The Stages of Grief, a Real Sick Fuck
David and the Lion’s Den, chapter 26
A car barreled through the rain-soaked gutter, fire-hosing my face and body. “Fuck!” I screamed into the night, letting my pain and outrage find release as I all but howled at the moon. Then, with no thought or conscious decision, I strode to the heavy oak door, banged it open, and barged my way toward the bar, shaking water from my hair like a dog. — chapter 24
Does fate dictate life?
I’d sure like to know the story behind that car and the driver who swerved into the gutter and soaked me. Did he he do it on purpose? Does it matter?
When I stormed through that door into Cucina 20 years ago, I stepped into a vortex of possibility. My life, not to mention the lives and deaths of people close to me, swirled around that random event.
I didn’t know.
I was wet, angry, and driven beyond my limits. I was beyond caring if Esteban or his nephew Alonzo would object to my presence.
Even after I left, I knew nothing. Nothing happened out of the ordinary — not in my presence. I slouched over the oak bar and let Jill comp me a few drinks, let her cluck over my wet hair as she threw bar towels at me, let her try to cheer me up. I talked to Raph. That was nice. He was as smoking hot as ever, not that I was paying attention.
Then I went back home to Hilda’s, unaware the vortex had sucked dust out of the air to mold the future — all while I sucked down scotch. I was more determined than ever to see my lawyer in the morning and explain how I knew Howie had to be a killer.
I set out first thing, right after Jill called and woke me up. “Look, I’m sorry,” she told me, voice tense and high pitched. “Something … I dunno, just something came up. Call me as soon as you’re done up there? Let me know you’re OK?”
I didn’t really blame her for begging off. It was a sordid business. I was confused, though, because she’d absolutely insisted on coming with me. My mouth was cotton, my head was clamped in a vise, and my bladder was screaming at me. I wasn’t in the mood to explore her motives.
“Fine. Whatever.” I hang up, groaned, and started my day.
It was past ten by the time I stepped into Kevin’s reception area. I twiddled my thumbs, drank some coffee, and leafed blankly through a magazine until Arnold came out.
“Sorry for da wait. Kevin ain’t gonna be here for a while yet, but you might as well come on back.” He motioned at me with the manilla folder in his hand. He got me settled in a small conference room and sat across the table from me.
“So, watcha got for me? Kathy said it was important?” He poised a pen over a legal pad.
I swallowed hard and spoke the words out loud. “Yeah. It is. Howie did it. He’s the murderer.”
His eyes narrowed as he raised his eyebrows. “No shit, kid. I been telling you that all along. Of course he did it. That all you got?”
“No, I mean look. We figured it all out. You have my notes?”
He opened the folder and spread the pages out on the table. I showed him everything, my voice halting and soft at first, but growing stronger and angrier as I went. I showed him how the cannoli had to be the culprit, how the food program didn’t serve them, and how Howie always brought them special.
He whistled when I finished, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “Damn. How did I not connect them dots? David, I been over this damn file 20 times. If it was any more obvious, I woulda tripped over it. I’m impressed. This is big. This is exactly what we need.”
“Is it enough?” I asked. “Is it enough to end this?”
“That’s for Kevin to answer. My guess? If we can back this up with solid evidence, the prosecutor’ll drop the charges like a hot potato. DAs can’t stand losing jury trials.”
“What kind of evidence?”
Arnold grabbed a blank pad and started scribbling fast. He didn’t look up as he talked to me. “For starters? That Marco kid. I gotta interview him and make sure his memories match yours. Don’t worry, I’ll track him down.”
As he kept writing and asking me questions, my anger started to unclench. How do the stages of grief go? I was over the denial part. Anger had flared quickly. Sorrow. Mourning. That’s where I was. A long way from acceptance.
“And get Hilda up here as fast as you can, kid. I need her statement about the desserts. And I’ll tell ya what else. She ain’t enough. Kevin’s gonna want some other program volunteer, somebody who ain’t your friend to back her up.”
No, I wasn’t denying anything anymore. I didn’t have the strength to be mad at anybody. I was just sick to my stomach.
“One thing I can’t figure out, though,” Arnold mused as he tapped on his pad with the wrong end of his pen.
“What’s that?”
“How’s it possible you never got sick, huh? You ate the same food.”
“But, I did!”
He shot me a confused look. “Whaddya mean?”
“I didn’t realize it or anything. But thinking back … even Hilda wondered why my stomach was playing up on me all summer. I always had a bad stomach. I thought it was nerves. You know?”
He tapped his foot and looked skeptical, so I kept going. “I had a lot of indigestion all the time. Diarrhea. I had a fever a lot. I didn’t realize how bad it was until it went away.”
