Crooked Numbers (19 page)

Edgar is right,
I thought, as Mikey put our drinks in front of us. Amazing how one moment—one fraction of a second—could change the whole ballgame.

WEDNESDAY WAS ONE OF THOSE
school days that went by so fast it was three o’clock before I remembered I hadn’t eaten lunch. I’d had a lot of days like that these first few months as dean, and I must have lost at least ten pounds. Who needed the gym when I had to patrol all over the building looking for kids cutting class, go up and down three flights of stairs, depending on where the latest crisis was; or walk at least two miles around the cafeteria during my lunch duty? Depending on whom I talked to, I was either in the best shape since I’d left the force, or I was too thin. Either way, there was a big part of me that was glad for the busy days, because I wasn’t much for sitting around, waiting for stuff to happen.

After making sure the kids had moved away from the building and the playground was not being used as a wrestling ring, I went back inside to make a call to Dougie’s mom. I wanted to see how she was doing and also felt obligated to give her a heads-up about the story that might show up in the papers about Dougie’s two friends from school. She picked up after two rings and seemed genuinely happy to hear my voice. She told me she had just gotten back from church.

“It’s good to have support at times like this,” I said.

“Yes,” she agreed, not sounding too convinced. “It is.”

I proceeded to tell her the stories of Paulie Sherman’s death and Jack Quinn’s hospitalization. I also told her about running into her brother-in-law outside the hospital. She let out a heavy sigh and said she remembered the boys from the wake, and knew her brother-in-law was John Quinn’s lawyer.

“Did Dougie have a girlfriend, Mrs. Lee?” I asked.

“If he did,” she said, “he didn’t tell me about it. You know how teenage boys are with their mothers. It was all I could do sometimes to get him to tell me what he wanted for dinner.” She paused. “Last couple of weeks, he spent most of his time in his room on the computer. I barely saw him except when he came out to the kitchen or bathroom.”

“Did he ever mention an Elliot Finch?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. I could practically hear the smile on her face. “He was very fond of that young man. He told me he joined just to be nice to Elliot, but I think he came to enjoy his time exchanging messages with the other members. He ‘chatted’ with them more than he talked to me, I’m afraid.” I could hear her catch her breath. “Maybe if he knew … if he had any idea how little…” She started crying. I stayed quiet. Half a minute later, she said, “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay, Mrs. Lee. I think you’re handling this very well. Better than most people, I would say.”

“Thank you for saying that, Mr. Donne. I’m sure you heard lots of crying when you were a policeman.”

“And even more now that I’m a teacher.”

She laughed. “I don’t know why that’s funny, but it is.”

We both got quiet for a while—me thinking of what else there was to say, and Mrs. Lee thinking whatever the mothers of recently murdered children think. I couldn’t even imagine. The silence was uncomfortable, but I didn’t want to be the one to end the conversation.

As if reading my mind, she said, “You know, I’ve been thinking about something you and the detective both asked me.”

“What’s that?”

“You both asked if Douglas’s behavior was any different before … what happened.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m sorry if the question bothered you. Sometimes I slip back into cop mode without even thinking about it.”

“No, it’s quite all right. It got me to thinking.” She paused again to collect her thoughts. “I mentioned Douglas was having trouble sleeping the past few weeks.”

“Yes, I remember you said that.”

“There was something else, though.”

I waited for her to say what it was. When it took too long, I said, “Something else, Mrs. Lee?”

“He’d been talking more to his father the past month or so. He’d call him on his cell phone and talk for quite some time.”

“How often did he talk to his father?”

“A few times a week, from what I could tell.” Anticipating my next question, she said, “Before that, they’d go months without talking. Douglas never seemed to have much need to talk to William, and William was not the type to reach out much.”

“What did they talk about?”

“Oh, I don’t have any idea. Most of the time, Douglas would take the phone into his room or out on the back steps. I didn’t want to be nosy, so I never asked.”

“Where does his father live?” I asked. “Dougie rarely talked about him.”

“I’m not sure of that, either, I’m afraid. I think I know where he spends most of his time, though.”

“Where’s that?”

