37. Brain Bleach
brain bleach
Mirren
Sitting in Tavi’s Tea House, I have an ear bud in that no one can spot, and that even fewer would recognize if they do. Tavi moved to town more than a dozen years ago and opened what we locals all assumed would be a one-year venture before she returned to Oregon to be near her kids.
Years later, her tea house is such a smashing success that the woman herself has become a fixture in town.
Kind, cool, with more than a hint of old hippie, Tavi has a couple of amazing gifts.
But the coolest—at least today—is that she chooses the customer’s tea based on their aura, if the customer allows it. And I allow it.
So I’m tucked in a dark corner, surrounded by deep olive-green walls and pillows with riotous patterns and colors, drinking a Vanilla Pear Oolong latte while Mom goes off-script talking to Franco Smith, Sal’s father, about old times.
She’s on the road to some antique shop and let me listen in on two calls. The first was a bust. The second might as well be, except for one tidbit that Franco doesn’t know he’s spilling. Or—and this is my fear since his reputation is stellar—he’s offering in order to plant false information.
“Sal got sent to middle America and was able to find the evidence but wasn’t able to secure it. He was within days of finalizing the case when someone outed him. Real shit sandwich.”
“Reminds me of Suriname. Remember Frank—what was his last name?—embedded at the French embassy getting made?”
“Sal didn’t get made. No one knew. Sounds like he got caught up in a skimming situation of all things.”
“I don’t get it,” Mom says as she drives. “Shoot. I missed my turn.”
That’s a lie, but Franco doesn’t know it. “Employees messing with payroll.” Franco laughs. “My son got taken out by a freaking payroll clerk.”
They continue chatting. Catching up on all things kids and, for Franco, grandkids.
But I’m stuck on what he did provide. Found evidence. Finalizing the case.
I know Strider. And I’d bet my job on his innocence. Hell, I have… But evidence is a twist I didn’t see coming.
Grabbing my phone, I text Brody.
Am I still on administrative leave?
Uncle Alpha
Have I indicated otherwise?
Aren’t there other assignments I can be attached to?
Why are you pushing this, Jones?
That whole pesky paying my bills thing comes to mind.
I may have something in West Virginia that’s long term.
Well, that’s a fuck no. Hmmm… Professional speak.
That doesn’t currently fit my goals.
That’s what I thought. Don’t push me. I’ll embed you in the northern Canadian tundra for a two-year recon project. Take the leave. Pretend it’s a gift.
I hear what he’s not saying. I fucked up in his eyes, and he could punish me. Leave is the lesser of the evils he could offer.
Roger that.
I return to the book I’m fake reading and flip the page after making a show of moving my eyes. There’s only one other person in here, but nevertheless, I’m here to be seen.
Mikey’s gonna kill me. And he’s so nice I hate to do this to him. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him though.
Sooooo, Strider and I are giving it a go. I wanted you to have his number.
{Strider Anderson’s contact info}
How the hell am I supposed to tell Charlie? Maybe I won’t. How long do you think it would take him to notice? He’s busy. He’ll never know.
Zipper—Mikey
Congrats, baby sister. May I never again be in the situation like what happened at your house.
You’re gonna want to call first in the future.
Ew. Ugh. Is there brain bleach for thoughts about your sister? Send help.
One day, when you meet a girl you really like…
…
The bubbles dancing are just to screw with him. I crack myself up.
La la la la. Eyes closed. No. Nuh-uh. Not from you. Gag.
I didn’t realize flankers could be so delicate. Do the Red Wolves know?
Don’t make me text your man with all your embarrassing stories.
You wouldn’t!
I have photos too.
Mikey!
He doesn’t respond. And I know what he’s done. I manipulated this play. And I don’t feel an ounce of guilt.
Strider
Dad and I are at lunch, trying to get away from the office after meeting with our attorneys on an emergency basis. Last week for O’Neill. This week for what feels more like a shakedown than an audit.
