Gord Rollo Read online

  T H E

  JIGSAW

  M A N

  G O R D R O L L O

  L E I S U R E B O O K S

  1 =

  N E W Y O R K C I T Y

  This novel is dedicated to my father, James Rollo, who gave

  me my love for reading and helped inspire my first steps to—

  ward becoming a writer. While this book might not exactly be

  his cup of tea, I think he'll get a kick out of it....

  No book is ever truly written alone, so I'd be remiss if I didn't

  acknowledge some of the people who have helped make this

  happen: Gene O'Neill, MichaelLaimo, J. E Gonzalez, Da

  vid Nordhaus, Brian Keene, Jimmy ZJohnston Shane Stal-

  ey, and Don D 'Auria I also want to give a shout-out to my

  brothers Tony, Brian, and Stuart, and a special thank-you to

  my wife Debbie for putting up with me.

  P R O L O G U E

  The Reason

  Drummond Brothers Rock and Bowl,

  North Tonawanda, New York

  Hell of a place, Drummond's, an old-fashioned, family-run

  bowling alley suffering from an identity crisis of late. The

  comfy wooden tables and chairs have been replaced with ugly

  black plastic stools with shiny chrome legs; the soft overhead

  fluorescent lighting with purple and red retina-destroying

  spotlights; the soothing background music with bass-heavy,

  blow-out-your-eardrums heavy alternative rock. People used

  to come here with family and friends to bowl, have some good

  clean fun, and the best damn cola floats in Western New

  York. Now the rowdy young crowds come to get drunk, fight,

  shot put the bowling balls at their buddy's head, and scream

  out obscenities and pickup lines over the horrendously loud

  musk.

  If old Mr. Drummond were still around to see what his

  sons had done to the family business, he'd have burned the

  place to the ground, his good-for-nothing prodigies still

  trapped inside. Still, the Rock and Bowl, with all its gaudi-

  ness and utter contempt for its humbler beginnings, was

  making money hand over fist—even the old man couldn't

  have argued with that.

  Thursday night. A big crowd.

  Two guys sitting at the end of the bar, a bit older than the

  usual early twenties crowd, three more friends standing at

  their backs cheering wildly as the seated pair raise their frosty

  mugs to their lips and start chugging.

  The phone rings on the wall behind the bar, twice, three

  times, hard to hear over the pulsing hypnotic beat of Rob

  Zombies " L i v i n g D e a d G i r l " blaring on the overhead speak

  ers. Finally, the overweight bartender waddles over, answers

  it, cupping his free band around the earpiece to hear what the

  caller wants. His face drains ofcolor as he slowly turns to look

  at one of the beer drinkers.

  He lays the phone down on the back counter, approaches

  the group offve men joking and arguing over who won the

  chug contest, and leans over the bar to interrupt them.

  "It's the police," he tells the thin drunk sitting on the right.

  "Lookinforyou. You'd better come take this"

  The man looks worried but is still trying to play it cool in

  front of his friends. He rises to his feet, almost trips over the

  chair, and stumbles and weaves his way toward the far end of

  the bar where it's open and he can walk around to grab the

  phone. Fear has him by the short hairs but he isn't sure why.

  For a moment, vertigo hits hard and the noisy room starts to

  spin. He grabs the counter to steady himself, closing bis eyes

  tightly until the nauseous sensation passes. Then, the phone—

  "Hello?"

  MichaelFox?"A cold voice. Irish accent.

  "Ub-bub. Who's this?"

  The inebriated man listens quietly for several minutes,

  swaying on his feet, threatening to go down at any minute.

  He remains upright, it's the phone that drops to the floor,

  already forgotten as the man screams and runs for the exit.

  Outside, ifs raining hard. He's bad far too much to drink

  tonight to be sprinting but that doesn't stop him from trying,

  the police officer's words still haunting him, urging him on—

  ward.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Fox, but there's been an accident. ... "

  PART ONE

  T H E B R I D G E

  C H A P T E R O N E

  Asleep in the gutter, middle of the afternoon, the con

  crete curb not a very comfortable pillow. I don't actu

  ally remember waking up, but I know I lay there for

  several minutes in the grip of the dragon, shaking like I

  had Parkinson's, waiting for the pain in my bones to go

  away before even trying to open my eyes. W h e n I did,

  it was a mistake, the sunlight burning into my head,

  setting my drug-saturated brain on fire. My skull felt

  like it was going to crack wide open. Part of me wished

  it would.

  Why the fuck do I keep doing this to myself? How can I be

  so weak? So stupid?

  Good questions. N o t so easy to answer. Everyone on

  the street has their own dragon,, their own personal

  demon that keeps them in check. Whatever it is, it'll

  make you feel good, sure, let you soar with the eagles

  for a while, but it's a hell of a fall back to ground level.

