Almost Four Months Before

Get Yourself Some Sandpaper

In over twenty-five years as a cop, I only shot one person. Mitch Bronstein was angling hard to be number two—and my first fatality. Shortly before seven o’clock on a Friday morning my doorbell rang and I knew it would be him. Since I retired, no one else would dare.

I opened the door in a sleeveless t-shirt and boxers, cup of coffee in my hand.

“Kadash, I got a problem.”

“So do I. Standing on my porch at the crack of fucking dawn.”

“Someone painted my house.”

I sipped my coffee. Ruby Jane had given me a French press a few weeks before, a birthday present months before my birthday. I was still figuring it out, still getting the grind and portioning right. Even short of perfect, the coffee was pretty damn good. “So what happened? Painter overcharge you?”

He threw up his hands. “No. Jesus.” He turned and waved toward his place. “I mean, like, graffiti. My goddamn front door might be ruined.”

“Sorry to hear it, Mitch.” Mount Tabor isn’t Felony Flats, isn’t Eastside Industrial or Portsmouth, but we get our share of taggers, especially in the summer when too many kids have too much time on their hands. Hell, my own house has been tagged once or twice over the years. As the ancient philosopher suggests, paint happens.

“The thing is, I was hoping you could help me out.”

“I’m not much of a handy man.”

“No, not like that. I mean, help me find the guy who did it.”

I knew what he was going to ask as soon as he mentioned graffiti, but I’d hoped my attempt at willful witlessness would derail his intent before I had to tell him to blow me. “Sorry, Mitch. Can’t help you.”

“You’re a cop though. Aren’t you?”

“I’m retired, Mitch.” He looked at me. From his expression I might as well have been speaking Klingon. “I don’t work for the police bureau anymore.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Well, what you want is a cop. I’m not a cop.”

“I just thought—”

“Listen. What do you do for a living?”

“What difference does that make?”

“Indulge me.”

“You know what I do, Kadash.” True. “I’m a marketing consultant. I develop campaigns, do some creative direction and copy writing. Media, you know.”

I nodded. “Sure. Makes sense.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I bet you have a half-finished novel or screenplay tucked away on your hard drive. You work on it weekends, or when Lu takes the kids out for ice cream. But you’ve got this busy life keeping you from giving it your all. Am I right? So you tell yourself when you retire you’ll finally dedicate yourself to who you really are. Not just copywriter, but author with a capital A.”

He regarded me for a moment, his expression a mix of bewilderment and restiveness. I guessed I’d hit pretty close to the mark. Mitch wasn’t a bad-looking guy. Early forties, fit. He kept his dark hair cut short and combed back. He’d obviously been up a while, was coifed and dressed for casual Friday at the office: white polo shirt and tan Dockers. “What’s your point?”

“It doesn’t work that way for guys like me. I was a cop. Being retired means not having to be a cop anymore. If I wanted to still be a cop, I’d still be a cop. But I’m not. I sit on my deck. I watch the birds. I read vampire novels and rent movies.”

“But—”

“Mitch, listen to me. I’m not sitting over here itching to investigate your shitty little vandalism. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

From the moment he moved in, Mitch exuded a hail-fellow, well-met bonhomie I had little patience for. He might show up at any time, invite himself in for a beer or try to drag me over to see his latest toy. Stainless steel gas grill, high def television, margarita blender. I tried to be polite, but the extent to which Mitch and I knew each other was mostly dependent on his own need to be seen and heard.

“What am I supposed to do?” The hurt added a wobble to his voice.

I sighed. “Go back home, pick up the phone, and dial the Southeast Precinct non-emergency line. They’ll take your report right over the phone. Hell, I’ll give you the number if you like.”

“Kadash—”

I stuck up my free hand. “Your graffiti problem is not a novel on my hard drive. My hard drive is for Audubon Society newsletters and internet porn, okay? You want someone to do something about your door, you do what I told you. In a week or a month, an actual cop might stop by. Or not. Just in case, take a picture of the tag before you clean it off so they can add it to the file if someone ever shows up.”

“What’re you, Kadash, fifty-something? Fifty-five, tops? That’s too young to go limp, man.”

I imagined his polo shirt drenched in coffee. Ruby Jane would decry the waste of a good cuppa joe. “Mitch, I’m retired.”

“But, Jesus, man. Look at the front of my house. You’re the neighborhood cop.”

No one would blame me if I shot him. Goddamn seven o’clock in the morning over some spray paint. The fact I was up and fiddling with the French press was beside the point. A man needed boundaries. But then Mitch turned and flung his arm out, like he was pointing at a heap of bodies. I looked across the street. His place was bigger than mine, a nice two-story faux Victorian with a wide front porch. When he and his cute little wife moved in a few years before, they’d painted the joint an overly lemon yellow with blue and white trim, had the yard landscaped. Pulled out the rusted chain link fence and installed cedar pickets.

The tagger had hit the oversized oak front door: the black symbol stark against the blond wood and inset stained glass. A deft touch with a spray paint can.

“What the hell am I supposed to do about that?”

“Get yourself some sandpaper.”

“I thought you were a police officer.”

I was talking to a houseplant.

“I mean, you still know people. Right? You know how to do this. I sure as hell can’t do it. What the hell do I know about tracking down a criminal?”

“Southeast Precinct. Non-emergency line. Report.” I waved tata with my cup, took a step back, started to close the door.

Mitch stuck a Topsider across my door jamb and stood before me, arms crossed, lips pressed out. I sighed, shook my head. My coffee was getting cold, but Mitch was oblivious. I suppose I could have told him I already knew who did it; I recognized Eager’s tag. I didn’t know he was back in town. He was supposed to be living with his mother in Spokane. And while I didn’t want Mitch to know it, I had to admit I was a wee bit curious why he chose the Bronstein door as a spot to plant his flag.