Too Close to Home

“Always a fucking comedian,” he said. “I just want to know if you know where he is. I’ve called his house, his cell, called a couple of other people who know him, nobody’s seen him.”

“Why would you think I’d know?”

“I wanted to know whether you’d had another run-in with him. If you punched his ticket, let me know and I can stop expecting him.”

“I didn’t punch his ticket, Randy,” I said.

“So you haven’t seen him? Not since you paid him a visit yesterday?”

“That’s right,” I said. Unless that had been him the night before, working with Mortie. But I didn’t think it was Lance then, and I didn’t think it was Lance now. Besides, those dots didn’t connect, did they? And if that dark-haired guy had been Lance, wouldn’t he have found some excuse to kick the shit out of me? Me, tied to a chair, unable to fight back? Lance wouldn’t have been able to resist a target like that any more than I would have, had the roles been reversed.

“This isn’t like Lance,” Mayor Finley said. “I mean, he’s an asshole, I know that, but he’s generally a reliable asshole.”

“I wish I could help you, Randy,” I said. “But I’ve got work to do.”

“Where are you?”

“What?”

“In your truck. Right now. Where are you?”

“I’m on the north side. On Bethune.”

“Shit, that’s not far from where Lance lives. Drop by his place, see if he’s there.”

“Randy, are you kidding me?”

“You know where he lives, right?”

I did. When we both worked for Finley, I’d occasionally pick him up or drop him off with the mayor’s Grand Marquis.

“Forget it, Randy. Send some other errand boy.”

“Now you listen up, Cutter. You waltzed into city hall yesterday and assaulted a municipal employee. And to the best of my knowledge, no one called the cops on you. Not me, not even Lance. So there’s a favor you owe me. On top of that, if that dumb fuck passed out last night because of some sort of delayed concussion or something, thanks to you, then-”

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll drop by his place. But if he’s there and blows my brains out, I’m gonna be pissed with you.”

“Thanks. Call me.”

The mayor hung up. More than two years since I’d left his employ, and it seemed as though I’d had more conversations with him the last week than I’d had working for him on a daily basis.

“What are we doing?” Drew asked.

“Making a stop along the way,” I said.

I turned right off Bethune onto Raven, climbed it to Mountainside, hung a left. Lance lived on the second floor of a two-story apartment, accessed by an outside stairwell. I pulled the truck and trailer up to the curb, noticed Lance’s Mustang in the alleyway.

“Hey,” I said to Drew, “that look anything like the car you saw that guy drive off in last night?”

He seemed surprised to be asked, then said, “No. It wasn’t like that. I told the cop. It was a Buick or something, a four-door.”

I’d forgotten. “Right,” I said. “I’ll be right back.” I got out, climbed the steps to the apartment door, banged on it.

I tried peering through the door’s window, but there was a curtain in the way. I banged again, then spotted a doorbell button and leaned on it. I wasn’t raising anyone.

I came back down the stairs, got out my cell, phoned Randy back.

“The car’s here, but he’s not answering,” I said.

“Did you try the door?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I did not try the door. I’m not barging in there. Lance’d love that, me busting down the door to his place. He’s probably in there with a shotgun.”

“Jesus, Cutter, the way your mind works.”

“Randy, do you have any idea what the last twenty-four hours have been like for me?”

“No,” he said. “What? Something happen?”

I just shook my head. “I’ll tell you all about it sometime. After you lose your bid for Congress, have some time on your hands. Then-”

“Excuse me.”

There was a short Chinese man in a flowered shirt and shorts standing next to me. I said, “Huh?”

“Were you just upstairs?” he said, pointing up to Lance’s apartment.

“Yeah,” I said. “Well, no. I knocked but no one’s home.”

“Something’s leaking up there,” the little man said. “I live below. Something’s coming through the floor.”

Into the phone, I said to Randall Finley, “Hang on.” Then, to the short man, “Show me.”

He led me into the unit directly below Lance’s and pointed to the ceiling. There was a dark circle, about four inches in diameter.

“Not there yesterday,” the man said.

“You got a chair or something I can stand on?” I asked him.

He brought a stepstool from the kitchen and opened it up under the spot. “Whatever it is,” he said, “landlord’s going to have to pay to get it fixed. I called him, left a message, then you show up. I don’t want a spot on my ceiling like that. Looks like hell.”

“You hear anything funny up there?” I asked him, mounting the stool.

“I was out last night,” he said. He smiled. “Dancing. I watch those TV shows, I decide I want to learn to dance.”

“Great,” I said. I reached up, touched the spot with the tip of my index finger. I brought it up close to my eye, lightly rubbed it with my thumb, felt the texture.

“What is it?” the man asked. “Is it oil?”