“Do you know the old bar on Graham Avenue?” she asked. “Right on the corner. The one with no sign? I think it might have been called Ruth’s a long time ago.”

I closed my eyes to try and picture the place she was talking about. It didn’t take long. Back in the day, I’d been called there a few times to clean up a mess and ended up giving more than one patron a ride home. A few I’d taken straight to the hospital.

“Yeah,” I said. “I think you’re right. It might have been called Ruth’s. I don’t even know if it has a name anymore. I’m surprised it’s still there.”

“Oh, it’s still there, Mr. Donne. I don’t keep tabs on William, you understand, but I hear from folks he still goes there. They’ve seen him outside smoking or leaning up against the wall, talking with another drunk.”

“Did Dougie ever see his father drunk?”

“Not that I know of, and not if I could help it. I saw the writing on the wall and told him to get out before Douglas got old enough to know what his daddy was up to when he should’ve been home being a father.”

“So,” I said, “if I wanted to talk with him…”

“Don’t know why you would, but I’m sure you’ll find him there.”

“Any time of day in particular?”

“Knowing William?” she said. “Sometime between opening and closing.”

I looked at my watch. Almost three thirty.

“Well, Mrs. Lee,” I said. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”

“Don’t you worry about that, Mr. Donne. It was nice of you to call. And thank you again for keeping the papers interested in Douglas. How is that lovely young reporter, by the way?”

Mothers.
“She’s fine, Mrs. Lee. I’ll tell her you asked for her.”

“You do that,” she said. “And be sure to tell her I said thank you.”

“I will. Take care.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Donne.”

After we hung up, I slipped my phone into my pocket and grabbed my coat. I had plans to meet my sister at seven, but I decided it was time to finally meet Dougie’s father.

AS I ENTERED THE BAR THAT
may or may not have been called Ruth’s, I understood why it might very well have had no name. It was dark—depressingly dark—with the only sources of natural light being the small front window that held the broken neon Budweiser sign and the small window on the side that faced onto the alley. There were three hanging lamps above the bar that gave a yellowish hue to the half dozen or so customers. As my eyes adjusted, I stepped over to the bar, where I was immediately greeted by a man of about sixty who was wiping out the inside of a pint glass with a classic white bar rag.

“What can I get for ya?” he asked.

I looked over at the three taps. “What do you have on draft?”

He told me. I was not impressed. “Anything interesting in a bottle?” I tried.

“If ya find Bud and Bud Light interesting, yeah. Me? I find ’em all fascinating.”

“I’ll take a Bud Light. Thanks.” I pulled a twenty from my pocket and sat down on a wooden barstool that had seen better days. The TV behind the bar was tuned to a sports channel. The sound was off, and the colors were not what they were supposed to be. At the moment they were showing a soccer game being played on blue grass. The bartender came over, placed my beer on a napkin, and slid it over in front of me.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Two fifty,” he answered, picking up the twenty and leaving to make change. I watched as he punched the keys on an old cash register. When the drawer slid open, the thing actually made the
ching
sound. He grabbed some bills and some coins out of the register, closed the drawer, and came back.

“Seventeen fifty change,” he said.

“Happy hour?”

“Look around, friend.” He made a sweeping motion with his hand. “Every hour around here’s happy.”

I gave him another smile and a nod. After taking a sip of my beer, I asked, “You know William Lee?”

He placed his hands on the edge of the bar in front of me and squinted. “Who?”

“William Lee,” I repeated. “I heard he comes here a lot.”

“Ah, see,” he said. “Here I thought you were just a beer snob. Now I’m guessing you’re some sort of cop.”

“Why? Do a lot of cops come around here looking for William Lee?”

“Not that I know of,” he said. “Don’t get too many people around here asking for no one. Why you want to know about Spaceman?”

“‘Spaceman’?”

The bartender smiled again. “Oh, yeah. You’re probably too young to know ’bout that, huh?” He paused, leaned back, and crossed his arms. “Red Sox used to have a pitcher. Tall guy, great fastball, better curve. Bill Lee. People called him Spaceman because he was really out there. On the field and off.”

