Old Shed at the Cemetary

I would rather work a hundred insurance fraud cases than to have to tell a family I found their loved one dead in a grave. Hell, when I first started being a PI, I wouldn’t even take a case that looked like it might end up in a pool of blood. Now, I’m a whore for a good payout. I treat my clients like sporting events; look at things only through wins and loses.
I park on a narrow residential street in front of a tiny green house, one that I have been to dozens of times before but always under better circumstances. When I would pick Jessie up for work, I would park right here, honk, and wait for him. Waiting in the car allowed me to watch numerous cars get side swiped, rear view mirrors torn off by people who could not manage to maneuver down the skinny road. I even got to experience my Cutlass getting hit once or twice. The drivers always seemed disappointed when I climbed out of my car forcing them to be accountable for the crash they caused.
I walk up the drive, pause before knocking on the front door. I begin to pray no one is home allowing me to write a note on the back of this picture of Jessie’s grave (as if a grave photo needs explanation) and tape the picture to the door. I pat my pockets to see if I have a pen, but before I can find a writing utensil, the door opens.
“Hola,” Irma, the little Mexican mother of the house, says opening the inside door leaving me to talk through the bars of the second.
"Hola Miss Puente, is Maria home?" I keep my words short and enunciated, hoping to avoid repeating my question. Without responding, Irma shuts the door. Guess this neighborhood has trained her how to keep salesmen and Jehovah witnesses out. I turn my head back to the Cutlass, jamb the picture back into my pocket and watch my breath disperse into the cold. A Honda motors down the road inches from my car; the tail pipe and driver fill the air with smoke. I never have understood dealing with the elements to inhale poison; I opt to stay inside from June to April enjoying my central heat and air. I watch the Honda round the corner, clip the back end of a Mitsubishi while taking a left, and then disappear onto another road. I dip my head into my hands shaking off the terrible thoughts of other humans I have had recently, the Honda driver the most recent edition.
"Marion," Maria says, opening the cage door letting me inside. "Mom, why would you leave mister Shulkin out in the cold?" Irma walks through the living room, gives me the once over, grunts, and disappears into the back. "Please sit down." Maria directs me to the couch.
I sit down making sure to stay close to the front door for a quick exit. The house is mostly silent; the hum from a heater stuck in the corner of the room disperses only a little white noise. The silence makes me feel like a child waiting outside the principal’s office for punishment.
"So were you able to tell Jessie?" Maria asks leaning back in an old brown recliner, years past its useful date, the arms barely hanging on.
"Unfortunately, I didn't tell Jessie because I didn’t get to talk to Jessie," my breath still visible, the house only a few degrees warmer than the frigid temperatures outside and I’m too far away from the heater for it to make a difference.
"He must still be scared. Maybe he moved somewhere else." Maria lets down the recliner and stands. "It's okay mister Shulkin,” Maria sits down on the couch beside me. “If he doesn’t want to be found, no one will find him.” She pats me on the leg, consoling me. I take a deep breath, hoping to get my story out in one long exhale.
"Look Maria," I grab her hand, "I need to show you something." I pull the picture from my pocket again, this time placing it in Maria’s hand. I let her study the photo while I try to find the words to say. "I didn't dig up the grave to see Jessie myself," I say realizing how terrible my sentence starts off. I look at Maria staring at the photo. She holds back tears as long as she can but once they come, they are quickly followed by a wailing I have not heard since I was a child in the church listening to people speak in tongues. Irma appears again from the back of the house and pulls up a metal folding chair next to Maria. She lets Maria's head fall onto her shoulder. I see an opening to leave, it seems I’m not much use here anymore but before I can make it to the door, Maria reaches her arm around me and pulls me into the circle.
“I know this had to be over them girls,” Maria sucks in some snot, “He wasn’t convicted. You know he didn’t right?” Maria wipes her nose on her sleeve and looks at me. I pat her leg. She forces a smirk unable to open her mouth in fear of it being filled with tears. “Thanks for telling me in person. It means a lot.” Maria wipes her face; makeup smears with the motion of her hand. “Do you mind if I keep this?” she shakes the grave photo at me.
