JOIN THE CLUB
"Hello?" Alex knocked anyway. "Anyone home?"
'Anyone home?' Alex shook her head. What a stupid thing to say. Harris would be in gen pop with the thieves and rapists by now. Of course no one was home. She put her fingertips to the door and pushed.
Alex toed over the threshold. Comfy, well-worn furniture lined the taupe walls. A flatscreen dominated the far wall. A distortion of her face danced in the TV's reflection. It reminded her of the cheap hologram stickers she'd plastered on her Lisa Frank notebooks. She swallowed, took a deep breath.
"Alright," Alex spoke aloud. "No big deal. I'm just a private citizen here, no badge, no gun, just a private citizen, asked to get a book…walking into a house…with an already-open door."
Alex crept through the house, shoulders hunched. The walls seemed to breathe and creak, disapproving of her every step.
"If I was Harris Kagan," Alex spoke aloud as she worked through the living room, "where would I keep my complete Sherlock Holmes?" She pulled rumpled blankets from the sofa, shuffled a spread of video game magazines on the coffee table.
"I'd probably keep it in a place of honor." A heavy oak bookcase guarded the living room's corner. Its full shelves bowed. Alex smiled. Dead center on the top shelf, a leather spine proclaimed Sherlock Holmes' name in raised, gilt letters.
"Harris," Alex put her fingers to the book, "please don't make me regret this."
"Hands in the air, motherfucker."
Alex's stomach dropped. Her body turned to stone, hand stuck to the book. Her pulse shot out the side of her temples.
"I said, hands in the motherfucking air." The graveled voice behind her lacked any hint of mirth or irony.
"I…," Alex swallowed, "I can't move. Give me a second." Alex, swallowed the knot in her throat and slowly lifted her hands into the air. "I'm with the police—"
"You're a trespasser," the voice barked. "You here to plant more evidence against Harry? Turn. Slowly."
Alex took shuffling steps, partly to comply with orders and partly to formulate a plan. The best she could come up with was to kick the butt-head's jewels and hope for the best. Once Alex turned, however, her plan suffered a major setback:
Her assailant lacked jewels.
An elderly woman stood in the darkness, revolver shaking in knobby hands. She wore a housecoat and slippers, white puff hair held in place by pink rollers. Square frame glasses dominated her face, teetering and tottering over her nose.
"Now," her dentures rattled, "you've got to the count of five before I shoot."
"Five Idaho or five Mississippi."
"Dealer's choice."
"You'd really shoot a police detective?"
"I'd shoot a trespasser."
"Trespasser? This isn't your house. The door was open."
"Lock sticks when I get the paper." The old woman said. "And I've been living in this house since before you were shitting your diapers. Explain or I shoot."
"Is this not Harris Kagan's house? I'm police Sergeant Detective Alex Dalkowski. He asked I get a book?"
"Did you say 'Dalkowski?'" The woman's face furrowed into a maze of wrinkles. "You're the Pollock who tried to seduce my Harris!" The woman tucked her heater into the band of her robe and took a step back.
"'Your Harris?'"
"I'd rather you be a Jew, but at least you've got the hips for it," The woman planted a quick slap to Alex's behind. Surprised shrieked from Alex's lips.
"I'll let you in on a secret." The woman made her thumbs and forefingers in a large circle before her face. "Kagan men come out with melon heads. Like pushing a Buick through a pinhole. Just a warning."
"Oh gosh oh gosh," Alex put a hand to her eyes. Embarrassment melted the face from skull. "You're Harris' mother."
"Mercedes Kagan." The woman gave a satisfied nod.
"You're Harris' mother and he lives with you and he told you about what happened the other day in my office and now here you are and now I fear for my future vagina and shut the front door am I embarrassed. Oh gosh golly I just want to get this book and get out of here."
"No need for embarrassment, Dalkowski, you probably ain't touched nothing I ain't touched before. Congratulations, you've joined an exclusive club. I'll be sure to mail you the membership card. But what's this in the paper about you arresting Harry last night? He said he proved his innocence to you, that you two were an item."
Alex turned back to the bookshelf. Her embarrassment cooled to a light simmer. At this pace, she'd only be soft-boiled. She pulled the gilt book from the top shelf and turned back to Mercedes. "Mrs. Kagan—"
"Mercedes, please. Remember, we're both in the club now."
Alex shivered. "He was at the scene of an attempted murder with blood on his hands."
"Must be a mistake."
"I can only follow the law, Mrs.—Mercedes."
The softness erased from Mercedes face, leaving a scowl thick with time's cross-hatching. She adjusted her glasses, neck wattle swaying. "What the hell kind of policing do they teach you Poles? Don't you know any good Jew cops? Your hips may be fine for Kagan birthing, but Harry needs a Hebrew brain." Her hand slid down the front of her robe, coming to an ominous rest on the butt of her revolver.
"Listen, I don't know what the heck-fire is going on. All I know is I found your son was next to a body holding a knife. My gut still says he's no killer, which is why—on my own time, without my badge—I'm here to get a book he asked for."
Mercedes slid the coke bottles down her nose to get a better look at the tome in Alex's hand. "Harry asked for that book?"
"Yes." Alex turned the volume in her hands. It had heft. The gilt pages glowed. "Why?"
"It sat on the shelf for years and now all of a sudden its Harry's favorite. He was poring over it the other day in his room." Mercedes plucked a glue-bound notebook from the bookshelf. Its green marbled cover bore a penciled 'H.K.' monogram. "You should give Harry his science journal, instead. You know he proved that shoelaces cause 89% of all trip-and-falls? All in here."
"Thanks, but he…" Alex stepped toward the door but stopped. The open notebook in Mercedes' hands sparked her attention. "What is this data?"
"Harry proved tying your shoes causes trip-and-falls. That's why you'll never see his shoes tied. He tried to submit a paper to Scientific American, but, you know… the shoelace lobby and their army of teat-suckling bureaucrats."
Alex turned to the blank flatscreen. The room around her zoomed away. Ghosts of a grainy CTV tape danced across the screen. A holograph of a memory. "Harris never ties his shoes." Alex swiped the notebook and bundled it with Mr. Holmes and shot toward the front door. "Thanks so much, Mercedes." The light outside never seemed so bright.
"Before you go, sweetie," Mercedes grabbed the hem of Alex's blouse, snatched her from freedom. "Harry doesn't live with me. I live with him. This is Harry's house. Sal didn't leave me much when he died, so Harry bought the house from the bank. Lets me stay."
"That's actually kind of sweet." A tickle of cold air beckoned Alex outside.
"Don't let that blow hard stuff fool you." Mercedes released her death-grip on Alex. "But if I find out you hit it and quit it, then let me tell you," her knobbled hand again stroked the pistol grip, mouth a tight, wrinkled line, "I won't waste any time and I won't leave a trace."
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