“I’ve heard of him,” I said. “But why did you call—”

“Our
Bill
Lee is a bit like that himself,” he explained. “He’s got some weird ideas, and sometimes the craziest shit comes outta his mouth. Just made sense for folks to start calling him Spaceman. Compliment really, if ya think about it. But nobody calls him William.”

I took another sip of beer. “So you do know him?”

“You ain’t a cop?”

“Not anymore,” I said. “Just asking if you know William—Bill Lee.”

“Know him?” The bartender’s grin got real big now. “Shit, he’s the one sitting at the other end of the bar, pretending he’s watching the soccer game.”

I took notice of the other customers: two pairs and a single. The pair closest to me was busy reading the same newspaper. The other two seemed to find their glasses of beer to be the most fascinating things they’d seen in a long time. And then there was Bill Lee.
Spaceman.
A blue baseball cap firmly fixed on his head, and his eyes glued to the soccer game on the TV.

“You think it’s okay if I talk to him?” I asked the bartender.

“I don’t know,” he said. “He’s not been real chatty these days. Lost his kid recently. Shot or something. The other side of the bridge.”

“Stabbed,” I said. “That’s what I want to talk to him about.”

“Ah, shit. You’re not a reporter, are ya?” He made a big gesture of pointing at the front door. “’Cause if that’s the case, you can just—”

“I’m not a reporter,” I said. “And I’m not a cop. I’m just someone who wants to talk to Bill Lee about his son.” I took another sip. “I knew Dougie. I was his teacher.”

“Teacher?” The bartender gave that some thought. “Well, it’s still a free country. You can talk to just about anybody you want. Don’t mean they hafta talk back, though.”

“I hear that,” I said, picking up my beer and sliding a ten-dollar bill at the bartender. “Get Mr. Lee another of whatever he’s drinking. Thanks.” I got off my stool and headed over to Dougie’s father.

It’s hard to tell the age of someone who drinks a lot. Mr. Lee could have been anywhere between thirty and sixty. He was a bit lighter-skinned than Dougie, but I could see the resemblance in the shape of his nose and in the way his eyebrows were set on his forehead. He might have been handsome a while ago. The booze took care of that. The wrinkles on his face made me think of a poorly drawn road map. I immediately felt guilty about buying him another drink.

I put my hand on the back of the barstool next to him. “This seat taken?”

He just shrugged, not taking his eyes off the soccer game.

I pulled out the stool and sat down. I placed my beer and the rest of my change on the bar. Mr. Lee had his left hand wrapped around a cocktail glass that held a bunch of melting ice cubes and a brown liquid. I could tell by the aroma it was bourbon.

I motioned with my head at the TV. “Who’s playing?”

He shrugged again just as the bartender came over with a fresh bourbon and ice.

“This is on your new friend, Spaceman. He gave me enough to pour the good stuff, including tip.” He winked at me. “Not that crap you always ask for.”

After the bartender walked away, Mr. Lee drained what was left of his old drink, pushed the glass away, and brought in the one I had bought for him. He raised the glass and mumbled something that might have been “thank you.”

“No problem,” I said. “My name’s Raymond Donne, and I was hoping I could talk to you for a bit, Mr. Lee.”

Another shrug. “About what?”

I took another sip of beer and said, “Your son. Dougie.”

He placed his drink down and gently touched his glass with all ten fingers. After a few seconds, he pulled his fingers away and rubbed them together as if making the international signal for money. He turned, allowing me to see his full face for the first time. His eyes were teary and red; the left one was looking slightly off to the side.

“Never trusted this game,” he said, taking a quick glance at the TV and then looking back at me. “Don’t understand how people all over the world can get so damned excited about a game that could possibly end up zero to zero.”

I took some time to digest that and said, “I never thought about it that way.”

“Most people don’t,” he said. He reached over and picked up his drink. He put the glass to his lips. “Whatchoo wanna talk about my son for?” Then he completed the act of taking a sip.

“I was his teacher, Mr. Lee.”

“Ain’t nobody calls me that anymore. You can call me Spaceman like everyone else around here, or you can call me Bill.”

“Okay,” I said. “Bill. I was Dougie’s teacher back when he was in middle school. I don’t believe we’ve ever met before.”

“Probably not. Let his mother take care of that kind of stuff.”