“Sure of course. Please, if you need anything else, just call me.” I begin to back towards the door, Maria holds a smile while watching me but eventually, her tears fight through. She plops back down onto the couch and buries herself in Irma’s chest. I let myself out.
I was introduced to Jessie late one night at Fast Eddie’s by the bartender, Reeves. Seems Reeves grew tired of me bitching about needing extra help around the office and spread the word. I talked to Jessie for a couple of minutes to size him up. Being an assistant in my office does not require many skills except the ability to blend in anywhere and be able to roll with the punches, literally and metaphorically. By the time we got finished debating what the Cowboys needed to do to get back to the Super Bowl, Jessie was hired. Of course, if I would have known then that his allegiance belonged to the Eagles, I would have known what kind of trouble things were headed for.
Jessie was always a good worker, more dedicated than me and Elliott combined. Unfortunately, his life away from the office was always a series of mishaps and bad timing that culminated with a triple rape charge. I supported Jessie throughout, was still by his side when the judge declared a mistrial due to questionable evidence collection. Only after, when Jessie disappeared a week after his court appearance, did I realize how bad things were. Eventually, I was able to let the situation go only becoming involved again when Maria called me to find Jessie and tell him he was going to be a father.

Sometimes, I just want to park in one of the handicap spots at the front of my building. I’ve held office space here for fifteen years and I think there has been a total of five-handicap people visit, period. But I suck it up and ignore those nice spots in the front opting to park in my spot instead. Of course, it is in the last parking lot this side of the road, so far out, grass is more prevalent than the parking lot concrete.
I walk through the revolving doors of the building, glance at the elevators to see if they are working. I’m sure those handicapped appreciated the front door parking but finnd rolling a wheelchair up a few flights of stairs to be slightly unbearable. Of course, our maintenance guy, Nick, is too busy at the moment to fix the problem. It seems his time is better spent standing at the receptionist desk hitting on the new girl. I begin to trudge up the stairs, hoping I replaced my backup shirt in my desk knowing this one will be drenched in sweat by the time I reach the top. At least I don’t have to worry about the sweat washing out unlike the problems I had with Misses Costa's blood. I hated to toss my Penguin polo in the trash but the blood seemed to latch on, a reminder never to have a couple that likes to stab each other in the office at the same time. Lesson learned.
I open the office door; hear Elliott banging away at his keyboard. Through experience, I've learned that usually means he wasn't doing anything before I walked in. He can never type that fast when he is trying to. "How was the morning?" I ask.
Elliott rolls his chair out of his office. "All went well." I hate that Elliott’s office is quite literally a broom closet but I vowed never to move from this office unless I died or someone was paying to move me out so the broom closet is all I have to offer. Besides, Elliott roams the streets most of the time, on and off the clock, so he doesn’t need a massive corner office to get his job done.
I sit down at my desk, sift through the stacks of papers covering the ground floor of my workspace. I feel already like I should have taken today off too, I'm never any good after coming back from a trip, but I needed to be seen today, get involved in someone's fucked up life. "What’s on the schedule?"
"I've got two choices for ya," Elliott yells at me from his office, his voice lowers as he exits and walks to me to hand me the files. "You can have the wonderful Montgomery's. Tim says he knows for sure the wife is seeing someone else. He is positive she could never actually stand going to her Sunday school group three nights a week." Elliott sits down in my visitor chair to tell me about the second one. "Or I've got a misses Angie Erhman and her wonderful stalker." Elliott opens the file for misses Erhman. "Apparently, her stalker, a mister Eric Meyers, has been stalking her for a little over two years now but it was mostly just innocent, he always kept to his side of the internet." Elliott sifts through the file placing a photo of Dalton Meyers, spread eagle, on a king sized bed, on top. The satin sheets covering the bed seem to clash with his bondage outfit; his spike chain would surely snag on the sheets and never let go. "That is Misses Erhman's bed."
