Some Little Dewdrops
1632 Words
I felt, the day might be worse than before.
I came back to my desk. I was suspended, but nobody knew that.
I looked at John, he was quite a great guy. Not dominant, yet witty. He was a perfect partner, could give some helpful insight on anything, and wouldn’t ever feel jealous or egoistic.
John came to me, ‘Sir, we were able to identify the victim. His name was Abiel Montero. He was a small-town investment banker. And he wasn’t Caucasian, he was Hispanic. The preservation made his skin glow.’
I nodded. These were some good new insights, but useless for me.
He was waiting, ‘So, what should we do, sir? Should we make a list for relatives?’
I whispered in his ears, ‘You should stop listening to me.’
I went to the middle, and shouted to catch attention, ‘Attention, everyone. You all know me as the head of this department. So, it is very awkward for me to say to you that, I am temporarily suspended from IBCI for probable involvement in a homicide.’
Did anybody care? If I was an audience for this attention, I wouldn’t care.
I pointed to agent Micah, ‘Agent Micah will be replacing me, effective immediately. So, I would like you all to be familiar with her. Every ongoing and future cases will be going through her.’
I walked away from the office; I really had no personal belongings at my desk. Just maybe some case files, which will be apprehended by agent Micah. Well, it’s no shame, why would I feel anyhow?
I took John aside, ‘John, give all my case files to agent Micah. And be appropriate to her.’
He nodded, like a loyal partner. I went out.
It was a slight drizzle outside. Illinois was full of surprises. Some nights, there would be a tornedo-like wind, some nights, the temperature would be like a climbing monkey. But a drizzle, it was a wonder here. Mother Florence told me that.
I put out a cigarette, lit it up, and tossed the used matchstick away. The air was heavy, no doubt. But maybe it wasn’t like this day, like a blind mosquito, sucking my blood, flying away, coming back to my body by thinking another human, bloodlust. How brutal was bloodlust anyway?
The roads were empty like before. Walking down the sides, I could get to know about the Illinois a lot. But I had no interest in that whatsoever.
I walked to a bar. It was a decent place for us people to hang out. Us being a confused self-hating guy.
The jazz in the bar was charming. I ordered two shots of tequila. Tequila with jazz was a bad choice, I knew that. But who wouldn’t try new things?
I sat on a table, with my shots. There were some people in the bar, but I was ignorant enough to forget them.
I slowly emptied my pocket. Bar was quite a safe place for that. People are often too drunk to pull up a robbery here. Americans like to earn their boozes, not steal them.
I had a silver coin of quarter, a packet of mints, some scribbled papers, and a handy notebook. A pen was what I needed.
My shots were finished, I walked up to the bartender, ‘Can you give me another shot of tequila?’
The bartender had his guilty face on, ‘Sorry sir, due to some misbehavior problem last week, we restricted the consumption of tequila shots to two shots per person.’
Worse, yet rules. I had no other choice without the tequila.
A voice from behind me rose high, ‘A bottle of whiskey for me and my friend then. The tequila didn’t match the jazz anyway.’
I had to look behind. I could have said the voice was familiar, ‘Agent Fender, what a pleasure.’
He laughed, ‘What are the odds of the agents who hate each other bumping into each other twice in the same day?’
I invited him to my table, ‘Maybe zero. I wasn’t bright in math. Right this way.’
He walked with me, ‘Zero for bumping into each other or hating each other?’
I pulled the chair for him, ‘To be honest, both.’
He sat, ‘So no hard feelings?’
I sighed, ‘You were doing the job you are assigned to. I wasn’t being cooperative in sharing my personal past. So, I think I owe you an apology.’
He laughed, ‘None needed. This bar, it’s the court for the honest, unless you can handle your brown.’
I laughed, ‘So, were you going to head back to FBI?’
He nodded, ‘Yeah, but I needed some morning boozes. You can call it a beverage break.’
He looked at my belongings, ‘No pockets for these?’
I smiled, ‘Not exactly. I was working.’
He laughed again, ‘And how is self searching any work?’
