Clean Slate

Chapter 25

Earl's gut was like ice. He felt he could barely breathe. Over the years he'd often thought that getting shot would not be so bad. But knives, oh shit – knives had always scared him. This was a big one, too. Pointed, sharp on both sides, blade pointed downward, the hand that held it large and dark and purposeful. The man's grip around Earl's chest was strong and tight, his breathing rasping like a saw blade above Earl's right ear, his clothes emitting the sharp scent of work-sweat.

"Medardo," Earl said, as calmly as he could, "you don't want to do this."

"You fuck Clarisa!" the man bellowed, and punched Earl hard on his belly with the butt of the knife. "Now I fuck you!"

Earl gasped from the blow, and used the moment to change his footing slightly, adjusting the balance. "You know I am a law officer, Medardo," he said. "Drop the knife and we'll talk. We'll work this out." Just how, Earl was not sure. But job one was to take control of the knife.

The flat of the blade came to rest on Earl's cheek, its metal cool and then warming, blade tip down and out of sight. "I cut off your nose," Medardo whispered hoarsely, "and then your balls, you mother fucker."

And then Earl knew. Medardo had no intention of killing him. The young Hispanic was going through the motions, replaying lines from old TV shows, doing the "manhood" thing, living up to his own sorry self-image. Had Earl not been so nervous – for a knife not under his control was still, however pathetic Medardo might be, something to be nervous about – he might have laughed.

He did not laugh. Instead he said, "Well, Medardo, if what you need is to cut me, then go ahead and cut me."

With that, Earl kicked back with his right foot, connecting solidly with Medardo's ankle, and came up with his right hand, breaking the grip of Medardo's arm as he staggered from the leg-blow. Ducking under the knife, Earl came back hard with his left elbow, slamming Medardo's chest and driving him back. Earl whirled and crouched as the knife chopped through the air where he had been, and then, shoulder down, threw himself with all his force into Medardo's belly. The big man grunted as Earl propelled him back into the darkness of the kitchen, connecting with the round wood dinner table, collapsing it with a crash. Down on the floor now, atop the grunting flailing younger man, Earl had, in the darkness and panic, lost track of the knife. With a hail of unaimed hammerlike blows he bashed at Medardo, determined to distract him with serious pain till he could get the knife under control. Evidently he connected somewhere vital, for Medardo shrieked, gasped, and quit fighting back. Kneeling on his torso, Earl raised himself up, rapidly patting Medardo's arms and hands, trying to find the knife, as his opponent panted weakly. It wasn't here. Maybe it flew off, Earl thought. Still tense, unsure that the fight had really gone out of Medardo, Earl started to rise. But then he froze.

His left leg felt damp now, damp and warm and sticky. Abruptly Earl pushed himself off Medardo and staggered to his feet. His left pants leg was clinging damply to his skin. With blood.

A warm lake of the stuff spread blackly on the linoleum around the legs of the twitching, panting Medardo. From the young man's crotch, through the leg of the canvas shorts, protruded a dark shaft, twitching in time with the beat of Medardo's heart. It was the knife, all right; six inches into him, right at the base of the leg, where ran the big arteries and veins.

Feeling dizzy, Earl watched as Medardo twitched twice, moaned, twitched once again, and went still. Eyes still open, on him, glassily dimming.

From outside came the faint sound of a mufflerless car. Inside, all was silent. Staring down at the corpse, smelling the sweat of the dead man mixed with the dull/sharp stench of fresh blood, Earl said: "Oh, man. This is not good."

He had to get out of here.

But first, the evidence: think, think, think! Blood soaked not only his pants leg, but also his left running shoe. Quickly he unlaced his shoes and stepped out of them. Now for the most disgusting part: with his left hand he rolled up his left pants leg, almost to the knee, to keep the blood-ooze from dripping and leaving a trail. In the process his hand got bloody. Earl thought about the training they'd had on universal precautions – blood-borne pathogens – rubber gloves and the rest. He wondered briefly if Medardo, in death, was now infecting him. But that concern was for later. For now he had to get gone.