I let Elliott lay out a few more details; enough to find out his strong desire to work the case. I know if I ever find out that much information before I get the first payment for a job, it means that my female client must be some kind of pretty and smell like vanilla. "Call Misses Erhman and tell her you will be the primary for the case, but if you need me," I grab Elliott's arm as he grabs the file, "don't hesitate to call." I let go. Elliott opens the file again, this time showing me a surveillance video still of Angie, her red hair falls just over her left eye. The hundred dollars I paid to have that security camera installed in here has paid for itself over the years in the quality of pervasive imagery it has collected. I just hope we never get robbed and have to actually rely on the video. The details are just terrible.
"Nothing else?" I ask, not sure how I might kill the rest of the daylight hours on a Monday.
"None that I can think."
"Okay," I say standing back up and grabbing my jacket. "Meet you when I’m done. We'll figure everything else out then."
Elliott nods, disappearing back into his office. I dig through my drawers but come up snake eyes on a shirt. I make a mental note to pick up a shirt from somewhere before I have to talk to anyone in person today.

Starting this business off, I felt like it was my job to fix the world. I took the best clients that I could get no matter how much it paid and tried to avoid any signs of trouble. I had a few friends on the force that were a great help too. I got more than a few jobs sent my way under the table; the insurance gigs were the best. But, as the world changed, so did the business. There was no room for a little outfit like mine to grab cases over the big firms, the ones with TV commercials and radio ads that trumped my word of mouth. I found taking shitheads and convicts was the only way Simon and Simon could survive. To my surprise, the business actually begin to thrive again so I brought on Elliott who was an old friend from school that kept connections in the street but lived on the white side of town. Just as long as I could convince myself that my clients were numbers without emotions, business kept growing and I hired our third employee, Jessie. After his trial, though, even scumbags thought twice about hiring us.

I call mister Montgomery a few times on my drive over but all I hear is Bob Seager in place of the ringtone and eventually, his voicemail. Even if we cannot eliminate the song ring tone completely, there should at least be age restrictions. I’m sure glad my family has known the Montgomery’s forever. With the number of women Tim goes through, he might keep my business afloat all by himself for the foreseeable future. As I pull up out front of the two-story fortress Jim calls home, I call again. Voicemail. I figure since I'm already over here I might as well knock on the door. I stash my car on the side of the circle drive, not in the grass but hopefully out of everyone’s way, and head to the front door. Before my hand meets the solid oak, Tim has the door open.
"Come on in," he tells me, turning immediately back inside. I close the door and follow behind closely, intent on not getting lost in this castle this time. I stay close enough behind Jim that I can only see his shoulder blades compressing together, his sweaty white t-shirt almost transparent. "Get the fuck up and at least put a shirt on," Tim growls. I step to the side to see a beautiful blond, no more than nineteen, holding her tits together, elbows in tight over her nipples. She smiles at me and walks out of the room. I turn my attention back to Tim who in turn directs me back to the girl. We both watch as the blond walks off, arms still covering her breasts, nothing covering her ass.
“Bring me a shirt,” Tim yells to the girl, “do you need one too? You look sweater than me.”
“Yea, the elevator is broken at the office so…”
Tim interrupts. “Bring me two shirts darling.” Tim walks to his mini bar and grabs a glass. "You find anything out about that bitch?" He tosses some ice into a glass, pouring a clear liquid on top. I’m sure his doctor would tell him that water would be best for him right now, old sweaty men usually need to replenish more than a viral one, especially after doing whatever was happening with the blond before I came in but in my experience, if a man has ice cubes on the ready in a room that is not the kitchen, it's rarely to keep a glass of water cold.
“Nothing yet. Where is Misses Montgomery today anyway?”
"Patty is out wherever it is that she goes during the day which is something you should probably should know anyhow. That is what I'm paying you for?"
“Sorry, I’ve just been out of town dealing with a bunch of…” the blond comes back in carrying two shirts. Tim grabs the normal shirt leaving me with a flowery Hawaiian number. The blond, still topless but wearing panties now, stares at both of us like a waiter waiting for a tip. “Did you ever think that maybe you should keep things like this out of the house until everything is complete. I mean, this would probably be a pretty good piece for Patty to screw you with.” The girl walks out of the patio door and dives into the pool.