I poured some whiskey to my glass, ‘Do you know any Abiel Montero?’
He looked at me, ‘You’re investigating on your own?’
I sipped some in my throat, ‘Who doesn’t feel offended for wrongful suspicion, wouldn’t you?’
He nodded, ‘Tough line, not gonna argue to that.’
I wrote down the name. The method was a new thing. How exactly was he murdered? And why now? Why after one year? How was I involved?
He chugged from the bottle, ‘Did you ever doubt yourself, Ephron?’
That was worth leaving the thought. I replied, ‘Once. Back in the days in academy.’
His mouth splashed some whiskey, ‘That was a rhetorical question, but whatever, I have to own my one.’
Was he drunk? How much drunk was he?
I held him on the shoulder, ‘Do you need a ride home?’
He took the mint from the table, ‘When I first joined the federal office, I was a hot rod, you know. I was very much proud of my instinct.’
Everyone really should be. My instincts were a part of me, so it was like a smarter version of me saying something to me.
He continued, ‘It wasn't wrong. But I grew more proud, more self centered. I felt it wasn’t going any good way. But I ignored myself, for myself.’
I sipped another, ‘How did it go for you?’
He sighed, ‘Like everyone, I had a fall, a major fall. But I don’t regret that.’
I started ignoring him. I had to jump on my case, alone.
He looked at me, ‘My fall was Abiel Montero.’
He got my attention, ‘This guy?’
He continued, ‘He was a giant shark, not on the wanted list, but was a big thing. He was from Albuquerque. He had so many clients from the crime world. He could be a file of FBI.’
A big shark? Who would attack on that?
He was quite broken, ‘I chased him for months, followed every trail. I went to my limits to get him. But I was progressing too slowly. And suddenly, one day, he sent a message to me. He told me to have a dinner with me. Can you imagine? A f*****g goddamn dinner!’
It was sick, really. I couldn’t disagree.
He said, ‘I went there alone, with my guts, like you know, a pissed rookie. He was calm, gentle. He was a shark, and me? I was a raging seahorse.’
He was a good storyteller, ‘I sat with him, we ate caviars. It was a great dish, and he kept talking about my accomplishments. He said I was a superhero for this city. I was charmed by his words.’
Quite a weird circumstance, almost sounded like a date.
He confirmed my suspicion, ‘He finished early, got up and put some midtown jazz. It had a jolly rhythm. I could never forget that perfect saxophone work. He leaned his hands onto mine, and asked me to accompany him, to the dance.’
He kept going, ‘We danced for an hour, a sweet hour. I was a , but I was never intimidated before like this. I wanted to believe he was not a criminal. I wanted to believe we can love anybody with soul.’
I had nothing to say.
He took a big sip, ‘And then, we kissed. That was the most fascinating seconds in my entire life. I still want relive those moments. I never felt so much loved, so much important.’
I closed my notebook. Priorities have their perks.
He sighed, ‘I woke up in the next morning. I was in a stinky downtown alley. I had some bruises around my back, but nothing else. I was ashamed, I acted out exact the opposite of a law enforcement authority. I pulled myself off the case that day, and never saw him again, until today.’
I sighed, ‘I would say it fate, like you want to, but as a protester against holiness, I would say it was a mere coincidence.’
He looked at me, frowned like a baby, ‘I recognized him, by the odor. And the irony, god. The deceiver with kisses, got kisses from his own blood.’
I was hoping for a lead in my case, ‘I think you should go home, get some rest. I hope your victory drinks are over.’
He got up, ‘Oh Ephron, I wish I could be the killer. I would happily show the killing on national television. But if you get anything, please give me a chance to have a talk with the killer. I will owe you my life.’
I simply nodded, and got on with my whiskey. He stopped for the last time, ‘How did you know about the fate thing.’
I whispered, ‘Don’t look up at the sky with guilt the next time you confess something.’
He had no reaction whatsoever. He walked away like a silent old priest.
I sipped all the whiskeys. Maybe denying guilt is better than confessing to god.
- Writer
