third-story patio at the White Palms Apartments, or what approximated a patio: thirty-two square feet of pre-cast, freestanding cement that jutted from the outside wall like a lower lip in an exaggerated pout. Besides Ben, the patio held enough room for two small deck chairs and a Hibachi grill.
The railing gave slightly when he leaned into it. Ben looked over the parking lot at a halogen light that had begun to flicker and strobe, an earthbound cousin to the moon throbbing in the southeast corner of a night sky cut by streams of low-lying and fast-moving cloud masses.
The wind carried the scent of the ocean and the overripe contents of the dumpsters in the northeastern corner of the lot. Ben glanced once more at the flickering moon and then turned and went back inside, closing the sliding glass doors behind him and crossing to the kitchen where he opened the refrigerator and took out a cold beer. After opening it, he inked a blue hash-mark on the inside of his left wrist. The mark joined the four already there.
The television was on, more for the noise than anything else. On the shelf above it, the digital clock read 12:21, time sandwiched, mirrored, and folded on itself like a slice of bread or piece of paper.
The phone started in, and Ben picked up on the second ring. It was an old habit, pure reflex. He knew who was on the other end of the line before a word was spoken just as he knew what the first words would be. The routine never varied.
“Figured you’d probably be up,” Andy Calucci said.
Calucci, his former Homicide partner in Ryland, Ohio. When they’d worked together, Andy had gotten in the habit of calling Ben shortly after midnight when something was bothering him and wouldn’t let him sleep.
“This morning, we got another three inches of snow,” Andy said, “and that’s on top of the two we got Monday. It’s the last week in March, ok, and not that unusual, but still.” He paused, and there was a glassy clink followed by an abrupt cough. A moment later, he continued. “Tonight, I’m watching the Weather Channel, you know, what we’re looking at the next few days, and the anchorwoman, she says South Carolina, you’re unseasonal, no rain and the temperatures running high for the middle of March — short-sleeve weather she called it, an exact quote there — and I get to thinking it’s been a while, you and me talked.”
Ben set down his beer, picked up the remote, and killed the sound on the television.
“That what they call it?” Andy asked.
“What?”
“Short-sleeve weather,” Andy said. “That how they talk down there?”
“No,” Ben said. “At least not what I’ve heard.”
“I didn’t think so,” Andy said. “Short-sleeve weather. I’m betting that’s just some Weather Channel lingo.”
Calucci paused. On the other end of the line, there was a soft, irregular clinking. It was followed by two sharp clicks.
Ben recognized the soundtrack. It too was part of the late-night call routines. Ice cubes bumping against glass, a Seagramsand-Seven kickback. Followed shortly by Andy firing up his Zippo and burning a Kool.
“Phil Varner,” Andy said after a while. “He’s got the pancreatic.” More ice cube and glass action. “Even with the chemo and all the other stuff, we’re talking months here. Basically, the Big Countdown.”
“Jesus. I’m sorry to hear that,” Ben said, and he was. Varner showed up each day and did the job, and there was something to be said for that. He may not have cleared as many cases as some of the others in Homicide, but Phil Varner was steady.
Andy Calucci worked on clearing his throat. “So the thing is, Ben, what with Phil V. and the pancreatic, we’re going to be looking at a slot soon.”
Ben went back into the kitchen and got another beer, then hunted down a pen and pushed back his left shirt cuff.
“You still there?” Andy said.
“Look, I appreciate the thought,” Ben said.
“Something to consider is all,” Andy
The railing gave slightly when he leaned into it. Ben looked over the parking lot at a halogen light that had begun to flicker and strobe, an earthbound cousin to the moon throbbing in the southeast corner of a night sky cut by streams of low-lying and fast-moving cloud masses.
The wind carried the scent of the ocean and the overripe contents of the dumpsters in the northeastern corner of the lot. Ben glanced once more at the flickering moon and then turned and went back inside, closing the sliding glass doors behind him and crossing to the kitchen where he opened the refrigerator and took out a cold beer. After opening it, he inked a blue hash-mark on the inside of his left wrist. The mark joined the four already there.
The television was on, more for the noise than anything else. On the shelf above it, the digital clock read 12:21, time sandwiched, mirrored, and folded on itself like a slice of bread or piece of paper.
The phone started in, and Ben picked up on the second ring. It was an old habit, pure reflex. He knew who was on the other end of the line before a word was spoken just as he knew what the first words would be. The routine never varied.
“Figured you’d probably be up,” Andy Calucci said.
Calucci, his former Homicide partner in Ryland, Ohio. When they’d worked together, Andy had gotten in the habit of calling Ben shortly after midnight when something was bothering him and wouldn’t let him sleep.
“This morning, we got another three inches of snow,” Andy said, “and that’s on top of the two we got Monday. It’s the last week in March, ok, and not that unusual, but still.” He paused, and there was a glassy clink followed by an abrupt cough. A moment later, he continued. “Tonight, I’m watching the Weather Channel, you know, what we’re looking at the next few days, and the anchorwoman, she says South Carolina, you’re unseasonal, no rain and the temperatures running high for the middle of March — short-sleeve weather she called it, an exact quote there — and I get to thinking it’s been a while, you and me talked.”
Ben set down his beer, picked up the remote, and killed the sound on the television.
“That what they call it?” Andy asked.
“What?”
“Short-sleeve weather,” Andy said. “That how they talk down there?”
“No,” Ben said. “At least not what I’ve heard.”
“I didn’t think so,” Andy said. “Short-sleeve weather. I’m betting that’s just some Weather Channel lingo.”
Calucci paused. On the other end of the line, there was a soft, irregular clinking. It was followed by two sharp clicks.
Ben recognized the soundtrack. It too was part of the late-night call routines. Ice cubes bumping against glass, a Seagramsand-Seven kickback. Followed shortly by Andy firing up his Zippo and burning a Kool.
“Phil Varner,” Andy said after a while. “He’s got the pancreatic.” More ice cube and glass action. “Even with the chemo and all the other stuff, we’re talking months here. Basically, the Big Countdown.”
“Jesus. I’m sorry to hear that,” Ben said, and he was. Varner showed up each day and did the job, and there was something to be said for that. He may not have cleared as many cases as some of the others in Homicide, but Phil Varner was steady.
Andy Calucci worked on clearing his throat. “So the thing is, Ben, what with Phil V. and the pancreatic, we’re going to be looking at a slot soon.”
Ben went back into the kitchen and got another beer, then hunted down a pen and pushed back his left shirt cuff.
“You still there?” Andy said.
“Look, I appreciate the thought,” Ben said.
“Something to consider is all,” Andy
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