Page 1 of Fade Out
Chapter One
Bert Harker bought me a sofa.Four years ago.
It was covered in a knobby, beige, fire-retardant fabric that on close inspection resembled spun plastic. The design was boxy and bland, not meant to be the focal point in anyone’s living room. It was designed to disappear under an Erté print or behind a lacquered Oriental coffee table or at very least melt away next to an expensive entertainment center.
That was the designer’s plan, but in my apartments the sofa had always been the main attraction. There was no competition from the director’s chairs or the industrial shelves that held my electronics or my dinged-up metal desk or the tiny dining table in front of my window. As far as furniture went, the sofa was the star.
I hadn’t liked it at first. Hadn’t wanted it. But I’d slowly become accustomed to it. I’d recovered from broken bones and beatings on it, I’d fucked on it, I’d grieved on it; my lover, Harker, spent time dying on it, and so did my friend Ross.
The arms had turned from beige to gray; the cushions were now stained with red wine, coffee, soup, Hawaiian Punch and in one spot blood—I have no idea from which wound or for that matter even whose blood it was. There were at least three cigarette burns and one actual tear. Most of the time, to keep from having to buy another sofa, I covered it with an old afghan.
Really, it was time to let it go, to drag it out of the building and leave it in an alley for someone to pick it up and find a new life for it. Its time with me was done, but somehow I wasn’t ready to admit that. So it sat in my living room, dirty, dilapidated and a little smelly.
I was sitting on it when the police showed up and began banging on my door. It was early on the last day of July. My lover Joseph had left me a day or two before. My friend Ross was dying in a hospital nearby. Even though I had no idea why the police were there, it made perfect sense that they would be out in the hallway threatening to break the door down.
Without deciding to, I got up off the sofa and answered the door. A detective I didn’t know stood there with a couple of uniforms. He said, “Nick Nowak, I’m arresting you for the first-degree murder of Rita Lindquist.”
“Really? That’s interesting.”
“Interesting? You think it’sinteresting?”
I shrugged. I did find it interesting that Rita was dead, that someone had gotten the upper hand on her. I mean, she’d never struck me as the victim type. The detective was a bit younger than me and either Italian or Mexican, I couldn’t tell. He recited my Miranda rights to me and asked if I understood them.
I shook my head and said, “No.”
“Don’t be a smart ass.” He pushed past me saying, “We have to search the apartment.” The uniforms followed him inside.
It crossed my mind to ask to see a search warrant, but I didn’t. Technically, they could look around to make sure I didn’t have any weapons or evidence I might destroy. I did have a Sig Sauer and a Baby Browning. I said a mental fond farewell to each. One of the uniforms grabbed me by the wrists and cuffed my hands behind my back.
Disconnected. I felt disconnected from the things that were happening. It was as though I were watching myself on TV, as though I’d just tuned in and this was all part of some show I didn’t know the name of and was just as clueless about the plot.
“Which district are you from?” I asked the detective.
“Town Hall.”
“Where’s Hamish?”
Hamish Gardner was the detective I knew there. The guy I’d dealt with from time to time. I didn’t like him much and he certainly didn’t like me. Still, at a moment like this his unfriendly face would have been appreciated.
“Detective Gardner is at your office. Where the body was found.”
“Rita’s body was found at my office?” That didn’t make sense. None of this made sense, of course, but Rita’s body being found at my office made the least sense of all.
The detective didn’t answer my question just gave me a look that said I should know the answer to that.
“And who are you?” I asked.
“Detective Tim Burke.” His name sounded a lot like timber, which I’d bet was his nickname all through grade school. I looked into his eyes. Reading my mind, he said, “You make a crack about my name and I’ll beat the shit out of you.”
“Nice to meet you, Detective Burke.”
To the uniform holding onto my arm, he said, “Take him downstairs, put him in the back of a squad.”
I was led out of my apartment and down the hallway to the elevator. A couple of neighbors were standing in their doorways watching what was happening. I had no idea there were so many people at home on a weekday morning. Glad I could entertain them.
At the elevator, the uniform pressed the down button. I glanced at his chest. His name tag said PATTOn. He wasn’t that tall, had sandy brown hair and a pronounced underbite. At another point in my life I’d have been trying to figure out how to get him to suck me off in the elevator, murder charge or no murder charge.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” he demanded. Apparently, I’d been staring.
