21
We were nearly two beers into what was to be a six or seven beer night. Michael sat with his stocking-clad feet crossed in front of him, resting them on the coffee table. Both hands held the bottom of his beer as it rested on the stomach of his black-worn-gray Dropkick Murphys tee shirt. It reminded me of an inter-continental ballistic missile rising from its silo, Michael’s navel.
My Kooks’road shirt was draped over the back of my chair. I still had the rest of the uniform on.
I told Michael of the homicide/suicide in midtown Manhattan yesterday noon. Before I was able to share what had happened since, Michael, wide-eyed, personalized it.
“Holy…you know I slept with her, Finn?”
“I surmised as much.”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I don’t think I have ever slept with a woman who then died…well, except for Shelly from the neck northward. That, however, was a pre-existing condition.”
We both snort-giggled self-consciously. I rose to go to the kitchen.
“I guess that makes her my suicide squeeze.” Michael said.
“Clever, Michael. Fucking morbid, but clever. Here’s the kicker. It appears that you may have been with someone other than with whom you thought.”
Michael rotated in his seat so he could face me as I passed him leaving the room. When he could turn no more, he stood and followed me into the kitchen. His brow was creased, his mouth ill-formed.
“What are ye saying, man?”
“She had some ID that said she was Mislava Hrvat and some saying she was Ivana Grdesic. Mary Frances Flaherty, too, for that matter. The NYPD…”
“Wait a minute, Finn. Wasn’t Grdesic the name of the woman who washed ashore down in Hull while you were in Canada? The selfsame one you found up in Portland?”
“Same name, yes, but wait. The NYPD…”
“Jesus.”
“The detectives in New…”
“I can guaran-damn-tee ye she was not a Mary Frances Fucking Whoever.” Michael’s hands were spread, palms up. His shoulders were hunched up under his ears.
“Flaherty.”
“Flaherty, aye. A daughter of the sod she was not.”
“The NYPD is trying to get to the bottom of just who is - and who isn’t - who, as it were.”
“It’s not whom in that sentence?”
“Follows the verb to be therefore subjective case and…”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it.”
I handed a fresh long-necked El Presidente to my friend as I passed him in the doorway and sat back down. My last statement hadn’t done much to firm up the lines of his mouth.
“So, she never said anything that caused you to believe her name wasn’t Mislava?”
“No, not a blessed thing. Wow, Fintan. It seems typical of me luck that not only have I had memorable carnal relations with a dead woman, but I can’t even tell ye which dead woman it was. So much for the telling of the tale.”
“Therein may be your tale, Michael.”
“I suppose it is, though it’ll be a while before I am able to embellish this one even a tiny bit. It’s sort of creepy, don’t you know?”
We finished the beers mostly in silence. I excused myself to shower. Michael turned on the TV.
“Think about what you’d like to eat, Mikie.” I was removing my baseball socks, flicking them up over my shoulder with my toe to catch behind my back as I have done since I was kid. ”When I’m cleaned up I’ll go and…”
In the bathroom under the sink sat the orange duffel bag Ivana had brought with her from Portland... when she was still Mislava. It seemed to be pulsing but that was probably just the blood in my temples. There was a note with my name attached to the handle. I gently removed it so not to tear, unfolded and read it. The printing was both shaky and delicate.
For Fintan Okeefe
I am sorry for lie to you. I could not make what I need happen if I do not lie. I am Ivana Grdesic. Was best for me to be Mislava to you. Mislava was woman you saw in Portland. You had looked at wrong person in picture you had and thought you found me, Ivana. It was Mislava. Please call number at bottom and ask for Miljenko Boban. Please tell Boban what happened and where my self was take after I shot me. The money in bag is for you. If Boban asks you and you can help Boban it is your pay. If cannot it is for trouble I bring you. Is your money, Fintan. Please tell Michael I am sorry. He was kind to me as you were kind. He is very good lover.
Ivana Grdesic
“Michael, come in here. I found out who your fuck buddy was.” There was eleven thousand, four hundred seventy-one dollars in the bag. There was Croat currency, too. Lots of it. The phone number had a 617 area code: Boston.
“Mother of… Finn… what’s all this then?”
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