#
It was an odd friendship, between Sheriff Mealey and Father Grey. Friends of convenience rather than comfort, they had known each other since they both went to Dubuque High. They grew up in the same block, were in the same classes -- even at one time held the same job. They both had a faint desire to help others after they graduated H.S., Mealy because of an uncle that got shot in faraway Philadelphia, and Grey because of a couple of cousins who were abducted and sexually assaulted. Father Grey sought to heal, while Mealey sought to apprehend and bring to justice.
But as all ambition tends to fade in the face of large dinners, quiet nights and a willing spouse, so both their noble desires dulled over time. They each rose to positions of respectability and prominence, Grey as the pastor of the only church in Crescent, Mealey as the Sheriff. They were each tied into the community, in both fair and foul ways. And they still maintained their friendship, if only because sometimes Mealey could persuade Grey to nudge a suspect to turn himself in, or Grey could nudge Mealey to get rid of a source of temptation. They sat together, on this Thursday, hours after Mealey stood over Stacey’s dead body, eating dinner with both their wives.
They had gone through the dinner as most went, chatting about their kids and how they were doing. Mealey and his wife Sarah had a young girl in the fifth grade, while Grey and Maggie had two young twin girls, both in the seventh grade. Grey went on a long diatribe about sex in the school, about foul language and the general degrading of morals of the young. But he did it in such an animated, engaging way, that none could ignore him or be frustrated with him.
Grey was unlike most other priests, in that he was a strong, garrulous man. Not only could he be the life of the party, moving though church functions on his electric smile, but he could adjust, and give the sedate sermons necessary for middle-America. While he was Hispanic, his features were sufficiently European that none held it against him, though with some of his closer friends, like Mealey, he let his guard down. He had his wife learn to make Mexican and Spanish food (especially after a little prompting with the back of his hand on her face—only where it wouldn’t leave a mark), and for their dinner they ate simple chicken, bean and rice burritos with a green salsa, while a lively recording of a Cuban band played in the background.
“Who is this?” asked Sarah, tapping her finger to the beat. “I think this is my favorite out of all you’ve played.”
“Why thank you, pretty lady!” cried Grey. “It’s the Buena Vista Social Club, a bunch of men not quite out of their prime, getting back together to make some beautiful music. If you’d like, I could e-mail you a copy.”
“Now, wouldn’t that be illegal?” chided Mealey, struggling to finish his plate. He was always a steak and potatoes guy, more than happy with typical Midwest fare, and not eager to experiment. “And immoral, my friend?”
“Oh Mealy, you can be truthful with me. Admit it; you just don’t enjoy Cuban music. Well, when we’re back in your house next week, you can regale us with the musical stylings of Hank Williams and Dean Martin.”
“I can’t help it,” replied Mealey slowly, “good music’s just good music! Dean’ll be listened to in a hundred years—not your ‘Social Club.’”
Grey smiled and nodded, adept at he was at turning the other cheek. “So, all pleasantries aside, I understand some trouble has befallen our youngest?”
“Yup.” Mealey took a deep breath, as he knew this would come up. “Two murders, in two days.”
“Two?” asked Sarah. “I knew about Philip, but who else?”
“His girlfriend, Stacey. We found her behind the deli just this mornin’, with ‘er head bashed in.”
Grey rapped his finger on the table, thinking. “Suddenly this town seems a whole lot bigger, with big city problems. Any motive for the girl’s death?”
“No, not as yet. I did just get word that she had AIDS.”
“AIDS?” cried Grey and Sarah, almost at once. Maggie was noticing, over the recent dinners, how often they were prone to do that. “What’re you gonna do?” asked Grey.
“Whaddya mean? I’ll do my job, and find the murderer.”
“What about the AIDS? If she had that, who knows who else she gave it to.”
“The doctors at Midway think she only recently contracted it. She wasn’t on any medication, and didn’t display any symptoms.”
Grey nodded. “What about Philip? Did he have it?”
“There . . . there wasn’t enough blood to test.”
“What do you mean?” asked Sarah, getting worried. She was fine having a sheriff as a husband, so long as it didn’t actually involve anything too dangerous. “You didn’t tell me about this.”
