“Wait a second. Hold on. What business partner?”
“Pete.” Turley waited for a reaction. “Pete Naginis?”
I returned a blank stare.
“Don’t you talk to your brother no more?”
“Of course I talk to him. He’s my brother. But I don’t know anything about any business or partner.”
The truth was, I avoided Chris as best I could. I insisted he check in periodically with a phone call. A short, to-the-point phone call. Thanks for letting me know that you haven’t OD’d. No, you can’t have any money. Bye. We didn’t get too deep. Still, I found it difficult to believe he could’ve gotten his shit together enough to start a business. At least one that didn’t involve drugs.
“Chris and Pete have a used computer store,” Turley said, when it became obvious he needed to fill in the blanks. “Computer Solutions. Run it out of the old Chinese restaurant on the Desmond Turnpike.”
“Don’t know it.”
“Yeah, you do. Way north. Just before Coal Creek. Red building, after that used car lot where they install those inflatable wacky wavers on weekends. No one ever admitted eating there except Woody Morris, and we used to bust his balls for it. Remember? There was that big joke about how all the town’s strays had gone missing, and then the health department closed them down that one time because they found out it was true. It’s on the way to the reservoir. Passed it a hundred times. You know it.”
“I don’t. But, whatever.” I tried to wrap my brain around this. A business? “What exactly do they do at this shop?” I couldn’t picture my brother as an entrepreneur. Or see him associating with anyone that upstanding. I knew Chris and his junkie buddies were into that cyber crap, video games or whatever, but broke-ass derelicts who skate between couches and homelessness aren’t nabbing primo interest rates on small business loans.
“Trade, sell. Used crap. Busted stereos, tape decks, speakers. Old electronics. Most of their business is e-recycling.”
“E-recycling?”
“I don’t know much about that egghead stuff, Jay. Way I understand it, people drop off their old computers and Chris and Pete throw them away for them.”
“Why would you pay someone to throw away your computer for you? Just dump it in a goddamn trash can.”
Turley shrugged.
“Chris doesn’t have any money.” Collection agencies call my number all the time trying to get paid. “How did my brother get anyone to rent him a space?”
“Lease is in Betty Naginis’ name,” said Turley, slurping his coffee. “Pete’s mom.”
“Listen, I’ve been working all day. I’m tired as shit. I’d like to pop by Jenny’s and say good night to my kid. I don’t know any Pete. Or where he is. Ask my brother.”
“I tried. He just goes on and on about some conspiracy and how we’re all in on it. One minute he’s going off about Pete, the next, Gerry Lombardi and the wrestling team.”
“He’s had a thorn up his ass about Mr. Lombardi for twenty years.”
“Then he was shouting about you.”
“What about me?”
“I don’t know, man. I’m telling you, he wasn’t making any sense. Talking a mile a minute, eyes bugging out his skull, arms flailing like a drunk monkey. Y’know when someone presents a danger to himself or others, I have the obligation to lock him up.”
“My brother’s nuts. Three years ago he was convinced he had Ebola. Last spring he cut up Jenny’s People magazine to show how freemasons run Hollywood. He’s bat-shit crazy.”
“Trust me, I’m used to your brother’s antics. Normally, I’d let him sober up, send him on his way. But it’s different this time. A man is missing.”
“Forty-year-old junkies sometimes don’t come home to their mamas. Don’t act like this is something more than it is.”
“He was overheard threatening to kill the guy.”
“When?”
“Up at the Naginis house. Couple days ago. I guess Betty lets Chris crash there from time to time. Use the shower and stuff. She said him and her son got into a real knock-down, drag-out fight, and that when she finally managed to pull them apart, Chris leveled some serious threats.”
“What’d he say, exactly?”
“Y’know, Jay, the usual. ‘You do that and you’ll be sorry,’ ‘You’re a dead man,’ etcetera.”
“In other words, the hotheaded, irrational shit people say when they have an argument.”
“Sure,” Turley said. “But your brother isn’t just anybody. He’s got some history.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You better not be going where I think you are.”
“Cool your jets.”
“Then what was that crack about?”
“It wasn’t a crack.” He stared pleadingly. “Please. Sit back. Relax.”
I sat back. But I wasn’t relaxed.
“Jay, I known you a long time.”
“Don’t you forget it.”
“But I have a job, okay? And I have bosses. This isn’t some party by the reservoir. We’re all grown-ups here.” He showed his palms in mock surrender. “Let’s put the cards on the table, okay? Mano a mano.”
“What cards?”
“The brake line of your folks’ car was tampered with.”
I narrowed my eyes before waving an arm over the tiny room. “You may be able to strut around here, Turley, with your big dick-swinging cop routine, but I seen you with your pants off, with your underwear around your head and you playing a drunken fool, and you got a needle dick.”
“I’m a real cop, Jay. I passed my exams. They gave me the job. So you don’t have a choice. You’ve got to show me some respect.”
“Fuck, I do.” I gnashed my teeth. “My parents drove off a bridge and drowned. Twenty years ago. You were eight years old. You don’t remember jack.”
“We have files. And I’m not the only one who-”
“Drop this small-town innuendo bullshit. I’m tired of it. It’s old, unfounded news. If there had been any evidence, they would’ve arrested my brother and sent him away a long time ago. But they didn’t. Never even charged him. It’s only an issue now because assholes like you who weren’t even there keep bringing it up like a bunch of harpy housewives.”
“Now hold on, Jay-”
“And I’ll tell you something else, Turley. Murderers have motives. Murderers have something to gain. My brother and I lost everything the night our folks died. We lost our house, we lost our money. Chris practically turned into a junkie overnight, and has been living on the street ever since. So don’t come to me now pretending to be a real cop out to solve some big mystery. Go issue your traffic citations and eat your donuts, or whatever the fuck they pay you to do. My brother may be a lying scumbag, but he’s not a killer. I’m sick of people like you implying he had anything to do with them dying. It’s disrespectful to me. And to my brother. And to my parents’ memory. And I’ll tell you something else-you listening to me?”
“Yeah, I’m listening, Jay.”
“Next time you make a crack like that, you’d better be sure there’s room in that cell for me too.”
Turley nodded.
“Now, you plan on charging Chris with something?”
“He hasn’t-I mean-” He stopped and shook his head no.
“Then I’d like to take my brother home.”
“I thought you were coming by,” Jenny said. I couldn’t discern whether the mournful tone in her voice was disgust or disappointment.
I stood in front of the station, under the awning, smoking a cigarette. Intermittently, I’d clomp my boots or blow on my hands, anything to keep the blood flowing. Snow continued to fall-the forecast called for half a foot-temperatures plummeting into single digits. I was still seething. But I made sure to keep calm with Jenny. Anytime I got high strung, her hackles got up, and that never ended well.