Free When One Man Dies by Dave White

death. There were secrets, and they were gnawing at my insides. But the solutions weren’t here; I wasn’t going to find them. I sat and waited for Tracy to finish so I could drive her home. I was determined to find Hanover and find out who had run over Gerry. Then it was time to get on with my life, get away from the past. I didn’t want to come to any more wakes for any more murder victims.
    Tracy popped her head in the doorway and called my name, snapping me out of my daydream. Her hair and clothing had dried in the office, and she had redone her lipstick. She’d also run a comb through her hair.
    Fleming stood in the background, his arms crossed in front of him. He tapped his foot.
    “How’d it go?” I asked.
    “Good. We’re going to have the wake tomorrow, two to four, and seven to nine. Can we come back tomorrow? Drop off a suit for them to put on Gerry?”
    There was a moment of silence during which I noticed a spot of mud on my left sneaker. I tried to wipe it off on the carpet.
    Fleming jumped in. “That shouldn’t be a problem. If you need to, you can drop the clothing off early tomorrow morning. Will that be acceptable?”
    Tracy looked at me. “I just want someone to come with me.”
    “I should be able to take you. If not, Artie will.”
    “Okay,” she said.
    “I’m sure you will find the arrangement quite satisfactory, Ms. Boland. You will be pleased with all of your choices.”
    Fleming extended his hand and shook Tracy’s. Then he shook mine, the same limp, pale handshake as before. The guy played the part of the funeral director well; I had to give him that.
    We exited the funeral parlor, back into the easing rain and more rush-hour traffic.
    Ten minutes into the car ride, Tracy said, “Feel like taking a walk?”
    “It’s raining.”
    She winked at me. “It’ll stop.”
    “Where do you want to go?”
    “Drop me at my car and follow me to Asbury.”
    ***
    An hour or so later, she was right. The rain had stopped. The boardwalk was empty and dark. Few streetlights illuminated the area, and only briefly did headlights flash behind me. Faintly, waves kissed the beach forty feet away. The smell of salt water filled the air, and though I couldn’t see them, I could hear seagulls squawking above me. The breeze came off the ocean. It was colder here than in New Brunswick. High fifties, I’d say.
    I had a windbreaker on, over a polo shirt, hiding my Glock. I zipped the windbreaker up about halfway, high enough to keep me a little warmer, low enough that I could still get to the gun. Two black guys in long football jerseys and sideways basketball caps sauntered past, giving me a look. I made eye contact. One of the guys called me a fag, and kept going. God forbid someone be polite in this neck of the woods.
    There used to be a running merry-go-round on the boardwalk, and Skee-Ball and all the food you could imagine. But no more, they had long since closed down. Some of the painted advertisements were still there, the one I was standing next to, a faded clown smiling maniacally and thumbing over his shoulder toward the shore.
    Tracy approached me, smiling.
    “Nice night,” she said. “I can only give you about an hour. Then I have to get to work.”
    “Where do you work?”
    “I’m a musician.”
    We walked up the thick wooden boards and made a right, the beach to my left. The smell of the salt was stronger now, and sand blown by the wind onto the boardwalk crunched as we walked.
    “Do you sing?”
    “No, I play tenor saxophone. I have a gig at a bar in Sayreville tonight. Starts at ten.”
    “Cool. Not playing at the Stone Pony?”
    She tilted her head, crossed her eyes, like saying “Come on.”
    “I think only Springsteen plays there. Rehearses just before he plays twenty straight nights at Giants Stadium or whatever it is.”
    “Not a fan?”
    “Please. I’d take Sinatra and Bon Jovi as New Jersey’s signature musicians before I’d take Bruce.”
    “Bon