With shoes tucked under his arm, Earl quickly padded through the kitchen and down the dark hall past the bathroom for the back door. He had not touched the knife. He'd touched Medardo, all right, but it was unlikely he'd left anything traceable. Of course over the past few weeks he'd touched other things in Clarisa's apartment, besides Clarisa herself. She wasn't much of a housekeeper; he wondered if the coppers would find his prints? Should he stay long enough to do a wipe-down? No. At whatever cost, he had to avoid getting caught with the corpse.

With his clean hand he opened the back door, wiped the knob with his sleeve, and stepped out. The alley was dark and stuffy and redolent of garbage. Earl picked his way along, trying to look casual and yet not make any noise. On the route between Clarisa's back door and his borrowed van, he encountered no one and, he was sure, left no trail. The clanking sound of the driver side door latching behind him was music to Earl's ears. With some stray newspaper he wrapped his shoes, and his pants leg, to keep any trace of blood from staining the interior. Through all this Earl worked right-handed, his left going stiff with a coating of Medardo's blood.

Silly little cunt. What do you suppose happened? Did Medardo smell Earl on her one night? Or, out of misguided remorse, did she just up and confess? And where was Clarisa now?

The van engine cranked, coughed, started. Blue smoke issued from the exhaust and drifted along the side of the van to the open driver window. Earl banged the vehicle into gear, backed carefully out of the alley, and headed north. Gradually his heartbeat relaxed to something close to its normal background rhythm. His mouth was still full dry, though, and every sense was on high alert. He had evidence to dispose of, and some days of tension to sweat out. But thank God he'd never touched the knife. And thank God that, thanks to Ruth, he was driving the nondescript van tonight instead of his red Corvette.

He was surprised to realize that, overall, he felt pretty good. Considering he'd just killed a man for the first time.

Make that the second.

---

The boxy blue-and-white parking lot shuttle bus cruised over to the curb and stopped, diesel high-idling, blinkers clicking, as the center doors accordioned open. Mac, unique in his lack of luggage, laptop, or early a.m. languor, hopped up the steps ahead of the gaggle of arrivees, who, from their pasty faces, had probably just stumbled off a West Coast red-eye. Up front stood the driver next to his wheel; behind him, the name-plaque above the windshield said MARTY. Damn, Mac thought. Another miss. "I'm looking for Leon," he said to the driver.

"I'm Leon," he replied, squinting at Mac. "Who're you?"

"Oh!" Mac said, stepping forward as others crowded into the bus behind him, stowing luggage and taking seats. "McGladrey's the name. I work downtown. Need a word with you about an old friend of yours."

Leon had probably just recently tipped over into thirty. In his dark twill pants and sky blue twill shirt he looked pared down without seeming slight. His blond crew cut made him look faintly military, and the eyes in his every-guy handsome face were alert and aware. He scanned Mac briefly, then gestured at the empty bench behind the driver seat. "Grab hold," he said. "We'll talk while I work."

Mac sat. Leon helped riders secure their luggage, exchanging brief friendly words with several who were obviously regulars. Outside the gray early morning sky gradually lightened, pierced at intervals by the high whistle of aircraft climbing out. The curbsides and oval road were dense with traffic, swarming and squirming with the never-ending energy of a giant ant hill. Mac felt pretty good for being only on subsistence level coffee. Ahead of him today was a full plate at Fannie Annie, and first he hoped to find Eddie's girlfriend and get down to cases on what he was up to during his last days. But this was Friday, and, completing his second full week back on the nine-to-five grind, Mac had re-learned to appreciate the Fridays of his life.

Leon dropped agilely into his seat behind the big steering wheel. Flipping levers and pedals, he hissed the accordion doors shut, released the brakes, and rolled the shuttle bus away from the curb, the diesel baying at high revs. "So what branch were you in?" he asked.

Mac grinned. "Navy. You?"

"The same. Aviation ADJ. You, uh. . .don't tell me. Gunner's Mate?"

"Journalist," Mac said, which was technically true.

"At sea?"

"I did some blue water."