  Dreams were for regular people, not guys like me. Ev¬

  ery time I got too cocky, started thinking I might make

  it out of here back to the real world, the dragon reared

  up and bit me on the ass again, making damn sure I

  knew my place.

  To each his own, but my dragon's name was Sterno,

  that stinky blue-flamed fuel people used to warm their

  hands on ski trips or to caramelize brandy inside those

  big glasses when they ordered dessert coffees in fancy

  restaurants. You can buy Sterno easily enough but it's

  expensive and to be honest, I didn't need to buy it. I

  broke into cars for mine. It's common knowledge for

  hardcore street folks, especially the people who've sur

  vived long enough to learn what's what up here in the

  colder climates, that the emergency kits people carry

  around in the glove box or under their front seat are

  mini gold mines. They held the kind of things we reg

  ularly needed: matches, Band-Aids, aspirins, needle and

  thread, chocolate, and—surprise—a little container of

  Sterno fuel, in case you broke down in the snow and

  needed a little heat to make it through a cold night un

  til help arrived.

  You strained it through a slice of bread, which got rid

  of most of the poisonous shit, then drank the alcohol

  base that was left. Don't try it; it's horrible tasting, a lot

  like wood alcohol, but man does it make your problems

  go away in a hurry.

  So I finally dry-heaved my way into a sitting posi

  tion, reminding myself that it had been a few days

  since my last meal. I was thirsty. R
eally thirsty, and like

  magic this bottle of water appeared in front of my

  eyes. There's a hand attached to the bottle, and my

  eyes followed the dark-skinned arm up, surprised to

  see the only real friend I had left in the world smiling

  down at me. -

  Blue J was an all right dude, once you got by his ever-

  increasing penchant for sniffing glue, and his rather

  nasty habit of vomiting on himself while sleeping it

  off.

  His name had been Jason when I first met him, a

  real good-looking guy. Tall, dark piercing eyes, smooth

  black skin—looked a bit like Wesley Snipes, without

  the attitude. Unfortunately, life on the street had sto

  len his good looks. His pretty-boy ebony skin had

  turned pasty and discolored, for some strange reason

  turning a shade closer to blue than black. I didn't know

  it it was all the glue he sniffed or the cheap booze he

  guzzled, but that was why I changed his name. What

  ever I called him, he was a decent guy, bad complexion

  and all.

  "Hey, buddy," he said. "Wanna sip?"

  Man, did I. I had this god-awful taste in my mouth,

  and I could just imagine the foul smell of my breath

  right now. I grabbed the water and drained the whole

  bottle in a greedy series of gulps. It wasn't until I was

  done and handing the bottle back that I noticed my

  friend wasn't alone. He had a woman with him. Well,

  more of a girl than a woman, but who was I to judge.

  She was pretty: dark hair, nice legs, and a big set of cans

  squeezed into a dress two sizes too small. She was a lit

  tle dirty and rough-looking around the edges but hey,

  weren't we all?

  "This here's my man, Mike," Blue J said to her.

  She nodded, apparently satisfied. I might have asked

  what her name was but I had a good idea where this was

  leading so her name wasn't really important. I put a half

  smile on my face—the best I could do with my head

  still pounding—and went with the flow.

  "What's up, J?" I asked, eyeing the girl's curvy body,

  quickly moving from one vice to the next as I climbed

  shakily to my feet.

  "Well, unless you got 'portant places to go, this here

  fine lady say she wanna party with us. Dig?"

  I dug.

  Blue J wasn't the handsome man he'd once been, and

  Lord knows I wasn't anyone's definition of a lady-killer,

  but we still made out all right. Why? Simple: at the

  start of each month—for as long as they lasted—we had

  drugs. J received a monthly prescription of Valium,

  clonazepam, and Haldol as part of his Vets disability.

  He'd only spent five months over in Desert Storm, but

  he'd convinced some doctor at the VA hospital he was

  suffering from depression and combat dementia. He

  rarely took any of his own drugs, instead saving them

  to barter for food, booze, and, like today, the services

  of a young runaway.

  Don't read too much into that. J and I weren't bad

  guys. This was just the way life worked on the street, a

  business deal for people who had nothing else to offer.

  Drugs for sex—where was the harm in that?

  "I'm in," I said. "Lead the way."

  Blue J winked at me, dug in his pocket to hand each

  of us a blue pill. The girl and I dry-swallowed the pills

  without even asking what they were, then she marched

  off down the sidewalk. J and I hurried to keep pace.

  She took us several blocks uptown, then veered into

  an alleyway between a Chinese restaurant and a Bank

  of America. She was living beneath a rusty, metal stair

  case that led to the second floor of the restaurant.

  Somewhere she'd found a big green tarp and had strung

  it under the stairs to make a fairly effective roof. The

  tarp draped down near the ground, giving her shelter

  from the elements and, more importantly, us a small

  degree of privacy.

