“Elective dykes? Oh, you mean a girl who’s straight, but can’t attract men so she does the next best thing.”
“That’s right.” He took a swig of the sour mash, sloshed it around a bit, and swallowed. “One of these days you’ll see the light and realize I’m the man for you. You attract me, Wheeler, and if you could see me now, you wouldn’t be able to resist me.”
“You look that good?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“Brad Dexter.”
“What?”
She closed the book and put it back on the shelf. “Brad Dexter. The one no one can ever remember. He got killed, too.”
Young grunted.
“It’s late, Sarge. Good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Sometime later he phoned Debi. He was sitting at the table in his breakfast nook with all the lights on. He had detached himself from the water bag and had removed the head harness and was now wearing a dirty pair of work socks, old gray sweatpants, an oversized navy blue T-shirt, and the green and black, triple-X lumberjack shirt he’d found at a Big ‘n’ Tall in the shopping mall across from the racetrack. He had a drinking glass with one ice cube in it and the bottle of Jack Daniel’s in front of him. Reg was on the floor at his feet. Young’s stomach was killing him.
“Hello?”
“Hello, sweetie.”
“Daddy, is that you?” Her voice was groggy. “Daddy, it’s midnight. What is it?”
“I’m sorry, sweetie, I didn’t mean to wake you. I didn’t realize how late it was. I just wanted to find out how your horse did.”
“We won. Bing came from way out of it and won by two. Where did you and Uncle Artie get to? Me and Mrs. McDonagh, we were waiting for you in the winner’s circle. I was worried. I called earlier. Didn’t you check your messages?”
“It was police business, sweetie. We had to hurry out. I’m sorry.”
“Daddy, you all right? Have you been drinking?”
“I’ve had a couple, but I’m fine. Is Jamal there?”
“Of course he’s here, where else would he be?”
“Can I talk to him?”
“Daddy, it’s midnight. You are drunk. I’m not going to wake him up in the middle of the night—”
“It’s okay, sweetie, it’s okay, I just wanted to make sure he was safe.”
“Why wouldn’t he be safe? Did something happen to you today? Are you all right?”
“I love that little boy.”
“I know you do, Daddy.” Young could hear Eldridge say something in the background, then Debi said, “Daddy, you’re scaring me, are you okay?”
Young didn’t know what to say.
“Are you still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here, I’m just being stupid. I’m sorry I woke you up. Just go back to sleep. Tell Eldridge I’m sorry.”
Monday, June 12
When the alarm woke him, Young was in rough shape. His cheek was throbbing where the crowbar had struck him, he was badly hung over, and his stomach felt as if talons were dug into it. He phoned HQ.
“Sick?” Gallagher said. “You’re never sick.”
“I’ll be in tomorrow. I’m going to let the dog out and then I’m going back to bed.”
He took three ibuprofens and slept until noon. When he got up the headache was gone and the pain in his face had subsided, but his gut hurt so much he could barely stand up.
At 2:00 p.m., he parked his minivan outside McCully’s. Inside, as he approached the bar, he could see that Jessy was talking to a man sitting on one of the stools. The man was wearing a floral shirt, white jeans, and a New York Yankees ballcap turned backwards. A magazine was open in front of him, and Jessy was pointing something out.
When Young was close she looked up and said, “Jesus and Mary, what happened to you?”
“Nothing. Cut myself shaving.” He nodded at the magazine. “What’s so interesting?”
“I was just showing this gentleman my tattoo catalogue. Another rye and ginger, sir?”
“No, thanks,” the man said.
Something about his voice. And his clothes. Young looked at the back of the man’s head. Black frizzy hair poking out from under the ballcap. Then the man turned and smiled up at him. “Detective Sergeant,” he said, “how are you?”
Doug Buckley.
Without taking his eyes off of him, Young said to Jessy, “Since when are you getting a tattoo?”
Jessy said, “I’ve been thinking about it for a while now.”
“What kind you going to get?” Young was still staring at Doug, whose smile was slowly fading.
“A mermaid, I think. Or maybe a tarantula.”
Out of the corner of his eye Young could see her touch her hair. “Where you going to get it?”
“There’s this place on Queen Street. One of my girlfriends, her brother—”
“No. Where on you are you going to get it?” Young still hadn’t taken his eyes off Doug.
“Oh. Well, I was thinking maybe the middle of my back.”
“Who’s going to see it there? You won’t even see it.”
“Or maybe on the back of my leg,” she said quietly.
“The back of your leg?”
She pointed to the magazine. “There’s one in there of Willie Nelson I would just love to have on my calf. It’s so good you’d swear it was a photograph.”
“Maybe you should get your name tattooed on your arm,” Young said, “like the basketball players do. You know why they do that, don’t you?”
Jessy shook her head. “Why do they do that?”
“In case they forget their name they can look at their arm and, as long as they can read upside down, they can say, ‘Oh, that’s right, I’m Tyrone.’”
Jessy said, “Why are you acting like this?”
It was a fair question. Young thought about it for a moment. “I guess it’s because you’re chumming up to this piece of shit.” Doug started to climb down off his stool, but Young laid a hand on his shoulder. “Has he asked you to go out with him yet? ’Cause if he hasn’t, he will. And before you decide yes or no, you might want to know a few things about him. Like how he abandoned his family. Like how he lies to officers of the law. Isn’t that right, you piece of shit?”
Doug trembled under Young’s hand, but said nothing. Just then, Vinny appeared in the doorway of the kitchen and called Jessy’s name, and she moved off down the bar.
“So, shitbird,” Young said, “why did you move out of the Hilton?”
Doug lowered his head. “I had a little problem there. It had nothing to do with the murder investigation.”
“What kind of little problem?”
Doug swallowed. “A masseuse. Things got a wee bit out of hand with one of