T H E
JIGSAW
M A N
G O R D R O L L O
L E I S U R E B O O K S
1 =
N E W Y O R K C I T Y
This novel is dedicated to my father, James Rollo, who gave
me my love for reading and helped inspire my first steps to—
ward becoming a writer. While this book might not exactly be
his cup of tea, I think he'll get a kick out of it....
No book is ever truly written alone, so I'd be remiss if I didn't
acknowledge some of the people who have helped make this
happen: Gene O'Neill, MichaelLaimo, J. E Gonzalez, Da
vid Nordhaus, Brian Keene, Jimmy ZJohnston Shane Stal-
ey, and Don D 'Auria I also want to give a shout-out to my
brothers Tony, Brian, and Stuart, and a special thank-you to
my wife Debbie for putting up with me.
P R O L O G U E
The Reason
Drummond Brothers Rock and Bowl,
North Tonawanda, New York
Hell of a place, Drummond's, an old-fashioned, family-run
bowling alley suffering from an identity crisis of late. The
comfy wooden tables and chairs have been replaced with ugly
black plastic stools with shiny chrome legs; the soft overhead
fluorescent lighting with purple and red retina-destroying
spotlights; the soothing background music with bass-heavy,
blow-out-your-eardrums heavy alternative rock. People used
to come here with family and friends to bowl, have some good
clean fun, and the best damn cola floats in Western New
York. Now the rowdy young crowds come to get drunk, fight,
shot put the bowling balls at their buddy's head, and scream
out obscenities and pickup lines over the horrendously loud
musk.
If old Mr. Drummond were still around to see what his
sons had done to the family business, he'd have burned the
place to the ground, his good-for-nothing prodigies still
trapped inside. Still, the Rock and Bowl, with all its gaudi-
ness and utter contempt for its humbler beginnings, was
making money hand over fist—even the old man couldn't
have argued with that.
Thursday night. A big crowd.
Two guys sitting at the end of the bar, a bit older than the
usual early twenties crowd, three more friends standing at
their backs cheering wildly as the seated pair raise their frosty
mugs to their lips and start chugging.
The phone rings on the wall behind the bar, twice, three
times, hard to hear over the pulsing hypnotic beat of Rob
Zombies " L i v i n g D e a d G i r l " blaring on the overhead speak
ers. Finally, the overweight bartender waddles over, answers
it, cupping his free band around the earpiece to hear what the
caller wants. His face drains ofcolor as he slowly turns to look
at one of the beer drinkers.
He lays the phone down on the back counter, approaches
the group offve men joking and arguing over who won the
chug contest, and leans over the bar to interrupt them.
"It's the police," he tells the thin drunk sitting on the right.
"Lookinforyou. You'd better come take this"
The man looks worried but is still trying to play it cool in
front of his friends. He rises to his feet, almost trips over the
chair, and stumbles and weaves his way toward the far end of
the bar where it's open and he can walk around to grab the
phone. Fear has him by the short hairs but he isn't sure why.
For a moment, vertigo hits hard and the noisy room starts to
spin. He grabs the counter to steady himself, closing bis eyes
tightly until the nauseous sensation passes. Then, the phone—
"Hello?"
MichaelFox?"A cold voice. Irish accent.
"Ub-bub. Who's this?"
The inebriated man listens quietly for several minutes,
swaying on his feet, threatening to go down at any minute.
He remains upright, it's the phone that drops to the floor,
already forgotten as the man screams and runs for the exit.
Outside, ifs raining hard. He's bad far too much to drink
tonight to be sprinting but that doesn't stop him from trying,
the police officer's words still haunting him, urging him on—
ward.
PART ONE
T H E B R I D G E
C H A P T E R O N E
Asleep in the gutter, middle of the afternoon, the con
crete curb not a very comfortable pillow. I don't actu
ally remember waking up, but I know I lay there for
several minutes in the grip of the dragon, shaking like I
had Parkinson's, waiting for the pain in my bones to go
away before even trying to open my eyes. W h e n I did,
it was a mistake, the sunlight burning into my head,
setting my drug-saturated brain on fire. My skull felt
like it was going to crack wide open. Part of me wished
it would.
Why the fuck do I keep doing this to myself? How can I be
so weak? So stupid?
Good questions. N o t so easy to answer. Everyone on
the street has their own dragon,, their own personal
demon that keeps them in check. Whatever it is, it'll
make you feel good, sure, let you soar with the eagles
for a while, but it's a hell of a fall back to ground level.
Dreams were for regular people, not guys like me. Ev¬
ery time I got too cocky, started thinking I might make
it out of here back to the real world, the dragon reared
up and bit me on the ass again, making damn sure I
knew my place.
