Personal log of Kowalski, Roger
Like all mondays it started bad. We needed that little quality time so urgently, Charleen and me, that I totally missed to check mails or anything from the agency. On the trip back from Charleen’s place, still a little dizzy from all that wine and meals and that country trip through northern Californian restaurants and nature trails that she insisted on, with money lost to happy trail lodges and honeymoon suites down Paradise Lake and similar places the incoming messages brought me back to reality.
And reality is a fine drizzling rain, the usual weather for Seattle at this time of the year. And the rain was thick with air pollutants that left a brown smear on the windshield that the wipers couldn’t handle.
There are two things that can spoil a fine day after a short vacation. The first is a bullet in your guts and the second is your partner shot down by the rest of liquor you left in that secretly locked bottom drawer of your desk. Babsie wasn’t responding at first and it needed half a liter of my extra black dead-man’s wake brew of kaf to wake her up, together with her friend Major Headache, sir, yes, sir! Spiced with chili-oil, my specialty.
I reviewed her first case briefly and shouted at how she can be so irresponsible to take a murder charge solo. And that she could have been dead! That her junkie friends are no professional aid to cover her back. And that she at least should have called me.
And she shouted back that she tried, but I had not been available and that she earned a lot of money and that I’m just jealous and I should stop yelling at her. And that she doesn’t like it neither, but it had to be done. And she rescued a friend and that I’m an asshole and have to shut the fuck up. That she’s more a PI than I ever will, that she’s doing real work out there while I’m just fucking my girl friend and leave my partner alone with this shit.
And that I can say anything to her, something to support her and make her feel better. But not this fucking bullshit. And that she managed to do something more than to beat up some poor sod that can’t support his children for his ex or run into drugged madman with shotguns.
And I yelled, that if she’s trying to off herself like this, I’m not standing by and congratulate her for that. That this wasn’t professional at all, and she screamed that at least she rescued a life with that and she felt for a moment that she’s worth something and not just a sweet fuck for a wrecked ex-cop that’s giving her some shelter and spare money for it in return. And that she was left all that time alone with this shit, and if I have a bad conscience I should not let my feeling of guilt out on her cause she had fuckin’ enough of that shit!
And finally she slammed the door and after a few seconds I ran after her, past Sandy’s curious nose that she stuck into my corridor to see what’s going on out there and if I was going to hit her. And I caught her down in the backyard and grabbed her.
And she tried to kick me in return and I just let her beat me, holding her. And after that I held her for a while, I kissed her, told her I’m sorry and she did well. That it’s like always.
That I’m the one that messed things up.