"Cool," Leon said, threading the bus through the one-way traffic with deft hands that held the big wheel at twenty and forty. "Would never have made you for a desk puke, though. Who's the friend?"

"Eddie Fant."

"Eddie!" Leon laughed. "Good old Eddie. Worked the stick at the Third Base. I used to live over by there, when I was still in school."

"When'd you last see him?"

"I don't know. Graduated two years ago. Must have been before that. What's up?"

Mac told him the short-form version. Though he could only catch glimpses of Leon's face in the driving mirrors, he could tell the younger man found the information disquieting. "There's some issues to resolve," Mac wound up. "I heard he had a girl friend, and I'm trying to find her."

Turning the big wheel with both hands, Leon hove the boxy bus around a corner, and let the wheel spin back straight. "He mentioned her to me a few times. Jessie somebody. I never saw her, though."

"Where was he living then?"

"With her. But I only saw him at the bar."

Mac thought. "They said over there you got him a job out here."

Leon laughed. "Well, let's put it this way. I hooked him up with our chief, and Eddie put in an app. But he flunked the whiz quiz big time."

"I see."

"Last I heard," Leon volunteered, "he got him a job with a landscaping outfit."

"That fits," Mac said. "But we never made a record of the name of --"

"Who could forget it?" Leon cut in, with another laugh. "Lawn Forcement."

"You can't be serious."

"Serious as a heart attack. He called me from there. Surprised you don't remember."

Mac wasn't. This had happened while he was away. And even if he'd been told the name, his photographic memory probably did not extend to bad puns.

---

Lawn Forcement, Mac found, was actually part of a hardware store operation that seemed to be surviving despite the presence of a Home Depot and Lowe's within a mile of its location on Dempsey Plank Road in the northwestern St. Marys suburb of Cedar Lake. Several stake-body trucks towing trailers loaded with lawn tractors were spilling out of the gravel driveway onto the bustling four-lane, no doubt on their way to their day's mowing duties, as Mac stepped into the low-ceilinged, cluttered office. A big built-in counter, cluttered with catalogs and books, halved the office, and the wall on the opposite side was stapled densely with calendars and posters using wrestlers and race car drivers and scantily clad models to hawk saw blades, grease, and power tools.

The beefy gent behind the counter had snowy white hair, full reddish face, and squinty yet watchful eyes. He more than adequately filled out his short-sleeve green shirt with the Lawn Forcement logo embroidered to one breast and his name -- Don -- embroidered on the other. On the darkish skin of his left arm, visible beneath thick white hair, were the initials USMC. Jar-head, Mac thought. Just my luck.

"Help you?" Don asked, friendly enough.

Yet again Mac went through what had become a rather well worn recitation. Halfway through, Don's face started to redden even more, and his roundish belly jiggled with what became obvious was an effort not to burst fully into laughter. "Yeah yeah yeah," Don said, "I remember Eddie, and who could forget what he did to get hisself busted. But you know what the biggest stitch about him is?"

"What's that?"

"After he got out of jail, he actually used me for a reference a couple of times."

Well, Mac thought, nobody accused Eddie of being the sharpest knife in the drawer. "So what'd you say?"

"I said," Don replied, punctuating with chuckles, "that he was not eligible for re-hire."

"I see. Well. You know anything about his girlfriend? Or anybody else might know him well?"

Don leaned on the counter. "You know, there's a zillion Eddie Fant in this town. And unlike most people I know – and probably unlike you, too – they don't have much in the way of roots or connections. They blow about the place," he said, illustrating with hand waves, "from one situation to the next. No fixed address, no steady job, no long term stability at all."

"Yep. I know what you mean."

"Only time you can garn-teed find them," Don said, "is when they're in the slammer."

"Uh-huh."

Don sighed. "If he had a girl friend, I never knew anything about it. But Brain might know."

"Brain?"

Don grinned again. He could, Mac thought, make a good Santa. "Name's really Brian."

"So why call him ‘Brain'?"

"One of our guys misspelled it that way once, and it stuck."

"But why, really?"

"Meet him," Don advised, "and you'll understand."

"Where can I do that?"

Don told him.