“Well, it wasn’t a pretty sight. Sometimes . . . I just don’t like to tell you all about my work. It’s kinda . . . depressing.”
“Yeah, but this is a murder! You’ve never had to deal with a murder—least not as sheriff.”
“Well Mealey," said Grey, "I certainly don’t want to pry more than our friendship would allow. What I would like to do is raise AIDS awareness, work with Zorrell and Dubuque High to spread pamphlets, promote abstinence, and—”
“Abstinence?! To a bunch of college kids?!” Mealey let out a loud laugh. “Do you even know how young kids are havin’ sex? Thirteen. And most of ‘em ain’t even havin’ it in the back of a car, like when we was growin’ up. They do it in their own bedrooms, in their parents’ house. And the parents even know! They do it in plain sight at High School dances – if you look hard enough, in the dark, you’ll see ‘em bumpin’ and grindin’, and not to the music. You know I respect what you do, but you’re sorely out of touch on this one. You go into college preachin’ masturbation and frigid kisses on the cheek, and you’ll be laughed out quicker than a life insurance salesman at a cheerleader pep rally.”
Grey grew indignant and irritated at Mealey’s tone. “And what would you have me do? Sit by, and watch as our most cherished children fall to this evil plague?” Grey drew up straight in his chair, putting both his hands on the table, revealing the breadth of his chest and shoulders. He was a massive man that hid under the black cloth of his office, with a taut stomach and thick arms. And as he did that, Maggie stole a quick look at Sarah, who stared at him, her mouth open, panting a little like a dog in heat. “This is just what we prepare for—to fight the good fight. To educate those who would rather not be educated, to save lives. I would rather be laughed at as a fool then cursed as a sloth.”
Mealy shrugged, never much for prolonged confrontation. “Suit yourself. Just don’t forget neither of those kids even went to Dubuque or Zorrell. They went to Alliance.”
“Mmmm . . ," moaned Grey, "I never liked that school. Mackey refuses me to even come in and speak with the children, much less have them attend services. But of course they’ll come to me to help them bury their children. They all come back to God, in the end. I only hope for their sakes that it won’t be too late.”
It was the one thing Mealey and Grey had in common—a vengeful streak. Whenever they disagreed the most, or grew distant in philosophy, something would happen that would remind them both how kindred a sprit they both were. Even now, as Grey uttered that word, Mealey smiled, and nodded his head, and Grey, after looking at him laughed.
“But now is not that time!" cried Grey, with a loud clap of his hands. "We should enjoy the music and companionship God has given us. Care to dance?” he asked, of Sarah.
“Of course!”
They got up, and danced the next song together, close, but not too close. Maggie took a seat next to Mealey.
“Are they doin’ somethin’ behind our backs?”
Mealey shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care. And as long as I don’t know, I don’t care.”
Mealey has recently admitted to himself that he no longer found his wife attractive. She wasn’t too fat or thin, or even ugly, but he had gotten sick of her body. She was a woman who sometimes acted more like a man. She belched, burped, picked
her nose, farted, even forgot to flush the toilet when she left something brown inside. She had a perpetual slump to her posture, and wore dirty sweatpants when they were at home, letting her breasts sag down low, free from a bra's gentle cradle. He had lost the desire to kiss her, lick her, or put anything of his inside her.
Maggie took a good look at Mealey. He hadn’t the bold, bodily carriage that Grey had; rather, he had a small gut, a balding head, and the bloom of old age in his eyes. But even with all that, there was a strength, a firmness of conviction. Maggie turned back to watch her husband dance, with his perfect posture and morality, and realized she had gotten tired of living up to his expectations. She worked out every day with him. She went to his services, helped him on the multi-city charity tour, raise their children as the kind, devoted mother.
“You know, that little girl was a whore?”
“You don’t say?” answered Sarah, surprised. “How do you know?”
“The docs over at Midway said her . . . vagina,” he said with great difficulty, unused to being so frank around women, “showed signs of frequent use -- close to abuse. They speculated she had multiple partners, having sex without much lube. She had gotten around, and that virus may have gotten around with her.”