It’s an awkward silent meal, aside from the constant buzzing of my phone I fight to ignore. Both of us are deep in our thoughts when Chief Clasky moseys into the diner. Our sandwiches are left half-eaten as he scrapes out a chair and falls into a seat at our table.
“Jim.” He extends a hand to Dad before offering the same to me. “Strider.”
We return the gesture, and he places his order as we wait in awkward, screaming silence.
When the server has returned with his drink and our refills, he drops his voice so it can’t be heard past our table.
“We have no word on O’Neill. I can’t get any information and I’m risking my job if I keep trying. ”
Dad stops his sandwich halfway to his mouth. “Gene, we’d never expect that.” His gaze swings to me, before returning to his friend. “Don’t push it. You’ve done everything you can do, and we appreciate it.”
The chief turns to me as if Dad didn’t speak.
“Son, I take my job seriously. I have great respect for your father and the people in this town. I have no intention”—his eyes drop to my throat where yellow and green marks hide under the collar of my shirt—“of letting anyone get away with anything in my patch. If they take me out, they do it because I have the integrity to stand for what’s right. ”
Something about the weight in Gene’s tone makes me feel younger than I’m used to. “I appreciate that, but I don’t want you on the receiving end of his violence or the working end of whomever is protecting him.”
“That’s my job.”
“Make no mistake, I want justice. O’Neill should rot for this.” I tip my chin. There’s more to say, but none of it is urgent.
Dad sets his sandwich on his plate just as Gene’s meal is delivered to the table. Napkin unrolled and fork aloft with a sturdy bite atop it, Gene murmurs, “Heard rumors about EP this week. What’s going on over there?”
“Never seen anything like it,” Dad starts. But I over talk him, my words hushed but urgent. “Sure feels like we’re, or I’m, being targeted.”
“I’ll poke around. You both have stellar reputations in this town. Do whatever it takes to keep that. Heads down. Smile and nod. Keep going as if nothing is amiss.”
“Easier said than done,” Dad pipes in before taking a huge bite.
The chief simply shakes his head. “Drawing attention is not good. Trust me.”
Dad nods. I already know he trusts Gene. The man is sticking his neck out on the line for me, and I have no reason not to listen and trust what he’s saying.
“Hard not to when every eye is on us,” I offer quietly. Then, so people can overhear, I change the topic and speak at a normal volume. “Conference playoffs this weekend. You have any favorites?”
We chat around, leaving the seriousness of the previous conversation behind us, and I fish my phone out of my pocket. “Excuse me.” I push my chair back and step toward the entrance and into the crisp early afternoon.
Unknown
This is the obligatory “if you mess with my sister, I have to kick your ass” text. Don’t fuck her over.
But, seriously, congrats. I like you.
It would be a shame to bury you alive in the desert like a cartoon with only your head sticking out for the birds to eat.
And I’d be grouchy if it came to that. No one wants me grouchy. Capiche?
Did you just mafia phrase me?
And who is this?
It’s Mikey, man. Didn’t you figure that out from the desert reference? Jamie would throw you in the Bay. Skipper would take you to a farm. The desert reference should’ve been obvious. I need to talk with my sister if you blatantly confuse us.
I pause long enough to let that sink in. He’s right. What little I know of each of them, those are spot on.
So Johnny and Davie are pacifists?
Mikey
Hardly. But they’d both do something sneaky and far less obvious. None of us would ever know, and they’d never tell.
Great. So watch my back with the youngest two. Got it.
How’re you? How’s Mirren?
And thanks for the text. Shit day. Total shit day. I needed the laugh.
Who are we throat-punching? I’m ready.
For at least the tenth time in the last week, I reach up to protect my neck and throat. The worst of the bruises have faded, but the sickly looking gold remnants remain.
If we’d known each other in high school or college, we would either have matching X-Rays or arrest records. I like it.
That’s right.
So when are you coming back?