about the only thing Shannon was able to get out of him was that he never saw anything that made him think the two students were involved with drugs.
Shannon waited until his back spasm eased before trying the next townhouse over. No one answered the door for the upstairs unit. He stood outside it for a while listening, but it didn’t sound like anyone was home. Noise from a TV came from the first floor apartment. He knocked, then after waiting a minute, knocked again. He had a sense that someone was looking at him through the peephole. When he knocked a third time, a woman shouted through the door for him to leave or she’d call the police.
“Ma’am,” Shannon told her, “I’m an investigator. I’d just like to ask you questions about the two students who were killed.”
“I don’t care who you say you are, I’m calling the police!”
“I can give you my cell phone number if you’d like and we could talk over the phone.”
“You think I’m going to fall for that?”
“No, ma’am-”
“I’m warning you, I’m calling the police! Right now!”
He heard the beeping sound of a phone being dialed. He apologized for disturbing her and left, moving like an arthritic old man from all of his stiffness. He had tried Maguire’s unit when he first arrived at the complex but got no answer and couldn’t find Maguire’s BMW out front. He went back to their townhouse and saw there was still no sign of the car. He knocked on the door and listened long enough to decide that no one was home, then tried Maguire’s cell phone. After the fifth ring Maguire answered, asking who the fuck was there.
“Bill Shannon. We were supposed to talk more tonight.”
There was a long pause, then, “Bill, my buddy from Boston. I’m sorry,
“Are you at the game?” Shannon asked.
“What? Fuck no. I’m watching it at a sports bar, one next to the Harvest House. Why don’cha come over and watch it with me? I can tell you about the amazingly shitty day I’ve had. And you can ask me anything you goddamn want to.”
“I was hoping to talk to your wife also.”
“Ha! Wait ’til I tell you all about that. Pretty fucking funny joke if you ask me. So what do you say? Keep me company and show these punk Rockies fans what true baseball fans are like?”
“How much have you been drinking?”
“Not enough, brother, not nearly enough.”
Shannon told him he’d meet him. The sports bar was a five minute drive from the condo complex, and when he got there he spotted Maguire sitting alone at a table looking morose as the other patrons were up on their feet cheering. A glance at the screen showed a Colorado player in the middle of a homerun trot. A big guy with a large ruddy face and stringy black hair that fell down to his shoulders got in Maguire’s face and yelled, “Thirteen to one, asshole, thirteen to one!” Maguire had the same pasty, surly look that Shannon had seen on dozens of drunks over the years right before they’d throw their first punch.
The Colorado fan showed a big grin as he sat back down. He looked over his shoulder to leer at Maguire, then turned back to the game. Maguire started to push himself up, spotted Shannon and wavered as he lost his train of thought. As he squinted in Shannon’s direction, the belligerence in his round, red face faded to confusion. Then a light seemed to go on in his eyes.
“Fuck, I’m glad to see you,” he yelled as he waved Shannon over to his table. “I need some help explaining to these hicks that one game doesn’t mean shit.”
“That so? Then why were you shooting your mouth off before?” a bald guy with glazed eyes and a thick mustache asked. Outside of Maguire, there were maybe twenty other bar patrons watching the game, most of them men in their twenties and thirties, a few women in the mix. A number of the patrons gave Shannon a hard eye as he joined Maguire, but turned away when they noticed his bruises and bandaged hand. One of them started laughing and mumbled something under his breath how it looked like another guy from Boston had gotten his ass whooped.
As Shannon’s condition registered on Maguire, he showed a wide, toothy smile. “Fuck,” he said. “You might even’ve had a worse day than me.” He picked up his glass, drained it, and signaled the barmaid for another draft.
“Wa’cha drinking?” He slapped his forehead. “Doh! That’s right, you don’t drink booze. So wa’cha want, water, ice tea?” He broke out laughing over some private joke.
“How many drinks have you had?”
Maguire wiped a few tears away from his eyes, his stomach still convulsing with laugher. “Don’t know,” he said. “Nine, ten. Lost count. All I know is I’m not even halfway done.”
“About talking to your wife…?”
Maguire’s laugh died in his throat. He sat motionless, then gave Shannon the type of dull-eyed stare that only drunks can muster. Smiling savagely, he told Shannon good luck with that.
“Why’s that?”
“Nancy left me today.” The pink faded from his cheeks. He stared down at his hands as he batted his empty beer glass between them. “What a fucking miserable day. Lost my wife, my job, and now the Sox are getting blown out by a team that shouldn’t even be allowed in Single A.” Raising his voice, he added, “And I got to listen to shit from a bunch of ignorant rednecks, none of which could probably even tell me what the infield fly rule is.”
That caused a few of the other patrons to turn his way, but other than some mumbling and one guy calling him pathetic, no one bothered to say anything.
“I’m sorry to hear about your wife and job,” Shannon said.
Maguire kept batting the empty glass between his hands, and as he did, he seemed to sober up. “I should’ve seen both coming. Eh, shit, probably did, just didn’t want to admit it.”
The big guy who had gotten in Maguire’s face earlier, leaned towards him and smiled sympathetically. “Hey man, lost your wife and job same day? That’s cold, man. I’m sorry about before, but you were just acting too obnoxious. But, shit, I don’t know what I’d do if I had your type of day. No hard feelings, okay?”
He held out his hand. Maguire stared at it coldly before taking it. “Your Rockies team still sucks,” he said.
The big guy pulled his hand away. “Fuck you. They’re still beating the shit out of your Red Sox.” His face turned even redder as he looked away from Maguire and stared back at the screen.
Shannon asked Maguire why he was looking so hard for a fight.
“You know what?” Maguire said, a thin smile showing. “That’s a good question ’cause I’d get my ass kicked if I got in one. I haven’t been in a fist fight since 5th grade.”
The waitress brought over another draft beer and took Shannon’s order for a club soda. Maguire lifted his pint glass to the light, studied it for a moment before drinking down half of it, then wiped his hand across his mouth.
“What happened today?” Shannon asked.
“Not much. Just your typical rotten, miserable day. I showed up at work this morning and found out I’d been downsized.” He shrugged, made a face. “The VCs forced my company to cut twenty percent of the payroll-if they didn’t they’d have their funding pulled. I think I was included ‘cause I didn’t show the proper dedication by taking last night off.”
Maguire lifted his glass, drank down the rest of the pint. He caught the waitresses’ eye to signal for another. Turning back to Shannon, he smiled wistfully.
“I should marry that girl,” he said. “No fuss, no arguments, no games, all she does is bring me beers when I ask for them. My wife, on the other hand, Jesus Christ. The last few days I really thought she was sick. It turned out to be nothing but an act while she planned her great escape. Before that, for a whole goddamn year, she does nothing but mope around and complain about how much she hates it here, how much she misses it back home and all the rest of that crap. As if there were anything I could’ve done about it. When I got home today after being laid