Sarah nodded. “But I’ll bet she had some fun.”
Mealey glanced at her cock-eyed.
“What?" she whispered, with a sly wink. "I just know that before I die, I wanna have some fun. Real fun.”
Mealey glanced back at Grey, who was dancing a little closer to Sarah. “He looks like he’s a lot to handle.”
“Oh he’s all bombast and bluster, but with more quantity than quality. I wanna man that knows how to take his time, who tries to make me feel good, instead of making me live up to his unreasonable expectations.”
Mealey nodded, as the song ended, and a new option took shape in his mind. Ever since he learned Stacey died, he wondered how he would work out his pent-up frustrations.
9
Shuffling along in worn, brown slippers, Ethan guzzled down the last few sips of his Grape Pepsi. It was a new flavor introduced a few weeks ago -- Crescent was part of a swath of test-cities for new products, and he couldn’t get enough. A few days before Ethan had sworn off soda, and had just stocked up on two cases of Crystal Light tea. Often he would try to diet, try to eat healthy, usually after some off-hand remark someone carelessly made. Comparisons between he and Lizzie always grated on him, and the insinuation that they should go together always kindled the urge to diet within him. But, inevitably something new and sweet and cheap would come along to derail his noble ambitions, and send him drowning once again in a bottomless void of high-fructose corn syrup and hydrogenated oils. And the short-term satiation would turn to long-term simmering anger, resulting in a blow-up over something simple and stupid.
He crumpled his soda can and threw it hard in the trash, and it made a squishing sound. He peered over the lid, and recoiled in disgust.
"Shit if that isn’t sick!" he yelled. "Who put their used bloody, filthy maxi pad in the hall trash?!" Rachel and Bill were sitting in the common area nearby, watching morning TV, and bore the brunt of his indignation. "I mean, why do we even have separate bathrooms?" He tentatively sniffed the trash. "Damn does that stink!"
Rachel shrugged. "Wasn’t me."
Bill threw up his hands comically. "You got me – I did it."
"Don’t be stupid," snapped Ethan, as he dragged the can through the hall towards the girls’ bathroom. "I’m sick of this shit happening." He punched open the door, and whipped the can around and inside.
"What’re you doin’?!" yelled Lizzie from inside. "Get out!"
"I’ll bet it was you who threw it in there anyway," he snapped, with the door still open. "That shit’s disgusting."
There was a flush, the slam of a stall door, and before Ethan could back away, Lizzie was in his face.
"Got somethin’ to say?"
"Don’t you wash your hands?"
"You don’t – why should I?"
"How do you know what I do or don’t do?
"You mean like stayin’ up late jerkin’ off? Your fuckin' bed hits the wall so hard I get a HEADACHE!"
Bill and Rachel both snickered, trying to keep quiet. Ethan blushed a deep red.
"I don’t know what you’re talking about. Besides, what do you care? How could you hear anything anyway with so much food stuffed in your mouth?!
"Enough!" shouted Heather, as she threw open the door to her room. "God, I can’t even get a full night’s sleep without you two lovers fighting."
Lizzie flashed Heather a dirty look, while Ethan took a step back, out of the doorway to the bathroom.
"Hey Heather, didn’t you have something to show us?" asked Bill, generously offering to change the subject for Ethan.
Heather leaned against the doorframe of her room, letting her bathrobe part just a little. She always wore a bathrobe, usually until late afternoon if she had no classes. A pajama top and bottom were always worn underneath, but that didn’t stop her from teasing the boys by acting as if she wore no pajamas.
"Yeah, ‘suppose I did." She tossed Bill a seductive glance like a candy-bar wrapper; flashy, but ultimately discarded and forgotten. "Come on –"
Suddenly, someone threw open the door and ran up the stairs. It was Paul, and he stopped in front of them, gasping for breath, sweat pouring off his face.
"What is it?" anxiously asked Rachel. She came close to him and put her hand on his back, as he was hunched over, trying to get his breath back. "Take your time – calm down, it can’t be all that bad."