"Not if you catch her in the act first." Elliott walks to the kitchen finishing off the last of his drink. I pursue again. Elliott opens his deep freeze and pulls out a Ziploc bag of money. He bangs it on the counter a few times rattling whatever dishes are on top. He unloads the contents on the counter and attempts to break several bills apart. "I can't wait til they fix all this financial shit." Tim opens the freezer back up, tosses the money back inside. "I'm running out of room for my food in here."
"Well, I guess I will go find out where misses,"
"Patty," Tim demands.
"I will go find out where Patty is. Let me know if you need anything from me." I fold the bills, trying to break up what ice is left encrusting them together. I glance outside, the blond submerged under water. No skin to be seen. I wait for Tim to see me out; instead, I see his naked ass run and jump in the pool, barely missing the blond with a cannonball.
The visit to the Montgomery mansion was even quicker than I though so I run by my house to take a quick nap and kill some time. I’ve still got a big night ahead of me and if I hang out at Fast Eddies for too long, my nerves will never let me finish things the way they should be done.
By the time I drag myself out of bed and to Fast Eddies, Elliott has already taken over my pool table and seems to be locked into the middle of a game with Becky, the bar whore.
"Let me just put this one in," Elliott fires off a shot, cascading balls everywhere. The six and ten balls remain on the table, the eight ball disappears. Becky wastes no time cleaning her winnings off the table. She glances up at me. I send her away.
"Is this mine?" I ask, grabbing a Dos Equis off the ledge. Elliott nods as I drink.
"How was mister Montgomery?" Elliott sets the table back up for another round.
"Fucking a blond. How was your thing?"
"I caught her just after workouts. She wears one of those workout training bra things," Elliott gives me hand motions to emphasize her large breasts.
"You already figured out her workout schedule?” I laugh, letting go the tension that has built up through the day. “And the other thing?"
"I tossed him some food." Elliott digs through his pockets, "here's the key. What cha gonna do with him?"
"Find out. He'll let me know which is which," I respond, assuredly.
"Right on. Okay, then you want to give it a run?" Elliott smacks the cue ball against the triangle; the balls settle into the empty spaces. "Probably should wait til after dark before we go back out there."
I look out the window and take a drink. "Before I go back out there." I finish off my beer and motion Reeves for another. I inspect the pool sticks hanging on the wall. There is a lot of action at the pool tables tonight and all the good sticks seemed to be pretty well picked through, the only ones left are mostly half bent or missing the felt on the tip. I bounce a few off the ground, testing, making sure I don't give Elliott too much of an advantage and end up giving him a game.
We play pool and drink for the next two hours. I go up nine games and down eight beers. When the sun disappears completely, not even emitting rays of light over the skyscrapers downtown, I put my stick up and get ready to leave.
"You said right on Livermore to get out to 48 and then exit number three?" I ask Elliott, this being a destination I have no desire getting lost going to.
"How many times have you been out there now?" Elliott responds.
" I refuse to remember how to get there. I always have a hearse to drive me."
"Fair enough. Do you want me to go out there in the morning and feed him?" Elliott’s words trail off as his head picks up a lady wearing tight Levis and a pair of red cowboy boots.
"I'll take care of it. Don't worry about it." I leave Elliott at the table to stare and grab my coat from the bar. After a few misses, I decide it is best to steady myself against the bar while I try to get my arms through the holes.
"You good?" Reeves asks, helping me balance; my arms finally slip in the jacket arms.
"I'm just going home and going to bed. Do you know if Daniel coming in tonight?"
"He is but later though.” Reeves walks down the bar, collecting empty bottles. “I'll tell him you said hello."
I nod my head in agreement. "Perfect. See ya tomorrow." Reeves pats me on the shoulder then gives me a push through the crowd. I make my way through saying hello to the smattering of people in the bar I know. Opening the front door, the cold air freezes my nose instantly making me wish I was still a child and could get away with wearing a ski mask in public. My body was not made for temperatures like this.

