The Mortal Groove (6 page)

 

Around seven on Tuesday evening, Randy pulled his white Volvo into the gravel drive next to his home on the outskirts of Marine on St. Croix. He sat for a moment with the engine running, gazing at the house. It was four stories of glass and steel nestled into the woods on nine acres. Several decks jutted off the sides. He'd worked with an architect to get his dream down on paper—an adult version of a tree house. This was to be the home he and his wife would live in for the rest of their lives. But the house was empty now. Sherrie had moved out a month ago, taking with her not only their teenage daughter, but most of what was left of his heart. Since that time, he and his brother had knocked around the place like two aimless drifters, coming together occasionally for meals and then going their separate ways.

As Randy cut the motor and got out, his cell phone rang. Flipping it open, he leaned against the front fender and said hello.

“Randy, it's Del. We got a problem.”

“You mean the drunk driving thing? I've already heard. I don't think it will be a big issue. Happened too long ago.”

“Not that. Something else. We gotta talk—and not on the phone.”

“When?”

“Now. Where are you?”

“I just got home.”

“Stay there. I'm not far away. I'll be there in a few minutes.”

Randy removed his briefcase from the backseat, stopped for a moment to make sure he'd brought home one particular file, then headed up the walk to the front door. It was a cool spring evening, the sky above him a vault of deep blue. Loosening his tie, he dashed up the stairs to the silent kitchen and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. On his way out to the deck, he checked to see if he had any voice mail messages. There was no blinking red light.

Randy thought about going down to the deck off the living room with his drink. His favorite chaise was down there, but he decided against it. Upstairs, he could watch the sun set over the meadow. Besides, Del would be here soon. Ethan was probably around somewhere, up in his room watching TV, or down in his workshop working on a bird feeder. He sold them at the local hardware store. Not that he needed the money. Randy made more money than he knew what to do with. He'd offered the house to his wife, but she didn't want it—probably because she didn't want anything that reminded her of him.

Randy was angry, but then he had a right to be. His carefully constructed life had come apart and he didn't even know why. He'd been a faithful husband, a good father. Sure, he was moody sometimes, but who the hell wasn't.

Hearing footsteps on the deck stairs, he glanced down at the three-stall garage, but the only car in the drive was his own. It had to be his brother. Except when he looked over at the steps, the man coming up wasn't Ethan. “Larry?” said Randy, standing, surprise and delight spreading across his face.

“If it ain't the professor,” said Larry with a grin.

They grabbed each other, slapped backs, then moved apart.

“Let me look at you,” said Larry, holding Randy at arm's length. “How you been, man? Seems like life's been treatin' you pretty good. Where's Sherrie? I got a present for her. A new perfume she's gonna love.”

Randy wiped a hand across his mouth. “She left me.”

“No. When?”

“A month ago.”

“Fuck, man, that stinks.” He knocked Randy on the shoulder. “She'll be back.”

“I don't know.”

“Sure she will. Listen, I'm six months older than you are, boy. Trust your elders. She'll be back. Hey, maybe I should go talk to her. Me and Sherrie are tight. I could put in a good word for you.

“I don't think so. She's pretty angry right now.”

“Well, then, best to give her some time to cool off.”

Randy leaned against the railing, studying his old friend. Larry was rail thin inside his leather biker jacket. He had a graying pony tail, a long Fu Manchu mustache, and a surly look on his long, pockmarked face. “What are you doing in Minnesota?”

“Just travelin' through. I got sick of the heat, thought I'd come see my old buddies.”

“You're still in Phoenix, right?”

“Yeah, but I gave up the apartment. I need a change. Thought I might settle somewhere in the North Country. Clean air. Clean water. Clean living.”

“Right,” said Randy. “That'll be the day.”

Larry had been bartending for the last few years, not a particularly smart choice for a guy with a drinking and drug problem. He'd fought the good fight against his demons trying to get
clean, attending AA meetings, doing an occasional stint in rehab, but nothing seemed to work. In the early nineties, he'd served four years in Douglas State Prison for aggravated assault. He had a temper that he didn't control very well, especially when he was high.

