugged and put his glasses back on. “Well if you guys were as close as Bernard always said you were, it’s a little weird you don’t recognize his girlfriend.”

  Although I found nothing humorous in his answer I nearly laughed. All nerves. “His girlfriend?” I turned the photograph back to me and glanced at it. “This is Bernard’s girlfriend?”

  “Used to be, I guess. I only met her a couple times but if I remember right they were together for at least a couple years. I didn’t see her the last few months before Bernard died and I don’t remember him mentioning her. I figured they’d split up or something. He was having such a bad run, it would’ve just figured, you know? Her name’s Claudia something—never got the last name. He used to bring her by now and then, usually just on quick stops, you know, like when he was getting his check or something like that. I really didn’t know her or anything, but that’s how he introduced her, as his girlfriend. He talked about her a lot too, but never really said much about her specifically, if you know what I mean, he’d just mention shit they did or if they went somewhere or something. Went to the movies last night with Claudia; hung out at Claudia’s house yesterday, that kind of thing.”

  It was probably too late to appear anything but shocked. “Just seems strange that he never mentioned her to any of us,” I said.

  “That it do.” Bentley nodded. “But to tell the truth, I always got the impression that Bernard had a lot going on people didn’t know about. I don’t mean that in a bad way, just saying, I think he kept a lot of things separate. His work life and his personal life, both sides—the side he had with you guys, his older friends, and the side he had with guys like me, guys he worked with. I think he kept them separate—hey, lots of people do, no big thing.”

  I could tell he was holding back. He knew more but was treading carefully. I ignored the beads of sweat collecting in my hairline and did my best to put him at ease. “Yeah, I know exactly what you mean, but seriously, I can’t remember Bernard ever having a girlfriend. Ever. And I’m having a real hard time believing that if she were his girlfriend he wouldn’t have told me about her. Knowing Bernard he would’ve been bragging night and day about it. Seems strange even for him.” He laughed lightly, and I joined him. Awkwardness hung in the air like the heat engulfing us. “Either way, I feel like I should get that letter to her. You don’t have any idea where I can find her or how I can get a hold of her, do you?”

  The discomfort he was feeling revealed itself in his posture. “Look, man, I don’t want to get into stuff that maybe you don’t want to hear, OK?”

  I played it cool, wondering if the smile he wore ever completely faded. “We’re both adults here, Chris, whatever you can tell me I’d appreciate. Between you and me, makes no difference who this chick is, I’m just trying to do what Bernard wanted and get her the letter.”

  “New Bedford isn’t a small town,” he said, relaxing somewhat, his chin held a bit higher as if he were looking beyond me to something more important in the distance. The mirrors reflected the street behind me, and though I could see the Cherokee parked against the far curb, the glare from the slowly setting sun made it impossible to see Rick and Donald waiting inside. “But it is a small city, if you know what I mean. It’s not like everybody knows everybody else, but for natives everybody knows somebody who knows everybody el
se. In other words, the circles are small here. A couple of the guys here knew who Claudia was from being around the city for so long. One of them remembered her from school but couldn’t remember her name or anything, and the other one sort of knew who she was through a friend of a friend kind of thing. It’s not like they were friends with her or anything, but they basically knew who she was. And they knew what she was. She had drug problems even before high school the way I heard it, and she started hooking not long after that, was into it for years. I don’t know if she still is, or still was when she was seeing Bernard, but it’s probably a safe bet. Those kind don’t usually ever change.”

  I looked at the photograph again before returning it to my pocket. “At least the whole dating Bernard thing is starting to make sense though.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. I mean Bernard wore those glasses and that stupid-ass wig and all—it was kind of sad. He was always talking about how she was his girl and all this, and the guys would laugh at him behind his back about it because they knew she was a prostitute. Bernard worked in the city but he wasn’t from here, and he never really figured out how small a community this city still is.”

  I finally wiped the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. “You wouldn’t have any idea where I might be able to find her, do you?”

  “Try Weld Square,” he said with a short, sardonic laugh.

  Weld Square was an infamous corner of the city littered with dilapidated apartment buildings, deserted businesses, and vacant, garbage-strewn lots. It was easily accessible from the state highway, and was known in the city and beyond for drug dealing, prostitution and violent crime. In my early days with the company, when I’d been given some of the worst details, I’d worked night security in a few of the businesses still operating in the area at that time. I was in no hurry to return.

  Despite the probable accuracy, Bentley knew the humor in his comment had been wasted on me. “You ever heard of The Captain’s Hook? It’s a bar down by the waterfront. Real shit-hole. Tough crowd. Bernard told me Claudia worked part-time there as a waitress. I don’t know if he was telling the truth, but he probably was, because a lot of hookers hang out there too. You could try checking out that place, but be careful. Cops are forever dragging people out of there, real jewel of a joint. This huge fat chick runs it; she’s owned the place for years. She’s supposed to be a psychic or a witch or something—probably just a gimmick to rip off a bunch of drunks and druggies, but that’s what people say. Supposedly some weird shit goes on in there. Wouldn’t put anything past that dump.” He hesitated a moment then said, “Anyway, other than that, I don’t really know what to tell you. Claudia lived in the city, but I don’t know where.”