The Boardwalk Bomber

By Michael Jesse

Chapter 19

It was McCain. She'd apparently been home to change since I'd seen her last and was in one of her eclectic suits. It occurred to me she'd look good in a Fedora and spats with maybe a watch chain hanging on one side.

"I just thought I'd check in on you," she said.

"I appreciate it," I said. "You two know each other I think."

"Good evening , Mr. Brennan," McCain said to Curt.

"Thanks for bringing me home, Curt," I said to him, prepared to throw a shoe at him if he didn't take the hint.

But he did, which was just as well since I wasn't sure exactly where my feet were at the moment, let alone whether they had shoes on them.

"So," I said after the door closed. "Did you grill a confession out of the little creep?"

She sat down in the chair where Curt had been. "Sure did. And we found plenty of bomb-making evidence in the basement of his mother's home. His fingerprints are all over everything and there's corresponding chemical residue on his hands and clothing."

"No shit," I said, not very eloquently. Something seemed wrong or at least incomplete about it, but I wasn't thinking very clearly. "Copycat," I finally heard myself say.

She nodded. "That's what we think too. He denies any connection to the earlier bombings and the evidence we've found doesn't match the others."

I remembered Amanda showing me the bloody nails she picked out of me. But the bomb at Jockamo's was packed with thick sheet metal scraps, like floor sweepings at an auto body shop. No doubt there were other differences only the investigators would know about, like the exact chemical mix to make the explosion, or the type of container used to house it.

At the moment I had a hard time concentrating on such details. My mind was pretty busy just watching McCain. Her face seemed to dominate everything in the horizon and I could see every detail of her face down to her pores, and yet I seemed to have tunnel vision, unable to register anything at all a few feet in any direction. I remember noticing every tiny fuzzy hair and every freckle, of which there were so many, as they played across her high cheekbones and her small nose and her intense forehead. My eyes allowed themselves to linger also on her lips, and her eyes, and her neck which seemed so white and sheltered and unkissed.

"You are so pretty," I said before I knew I would say it.

She blushed the way redheads blush and it went down her neck and into her blouse. I wondered how far it went and imagined it. The thought caused a sudden stir in the only part of me that wasn't numb and I repositioned myself on the couch to keep it from being obvious.

"And you are overmedicated," she said, picking up the packet of pills from the little end table. "How many of these have you had anyway?"

"I am not evermodicated," I said indignantly, causing her to giggle.

"I hope you did that on purpose," she said.

"Did what?" I said, but winked to show I was kidding. "But you are, you know," I added.

"Are what? I mean am what?"

"Pretty."

"Are you flirting with me again?"

"Well ... yeah. Couldn't you tell? I thought I was being pretty obvious."

"Now, now. We agreed you wouldn't do that, remember? Besides, I thought you were interested in that little dancer from next door. "

"How'd you know that?"

"I'm a detective."

"Yeah, well if you detect any interest coming back from her direction I'd be surprised."

"Oh I see. Unrequited love. And I'm your second choice? How flattering."

"This conversation isn't going very well. Can we back up?"

"Sorry, no time. I should go."

"The part where you were blushing was nice. Can we do that part again?"

"It won't work a second time. You surprised me."

I took her hand. "It could happen again."

She squeezed my hand but then removed hers, standing up. "You're sweet, but I told you it isn't going to happen."

"Why not?"

"Conflict of interest for one thing. You're a party to the investigation."

"Is that the only reason?"

She gave me a long stare and then leaned down over me to whisper in my ear. But for a few seconds I could swear she was going to kiss me. Her perfume filled my lungs and my eyes drowned in the brief but overwhelming vision of her long white neck hovering above my face, her shirt opened two buttons. I felt her breath in my ear, her lips practically touching me but I could not hear what she said over the racket my other senses were making.

She stood back up and the cloud of her presence hung around me.

"What?" I said, confused. "I didn't hear what you said."

She laughed and yelled into my face "I said I'm gay, you doofus!"

I probably looked dumbfounded and she laughed again. "I thought you were a detective," she said. "It's not that hard to figure out, you know."

"Well, I--"

"Now that little Angela chick, she's more my type. So you say she's not seeing anyone right now?"

"Heyyy!!!"

She patted me on the head. "You should get some sleep. I'll let myself out."

I watched her lock the door from the inside and pull it shut behind her. I was suddenly too sleepy to keep my eyes open and the couch felt like it was floating.

I could hear voices and opened my eyes. McCain was there again, but now her red hair was green and so were her eyes. She was wearing a tiny bathing suit and she bent down over me and whispered something in my ear. It didn't matter what she was saying. I watched her walk away. The little suit covered almost none of her behind. She walked across the bookstore, but it wasn't the bookstore, it was a bar and there were people all around. Rex was playing on the stage and Fred and Vi Woodman danced elegantly on the stage. Angela was behind the bar, wearing her crisp yellow uniform from the Canary Cafe. She stared at me disapprovingly, having caught me looking at McCain.

I was still on the couch but I couldn't' move or talk. The couch was outside on the beach and I could feel the waves lapping against it. The Rev. Bil
lie was pacing in front of me saying I was a fuckin' good man. She flicked the ashes of her cigarette into an urn. No one was listening except Allison Taylor, who sat alone surrounded by empty white chairs.

Up by the bar, McCain flirted with Angela, who seemed flattered. Ray Hulman was telling Curt something that seemed important and out on the water Clint Brinckman, in full command of his body, roared by on a speedboat with Brandi hugging his waist. The wake from the boat sent waves splashing against the couch. Andy pushed his lawn mower across the sand and Scottie walked carefully beside him, holding a bandage on the back of his brother's head.

I could see past the bar, where Bigfoot was working on April's car in the open, sandy carport where we'd fought. Tools and car-repair supplies were hanging all around, even though there were no walls to hold them up. Above him, on the balcony. Chad pleaded with April, who was wearing a 1940's suit. He leaned her back against the railing, but then she picked him up and threw him to the sand below and as he hit the ground he exploded. Body parts landed everywhere, but they weren't real -- plastic arms and legs like a dismembered Ken doll. Everyone at the bar looked up a moment, applauded perfunctorily and went back to their conversations.

Rev. Billie stood over me and leaned down to whisper in my ear, her yellow teeth smelling of cigarettes. "I thought you were a detective," she said. "It's not that hard to figure out."