That didn't happen, of course. The love of his life was gone--again--and when that happens, when a man who is at the bottom manages to drop down even further, there is only one thing that a man can do.
Drink heavily.
Fester eyed Ray warily when he first stepped into the Weak Signal. The big man who feared nothing approached Ray tentatively.
"Hey, you okay?" Fester asked him.
"Do I have a drink in my hand?"
"No."
"Then that's the answer until I do."
Fester looked confused. "Huh?"
"No, I'm not okay. But I will be once you get your fat ass out of my way so I can get a drink."
"Oh," Fester said, sliding to the right, "got it."
Ray grabbed a stool, his body language telling the bartender to make it quick. Fester took the stool next to him. For several minutes, Fester said nothing, giving Ray his space. Odd, but somewhere along the way, Fester had become his best friend--maybe his only friend--but that was more or less irrelevant right now. Right now there was an image of a beautiful woman in his head, the contours of her face, the way she felt when he held her, the smell of lilacs and love, that pow-pow-pow in his belly when her eyes met his--and the only way to get rid of that image was to drown it in booze.
Ray longed for one of his blackouts.
The bartender poured once, then twice, then with a shrug, he just left the bottle. Ray gulped it, feeling it burn his throat. Fester joined him. It took some time, but Ray started feeling the numbness. He welcomed it, encouraged it, tried to ease his path toward oblivion.
"I remember her," Fester said.
Ray turned a lazy eye toward his friend.
"I mean, when she came in here, she looked familiar. She danced at La Creme, right?"
Ray didn't reply. Back in those days, Fester had bounced at a few clubs. He and Ray had been acquaintances, if not friends, but Fester had a reputation as one of the best. He knew when to strike and more important, he knew how to show restraint. The girls felt safe around him. Hell, Ray felt safe.
"Sucks, I know," Fester said.
Ray took another deep sip. "Yep."
"So what did she want?"
"We aren't going to talk about this, are we, Fester?"
"It will help."
Everyone thinks they're Dr. Phil nowadays. "The hell it will. Just shut up and drink."
Ray poured himself another. Fester said nothing. Or if he did, Ray didn't hear it. The rest of the night passed in an eerie, pathetic haze. He thought about her face. He thought about her body. He thought about the way she looked at him with those eyes. He thought about all he had lost and more painfully, he thought about all that could have been. And of course, he thought about the blood. It always came back to that--all that damn blood.
Then he mercifully blacked out.
At some point, Ray opened his eyes and right away knew that he was home in bed, that it was morning. He felt like something twirled in a cement truck. It all felt so familiar. He wondered whether he had gotten sick last night, whether he had prayed to the porcelain god at some point during the blackout. The growl in his stomach was craving food, so he thought, probably.
Fester was asleep--more likely passed out--on the couch. Ray got up and shook him hard. Fester woke with a start, then groaned and put his hands on either side of his enormous skull as though trying to keep it from cracking open. Both men were still in their clothes from last night. Both smelled like a Dumpster, but neither cared.
They stumbled out the door and to the diner down the street. Most of the patrons looked even more hungover than they did. The waitress, a seen-too-much big-hair, brought them an urn of coffee before they even asked. She was on the plump side, just the way Fester liked them. He gave her a smile and said, "Hi, sugar."
She put down the urn, rolled her eyes, walked away.
"Rough night," Fester said to Ray.
"We've had rougher."
"Nah, not really. You remember much of it?"
Ray said nothing.
"Another blackout?" Fester asked.
Again Ray didn't reply, pouring the coffee instead. They both took it black--at least, they did right now.
"I know what you're going through," Fester said.
Fester didn't have a clue, not really, but Ray said nothing.
"What, you think you're the only guy who's had his heart crushed?"
"Fester?"
"Yeah?"
Ray put his index finger to his lips. "Shh."
Fester smiled. "You don't need to talk it out?"
"I don't need to talk it out."
"Maybe I do. I mean, what happened last night. It brought it back for me too."
"Your heartbreak?"
"Yep. Do you remember Jennifer?"
"No."
"Jennifer Goodman Linn. That's her name now. She was the one. You know what I mean?"
"I do."
"Some girls, you just lust after. Some girls, you just really want or you like or you figure will be fun. And then some girls--well, maybe only one girl--she makes you think about forever." Fester leaned forward. "Was Cassie that for you?"
"If I say yes, will you leave me alone?"
"So you get what I mean then."
"Sure," Ray said. Fester was a huge man, but like all men, when you talk about heartache, they get smaller and more pathetic. Ray took a breath and said, "So what happened to you and Jennifer?"
