When One Man Dies. Dave White

her blubbering. Once the beat cops determined this was a hit-and-run, the plainclothes detectives would show up. If they heard I was here, they’d want to talk to me. I turned to one of the regulars and told him I’d be inside if the cops wanted to chat.

      “Yeah,” he said, taking a sip from his glass. “You might want to wash up. Look like a goddamn vampire.”

      First thing I did was hit the bathroom. Artie did his best to keep it clean, but it still smelled like someone had puked. The walls were a pale yellow, the toilet was white and chipped. The sink only ran cold water, and the mirror was cracked. I looked at the blood congealing on my face and hands and thought that even if I washed it off, I’d probably still feel its mark. I scrubbed harder.

      By the time I returned, Artie had changed the music. The Band’s “The Weight” was playing while he wiped down the bar. I wondered if he felt the same way about the bar as I felt about the blood on my face: if he cleaned it, then all trace of Gerry would be gone.

      “I love this song,” he said. I took a stool across from him at the bar. He got me another bottle of Heineken, popped the top, and put it in front of me.

      I took a sip, listened to the music. I hadn’t heard the song in years. Let the laid-back rhythm sink in. “Good song.”

      We listened to it play out.

      When I finished my beer, Artie got me another. I let it sit. Something that sounded like Lou Reed came on. I wanted to ask who was singing, what the title of the song was, something to delay the inevitable, make some sort of small talk—even if I could guess all the song’s information. But Artie didn’t wait.

      “So, what do you think?”

      I picked up the beer, looked at it. Put it back down. “About the song?”

      “No.”

      “Oh,” I said. “It didn’t look good.”

      He shook his head. “Haven’t seen anything like that since ’Nam. One of us should have gone with the ambulance.”

      “We’re not family,” I said. “It wasn’t our place.”

      “We were the closest thing he had. You know that.”

      “Fuck,” I said. I hated when Artie was right.

      I took the first sip of my fourth beer of the day. It wasn’t even five o’clock.

      This was the worst part. Waiting for the inevitable news you prayed wasn’t going to come. Most people try to talk around it, sit with a knot in their stomachs and pray. I hated that. Instead, I laid it all out on the table.

      “He’s not going to make it. He wasn’t breathing. I don’t think EMS got him to start. He’s dead.”

      “You don’t know that for . . .” Artie made eye contact with me. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Did the cops find the car?”

      My beer was half-gone, and my stomach started to feel a bit light. I wished I had gotten a chance to eat the burger. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

      This time it was Artie’s turn to put it out for all to hear. “Do you think it was an accident?”

      He could wait while I finished off the beer.

      Truth was, I didn’t know. Gerry did have some enemies. Six months ago, the manager of a theater Gerry used to act at paid his landlord to try and evict him. That way she could drum up some press about starving actors to bring in theatergoers who felt bad. I stepped in and talked to her and the landlord. When I was done, he kept his home. Last I heard, she’d sold the theater, moved out of state.

      Artie put another Heineken in front of me. I didn’t touch it. He said, “Are you going to look into it?”

      “The police will.” Sweat dripped off the beer bottle onto the bar. “They’re already out there asking questions.”

      “I don’t trust the cops. They’ll look at it as a hit-and-run accident. If they find the car, good for them, they’ll talk to whoever did it. Maybe put some sort of manslaughter charge on it.”

      “Maybe it is just manslaughter.”

      The beer looked lonely just sitting there. Artie had taken the empties away. The one green bottle made the bar look unprofessional and asymmetrical. I picked it up. Took a swig. The beer was still cold, tasted bitter going down. For the fifth, it should have been easier to drink.

      Artie said, “If it is, I want to find out from you. And if it’s not, I’d like you to take care of that.”

      “Are you trying to hire me?”

      “That’s what it sounds like.” He mopped the condensation off the bar.

      The rest of the beer went down a bit easier. I had a full buzz going on now.

      “The cops can handle it. I don’t want to do this. I want to focus on getting this college shit straightened out.”

      “You said you’d have to pay your way somehow.”

      “I can do some insurance work. They’re still calling me.”

      I spun the empty bottle on the bar. Artie caught it, took it away. The bar door swung open, one of the regulars stuck his head in.

      “Cops are gonna be in to ask questions in a few, guys.”

      Artie looked at me, said, “I don’t trust the cops, Jackson. But I do trust you.”

      “Why do you care about this at all?”

      “Why are you trying to act like you don’t care? You know Gerry came in here every day. Even after he stopped drinking. Even after his son died. He has no one else. We’re as close to family as it’s going to get. I think we owe it to him.”

      I couldn’t argue with that. “All right. I’ll look into it. But first, get me another beer.”

      Artie reached behind the bar. “I want to pay your standard rate. Draw up a contract and everything.”

      “Fine,” I said, not willing to argue anymore.

Chapter 3

      Bill Martin stood on the curb watching the officers work the crowd. He puffed on a cigarette, which he knew he’d catch hell for, but didn’t care. He missed the days when Leo Carver was still in charge. He could do whatever the hell he wanted then.

      The body of the old man was long gone, but the chalk outline was there. The street was closed off, and he could hear the horns of cars being forced to detour. A hit-and-run could only make this town more congested.

      Martin got called in late, after the officers had started questioning witnesses and letting them leave the scene. Back when they originally thought it was an accident. It wasn’t until more than one witness said they thought the car aimed at the victim that he was summoned.

      He hadn’t worked a homicide in a long time. In a town like this, only detectives and uniforms, usually the cops in good standing, got the homicides. Martin was stuck with robberies.

      But it’d been an unusual week in New Brunswick, with two drive-by shootings and a college kid pushed down a frat stairway. So Martin was the only detective left on duty when this call came in. He was glad it got him out of the office.

      He wasn’t sure what the crime-scene guys would find here. There were some drops of blood splattered along the pavement, but that was about it. Maybe some paint chips from the offending car? Like that would help. Pounding the pavement, getting descriptions, that’s what would help. Maybe someone had been quick enough to catch a plate number.

      Martin did a quick scan of the faces in the crowd, the dumbfounded looks. There wasn’t anyone quick enough.

      He waved over Officer Franklin, the first one on the scene. The short guy, hat