To each his own, but my dragon's name was Sterno,
that stinky blue-flamed fuel people used to warm their
hands on ski trips or to caramelize brandy inside those
big glasses when they ordered dessert coffees in fancy
restaurants. You can buy Sterno easily enough but it's
expensive and to be honest, I didn't need to buy it. I
broke into cars for mine. It's common knowledge for
hardcore street folks, especially the people who've sur
vived long enough to learn what's what up here in the
colder climates, that the emergency kits people carry
around in the glove box or under their front seat are
mini gold mines. They held the kind of things we reg
ularly needed: matches, Band-Aids, aspirins, needle and
thread, chocolate, and—surprise—a little container of
Sterno fuel, in case you broke down in the snow and
needed a little heat to make it through a cold night un
til help arrived.
You strained it through a slice of bread, which got rid
of most of the poisonous shit, then drank the alcohol
base that was left. Don't try it; it's horrible tasting, a lot
like wood alcohol, but man does it make your problems
go away in a hurry.
So I finally dry-heaved my way into a sitting posi
tion, reminding myself that it had been a few days
since my last meal. I was thirsty. R
eally thirsty, and like
magic this bottle of water appeared in front of my
eyes. There's a hand attached to the bottle, and my
eyes followed the dark-skinned arm up, surprised to
see the only real friend I had left in the world smiling
down at me. -
Blue J was an all right dude, once you got by his ever-
increasing penchant for sniffing glue, and his rather
nasty habit of vomiting on himself while sleeping it
off.
His name had been Jason when I first met him, a
real good-looking guy. Tall, dark piercing eyes, smooth
black skin—looked a bit like Wesley Snipes, without
the attitude. Unfortunately, life on the street had sto
len his good looks. His pretty-boy ebony skin had
turned pasty and discolored, for some strange reason
turning a shade closer to blue than black. I didn't know
it it was all the glue he sniffed or the cheap booze he
guzzled, but that was why I changed his name. What
ever I called him, he was a decent guy, bad complexion
and all.
"Hey, buddy," he said. "Wanna sip?"
Man, did I. I had this god-awful taste in my mouth,
and I could just imagine the foul smell of my breath
right now. I grabbed the water and drained the whole
bottle in a greedy series of gulps. It wasn't until I was
done and handing the bottle back that I noticed my
friend wasn't alone. He had a woman with him. Well,
She was pretty: dark hair, nice legs, and a big set of cans
squeezed into a dress two sizes too small. She was a lit
tle dirty and rough-looking around the edges but hey,
weren't we all?
"This here's my man, Mike," Blue J said to her.
She nodded, apparently satisfied. I might have asked
what her name was but I had a good idea where this was
leading so her name wasn't really important. I put a half
smile on my face—the best I could do with my head
still pounding—and went with the flow.
"What's up, J?" I asked, eyeing the girl's curvy body,
quickly moving from one vice to the next as I climbed
shakily to my feet.
"Well, unless you got 'portant places to go, this here
fine lady say she wanna party with us. Dig?"
I dug.
Blue J wasn't the handsome man he'd once been, and
Lord knows I wasn't anyone's definition of a lady-killer,
but we still made out all right. Why? Simple: at the
start of each month—for as long as they lasted—we had
drugs. J received a monthly prescription of Valium,
clonazepam, and Haldol as part of his Vets disability.
He'd only spent five months over in Desert Storm, but
he'd convinced some doctor at the VA hospital he was
suffering from depression and combat dementia. He
rarely took any of his own drugs, instead saving them
to barter for food, booze, and, like today, the services
of a young runaway.
Don't read too much into that. J and I weren't bad
guys. This was just the way life worked on the street, a
business deal for people who had nothing else to offer.
Drugs for sex—where was the harm in that?
"I'm in," I said. "Lead the way."
Blue J winked at me, dug in his pocket to hand each
of us a blue pill. The girl and I dry-swallowed the pills
without even asking what they were, then she marched
off down the sidewalk. J and I hurried to keep pace.
She took us several blocks uptown, then veered into
an alleyway between a Chinese restaurant and a Bank
of America. She was living beneath a rusty, metal stair
case that led to the second floor of the restaurant.
Somewhere she'd found a big green tarp and had strung
it under the stairs to make a fairly effective roof. The
tarp draped down near the ground, giving her shelter
from the elements and, more importantly, us a small
degree of privacy.
Inside, J and I went right to work, getting her out of
her gear in a hurry. None of us were expecting romance,
and foreplay just wasn't happening when three drugged-
up losers were huddled inside a four-by-ten-foot shel
ter. I was getting ready to do my thing when J blew the
whole deal.
