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The Stretch Run

by Jason Bennett
Chapter 6

Case called early, at least, earlier than I had expected. He told me that Jake had been brought in, but refused to tell me how he knew it.

I stopped by Lou’s on the way to pick up a morning paper. I looked at the date. I decided I’d keep the paper. Olivia’s funeral would be today, and I wanted to keep the paper to remember – as if I could ever forget.

As I got into my Jeep, I thumbed through the front section. The story was on the first page, near the bottom. Luckily, there wasn’t anything about a suspect, or a drug connection. The only solid fact in the article was that she had died. The rest of the piece comprised creative ways of saying the rest of the facts were unknown, and nothing mentioned drugs: So far, so good, on that front.

The drive to Case’s house seemed to take longer than normal, so I picked up my cell phone, and rang Donnie’s desk. I wanted to ask him if what Jerry had told me was correct.

“Pagliocci.”

“You answer the phone like an asshole,” I said.

“What. I’m busy.”

“Jerry just called me.”

“And?”

“Did you bring in Ellison?”

“I did,” he said. “I brought him in this morning.”

“Then Jerry wasn’t wrong.” I sighed in relief even though, in truth, I felt a knot beginning in my stomach. “He was very excited when he called me. Didn’t want me to know it, though.”

“Yeah, its true. We’re going to question him, a bit. We’re not charging him yet, though.”

“Levin will call you any time.”

“I figured. Right now, we’re just questioning him, you know the drill – no proof of anything, no details, etc.”

“Okay, I’ll try to head him off before he can get to you, anyway.”

“Don’t lie to him, Ozzie.”

“No one is going to lie to anyone. I’m just going to fill him in—be his source. That way, when he calls you, he’ll just be checking facts, not asking new questions. Are you coming to the funeral?”

Donnie paused and sipped something that sounded hot. “I think so,” he said. “What time is it?”

“Three p.m. It’s at the Catholic church on 39^th avenue – just north of 75^th street?” I couldn’t remember the name of the church, for the life of me.

“I know the one.”

“Then I’ll see you there?

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

I hung up and called Levin. He needed to know a few facts, and I wanted to be the one to give them to him. The more control I had over what he knew, the better off, and the more helpful I could be to Jerry.

“Barry Levin,” he answered after one ring.

“Levin, hi, Carson Osborne here.”

“Carson, Hi. How are you this morning. How’s your nose?”

“It’s fine, no problems,” I said. “Listen, I have a little information for you about the Case story.”

“What is it?”

“The cops brought in a suspect for questioning this morning. From what Donnie tells me, they don’t want to give up his identity, yet, because they’re only questioning him. No charges.”

“I’ll have to call Pagliocci and ask him about that.”

“You’re welcome to try. I’ve known the guy since I was 14, and he wouldn’t tell me who it is.”

“Yeah. Well thanks. I’ll check it out.”

“Right. Good luck.” I hung up my phone just as I pulled into Case’s driveway.

As I crawled down out of my Jeep, my face throbbing, Jerry Case came out of his front door talking on his cell phone. He was dressed in a dark square-cut suit with a dark red tie. I noticed right away how sunken his eyes looked. He must not have slept in the two days since he discovered the body.

“Of course, Jerry. You know I’d do whatever I can.”

“I’m just glad things are progressing so quickly in the investigation.”

“Yeah, me too. And I’m doing all I can with Levin.”

“I know, Carson. Listen, I really have to go. I’ll see you this afternoon, yes?”

“Okay, Jerry. I’ll see you there.”

I walked back to my Jeep and watched as he got into his car and drove away. Even his driving seemed melancholy. I had known Jerry Case for seven years, and this was the first time, the first situation in which I’d ever seen him down. My heart went out to him. I dreaded the funeral.

*

The inside of the Common Grounds Coffee House was a bit shabby, but extremely comfortable. Not one chair matched, and every table looked like it came from a garage sale or from some rundown junk store. The back room, which faced the Southport Harbor, was where I always sat.

Two threadbare couches faced each other from opposite sides of the narrow room, with a coffee table between them. The windows that covered the back wall provided a sparkling view of sailboats gliding in and out of the harbor through a narrow channel and past the mid-19^th century lighthouse.

I often found it very relaxing to watch the deliberate courses of those boats as they made their ways from dock to open Lake Michigan. It seemed to take one forever to go all the way through that channel. But the grace with which it moved – moved without really moving – was inspiring as a writer.

I sat on one of the couches about 30 minutes after leaving Case’s house.

I stared at my screen for 10 minutes after pulling up chapter 4 of my book. I pulled up my chapter outline, and looked at what scenes I was supposed to put into this chapter.

