The Trouble With Tony (5 page)

“How’re the grandkids?” Tony asked in a desperate attempt to direct the conversation away from his daily offerings to the porcelain gods.

His mother chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry. I have a list. We’ll get to that in a minute, but first I wanna know about you.”

Tony’s head flopped back on the driver’s head rest. Attempted redirect number two.

“Work is good. I’m working on a new case. There’s a young woman who died, and her parents, you know, suspect foul play.”

“You’re chasing a murderer,” his mother said in a flat voice.

“You would have liked her, Ma,” Tony said softly. “Her name was Marilyn. She was twenty-seven.”

His mother was silent for a good bit. Tony could practically hear the gears turning in her head. Finding a young woman’s killer? Good. Going after a murderer who could be dangerous? Bad. At least it had quieted her down.

“You told me your work was ninety-five percent paper trail,” she said, a soft, hurt-laced accusation.

“It is, Ma. Honest.”

“And you don’t plan to confront this killer when you find him, right? You turn his name in to the police,
e
finito
.”

“Basically, yeah.”

“Of course, you told me you were fine, too, just before you got your leg shot and could have died.” Her voice laid the blame for that fiasco straight at his door.

Yeah, Ma, what the hell was I thinking?

“I left the police force,” Tony said wearily. “I happen to like living.”

“Good. You catch the man who hurt this Marilyn,” she said with more than a little pride in her voice. “I’m sure her parents must be out of their minds. I can’t imagine. God forbid.”

“Yeah,” Tony said, remembering Mrs. White’s face.

“Speaking of nice girls who are twenty-seven, are you dating anyone?”

Tony groaned inwardly. His mother could turn any conversation to the girls he should be dating in two consecutive turns or less. It was like that whole degrees of separation thing. Bowel movements? Genital area, women. NASA shuttle? Deep space, the future of the species, women. Vampires? Neck sucking, women. It was a genetic gift.

“No, Ma. I’m not seeing anyone right now.”

“Have your eye on someone, maybe?” Her questioning lilt was hopeful.

Tony opened his mouth to answer no, but a different answer came out. “Uh… maybe.”

“Oh? Tell me about her?” Ma’s voice was as eager as a hell hound that had picked up the scent of a virgin.

Shit. Why, in the name of all that was holy, had he said that? Now he’d be hearing about it until his seventieth birthday.
Remember that time you said there might be somebody? It was August 10, 2012. Remember?
But he found he wasn’t annoyed, not really. He just didn’t want to jinx it.

“Not now, Ma,” he said gently. “It’s probably not going to go anywhere.”

“Why? She married?”

“No. I wouldn’t do that.”

“Well, sometimes the heart wants what the heart wants.”

“Ya got that right,” Tony said with a sigh.

“And you need to smack it upside the head if it should know better. So why isn’t it going anywhere? Is she blind? My son is gorgeous!”

“Look, I don’t really know her that well yet, okay? If it goes anywhere, you’ll be the first to know.”

His mother sighed. “I have ten girls—beautiful, nice, Italian girls—I could set you up with, but I can’t. Do you know why?”

“I’m not in Brooklyn.”

“Right! You’re not here. Tony, baby, will you think about moving back home? You’ve been in Seattle for eight years now, that’s long enough, isn’t it? We’re your family, we love you, and we want you here. You’re missing all your nieces and nephews growing up. That’ll never come again, Tony.”

His mom’s voice was sad. He thought about his large Italian family, the weekly dinners with all four of his brothers and their wives and kids, his own aunts and uncles. He could picture his four brothers so easily, with their simple, painless heterosexuality, and the proof of their testosterone running all over the house screaming. He did miss them, but he wasn’t like they were, and they’d never understand who he really was. After so many years, it still hurt.

He heard a voice yelling in the background. “You tell ’em Ma! Tell that no good bum to get his ass back to Brooklyn!”

“Is that Federico? Put him on.” Tony said, feeling a wave of brotherly sentiment.

His mother got Federico to take the phone. “Tony! How’s the private dick business?”

“Good. How’s the hot head business?”

“Smokin’,” Federico said. “We had a warehouse fire yesterday that took all fucking day. Hey, you comin’ home for Thanksgiving?”

“Christmas, okay? I’ll come for a couple of weeks then. You know how expensive tickets are.”