"What's your name again, sugar doll?" he asked.
"Arlene," she smiled, her eyes already glassing over
from whatever it was J had given her.
Oh sbit.
. . .rain pouring down as 1 run, tears just as heavy flood
ing from my eyesy stumbling blind past the dark buildings
and parked cars until I spot the flashing lights of the police
cars and ambulance. I run harder, panic and desperation the
only things keeping me on my feet. Then Vm there among
the twisted metal, policemen pushing me around until I can
stammer out who I am. Their attitude changes then, but
all I notice is the upside-down car, and the diluted puddles
of crimson staining the pavement below the driver-side
door . . .
That was it for me. My hard-on did a nosedive, and I
made a dash for the alleyway, throwing up my stomach-
full of water with my jeans around my ankles. Blue J
poked his head out of the tarp to see what was wrong
but I waved him away, pulled up my pants, and bolted
for the street.
Arlene was my daughter's name. Is her name, I should
say. She survived the crash that killed my wife and son
that awful, night, but not her old man's stupidity in the
months and years to come. Good thing my sister-in-law
Gloria was good enough to take care of her when I couldn't.
I haven't seen Arlene in nearly three years. I wanted to, of
course, but by the time my head had straightened enough
to know what was important in life, she refused to see
me. Can't say I blame her.
Arlene'll be seventeen now, a young woman all set to
head to college next fall. She's probably—
Probably a lot like the young girl you just left stoned on
her~back with Blue J. You're a real fuckin1 hero, Mike.
Fdther-of~the-year candidate, once again.
"Shut up!w I screamed out loud, causing several nearby
pedestrians to take a wide path around me.
One thing crazy people in the city never had was a
lack of elbow room. Was I crazy, though?
Truly crazy?
I dropped to my knees on the sidewalk, sobbing un
controllably, on one hand ignoring the question, but
then again, perhaps answering it all in the same mo
tion. Who knows? Who cares?
I was so sick of living like this.
I just wanted to end the suffering. Mine, Arlene's . . .
everybody's. From my knees I eyed up the traffic roar
ing by on the street beside me. It would be so easy to
just get up and stumble out in front of—
Stop, I scolded myself. You know thafs not the way it
should go down.
True.
I had a better plan.
For months I've been thinking about it, setting
things up, ironing out the kinks. Now all it took was
&n
bsp; having the balls to go through with it. I could do it,
though. No worries there. It had nothing to do with me
anyway. It was all for Arlene. I'd destroyed any chance
of a life we might have had together, but if I could pull
my shit together one last time, I could maybe give her a
start on the life she deserved. The life I'd selfishly sto
len away.
Do it then. No more bullshit. For once in your pitiful life
do the right thing.
Climbing to my feet, tears dried up and long gone, I
stood still, eyes closed, thinking about Arlene while
I swayed to the music of the city. I was in no hurry and
didn't give a shit if I was blocking people's way.
Tomorrow, I decided.
I still had a letter to write and a package to drop in
the mail, but tomorrow afternoon would be perfect. I
could have pulled it off tonight but screw it; tonight I
was going out to get rip-roaring drunk.
Why the hell wouldn't I?
CHAPTER TWO
Trust me, I wasn't about to get all teary-eyed leaving
my home and worldly belongings behind. Good rid
dance, as far as I was concerned. Everything I owned
was crap anyway, someone else's tossed-out garbage. I
wouldn't need them again, that was for sure. It was one
of the few perks of planning to kill yourself—you didn't
need to pack luggage.
I should introduce myself better. Sorry, my head
wasn't screwed on quite right yesterday. My name's Mi
chael Fox, Mike to my friends, but unfortunately most
people just called me a bum. I was homeless, that much
was true, but for the record I certainly wasn't a bum. I
was a fairly regular-looking white boy, thirty-nine
years old, five foot ten, one hundred and seventy pounds,
with dark hair and a baby-stubbie beard that steadfastly
refused to grow more than a few downy curls. Sure, I
begged for money and food, but I also worked here and
there, whenever I could. Some of the money I earned I
used to buy clothes, and I washed them regularly at the
local Laundromat. Basically I tried to stay clean, to stay
human, as best I could.
For the last year and a half, I'd lived in Buffalo, New
York, not that it mattered much. The name of the city
was sort of irrelevant. Where I actually lived, was in a
blue metal Dumpster beneath the rusted-out Carver
Street Railway Bridge. For whatever reason, the Dump
ster wasn't used by the city anymore, so me, Blue J, and