If nothing else, I was fastidious and organized when it came to this project.

I pulled out a stack of index cards on which I had written scene outlines. One card, one scene: perfect order. I laid out the five cards that contained the scenes for this chapter, and set to work writing a chapter summary, longhand.

After writing a brief, five paragraph outline, I tore the page out, clipped the five scene cards to it with a paper clip, and opened a new file on my laptop.

“Chapter 4,” I titled it. Then a thought hit me.

It was Tuesday, and my column deadline was Thursday. I had barely started it this week. So I sat with my laptop and a few notes, hoping the sailboats would help me find the strength and repose to finish a column, in a week that was far from typical, even for my life.

The coffee house was fairly empty, mid-morning on a Tuesday bringing out only local regulars and college students on break between classes, which was how I liked it. The throngs on the weekend distracted and irritated me. I put my fingers to the keyboard:

‘The influence of a veteran presence in the locker room may prove crucial to the Southport Anglers in the stretch run this year. Veteran outfielder Rusty Montgomery plays many roles on the young club, the most important of which, perhaps, proves to be mentors to many young prospects.’

I flipped the page of my notes, looking for some statistical notes I had jotted during my meeting with Augie the previous day. Finding the information I was looking for, I began a new sentence:

‘As an everyday player, Rusty has . . .’

Again I paused. I noticed an odd discrepancy. Rusty hadn’t been in the lineup at all since Friday. Saturday would have been his regular day off, as he often platooned with several of the other outfielders, but to also go Sunday and Monday without playing was odd. And now that I thought about it, he hadn’t shown up for our meeting in Augie’s office yesterday.

“Rusty was here as a last chance, even if he didn’t know it,” I said out loud to myself. “He wouldn’t miss a game.”

“Who are you talking to, Carson?” The voice broke my train of thought, and startled me a bit. “You’re not talking to yourself, are you?”

I looked up from my notes to see my ex fiancé’, Dianne Witherspoon, standing in front of me. I put the train of thought about Rusty on another track for a moment.

Dianne was dressed casually in a long floral print skirt and chunky brown shoes. She had on a form-fitting brown short-sleeved button-down shirt that hugged her curves better than a Mercedes M-Class. Her chestnut hair bobbed from the back of her head in a tight ponytail, and her dark sunglasses rested on top of her head. I had almost forgotten how pretty she was.

From my perspective, she was backlit by the sunlight from the two open windows on the café’s back wall. A halo of light, combined with a small breeze showed me all the little hairs around her head that had escaped from their ponytail prison, and now blew free. I always thought that phenomenon very sexy, and Dianne always wore it well.

I wanted to speak with Dianne the other night, after I found out Olivia had died. I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to speak with her now, however. She often confused and frustrated me.

In our four years together, we only fought twice. One of those occurred the day she dumped me. Evidently she had been unhappy for a long time – a fact I probably should have picked up on. But I hadn’t, and she had noticed me not noticing. Anyway, she flushed our wedding plans, and began moving on with her life.

People give me a hard time about not moving on quickly enough. They tell me that Dianne has moved on, and I should too. But the problem is, she had been preparing for it. She had the advantage of several months of mental separation before we actually separated. She knew she wanted to call it off, and had been preparing for, and thinking about it. I didn’t have that advantage. The day she called it off was my first dip in this pond. And it was cold. I wasn’t used to the water yet.

So whenever Dianne and I talked, I was torn. I never knew, exactly, whether to try to get her back, be angry at her for dumping me, or just try to be her friend. None of them ever seemed easy to do.

“Talking to myself?” I was flustered, too deep into the other thoughts to just burst out of them “I was, actually, yes.” She stood in front of me as I stared stupidly at her, laptop on my left side, stack of papers and books on my right side, and a notebook on my lap. I rested my feet on the coffee table in front of me as I tried to think of something intelligent to say next. Luckily, she took care of that for me.

“What happened to your face?"

“A truck hit me.”

“Carson.”

I needed to deflect. “How are you Dianne?”

She smirked. “I’m fine, how are you?”

“Sorry about the phone call the other night. I was pretty shaken up about Olivia’s death. Today is her funeral, you know.”

“I know, Carson. It’s very sad.”

“Anyway,” I went on, “I’m sorry I did that. I wasn’t myself.”

“I guess so. It’s been a long time since you called me at 4 a.m.”

I felt like a catcher behind the plate for a knuckleballer, who had just been horribly crossed up on his signals. “Maybe too long, huh?” I ventured.

Her eyes dug into mine. “No,” she paused. “Not too long. Never too long.”

“Oh.” I felt my face redden. “Sorry.”