  Inside, J and I went right to work, getting her out of

  her gear in a hurry. None of us were expecting romance,

  and foreplay just wasn't happening when three drugged-

  up losers were huddled inside a four-by-ten-foot shel

  ter. I was getting ready to do my thing when J blew the

  whole deal.

  "What's your name again, sugar doll?" he asked.

  "Arlene," she smiled, her eyes already glassing over

  from whatever it was J had given her.

  Oh sbit.

  . . .rain pouring down as 1 run, tears just as heavy flood

  ing from my eyesy stumbling blind past the dark buildings

  and parked cars until I spot the flashing lights of the police

  cars and ambulance. I run harder, panic and desperation the

  only things keeping me on my feet. Then Vm there among

  the twisted metal, policemen pushing me around until I can

  stammer out who I am. Their attitude changes then, but

  all I notice is the upside-down car, and the diluted puddles

  of crimson staining the pavement below the driver-side

  door . . .

  That was it for me. My hard-on did a nosedive, and I

  made a dash for the alleyway, throwing up my stomach-

  full of water with my jeans around my ankles. Blue J

  poked his head out of the tarp to see what was wrong

  but I waved him away, pulled up my pants, and bolted

  for the street.

  Arlene was my daughter's name. Is her name, I should

  say. She survived the crash that killed my wife and son

  that awful, night, but not her old man's stupidity in the

  months and years to come. Good thing my sister-in-law

  Gloria was good enough to take care of her when I couldn't.

  I haven't seen Arlene in nearly three years. I wanted to, of

  course, but by the time my head had straightened enough

  to know what was important in life, she refused to see

  me. Can't say I blame her.

  Arlene'll be seventeen now, a young woman all set to

  head to college next fall. She's probably—

  Probably a lot like the young girl you just left stoned on

  her~back with Blue J. You're a real fuckin1 hero, Mike.

  Fdther-of~the-year candidate, once again.

  "Shut up!w I screamed out loud, causing several nearby

  pedestrians to take a wide path around me.

  One thing crazy people in the city never had was a

  lack of elbow room. Was I crazy, though?

  Truly crazy?

  I dropped to my knees on the sidewalk, sobbing un

  controllably, on one hand ignoring the question, but

  then again, perhaps answering it all in the same mo

  tion. Who knows? Who cares?

  I was so sick of living like this.

  I just wanted to end the suffering. Mine, Arlene's . . .

  everybody's. From my knees I eyed up the traffic roar

  ing by on the street beside me. It would be so easy to

  just get up and stumble out in front of—

  Stop, I scolded myself. You know thafs not the way it

  should go down.

  True.

  I had a better plan.

  For months I've been thinking about it, setting

  things up, ironing out the kinks. Now all it took was

&n
bsp; having the balls to go through with it. I could do it,

  though. No worries there. It had nothing to do with me

  anyway. It was all for Arlene. I'd destroyed any chance

  of a life we might have had together, but if I could pull

  my shit together one last time, I could maybe give her a

  start on the life she deserved. The life I'd selfishly sto

  len away.

  Do it then. No more bullshit. For once in your pitiful life

  do the right thing.

  Climbing to my feet, tears dried up and long gone, I

  stood still, eyes closed, thinking about Arlene while

  I swayed to the music of the city. I was in no hurry and

  didn't give a shit if I was blocking people's way.

  Tomorrow, I decided.

  I still had a letter to write and a package to drop in

  the mail, but tomorrow afternoon would be perfect. I

  could have pulled it off tonight but screw it; tonight I

  was going out to get rip-roaring drunk.

  Why the hell wouldn't I?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Trust me, I wasn't about to get all teary-eyed leaving

  my home and worldly belongings behind. Good rid

  dance, as far as I was concerned. Everything I owned

  was crap anyway, someone else's tossed-out garbage. I

  wouldn't need them again, that was for sure. It was one

  of the few perks of planning to kill yourself—you didn't

  need to pack luggage.

  I should introduce myself better. Sorry, my head

  wasn't screwed on quite right yesterday. My name's Mi

  chael Fox, Mike to my friends, but unfortunately most

  people just called me a bum. I was homeless, that much

  was true, but for the record I certainly wasn't a bum. I

  was a fairly regular-looking white boy, thirty-nine

  years old, five foot ten, one hundred and seventy pounds,

  with dark hair and a baby-stubbie beard that steadfastly

  refused to grow more than a few downy curls. Sure, I

  begged for money and food, but I also worked here and

  there, whenever I could. Some of the money I earned I

  used to buy clothes, and I washed them regularly at the

  local Laundromat. Basically I tried to stay clean, to stay

  human, as best I could.

  For the last year and a half, I'd lived in Buffalo, New

  York, not that it mattered much. The name of the city

  was sort of irrelevant. Where I actually lived, was in a

  blue metal Dumpster beneath the rusted-out Carver

  Street Railway Bridge. For whatever reason, the Dump

  ster wasn't used by the city anymore, so me, Blue J, and