“Which was when?”
“Not til Howie and I gave up our delivery route to put the finishing touches on the boat ride. Not even completely until I got out of jail.”
“Anybody else know about these symptoms?”
“Maybe Jill?” I shrugged. “She went out and bought me some Pepto Bismol once.”
“Pepto Bismol? You kiddin’ me? This don’t add up, see. If all you needed was a little pink chalk to keep you goin’, then how come everybody else died? More to the damn point …”
“How come I didn’t?” I finished for him.
“Exactly. See, something still don’t make sense here.”
“That’s just how it is with HIV and AIDS, man. It destroys the immune system. Mine is healthy, so it fought off the salmonella without too much trouble. But Allen, Lydia, and the rest? They couldn’t handle it.”
“Damn. We’ll run that by a doc before we see the DA.”
I shrugged.
“Whaddya figure this was all about? Mercy killing? Angel of Death kinda shit?
“Man, I’ve been going nuts over that. I’m almost literally sick. I don’t understand. If you could only know Howie! He’s just the …. well, he seemed like just the kindest, biggest-hearted guy in the world. He loved everybody!”
Arnold’s eyes narrowed again, and something swept over his face. When he spoke, his voice was hard. “Don’t let it get to ya, kid. You listen to me. I seen a lot in this business, shit people should never have to see. Look, most guys are exactly who they seem to be, right? Oh, sure, they can fuck up . But they ain’t bad. Not deep down, not even when they’re breakin’ the law.”
He picked up his pen and turned it over in his fingers for a minute. “Once in a while, though, you get somebody different. A real sick fuck comes along. He hurts people cause he wants to. Cause he gets off on it. Most of the time? You’d never guess! You can’t pick em out. But he’s broke on the inside, and there’s no fixin’ that. You can’t feel bad about it, David. It ain’t your fault.”
I sat and thought while Arnold scribbled. Howie as a psychopath. I had some new realities to adjust to.
“You know what, though?”
Arnold’s question startled me out of a maze of twisting thoughts. He continued when I looked up. “We gotta answer a couple more big questions to to really nail this.”
Yeah?
“Where’d he get the cannoli, and how did he contaminate them?”
“Does it really matter?”
“Loose ends are always important. You ain’t’ home free yet.”
That was a chilling thought. “I figure the cannoli must have come from Cucina. They were exactly like the ones I served there. It makes sense. Howie was there just about every day. If he wasn’t managing, he was tending bar.”
Kevin’s secretary popped the door open right then. “Guys? He called during a recess. He wants me to let you know he can’t make it back til late afternoon.
“Thanks, Kathy. He calls again, tell him we’re good, huh?”
“You going to need me anymore today,” I asked, yawning.
“I got enough to keep me runnin’ around for a week. Why? You gotta hot date?”
“I need to crash, man. I haven’t been sleeping.”
He squinted at me hard before he spoke. “Yeah, your eyes are blood red. Get on outta here, then. Stay near the phone? Kevin might want you back here later.”
I dragged myself out of my chair, fighting off a wave of fatigue. Now that I’d set everything in motion, I needed to collapse. Be unconscious for a while. I got halfway to the door before I remembered. “Hey, can I use your phone? Jill wanted me to call when I was done.”
“Knock yourself out,” he mumbled, hunching over his legal pad and pointing to the blinking multi-line phone on a side table. “Dial 9 first.”
I wanted to reach her before she left for work, plenty of time left.
“Hello?” A man’s voice answered.
“Oh, sorry, I must have dialed the wrong…”
“David? That you?
“Richard? What are you doing at Jill’s?”
“Waiting for your call. Finished with the lawyer yet?”
“About to leave, yeah. What’s up?”
“Everything. How fast can you get to Cucina? Jill called me 25 minutes ago, on her way. If you hurry, you can get there about the same time she does.”
“Called you? What?”
“She’ll explain. Just go, David. Hurry. I don’t have time to tell you why. I’m headed out too. Just get there fast. She needs you. Howie needs you.”
The line clicked and I stared at Arnold before bolting toward the door. Something stopped me halfway out.
“Hey, Arnold? You need me, I’m gonna be at Cucina before I go home. OK?”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Enjoy your lunch, man.”
I had to grab a strap on the Seventh Avenue line. No seats in the lunch rush. I tried to figure out why Jill would be at Cucina at this hour. Way too early for her shift.
As the car screeched through the 14th Street station, Richard’s words echoed in my head. “Howie needs you.”
What the fuck? I didn’t know how much more of this I could take.