Warpath

The house: a ridiculous edifice which screams my penis is so small not even a solid gold Lamborghini will make up for it. There must be eight thousand square inside the place with a lawn virtually too small to hold it. I think about parking on the street, but decide on the driveway. It could play host to a drive-in movie theater. My car isn’t swank enough to be on the property, so the aesthetic is ruined. The douche in me is satisfied.

I exhale long and go over my plan one more time as I wait for an answer to the doorbell.

A woman finally answers the door, plainly annoyed to have to do so at seven a.m. She is without make-up and should not be. Her lusterless blonde hair is very short and cut to be styled, which it is not at this hour and instead looks like a bedhead halo accentuated by electric shocks and two-day-old gel. Puffy eyes. Thin lips. Deep lines running from her nose down to her chin like Meg Ryan.

“Hello, ma’am,” I say, trying to sound soft. “My name is Richard Buckner. I apologize for knocking so early but I am looking for Joann Cantu, the sister of Mickey Cantu.”

“That’s me,” she grumbles at the mere mention of Mickey. I can see her winding up to tell me to fuck off.

“Ma’am, I was a former detective for the Saint Ansgar police and Mickey was working with me on a case. I—”

“You’ve seen Mickey?”

“No, ma’am. We were working together quite some time ago—”

“I was gonna say I haven’t seen that wretch since he got out of prison in 1992.”

“Like I said, he was helping us when he got out and I believe—”

Joann snarls, “I mean, seriously? Twenty years and no contact? Who does that?”

“Ma’am, I was saying—”

“An asshole, that’s who. Mickey was the type of guy to come over to your house and ask how much everything cost. Not because he was without couth, no. Because he was doing the math in his head on how much he could hawk your stuff for. You know he sold our dead mother’s diamond—”

“Joann, close it,” I say. She stares at me with indignation.

“Some jackoff comes on my doorstep and orders me to shut up? Just who the hell do—”

“Mickey was helping us and someone found out. Someone bad.” I stare right back at her. “And I think Mickey got hurt over it.”

“What do you mean hurt? Is he dead?”

“I believe so, ma’am.”

Inside.

Joann walks around numbly; as news of her estranged brother’s probable murder sinks in like a slow stain. Her coffee is so beyond café quality I’m actively thinking of ways to drag this out so I can drink more. I’ve even fought the urge to spike it with whiskey when she turns her back. And people have been known to place bets on when I drink straight coffee it’s such a rare occurrence.

Joann walks over to a box of tissues, draws one but doesn’t use it. She appears bizarrely confused about shedding a tear. Carla made it seem like Joann hates her brother, and now to find out on a random day at a random time from a random stranger that said brother has met his blip, it has plunged mixed emotions into her still sleep-heavy heart. I just drink more coffee. The president doesn’t drink joe this good.

“I’d like to see his body.”

“We don’t have it, ma’am. I have confirmation of his death by testimony only.”

“Who killed him?” she asks, her voice trembling like just the right nerve was pinched.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Do you think it’s a mistake?” She’s grappling with something here. Minutes before, she was calling him a wretch and gett

ing ready to throw me off her porch for mentioning his name. Now, at the news of his death and the finality of all of it, she is looking for ways to make this not so. One always feels better about despising family when there is still time to make amends.

“No.”

Finally Joann’s heart makes its decision and she sobs very hard. Just explodes into a deluge like a Midwestern spring storm. She braces herself on her counter and her knees look weak. Very weak. I peer at my watch. After about thirty seconds I take one more swig and stand up. Walk over to her, coffee mug in hand. Her knees buckle as I approach and I catch her with one arm; ease her to the immaculate tile floor. She slides her back against some cabinets and holds a tissue to her face. I get the box and offer it.

With a meager “thank you” she takes it, sets it down beside her like an old friend sharing a park bench. I refill my mug and stand near her, hoping she thinks I’m a kind and gentle soul. While she cries I look around her kitchen and see what a childless, married and excessive life looks like.