But none of that mattered to Randy. The blast-furnace pressure of war had formed powerful bonds. When he returned home from his tour in Vietnam, Randy was no longer a friendless loner. His new buddies might not have been the kind of guys he would have chosen under normal circumstances, but Nam had been a time in his life when none of the old rules mattered and nothing made sense except staying alive.

“Del's on his way over.”

“No shit?” said Larry with a crooked grin. “That's cool.”

They both leaned against the railing, looking out across the meadow. Larry lit a cigarette and offered the pack to Randy, but Randy shook his head.

“Quit.”

“Yeah, I should, too, but I gotta have some vices or it wouldn't be me.”

“Where are you staying?”

“With you.”

“Perfect,” said Randy, looking back at the house looming above them. “Take two or three bedrooms. I got nothing but space.”

“One'11 be fine,” said Larry, blowing smoke circles into the twilight air. “Honest, I needed a break bad. There's a woman down in Phoenix thinks I'm gonna marry her. You and I both know that ain't gonna happen.”

Randy laughed. “You're running from a marriage ceremony?” “Damn straight, I am. No shame in that.” As his eyes panned
more carefully across the meadow, he took a deep hit off the cigarette. “What's it been? Three years since we last seen each other?”

“Sounds about right.”

He fell silent, staring at the glowing tip of his smoke. “You're gonna think old Larry's gone soft, but I missed you, man. You and Del. I know this seems weird, but I miss the old days—our time in Nam. You ever go back there in your mind?”

“It still wakes me up at night.”

“Yeah. I hear you.”

“My wife told me I'm stuck in the past. Makes me awfully quiet sometimes. I guess I'm not much fun to be around.”

“Hell, you're a hoot. Best drinking buddy I ever had.”

Randy looked away.

“We were the lucky ones,” said Larry. “We came back. We survived.”

They both turned at the sound of a car motor.

Del was pulling his black Highlander up next to Randy's Volvo. As he opened the door to get out, the automatic floodlight on the side of the garage came on.

“I don't believe it,” whispered Larry. “His hair's almost as gray as mine. We're gettin' old, man. I hate it. I wanna live forever.”

As Del trudged up the steps to the deck, Larry pressed his fingers around the lit end of the cigarette, pocketing what was left of it. “Hey there, my brutha,” he said, opening his arms wide.

Del took one look at him and broke into a hearty laugh. “You old piece of dog meat, what are you doin' here?”

They did some backslapping, some hand shaking.

“Just passin' through,” said Larry. “Just passin' through.”

“Anybody hungry?” asked Randy. “I could order us a pizza. Seems like we should celebrate.”

“You mean somebody actually delivers way out here in the boonies?” asked Larry. “They do it by horse and buggy?”

Del laid a hand on the back of Larry's neck. At six foot seven, Del towered over everyone. “Can you believe it? All these years later and we're still standing. We must be made of kryptonite to live through what we did.”

“Purely true,” said Larry, shaking his head.

“And you two are still my best friends. My brothers,” said Randy.

“Mom always liked you best,” said Larry, punching Del's arm, putting up his fists.

Watching them spar, Randy felt something familiar stir inside. The gray hair didn't matter, neither did the years. Around these guys he was young again. He wanted to laugh, to drink too much, sleep too late, smoke and swear and argue. He wanted to suck in the sweet night air and never forget how much he owed them.

They talked for a few more minutes, swapped a few old stories, laughed at a few old jokes. When they finally came inside they found Randy's brother, Ethan, in the kitchen standing by the refrigerator eating refried beans from a Tupperware bowl. He'd turned on the light under the stove, but the rest of the house was dark.

“Hey, Ethan,” said Larry, closing the sliding door behind him.