“Listen, Carson.” She shoved aside some of the books and papers sitting next to me on the couch and sat down beside me on the very edge of the couch. She turned to face me holding her coffee cup in both hands and resting it on her knees. “I wanted you to know before I told anyone else, or, more importantly, before anyone else told you, I have a date.”

I pondered the significance of that. I’m quite sure it wasn’t the first she’d had since we broke up. “Okay,” I said. Then, “Okay.”

“It’s with Nick Redlawn.”

Now I understood. She was going to date a friend of mine. She knew it would get back to me. “I see. Why Nick Redlawn? Isn’t he bald?”

“Frankly, Carson, it’s none of you business why. I just thought you might like to know, so you didn’t hear it from someone else.”

“Well that was incredibly thoughtful of you,” I said. “Anything else you’d like to embarrass me with? Maybe you’re going out with Donnie, too?”

“Nice Carson, jealousy suits you.”

“Well hey, I haven’t seen you in weeks.” I decided to cross a line. I was pissed for many reasons, although this wasn’t, in truth, one of them. I guess I just wanted to blow off a little steam. “Forget the silly idea of maybe catching up a little. Go straight for the kill, and tell me you’re dating my friends.”

“Keep your voice down, for chrissakes. I’m only telling you to try to avoid your embarrassment later.”

“Nice way of avoiding my embarrassment.” I sat and stared at her staring at her coffee cup. Then a thought popped into my head.

“I guess I shouldn’t be so angry,” I said. “I have a date, too.”

She looked up at me quizzically. “You have a date?”

“Surprised?”

“A little.” A wry smile touched her lips. “Who is it with?

“No one you know. A friend of Olivia Case.” Jugular time, I thought to myself. “She used to be a stripper.”

“Nice, Carson. Very nice.” She stood up. “I understand you’re still hurting. But don’t do anything stupid.”

I snorted sarcastically. “Me? Do anything stupid?”

“Exactly.” She turned and began walking away. “Bye, Carson. I guess I made a mistake.”

“I. . . “ but she was gone. She always did that, to avoid any serious conversation.

“Fuck.” I swore under my breath and pounded the couch. What I didn’t notice, however, was my friend, and local legend Bob Smith had just walked around the corner.

Bob was six feet tall, maybe more, but didn’t weigh more than 150 pounds. His clothes – in this case torn bluejeans, a black t shirt, and a white and green checked flannel shirt with a hole above the left front pocket – hung off his tiny frame. He shaved his head daily, to hide a receding hairline, yet he didn’t look a day over 30.

Bob Smith was legendary in Southport for many reasons, not the least of which was that Bob Smith wasn’t his real name. No one knew his real name, and he wasn’t about to let anyone in on the secret. Bob Smith was close enough, he’d say, and leave it at that.

“What did that couch do to you?”

“Thought I saw a bug.”

“Carson Osborne, kill a bug? How’s the book coming?”

“It’s on hold, Bob. I’m a bit busy with a few other things.”

“You still have a part in there for me?”

“I told you I would try to work you in, but since you are neither a baseball player, nor are you black, you will be difficult to fit into a book about the 1935 Homestead Grays.”

Bob paused, looked at me, and rubbed his shaved head with a bony hand. “Who were the Homestead Grays again?”

“Some other time, Bob.”

“What’s the matter?” He asked. “I saw Dianne walking out, and she didn’t look happy. Did you two break up?”

“Bob, we broke up 6 months ago. You know that.”

“Yeah. I do.”

“She’s going out with a friend of mine. She stopped by to tell me.”

“And you’re sore about that?”

“Nah, I don’t care, that much. I mean, I do, but that’s not why I’m mad. I’m mad at myself?”

“Why?” He put a steaming cup of Chai on the coffee table in front of me.

“I lied to her, to make her mad. I told her I had a date with an ex-stripper.”

“You have a date with an ex-stripper?”

“You’re not listening.”

“I know.”

“I just said it to make her jealous, because I was so pissed off about her dating my friend. All I’ve wanted for the last six months was to get her back. I’m making that less and less likely by saying things like that to her.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” he said.

“And on top of that is Olivia Case’s murder. Something about it really bothers me. And her funeral is today.”

He took a sip of his tea and looked me up and down. “You’re in the wrong establishment, Ozzie.”

“Huh?” Bob’s non sequitor irritated me even more.

“You should be at a bar right now, not a coffee shop. Let me buy you a beer.”

I thought about that proposition. A beer sounded very good at the moment.

“Okay,” I agreed. “But just one.”

I gathered my notes and my computer. I had several hours before the funeral, and wasn’t sure I was ready to go to it stone cold sober.

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