Page 102 of The Happy Month
“Why you?”
“She doesn’t like me.”
“And why would that be?”
“Because I figured out she killed someone twenty years ago. It tends to turn people against you.”
“All right, thank you,” Forsyth said.
They looked like they were about to leave. “Are you arresting her? Or do I have to look over my shoulder forever?”
“She’s already in custody.”
“Thank you.”
Without another word, they left. Then it was time for another pill and I forgot about them altogether. I forgot about everything altogether.
Around dinner time, Ronnie showed up withThe Press-Telegram. He set it on the moveable tray with my dinner. “You’re a star.”
“What? I’m in the newspaper?”
“‘Long Beach Man Mowed Down In Hit And Run.’”
“They don’t use my name?”
“Not in the headline. The lede is, ‘An investigator for The Freedom Agenda, Dominick Reilly (44), was struck in a hit-and-run accident by a late model Chevrolet Camaro across the street from their offices. A suspect is in custody.’”
“Fuck,” I said.
“It’ll be fine,” Ronnie said. But he had no idea. I didn’t like the attention. I didn’t want anyone looking too closely at Dominick Reilly. Yes, I had a story I told people about my life. What I didn’t have was documentation. What little documentation there was only went back to around eighty-nine.
The real Dom Reilly disappeared in 1982. I imagine there was documentation on his life. Given that he was peripheral to organized crime in Detroit he might have an arrest record. All I had was a Michigan Certificate of Live Birth that gave me date of birth, the names of his parents and their ages.
I’d once gone there for a long weekend and learned a few things about him—me. The real Dom Reilly dropped out of Murray-Wright high school at sixteen. He worked as a dishwasher in an Italian restaurant called Louisa’s, working his way up the ladder until he was running the place in the mid-seventies. Word on the street was there was gambling in the basement and money laundered through the till.
Given that I was trying to go unnoticed, I didn’t ask too many questions about what it was he might have done wrong to get himself killed. Perhaps disappeared is a better word since he was never found.
Of course, I’d never explained any of that to Ronnie who was under the impression Nick Nowak was my fake identity and Dom Reilly my real one.
“You’re right. It’ll be fine,” I said. It probablywould be fine. Dom Reilly disappeared several years before Nick Nowak. Logically, I didn’t think anyone was looking for either one of them. I was safe. I just had to make myself believe it.
On Friday, Edwin Karpinski showed up. Alone, which was not surprising. His brother didn’t seem like the empathetic type. And it was a long drive.
We spent a nearly impolite amount of time talking about my health before he asked, “When do you think you’ll be able to get back to work?”
“Soon,” I said. The doctor had said I’d be recovering for six weeks, but I wasn’t going to tell Karpinski—or anyone—that. And, in the scheme of things, six weekswassoon, right?
“Is your mother anxious?”
“Yes. That makes John anxious, which is more troublesome.”
“Is anyone going to tell your mother that her brother is gay?”
“We don’t have any plans to do that.”
That struck me as odd, Sheila seemed reasonable enough. I didn’t see what possible difference it could make at this point. But then, I had no idea what went on in the background. For all I really knew Sheila was a rabid homophobe addicted to talk radio.
“I’m going to need to see Patrick again. Without your mother.”
