When One Man Dies - Dave White Jackson Donne

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      “Will you help me?”

      I took air in through my nose. The smell—again I was back in my childhood home, my mother crying on the couch. My father had disappeared. We never heard from him again. I remembered how helpless I felt, an eight-year-old boy who could only hug his mother. A helpless eight-year-old.

      “I’ll help you find your husband,” I said.

      Jen Hanover smiled, stood up, and gave me a hug. I patted her shoulder, and felt the weight of the past day get a little heavier on my shoulders.

      The sun was barely coloring the sky, and the sound of traffic was still light. It wasn’t even six. That meant the man he was looking for was still around. He always was this time of morning.

      Jesus Sanchez made his way around the corner and froze. Bill Martin saw and nodded at him. Sanchez paled.

      “Yo, what the fuck you doin’ here, man? Didn’t think you were into this shit anymore.”

      Martin extended his hand; Sanchez ignored it. “I said, what the fuck are you doin’ here?”

      “Need to ask you a few questions.”

      “Yo, you ain’t a narc anymore.”

      “I need to know who the big guy is these days,” Martin said. “Fuck if it ain’t me.”

      Martin laughed. “You’ve never been a big seller. You never will be. Answer my question.”

      Being out here felt great. You didn’t get this working small-time robberies in New Brunswick. Martin loved moments like this, just fucking with a witness or informant until you got what you wanted. Working petty shit stolen from a frat house was boring. This was great.

      “Shit, man. You don’t gotta be like that. Michael Burgess, yo. Check in on him.”

      “Never heard of him.” Martin dropped his cigarette on the ground.

      “Yeah, you been away awhile,” Jesus said. “You still talk to your boy? You know, Jackson.”

      “Who’s Michael Burgess?” Martin fumbled for another cigarette. “Man, that guy, he didn’t give you up, did he? But yeah, you still holdin’ a grudge like he fucked you.”

      Maybe working this case wasn’t exactly as Martin had hoped. “Tell me about Burgess.”

      “Man, you ever tell him about what happened? What you did?”

      Memories rushed back to Martin, moments he’d long ago buried.

      “No,” Martin said. “I never told him.”

      “What you smiling for? You know I ain’t gonna tell you shit. I don’t have to.”

      “I can find out about Burgess without you.” He inhaled some smoke. “You just gave me an idea. See ya around, Jesus.”

      “Man, what are you talkin’ about?”

      “You still see Donne?”

      “Nah. Every once in a while walking up and down this block. But we don’t talk no more.”

      “You decide to get friendly, don’t tell him you saw me.”

      “Man, fuck you.”

      Martin turned and walked back to the police station.

      The ringing phone was like a jolt of electricity through my body. I snapped out of bed, still in a sleepy daze, and knocked the alarm clock off my nightstand. The ringing kept up and I reached for the phone.

      The clock, which landed faceup, said it was ten. I’d only gotten to bed around seven-fifteen. Jen had given me a list of Rex’s friends, their phone numbers and addresses, and then let me go. I spent the next hour and a half sitting on 287 in morning rush-hour traffic, listening to bad talk radio and fighting to keep my eyes open. I stumbled into my apartment, stripped to my boxers, and passed out on the bed. I hadn’t even had time to dream when the phone started ringing.

      “Hello,” I mumbled into the receiver, rolling onto my back. “This is Ellen Schwartz, admissions office at Rutgers University.”

      “Yes? How can I help you?”

      “I’m sorry, Mr. Donne. Did I wake you?”

      “Don’t worry about it,” I said. I could hear some disapproval in her voice, so I added, “I worked the night shift last night.”

      “I’m sorry to disturb you.”

      “Not a problem.”

      I tried not to yawn into the receiver.

      “Mr. Donne, we’re calling to schedule your entrance exam. You’re a late admit, so we’re afraid the letter wouldn’t reach in time. We’re holding the exam on May seventeenth. A Saturday.”

      “Okay.”

      “Will you be able to attend? It’s a six-hour exam, two hours for language arts, two hours for math, and two hours for a foreign language.”

      “Foreign language?”

      “It’s for placement in your classes. If you can test out of the intro courses, you’ll have to take fewer credits.”

      I found my daily planner in the drawer in the nightstand. I flipped to May 17.

      “Terrific. I should be free that day.”

      “Good. Report to the lecture room in Scott Hall at eight in the morning. We’ll sort things out from there.” She hung up.

      I closed my eyes for what felt like another minute. My blinds were closed, but the sun still found a way to force some beams into the room. The phone rang again. I opened my eyes; now it was eleven. I decided I wasn’t going to get much more sleep.

      I answered the phone, rubbing my eyes with my free hand. “It’s Artie.”

      “What’s up?”

      “Were you sleeping? Jesus, it’s eleven in the morning.”

      “Yeah, I know.”

      “Holy shit. What happened? You okay?”

      I leaned back. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just spent the night with the Madison Police Department.”

      “Did it have to do with Gerry?”

      “No.”

      “What were you doing, then?”

      “You at the bar?” I asked. “Yeah. Tracy’s on her way, too.”

      “Who?” Maybe I’d missed something while I was sleeping. I had no idea who Tracy was.

      “Tracy Boland? Gerry’s niece? You don’t remember her?”

      “No.” But the memory of her face flashed before my eyes.

      “Be here in twenty minutes. Maybe by then you’ll remember.”

      ***

      It was more like thirty-five. I nearly fell asleep again in the shower, but I turned the water to cold and was instantly awake. Finally, dressed in clean jeans, sneakers, and a plain red T-shirt, I entered the Olde Towne Tavern. Artie was behind the bar, looking like he hadn’t slept in days.

      As I came through the door, he said, “You look like shit.”

      “Right back at you.”

      He forced a smile. The TV was perched over Artie’s shoulder above the bar, tuned to a news station. The words Special Report rolled across the screen.

      I

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