“Well no one told you to live on the other side of the fucking continent, Brainiac.”

“Yeah, yeah. Hey, I’ve got a question. I know this is dumb, because it’s like asking if you know someone in New York City, but I’m looking into a guy who was a combat surgeon in Iraq. Name is Dr. Jack Halloran. Ever heard of him?”

“Nope. But I’m on an e-mail list with a bunch of Iraq guys, some of them are still there. Want me to ask?”

“Yeah, but don’t say who wants to know.”

“Sure. I’ll just look like the jerk-off. Thanks.”

“Come on.”

“Okay, okay. I gotta go. Hey, miss you, Tony.” Federico’s voice was warm.

Tony felt a lump in his throat. “Me too, ya loser.”

Federico handed the phone back to their mother. “You still there? You ready for the list?”

“Yeah,” Tony sighed. “Go on, Ma. Lemme hear how everyone’s doing.”

A
N
HOUR
later, Tony parked once again at Stanley’s and went inside. It took a few drinks, and more than a few big tips, but he got the young bartender to talk to him. He showed him a picture he’d taken on his phone of Brent White.

“I know the guy,” the bartender said. “He was in tonight.”

“That’s right. So did this guy ever mention his wife to you, by any chance?” Tony played up his Sylvester Stallone accent. For some reason, West Coasters got a kick out of it. Probably it was from watching too many episodes of
The Sopranos
.

The bartender, a Latino named Ricardo, slipped into the role of informant easily. He leaned on the bar. “You a cop?”

“Me? Nah. Private investigations. You know.”

Ricardo nodded sagely. “You got an expense account for that?”

“Yeah. You deserve some of it?”

Ricardo looked around, but no one seemed to be paying any attention. “He did talk about his wife once.” He looked at Tony meaningfully.

Tony opened his wallet, took out about a hundred bucks, and laid it on the bar. It was the White’s money. If the information was good, they wouldn’t mind.

Ricardo took the cash. He looked a little guilty. “Look, normally I wouldn’t repeat what people tell me for money. You wouldn’t believe the shit people say to a bartender, it’s nuts. But this gringo? He’s a grade-A asshole.”

“Tell me about it,” Tony agreed, like he knew all about it. He didn’t, but he was glad his first impression wasn’t wrong.

Ricardo nodded. “So one night he was in here and it was kind of quiet, and he was getting hammered. He asked what I would think if my wife suddenly turned from a lamb to a lion in bed.”

The hairs on the back of Tony’s neck stood up. This was something all right. “When was this?”

Ricardo shrugged. “Maybe… two months ago? Give or take a few weeks?”

That would have been around the time of Marilyn’s death. “Okay. And you said…?” Tony prompted.

Ricardo rubbed with his thumb at a spot on the bar. “I said I’d figure she was maybe getting lessons someplace else.”

“And he said….”

“He said yeah, that’s what he thought too.” Ricardo licked his lips and looked up at Tony. “She okay? His wife? Is this like a divorce thing?”

Tony wished it was. “She’s dead,” he said flatly.

Ricardo looked shocked. “Fuck, man. Fuck!” He turned a little green.

“If we get enough on this guy to do something, would you be willing to tell a court what you just told me?”

Ricardo didn’t hesitate. “It’s the truth, isn’t it? I don’t lie for nobody. Particularly not for that guy.”

“Good.” Tony stood up to go.

“Wait, take the money.” Ricardo took it out of his wallet and pushed it across the bar. “I don’t want it. Not for that.”

Tony understood what he saw in the kid’s eyes. He nodded. “Thanks.” He took the money. “You know, even if this guy did it, it had nothing to do with what you said.”

Ricardo gave a sharp nod, but he didn’t look like he believed it.

As Tony left the bar, there was only one thing on his mind: If Marilyn’s “lessons” had not come from Halloran, then who? Who had turned Marilyn White into a lion in bed?

~8~

T
ONY
had another session with Jack Halloran on Tuesday morning. He was a bit nervous about it, hoping he could avoid giving away the new, ever-ready fire hydrant that was masquerading as his genitalia. His heart skipped a beat when he walked into Halloran’s office.

“Good morning, Tony,” Halloran said, acknowledging him with a polite smile. “Just let me finish up some notes.” He went back to writing in a folder on his desk.