Paul stood up straight and moaned, "yes it is! I just found out – Stacey’s dead."
"Dead?" They all gathered around him. "How?"
"She was found murdered in back of the Deli. I was in the Ben Franklin, and I overheard a cop talking about it with one of the register girls."
They all muttered the word ‘dead’ to themselves, a few feeling sad, a few angry, and one utterly terrified at the ramifications. Down below, Mackey's car could be heard wheezing into its parking spot. After he came in and closed the door, he yelled; "gang, I need you all to come down here. I’ve . . . I’ve got some bad news."
"Looks like your secret’s gonna hafta wait a little longer," said Bill. "We’ve got a long couple of days of grief counseling to go through."
10
At the corner of Race and Main there used to be the Circle Diner. Built in 1925, it weathered the Great Depression, Two World Wars, and the pullout of GM. But alas, it couldn’t weather the twin scourges of Starbuck’s and Subway. A Starbuck’s opened two blocks from school, right near the onramp for I-9, and the Subway opened two doors down from the Circle Diner. Rich Bullock, the owner, tried in vain to fight the rezoning of the land to allow the Subway to open, but he had made too many enemies on the tiny city council. They gleefully signed the death warrant for the Circle Diner, and two years later it passed without so much as an obituary in the local Pennysaver.
So the Subway became the default meeting place for cops and truckers, students and dropouts. It even had a partnership with Baskin Robbins, allowing people to get their meal and dessert too all in the same location. Mealey sat at one of the tight, preformed plastic tables with a tall pop and a bag of chips. Greg came in and sat across from him.
"You know I hate meeting here," said Greg, making a mental note of anyone he knew sitting nearby. "This place has eaten into my profits far too much."
Mealy shrugged. "Such is progress, and capitalist competition. They always say competition is good, but all it does it end up putting people out of work and breaking up families. I mean, could you imagine working for that fucking Wal-Mart?"
Greg sat back and simmered. "Why are we here?"
"Just give it a minute. We’re waitin' for our last guest."
A faded yellow Neon pulled up outside, and a tall, lanky boy wearing a Zorrell jacket sauntered in. After a few minutes he sat at the table di
rectly in back of Mealey, wolfing down a sandwich and sucking on a pop.
"Great," said Mealey. "Now, you know there’s been another murder."
"Yeah, what of it?" scoffed Greg. "Little bitch had it comin’ to her."
The lanky boy chuckled in-between bites.
"That may be true, but it has brought some unneeded attention on our fair city. Trooper Joe is stickin’ ‘round for a little longer, to supposedly give me a hand figurin’ out who killed her."
"Trooper Joe needs to get laid," said Greg, leaning back, eliciting more chuckling laughter from the lanky boy.
Mealey leaned forward. "Did you do it?"
"Really? Fuck, and leave the body right behind my Deli? I might've been a simpleton in college, but I ain't no more."
"I had to ask; if you did, I could help you."
Greg leaned back with a wide grin. "If I did, I would've taken me one last bite of that sweet, soft fish-cake before I killed her."
"Dammit Greg; she had AIDS!" he yelled in a harsh whisper. The lanky boy stopped eating altogether. "We found out in a preliminary autopsy. She wasn’t taking any meds, so she may have just gotten it."
"Maybe that’s why she got killed," said Greg. "Maybe, if some boys got a disease from her, they might see it as a just reward that she died."
"The question is; how many boys are we talkin’ ‘bout? She was one of your more popular ones, wasn’t she?"
"Yeah, she had a sweet tongue, and was always up for anything. Even older men," said Greg, staring Mealey in the eye. "So the question is; how many of them did she get infected?"
"Thankfully, us mature gentlemen know how to take precautions, especially when dealing with college whores." Mealey leaned back, so the lanky boy could hear. "I need things to cool down, for a while. It’s almost winter recess, and I’d like to have things quiet through New Year’s."
"A man’s got expenses," stressed Greg. "And these college kids are none too reliable. Between them wasting all my profits up their arms or nose –"
The lanky boy coughed,
"--I’m just gettin’ by. I mean, this Recession's cut into my business."
