“Charlie says you had a run-in with some tough druggie bikers.”
“It wasn’t exactly a run-in.”
“The Desmond Turnpike is a pipeline for dope smuggling,” Fisher said. “Boston to Montreal, up, down, all through the night. Better than the I-93.” Fisher poked around the discarded bones for any fleshy tidbits he might have missed. “They have video cameras set up all along the Interstate. Highway Patrol records license plates. Same vehicle makes the trip too many times-say ‘cheese’! Boom, they pull your ass over. Trust me, I deal with this shit every day.”
“So what,” I said, “you’re, like, a private investigator now?”
“Not private, but, yeah, I’m an investigator.” Fisher drained his pint, clinking the bottom of the glass against the counter.
Charlie playfully punched my shoulder, grinning. “See? Aren’t you glad I brought you down here? He’s offering to help, Jay. And he ain’t charging us anything. We could use a pro.”
“No, man,” Fisher said, “like I say, I’m stuck in this shitburg. You two might like fixing phones-or whatever the hell it is you do, Porter, selling lamps at flea markets or some shit-but I got nothing to do during the day. I’m bored out of my mind. Might as well help out a couple old pals, right?”
The barmaid, Rita, Liam’s wife, stuck her head out the back door, and Fisher hoisted his empty pint glass and pointed at the empty pitcher.
“If you’re not private,” I said, “then you work for the police or something?”
“Something like that,” Fisher said.
“Something like what?”
“Insurance.”
“Insurance?”
“Yeah, insurance,” Fisher said, heated. “I investigate fraudulent claims. I do surveillance, videotape assholes trying to steal my company’s money with their bullshit scams. I follow them. Use public records. The Internet, eyewitness testimony. Study accident scenes, examine a claimant’s past for any recurring patterns of negligence or deception. Conduct interviews, follow up leads, write reports. A fucking investigator. You got a problem with that?” He threw up his hands at Charlie, who motioned with both of his to stay calm.
“He’s just worked up about his brother,” said Charlie, turning my way. “Right, Jay?”
I nodded. I didn’t need any more drama in my life right now.
“Jay, tell him about the hard drive,” said Charlie. “That’s the key to this whole thing.”
Fisher whipped out a tiny notepad and pencil, crinkling his brow as though commencing an exclusive interview.
“Not much to tell,” I said. “According to Turley, my brother made some threats, so the cops called me down. Chris and his buddy, Pete-”
“The guy who was killed,” Charlie interjected.
“Yeah, the guy who was killed,” I said. “They have a business recycling old computers, erasing their memory. Chris claims someone dropped off a computer, and they found something incriminating.”
“He say what?”
I shook my head. “He wasn’t making much sense. When I picked him up and we went back to my place, he asked if I could keep a secret. But he was also making up stories from when we were kids and quoting Bob Marley songs.” I looked at Fisher, as if he needed the added explanation. “My brother’s a whack job; his brain’s fried on drugs.”
“What kind?” Fisher asked.
“I don’t think he discriminates. I know he does a lot of meth.”
“That’s hard to get up here,” Fisher said, thoughtfully tapping his head with the pencil, then pointing its tip at me. “That’s good info. It’ll help me chase down leads, y’know?”
“And then there was the phone call,” Charlie said. “Jay, tell him about the phone call.”
Rita returned with a new pitcher, and we all refilled.
“While Turley was telling me they’d found Pete’s body at the TC,” I said, “I got a call from a guy, a boy-real soft-spoken, voice cracking-who said he’d dropped off a computer and wanted it back. Obviously, he was looking for my brother. I don’t know how he got my number. He sounded desperate. He offered to pay money.”
“When?”
“When, what?”
“When did you get this call?” Fisher asked.
“I already told you. When I was on my cell with Turley, yesterday. Maybe, what, Charlie? Noon? Could have been a coincidence.”
“In the world of investigation,” said Fisher, “there’s no such thing.” He jotted a note. “You received the call on your cell?”
“Yes, I was at Charlie’s.”
“You call the number back?”
“No. Why would I?”
Fisher exhaled. “Jesus, you guys have no idea what you’re doing.”
“We’re not doing anything,” I said.
“That’s the problem,” said Fisher. “Is the number still on your phone?”
I pulled my cell and scrolled through Saturday’s calls. I recognized the police station number, so it was easy to find. Only, it was pointless.
“Restricted,” I said.
“Interesting,” replied Fisher. He held out his hand for my phone.
“Why do you want my phone? I told you the number was blocked.”
He kept his hand out, twiddling his fingers, so I slapped the phone in his palm.
“Let a professional handle this,” he said.
I don’t think he noticed me rolling my eyes at Charlie. He scribbled in his notepad, before passing back my cell.
I answered some more of his questions about the bikers at the shop, my brother’s recent bizarre behavior, the details of Pete’s death. After another pitcher, when Fisher started slurring his words and getting snippy, I got a feeling the subject of Gina Rosinski might come up soon if I didn’t bail. So I said I had to take a piss, then headed out to my truck.
Sizable drifts had started to mount in the parking lot as snow continued to fall. Letting my truck idle, I cranked the heat, even though I knew damn well it wouldn’t work, then got mad when it didn’t and pounded the dash.
Heading back to my place, I grew increasingly furious, livid, although at what, exactly, I couldn’t be sure. Maybe for wasting the last hour and a half of my life with Fisher and Charlie, acting like a bunch of teenage Hardy Boys trying to crack the case of the missing yellow dog. I collected junk. Charlie worked for the phone company. Fisher pushed pencils and thought he was Dick Tracy. And Chris? My brother was nothing but an opportunistic scam artist who’d pissed away his life. And now he’d pissed off the wrong people and was going to have to pay the piper. There was no good end to this, and I felt guilty for admitting I’d be happier if he stayed gone. And then I knew what I was so angry about. It was a rotten thing to think about your own brother, no matter how big a fuck-up he was.
I hopped over the Turnpike, hitting the no-man’s-land stretch of Orchard Drive, a long, one-lane road that ran along old apple orchards. No streetlights. No houses. Bumpy, torn-up gravel. With the storm, I couldn’t see shit through the swirling gusts, my truck’s rear end swinging all over the place. Drainage ditches, filled with the felled limbs of fruitless apple trees, traversed each side. The last thing you wanted out here was to blow a tire or to spin off into one of these culverts and spend the next two hours trying to wedge a jack on soft, loose soil.
I downshifted to a slog and had just lit a smoke, cleared the windshield of fog, when out of nowhere, a pair of headlights jumped in my rearview, a giant, gas-guzzling 4x4 practically crawling up my ass. I waved the driver around, but he stuck right there, glued to my bumper. I slowed down even more. Fuck it. Let the asshole ram me. I’d have an excuse to get out of my truck and beat something senseless. The guy didn’t move, though, instead blasting high beams and revving the engine. Something told me this wasn’t a random drunk driver. I kicked it up, my bed skidding, slipping. I put my hand up to shield the unrelenting glare from the headlights. As soon as I hit Axel Rod Road, whoever it was peeled off, headlights sweeping north.