The big-haired waitress returned. She asked what they were having. Ray ordered pancakes, nothing else. Fester ordered a breakfast that included every food group on every chart ever made. It took nearly two full minutes to say it all. Ray wondered if the order came with a side of Lipitor.
When the waitress left, Ray went back to his coffee. So did Fester. Ray thought that maybe the moment had passed, that he would now be able to sit and sulk in peace, but it was not to be.
"Some asswipe stole her away from me," Fester said.
"Sorry."
"She's married now--to a plumbing contractor in Cincinnati. They got two sons. I saw all these pictures of them on Facebook. They did some Carnival cruise last year. They go to Reds games. She looks really happy."
"Everyone looks happy on Facebook."
"I know, right? What's up with that?" Fester tried to smile, but it couldn't make it through the ache. "I wasn't good enough for her anyway, you know what I mean? I was just a lowly bouncer. Maybe now, with this new business and all, I probably make as much coin as the plumber does. Maybe more. But it's too late, right?"
"Right."
"You're not going to encourage me to go after her?"
Ray said nothing.
"You should see her photos. On Facebook, I mean. She's still just as beautiful as the day she dumped me. Maybe more so."
Ray stared down at the coffee a moment. "You know what beer goggles are?"
"Sure," Fester said. "The more you drink, the better the girl looks."
"You're looking at those Facebook pictures through heartache goggles."
"You think?"
"I do."
Fester considered that. "Yeah, maybe I am. Or maybe those aren't heartbreak goggles. Maybe those are true-love goggles."
They fell into silence for a moment. The coffee was God's nectar. The headache had become a dull, steady thud.
"The plumber is probably making her happy," Fester said. "I should leave it alone."
"Good idea."
"But," Fester said, holding up a finger, "if she walked through that door right now--or, for example"--he shrugged theatrically--"if she, let's say, walked into the Weak Signal looking for me after all these years, I don't know what I'd do."
"Subtle, Fester."
He spread his arms. "What about me hits you as subtle?"
Fair point. "She didn't come back to start up again."
"So she just wanted a fling? To slum for a couple hours? That sucks." Then thinking more about it, Fester said, "But hell, I'd take it."
"She didn't com
e back for that either."
"Then what did she come back for?"
Ray shook his head. "It's not important. She's gone. She won't be back."
"So she just came back to mess with your head?"
Ray played with his napkin. "Something like that."
"Cold."
Ray did not reply.
"But you know what's interesting, Ray?"
"No, Fester, why don't you tell me what's interesting?"
"Jennifer broke my heart, sure, but she didn't break me. You know what I mean? I still function. I got a business. I got a life. I moved on. Yeah, I drink sometimes, but I didn't let it destroy me."
"Again with the subtle," Ray said.
"I know there are few things worse than a broken heart, but it is nothing that you shouldn't be able to recover from. Do you know what I'm saying?"
Ray almost laughed. He knew. And he didn't. A broken heart is bad, but there are indeed things worse. Fester thought that a broken heart had crushed Ray. It had, no question about it. But you do recover from a broken heart. Ray would have, if that had been all. But as Fester had noted, there are a few things worse, more scarring, harder to get over, than a broken heart.
Blood, for example.
*
BROOME DIDN'T LIKE CONFIDING IN MEGAN.
He still didn't believe that she was coming totally clean, but that just made it more important, not less, to hit her with the full horrible, awful facts of the case. So on the drive down to Atlantic City, he told her enough to scare the crap out of her--how he believed that many men, not just Stewart Green and Carlton Flynn, went missing on Mardi Gras, how none of them had ever been seen again.
When he finished, Megan said, "So are these men dead or did they run away or did someone kidnap them or what?"
"I don't know. We only know of the fate of one--Ross Gunther."
"And he's dead."
"Yes. A man is serving time for his murder."
"And you think that man is innocent?"
"Yes."
She thought about it for a moment. "So how many men have you found that fit this Mardi Gras pattern?"
"We are still working on it, but for now we have fourteen."
"No more than one a year?"
"Yes."
"And always around Mardi Gras."
"Yes."
"Except, well, now you have another body in Harry Sutton. He doesn't fit the pattern at all."
"I don't think he's part of the Mardi Gras group."
"But it has to be connected," she said.
"Yes," Broome said. "By the way, does that holiday mean anything to you? Mardi Gras, I mean."
Megan shook her head. "It was always a wild night, but other than that, nope, nothing."
"How about to Stewart Green?"
"No. I mean, not that I know about anyway."
"Stewart Green is the only one we have a possible sighting of. You get now why I need to talk to anyone who might have seen him?"
"Yes," Megan said.
"So?"