The trip out to Wilson's Chapel is much shorter when you aren't traveling in a line of cars with their headlights on in the middle of the day. The road is still as rough; asphalt is not something the town invests much in. If the Cutlass didn't acquire any dents while I was at Jessie’s earlier, it was going to now from one of the thousands of rocks and pebbles pounding against the undercarriage of the car no matter if I drive five or fifty five. I'm so distracted trying not to throw rocks everywhere, I almost forget to turn off my headlights before turning onto the little trail that leads to the back of the cemetery. Teenagers that sneak out here at night and try to catch ghosts always think it is the noise they make that gives Daryl, the groundskeeper and closet church member, the heads up that someone has invaded the graveyard. As an adult, I realize that his house is too far away to hear much of anything that goes on but any car that comes through with their headlights on shines them directly into Daryl’s bedroom window.
I park the Cutlass next to the storage shed and kill the engine. Digging through the backseat, I find everything I might need this evening except a flashlight. I pop the trunk and dig around some more finding only a flashing road hazard light. It will have to do.
The shed emits whimpers of a man crying out for help from whoever has just driven up. I lean against the shed door steadying myself while I unlock the dead bolt. I throw the door open and hold the hazard light up high so I can make sure it falls right on Jessie's face. I can see on his cheeks that his tears have turned the dirt under his eyes to mud.
"Sorry for keeping you waiting. Didn't think I should visit while the sun was still shining. It was cold anyhow."
"What is going on Marion?" Jessie yanks at the ropes holding his arms to the wall. "What the fuck is going on?"
"I didn't get to give you your last check before you left." I laugh, crouching down to close the distance between our faces. "I need to know if you did it. I don’t want to hear anything from you but that.” I stand back up, giving some distance. Jessie stares at me for a long few moments, tears begin to stream down his cheeks. "After two days in a trunk and one in here, what did you think someone was going to ask you?"
"You were there," Jessie squeals at me through sobs, "The judge let me go."
"Doesn't mean you didn't do it." I sit down in front of Jessie; his head dips down so I can only see the top of his head, hair beginning to disappear from the middle. The conscious does terrible things to the body. I wait for a long while, staring, hoping that Jessie can come up with some good explanation on how all the evidence was wrong. I continue to see only the top of Jessie’s head. I finally get back to my feet, realizing the terrible smell that infects my nose is not from the chemicals in the shed but from Jessie's inability to go anywhere to relieve himself all day. Jessie finally raises his head when we hear an engine slowly idling, approaching the shed.
“Times up.” I pull out my phone, hold the flashing light up high to get good light on Jessie's face, and snap two pictures.
Outside, the cold air gives me some relief from the terrible stench of the shed and keeps me from throwing up and leaving all kinds of evidence behind. I walk farther away from the shed, towards the Cadillac that has arrived. An overgrown Mexican, Damon Aldridge, is already out of the car and walking towards me.
"Where is he?" Damon demands, pacing in a circle like a bull ready to charge.
"Whoa, wait," I flip through my phone, scrolling through pictures of street signs and waitresses until I find the pictures of Jessie I just snapped. I hold the light up for Damon to look.
"The fuck is this?" Damon asks, pointing to my light. I shrug. He runs to his car and grabs a flashlight from under the drivers seat, his light much brighter and more consistent than mine. Damon grabs my phone and flips back and forth between the pictures. "It was dark that night,” Damon tells me, hesitation creeping up in his voice, “I mean, I saw the guy when I pulled him off of my sister, but he ran right after."
"I showed you all the evidence the jury saw. Even if you didn't see his face, doesn't that convince you?"
Damon looks down at my phone one more time. "Alright, I got this." He pumps his chest with a few deep breaths almost coming out of his shirt like the Hulk. "You can go." Damon tells me before returning to the trunk of his car. I return to my Cutlass and try to maneuver around a big oak tree in the middle of the driveway for the cemetery. I misjudge the distance I have to go forward, my front bumper bumps the edge of the church; the entire structure shakes. I lerch into reverse and get pointed forward again making it past the church without bringing the whole thing down. On the road, the rocks and pebbles return to pounding the car.