Ethan had grown into a bear of a man. Six four, 260 pounds. He looked like an aging linebacker. His hair was still thick and blond, like Randy's, only Ethan's hair was straight, no waves. He kept active because Randy had helped him organize a lawn and snow service. He took care of several dozen properties in the area. He couldn't do the billing, but he loved to be outside doing the work. And he lived to drive his truck.

“Hi,” said Ethan, talking and chewing at the same time.

“Say, Ethan,” said Randy, moving behind the island counter. “Why don't you take Larry upstairs and get him settled in one of the guest bedrooms. Del and I need a few minutes to discuss some business.”

“He's staying?” said Ethan, nodding to Larry as he stuffed more beans into his mouth.

“For a while,” said Randy.

“I want Sherrie to come home,” said Ethan, sounding like a little boy who'd lost his mom.

“I know. I do, too. Now come on, help me out here. Maybe you could give Larry a hand with his bags.”

“I only got one,” said Larry. “Left it down by the front door.”

“Where'd you put your car?” asked Randy.

“I hitchhiked.”

“All the way from Arizona?”

“Had to sell my wheels a while back.”

“Come on, Larry,” said Ethan, pivoting with a tired sigh and walking out of the kitchen. “Maybe you better take a shower ‘cause you sure smell like a lawn mower.”

Larry turned back to Randy and Del and shrugged.

“We got new towels,” said Ethan's disappearing voice. “Blue and green ones. I like the green ones best.”

 

Randy's office was on the first level, on the other side of the house from the living room. It was comfortably furnished with leather chairs and an Indian ivory and ebony desk, one Randy had found in an antiques store in New Orleans. The room was small enough to seem warm even with the abandoned feel of the rest of the house. Three walls were filled with books, most of them law books. Across from the desk, a glass wall looked out
on the woods, where blue twilight had finally deepened into night.

Randy switched on the desk lamp and found his address book. He phoned the pizza place and ordered two extra-large extra-everything pizzas. As he set the phone down, he said, “So tell me what's so important that you had to drive all the way out here.”

Del dropped into a chair. “We got a reporter on our tail.”

“Our
tail? This isn't about the campaign?”

Del ran a weary hand over his hair. “No. I don't know the details, but from what I hear, it could be bad.”

“We got so many ways for things to be bad, you better be more specific.” Randy sat down himself, eased back into the darkness.

Sue.

It was the one word Randy feared more than any other. “It's just an old story, Del. Nothing happened then and nothing will happen now.” Unconsciously, he began to knead his wedding ring between his fingers.

“I wish I had your confidence.”

It wasn't confidence, thought Randy. It felt more like desperation.

“The reporter's name is Melanie Gunderson. She works for
City Beat
—that weekly pulp. That's all I know about her, but I've got a bunch of feelers out. I'll have more by tomorrow morning. Man, I don't need this. I'm already up to my ears in campaign shit. We gotta do something.”

“Like what? What are you suggesting? That we have her whacked?” He laughed.

Del didn't. “I got a bad feeling about this. Nobody's touched that story since the trial. And now this.”

“Sounds like you boys got some heavy problems,” said Larry,
leaning against the open office door. He ambled into the room and took the chair next to Del.

“How much of that did you hear?” asked Randy.

“Enough. Look, boys, if I understand it right, this concerns me, too.”

Randy gave a slow nod.

“Either of you got any serious cash?”

“Why?” asked Del. “You think we can buy her off?”

“It's worth a try. She don't know me from Adam. I don't look nothing like I did back then. What if I contact her and offer her, say, twenty thousand to back away from the story. All I'd tell her is that I'm an interested party, a guy who don't wanna see innocent people get hurt.” He shrugged. “Everybody's got a price.”

Inside his perfectly pressed Oxford cloth shirt, Randy was beginning to sweat. He glanced at Del. “What do you think?”

“I haven't got twenty thousand dollars.”

“But I do,” said Randy. And yet his gut reaction was that it was a mistake.

“You boys mull it over,” said Larry, stretching his arms high over his head. “I'll be kickin' around here for a few days. Whatever you decide is fine by me.”