She thought about it, but in truth, there was no option but the truth here. "Lorraine saw him."
"Thank you."
Megan said nothing. Broome explained how he didn't want Megan to give her a heads-up, that he'd visit her soon.
"I've known Lorraine a long time," Broome said.
Megan smirked, remembering how Lorraine said she'd thrown him a one-timer. "Yeah, I know."
Broome parked the car and brought her into the precinct through the side door. He didn't want Goldberg or anyone else to know she was here. He set her up in a storage room on the ground level. Rick Mason, the sketch artist and all-around computer weenie, was there.
"What's with the secrecy?" Mason asked.
"Think of it as witness protection."
"From your fellow cops?"
"Especially from them. Trust me on this, okay?"
He shrugged. Once Megan settled in, Broome headed back to his car. He quickly called Erin. Earlier he had asked her to check for any surveillance cameras around Harry Sutton's office, see if they could get an image of this young couple. She told him now that she was still working it. He had also asked her to find the whereabouts of Stacy Paris, the girl Mannion and Gunther had battled over.
"Stacy Paris's real name is Jaime Hemsley. She's living near Atlanta."
"Married?"
"No."
Atlanta. He wouldn't have time to get down there. "Maybe you can reach her by phone, see what she can tell us about the night Gunther died."
"I already called. No answer, but I'll keep working on it. Broome?"
"What?"
"If Mannion is innocent," Erin said, "I mean, if he's spent eighteen years in jail for the work of a serial whatever... man, that would really blow."
"You got a way with insight, Erin."
"Well, you didn't just fall for me because of my hot bod."
"Yeah, I did," he said. "Talk to Stacy. See what she knows."
He hung up. The ride to La Creme was a short one. The lunch crowd was pouring in, many lining up for the suspect buffet before ogling the girls, begging the question, "How hungry were these guys?"
Lorraine wasn't at her customary post behind the bar. There had been a night many years ago when the two of them had a textbook one-night stand. It had been fun and empty, the kind of thing that paradoxically made you feel alive and wishing it had never happened--the way all one-nighters do, Broome thought, even by the most jaded of participants. Still, when you sleep with someone, even when drunk and stupid and with no desire for a repeat, there was a bond. He hoped to use that now.
Broome headed to the back of the club. Rudy's door was closed. Broome opened it without knocking. Rudy was trying to pull his too-tight shirt over his thick head and then past down the bowling-ball gut. There was a girl in the office, helping him. She was young. Probably too young. Rudy shooed her out the side door.
"She's legal," Rudy said.
"I'm sure."
He invited Broome to sit. Broome shook him off.
"So," Rudy said, "you're here two days in a row."
"I am."
"What, you got a thing for one of my girls?"
"No, Rudy, I got a thing for you. Excessive shoulder hair turns me on."
Rudy smiled and spread his hands. "I do have the kind of body that appeals to all persuasions."
"Right, exactly. Where's Lorraine?"
"She should be back any minute. What do you want with my best employee?"
Broome pointed with his thumb. "I'll wait out front."
"I'd rather you just left."
"Or I can start carding all the girls."
"Go ahead," Rudy said. "I run a legitimate establishment. You think I need that kind of trouble?"
"Whatever. Like I said, I'll wait out front."
"You didn't hear me. I don't want trouble."
"You won't get any if you cooperate."
"That's what you said yesterday. You remember yesterday, don't you?"
"Yeah, what about it?"
"You threatened one of my girls. Tanya."
"Tawny."
"Whatever."
"I didn't threaten her. I talked to her."
"Right. And you didn't follow up on that conversation and get a little more persuasive?"
"What are you talking about?"
Rudy had a huge bowl of M&M's on his desk. He reached his catcher-glove paw into the bowl. "Tawny called me last night. She quit."
"And you think I had something to do with that?"
"You didn't?"
"Maybe my conversation opened her eyes. You know, that and the beatings your client Carlton Flynn laid on her and this toilet of a workplace, stuff like that."
"I don't think so."
"Why not?"
"One of my other girls lives with her. Said Tawny threw her stuff in a suitcase and ran out. Said she looked like someone had given her a fresh tune-up."
"Who?"
Rudy poured the M&M's into his mou
th. "I figured that it was you."
Broome frowned. "Where is Tawny now?"
"Gone. She hopped on a bus."
"Already?"
"Yep, last night. Tawny called me from the bus station to quit."
Broome tried to think it through. It could have been just what he originally said. These girls--they were not exactly the most stable columns in the Forum. She had been hurt already. Her finger had been broken. Her abusive quasi-boyfriend had gone missing. A cop had interrogated her. She had probably just decided to cut her losses and head home.