"Yeah, well, for as long as you’ve had that business, I’m sure you’ve got stuff squirreled away. I mean it – it’s gonna take enough to get Joe outta town; I don’t need other shit complicatin’ matters." Mealey leaned back again. "I’m gonna be doin’ some raids on underage drinkin’ parties, doin’ spot checks on cars sittin’ ‘round too long. Anyone who doesn’t need to get in trouble, should be told about that stuff."
The lanky boy cleared his throat.
"Of course, all this would go away – and quickly too – if I had a suspect in either murder. The longer they stay open, the tighter things’ll get."
"If I find one, I'll bring him right to ya," said Greg with a mock drawl, saluting with his hand.
Mealy stood up, and glanced one last time at Greg. "Hopefully no one’ll start lookin’ too hard at our little utopia. I’d hate to see the apple cart tipped over at this stage of the game."
He left, leaving Greg alone in the booth. He got up, and before he left, leaned over the lanky boy.
"How can you even eat this shit?" he asked, in a loud enough voice that others could hear. "I mean, if this isn’t the dreariest, pastiest, watered-down lookingest shit I’ve ever seen, then I just don’t know."
11
It was the day after the students of Alliance had been told about Stacey’s murder. It was a surprisingly beautiful October day, with brilliant multicolor leaves dancing on strings, twisted and turned by an ocean of air. Some had already succumbed and fallen, littering the grey concrete of the small city of Crescent in a carpet of lingering life. Paul tread carefully over those leaves, with Rachel musing in anxious silence at his side.
"Was Heather hitting on you again?" he asked.
"Yeah," moaned Rachel. "First thing this morning."
"I can’t believe it, less than 24 hours after we find out Stacey’s gone, 48 hours after we saw Phillip’s body being carted out, she’s looking for sex."
She squeezed his hand. "Don’t worry about it – I can handle it."
Paul sighed, and smiled, looking deep into her chestnut-brown eyes. Her thick red hair swirled about her face in the strong autumn breeze, making her appear as some goddess dropped from the summit of Mount Olympus. She was thin yet dense, with muscles heard-earned from years of playing High School rugby. She had one cut under her right eye, and though she was terribly self-conscious about it, always covering it up with makeup, it somehow made her all the more beautiful and fragile. He loved walking with her – they both loved to hold hands, and walk close to one another, close enough to feel each other’s body heat. At least, that was, until a group of town kids came into view.
"Damn."
He let her hand go, and they both allowed some distance between them, as four High Schoolers passed on the opposite side of the street. While no one in the college cared about interracial couples, the townsfolk were much less liberal, and usually let unwary couples know, especially mixed-race or same-sex. It was all the same in their eyes; a perversion of what was natural and right. The message of intolerance was pushed hard in Father Grey's church and punctuated by the small gathering of Klansmen from Dubuque that held bake sales on the church lawn. No white sheets were ever involved, but everyone knew just the same.
Paul grit his teeth as he heard the kids across the street laugh a little louder and shout profanities at each other. He could feel their eyes were on him, hoping for a response, but he maintained his gait and focus straight ahead. Paul wished he didn’t have to worry about things like that, but those who excel in physics usually don’t excel in physical fitness, and he was no exception. More than once Rachel had been able to keep him pinned in bed, and while he may have liked it, he wouldn’t go around bragging to anyone about it.
Finally the kids had passed, and they linked hands once again.
"What did you think about Stacey?" asked Rachel.
"Who would murder her? I just don’t get it."
Rachel moaned a little, gazing helplessly at the sky. "I think the saddest thing is that no one seems very upset about it. I mean, it’s been only a day, yet no one’s crying, no one’s . . . I don’t know."
"Yeah, I see what you mean. Even this morning I was studying for a physics exam, when Phillip’s room is right next to mine. I didn’t even think about him."
A yellow Dodge Neon swerved around a corner, and darted by them on the street, its muffler dragging on the road, making sparks. They both stood still and watched it pass, turning into the main parking lot of Zorrell College. Rachel turned to Paul and said; "sometimes I think a lot goes on around here that neither of us will ever know."
#