On the floor behind the couch Jill clutched a pillow, knees drawn to her chest, a weird smell hanging over the room—gunpowder, I assumed, though it might have been burnt popcorn for all I knew. My left shoulder twitched, still gun shy after all these years.
“It was him,” Amy said. “He was sneaking around outside, trying to peek in…”
“Amy…”
“Don’t fucking Amy me, Duck. It was him.”
From the floor, Jill nodded. “There was somebody out there—really!”
“Put the gun down, Amy,” I said. “Jesus Christ, you can’t just shoot at people. Maybe it was a neighbor looking for a lost cat.”
“Our neighbor doesn’t have a cat.”
“Just put the goddamn gun down.”
Across the street, the house lights blazed, the neighbors already speed dialing the police, grabbing their clothes and combing their hair in case the local TV news showed up with cameras. Amy lowered her arms but held onto the gun.
“Wait here,” I said, and rushed outside, hoping there wouldn’t be a dead body flat against the lawn. The night air felt cold against my still wet skin, and I could see right away that no one was there, except for a neighbor across the street, a middle-aged blob who stood on his porch in nothing but boxer shorts, a baseball bat cocked in his arms, hoping to smash some intruder ass.
“Hey, it’s okay. Sorry about the noise,” I said, hoping he and his Louisville Slugger wouldn’t rush over thinking I was the bad guy. I moved carefully, my bare feet scratching the rough pavement, but there was no sign of anyone. Suddenly my toe brushed something hot—as my foot jerked back, I saw a cigarette butt lodged in a serpentine crack in the asphalt. I picked it up, its tip still smoldering. No one in the house smoked; any of Clyde’s discarded butts would have long cooled. So Amy hadn’t imagined it. Someone had been outside the window.
I snubbed out the cigarette and set it on the porch. Maybe it was evidence, maybe not, the cops unlikely to run a DNA test for a broken window, but what did I know? I headed for the front door just as Clyde arrived with his partner, their cruiser screeching into the driveway like vintage Starsky and Hutch.
“What the hell?” Clyde said, climbing out of the passenger side, a Starbucks cup in hand. He wore jeans and an old T-shirt, a Boston Red Sox cap at half-tilt, unlike his partner, dressed for business in his policeman blues.
“We received a call on a disturbance at this address,” the partner said. He was young, early twenties, his hair buzzed, his chest thick and intimidating. He looked as if he head-butted steel garbage cans for fun.
“I told you, I’ve got this,” Clyde said. The partner hung back by the cruiser as Clyde walked up the driveway, sipping his coffee and checking out the shattered window.
“Jesus. You should have left her in the hospital, Donnie Boy.” He held up his phone and grabbed a few pictures of the damage. “My partner recognized the address and called; otherwise she’d be in one big pile of shit right now. You can bet your ass that gun is unregistered. She has no idea how much she owes me.” He circled the porch, running his hand along the window frame. “I’ll have Mike write it up; he’ll say some teenage scumbag threw a rock. The insurance company won’t even come out to investigate; they’ll just cut the check and be done with it.” He finished the coffee and handed me the empty cup. “But I want that goddamn gun. I’m not leaving here without it.”
For once I agreed with him.
“Did she say it was Ronan?”
“Yes.”
“She’s like a dog with a bone.” His heavy finger poked my chest. “Stay here. I don’t want you screwing things up.” He waved for his partner. “Mike, this is Marcino, the guy I told you about.”
Officer Mike reached into the cruiser and pulled out a big envelope as Clyde climbed the porch and entered the house. I thought about following, but maybe he was right. When it came to her gun, Amy had always ignored me. Maybe Clyde and his badge would have better luck.
I took a breath, the adrenaline finally subsiding as Officer Mike dropped his keys into his pocket and shook my hand. In his other hand was a manila envelope. “Sergeant Clyde said you might help with my pilot.”
“Pilot?” Then I remembered—he and Clyde had a project.
“N.J.B.P.” he said. “New Jersey Beach Patrol.”
He handed me the envelope tentatively, like a student afraid to let go of a final exam in case the answers were wrong.
“I’ll read it in the morning,” I said. “But full disclosure: I’m not in the business anymore.”
“I know; Sarge told me all about it. We ride patrol together…it can get kind of boring, all that down time. I’ve heard every story of his at least twice. But he said you were talented, the only good thing to ever come out of this town.”
“He said that?”
“He keeps a copy of your play in the cruiser. When it’s slow, sometimes he and I read it out loud, you know, like a rehearsal.”
“You’re putting me on, right?”
“No, sir,” Mike said.
I imagined Clyde and his partner parked in a Duncan Donuts lot, sipping coffee, crunching jelly donuts, and trading lines from my one good play. It may have been the weirdest thought I’d ever had.
From the house, I heard Amy giving Clyde all kinds of hell, and I hoped Kelly had stayed upstairs, out of the mix. Jill’s voice popped in and out, part of the fray; Officer Mike perked up as soon as he heard her.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” he said. “I’m sure Jesus will forgive her.”
“Jill? Forgive her for what?”
“We don’t talk about it,” he said. “But I
