future son-in-law.
Theresa transferred to UC Berkeley that spring to get a master’s in neonatal nursing. And most likely to get away from their mother. Murphy stayed home. It was what his father would have expected of him. Someone had to take care of Mother.
“Your sister’s thinking about taking a teaching position at the hospital,” his mother said. “She’s thinking about getting out of that . . . that ward she’s been in for so long.”
“Neonatal intensive-care unit,” Murphy said as he stared down at his mother’s head, at her thinning white hair, her flaky red scalp, and thought, not for the first time, about bashing in her skull, maybe with her favorite ashtray, the five-pound granite one she bought on a trip with Dad to the Grand Canyon. Just to get her to shut up about Theresa.
Murphy loved his sister, but she lived in San Francisco. She came home two, maybe three times a year. Sure, she called every day—with nationwide cell-phone plans, it was practically free—but she never sent a check.
Again, Murphy regretted his own thoughts. Maybe he should take some time off and fly out to visit Theresa and Michael. The kid was probably ready for a Giants game. His autism didn’t stop him from much. He was smart. He was funny. And somehow, probably because of his innocence, he made Murphy feel good.
“I might go see her,” Murphy said.
“Who?”
“Theresa.”
His mother craned her neck to look up at him. “Not without me you’re not.”
Murphy thought again about the granite ashtray, but he swallowed the thought. “Maybe we can both go,” he said.
“You know how I hate airports. All that walking. I can’t do it anymore.”
“You’re sixty-eight, Mother. We’ve had presidents older than you. People in their seventies run global corporations, and run marathons. Maybe if you laid off smoking and gave up booze you might feel better.”
She turned away. “There you go with the criticism again. You’re exactly like your father, you know that? He was no saint, let me tell you. He gambled. He drank. He smoked. Most of the time when he came home he smelled like a brewery.” She reached for her highball glass and drained it.
“He worked twelve hours a day at a chemical plant, Mother, until he dropped dead. Cut him some slack.”
C HAPTER N INE
Saturday, July 28, 6:05 AM
The shrill ring of his cell phone jolted Murphy awake.
He cracked his eyelids and stared at the ceiling until the next ring. He was lying on his sofa. Still dressed. With a pounding headache. After an hour of listening to his mother’s ceaseless complaints and criticism, Murphy had gone home and killed half a bottle of Knob Creek.
The phone rang again.
Then someone knocked on his door.
Murphy felt his sphincter tighten. The first thing he thought of was the Public Integrity Bureau.
He hadn’t done anything wrong that he knew of, but like every working New Orleans cop, he lived in a perpetual state of anxiety about PIB—also known as the Rat Squad. If they wanted you, they could get you. Which is why half the cops in this city were retired in place, just coasting along, not making any waves or any arrests. That was the only sure way to stay out of trouble.
His cell phone shrieked again. The sound cut through his whiskey-addled brain like a knife. He had to change the ring, maybe set it to a song, something he liked.
Murphy found the phone on the coffee table under this month’s
National Geographic
. He must have tried to read before he passed out. He couldn’t remember. The caller ID showed Gaudet’s cell phone. Murphy and Gaudet’s squad had off this weekend. Their first in three weeks. Why would Gaudet call him at six o’clock in the morning on their day off?
He flipped open the phone. “Yeah.”
“What the fuck were you thinking?” Gaudet shouted in his ear.
The knock at the door came again.
“Somebody’s at the door. Hold on.” Murphy took the phone away from his ear. “Who is it?” he
Theresa transferred to UC Berkeley that spring to get a master’s in neonatal nursing. And most likely to get away from their mother. Murphy stayed home. It was what his father would have expected of him. Someone had to take care of Mother.
“Your sister’s thinking about taking a teaching position at the hospital,” his mother said. “She’s thinking about getting out of that . . . that ward she’s been in for so long.”
“Neonatal intensive-care unit,” Murphy said as he stared down at his mother’s head, at her thinning white hair, her flaky red scalp, and thought, not for the first time, about bashing in her skull, maybe with her favorite ashtray, the five-pound granite one she bought on a trip with Dad to the Grand Canyon. Just to get her to shut up about Theresa.
Murphy loved his sister, but she lived in San Francisco. She came home two, maybe three times a year. Sure, she called every day—with nationwide cell-phone plans, it was practically free—but she never sent a check.
Again, Murphy regretted his own thoughts. Maybe he should take some time off and fly out to visit Theresa and Michael. The kid was probably ready for a Giants game. His autism didn’t stop him from much. He was smart. He was funny. And somehow, probably because of his innocence, he made Murphy feel good.
“I might go see her,” Murphy said.
“Who?”
“Theresa.”
His mother craned her neck to look up at him. “Not without me you’re not.”
Murphy thought again about the granite ashtray, but he swallowed the thought. “Maybe we can both go,” he said.
“You know how I hate airports. All that walking. I can’t do it anymore.”
“You’re sixty-eight, Mother. We’ve had presidents older than you. People in their seventies run global corporations, and run marathons. Maybe if you laid off smoking and gave up booze you might feel better.”
She turned away. “There you go with the criticism again. You’re exactly like your father, you know that? He was no saint, let me tell you. He gambled. He drank. He smoked. Most of the time when he came home he smelled like a brewery.” She reached for her highball glass and drained it.
“He worked twelve hours a day at a chemical plant, Mother, until he dropped dead. Cut him some slack.”
C HAPTER N INE
Saturday, July 28, 6:05 AM
The shrill ring of his cell phone jolted Murphy awake.
He cracked his eyelids and stared at the ceiling until the next ring. He was lying on his sofa. Still dressed. With a pounding headache. After an hour of listening to his mother’s ceaseless complaints and criticism, Murphy had gone home and killed half a bottle of Knob Creek.
The phone rang again.
Then someone knocked on his door.
Murphy felt his sphincter tighten. The first thing he thought of was the Public Integrity Bureau.
He hadn’t done anything wrong that he knew of, but like every working New Orleans cop, he lived in a perpetual state of anxiety about PIB—also known as the Rat Squad. If they wanted you, they could get you. Which is why half the cops in this city were retired in place, just coasting along, not making any waves or any arrests. That was the only sure way to stay out of trouble.
His cell phone shrieked again. The sound cut through his whiskey-addled brain like a knife. He had to change the ring, maybe set it to a song, something he liked.
Murphy found the phone on the coffee table under this month’s
National Geographic
. He must have tried to read before he passed out. He couldn’t remember. The caller ID showed Gaudet’s cell phone. Murphy and Gaudet’s squad had off this weekend. Their first in three weeks. Why would Gaudet call him at six o’clock in the morning on their day off?
He flipped open the phone. “Yeah.”
“What the fuck were you thinking?” Gaudet shouted in his ear.
The knock at the door came again.
“Somebody’s at the door. Hold on.” Murphy took the phone away from his ear. “Who is it?” he
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