“No problem.” Tony was just as happy to have a moment to hang out by the door and get his bearings. After Tony’s dick had struck a pose last time he’d been here, he hadn’t hung around long enough to re-evaluate the man who was responsible. Now he had the chance.

Halloran had on tortoise-shell glasses. He didn’t look like he needed them; it looked one of those “I’m a doctor and this will make me look more intelligent and truth-worthy” sorts of deals, but really, they just made him look like a librarian who needed badly to get laid. He was compact and solid with an air of confidence and strength. In the light coming in from the window, his clean-shaven face was just a little rough with what might have been a mild case of childhood acne or chicken pox. The firm set of his mouth as he wrote and a general air of stern tightness to the man, contrasted with his almost sweet blond-haired, blue-eyed looks. Something about that dichotomy made Tony want to rip his clothes off and find the chewy sweetness beneath the hard shell.

Standing there near the door, Tony almost came in his pants—just from
looking
at the guy. Shit. Yeah. If he needed any further confirmation, beyond the fantasies that had been in his head all week, he’d just gotten it. Halloran was favored by his balls, all right.

Why? Why did his dick like this and not that? He didn’t even know Halloran, not really. Yet his name alone could get Tony hard, while some other perfectly hot guy could suck on his dick and inspire nothing but the desire to wipe off the saliva. Tony sure wished he had a freaking clue what was wrong with him. Then again, that was rather the point.

Tony had worn loose pants and a long leather jacket to the session, just in case. Still, he didn’t need to be drooling when he talked to the man. He turned away from Halloran and looked around the office, trying to ramp his libido down from DEFCON 3. There was a group of framed certificates on the wall. Tony wandered over there. The group included Halloran’s medical degree from the University of Washington, a Washington state medical license, sex therapist certificate, and one from the US Army Medical Department—
For service above and beyond
—made out to Major Jack Halloran, MD.

Looking at those credentials, Tony couldn’t help but be a little intimidated. How had a guy like Halloran ended up doing sex counseling on Pike Street in Seattle?

Tony heard Halloran close his folder and settle back in his chair.

“Sorry about that. Come sit down,” Halloran said.

Tony turned.

“Hey, you were in the Army?” Tony asked, as if he’d had no clue. He waved a hand toward the certificate.

“Yes.” Halloran smiled tightly.

“For how long?”

“Eight years.” Halloran closed his eyes briefly as if he didn’t want to talk about it.

Tony pretended not to get the message. “No shit? My oldest brother, Federico, was in Iraq for three years. A few of my other brothers wanted to go, too, but Ma put up such a fuss about having one son in danger that they gave it up. And when I say ‘fuss,’ I mean five-alarm-fire level, stab-yourself-in-the-ear-with-a-knife-to-escape-it guilt tripping.”

Halloran chuckled. “Can’t say I’ve ever been on the receiving end of that.”

“What about your folks. They didn’t mind?”

“They were both doctors, and they expected me to have a more traditional career. But they couldn’t say much.” Halloran hesitated, then looked Tony in the eye. “I enlisted right after 9-11.”

It clicked into place for Tony with a snap. “That’s when Federico enlisted,” he said quietly. “Hey, you must have been young.”

“Twenty-four. I’d just finished my medical degree. I was lined up to do a residency in Atlanta. I did it in the Army instead.” Halloran shook his head, as if it wasn’t important, but Tony knew better.

“Were you in Iraq the whole time?”

“No. I did six tours, and in between, I taught Hospital Corps in Texas, among other things.” Halloran’s eyes got a faraway look. “My last tour I was a battalion surgeon. Someone at the top finally listened to our complaints, that having the hospital set back from the front lines meant a lot of boys were dying on the trip in. So we set up a portable hospital unit called the BAS right near the action. We even had Armored Personnel Carriers for ambulances. Sometimes, if we got a call about something really urgent, like a spine injury or a sucking chest wound, I’d go along in the APC to pick up the wounded right in the middle of the action. That way I could start treating them right away.”

Tony whistled. “That takes a lot of balls, Doc,” he said, his voice gruff. He wished he had the words to say something
more intelligent than that, something about how that really made him feel, like,
I know I couldn’t possibly know, but I know
. And,
Jesus Christ and his twelve apostles, but I fucking admire you
.