1 Breakfast at Madeline's (5 page)

7

"You did
what?!"
Andrea screeched, her voice rising. It was several hours later. The kids were in the backyard playing while Andrea and I fixed dinner; I hoped they couldn't hear us fighting. "You robbed a
safety-deposit
vault? Isn't that, like, a
federal crime?"

"Honey, I had to. It was the only way I could get in." I'd already decided to leave out the part about the
scree-eeks,
so I added, "There was no risk at all. I was in and out of there in about two seconds."

Andrea pointed a chopping knife at me. "What is the matter with you? You're wacko! You hardly even knew this guy, and now you risk going to jail for him?!"

I kept right on setting the table, playing nonchalant. "I'm telling you, it was no big deal. Besides, even if they caught me, they wouldn't have done anything—"

Andrea grabbed the plates out of my hand and stared me down. "Don't you ever do something like that again without talking to me first! You've got a wife and two kids, you can't act like this!"

I sighed. "Okay, okay, d
on't worry. No more funny stuff.
"

"There's nothing funny about it."

Dinner that night was a decidedly tense experience. Even the eggplant parmesan, usually one of my faves, tasted flavorless somehow. Babe Ruth spent the entire
meal loudly complaining that in his T-ball league, you're not allowed to get doubles or triples or homers, only singles. "I could get a homer every time, if they let me!" he declared.

It's true: The Babe is a darn good little baseball player. We're happy about that, because he's shown signs of being intellectually gifted—he can already add and subtract better than most politicians—and we figure the baseball play
ing will help keep him well bal
anced. Also, he seems to have inherited some of my sensitive
artiste
tendencies, and exercise is the best way for guys like us to mellow out.

But Andrea and I w
eren't in the mood to talk base
ball with the Babe that night. On top of being angry at me, Andrea got mad at Gretzky
for his hockey-players-
don't-make-peepee routine, which was showing no signs of abating. Meanwhile, I was still preoccupied with how I was going to put together a good version of The Penn's preface for the newspaper.

So later that night, as I set Penn's magnum opus down on my bedside
table and lay back in bed watch
ing Andrea undress, I still felt a residue of our earlier quarrel. Which was unfortunate, because lying back in bed watching Andrea undress was usually one of my favorite pastimes. To
hell with Marcie. Like Paul New
man says, Why go out for hamburger when you can have steak at home? Right now Andrea was shaking her hair free from her barrette. I began to get that old familiar tightening in my thighs.

The Sultan of Swat and the Great One were sound asleep in their room, and maybe Andrea and I could make up with some good loving. I held out my arms for Andrea to slide into. But she sat down on the edge of the bed, looking fretful.

"We've got to do something about this, we really do," she said.

"I got it all squared away,”
I reassured her.

She stared at me blankly. "What?"

"I picked out the best three versions of the preface I could find. I'll edit them together, then give it to Judy tomorrow."

Andrea impatiently tossed her underwear to the floor, and I tingled all
over. To hell with Marcie. Defi
nitely.

"I was talking about
Gretzky,"
Andrea said. "He was whiny all afternoon, and I'm sure it's because he was holding in his peepee. That can't be healthy, going a whole eight hours without peeing."

"Maybe this is just some kind of stage they go through," I said hopefully.

"Babe Ruth never went through it."

"Well, look at the bright side. At least Gretzky doesn't walk in his sleep. Speaking of which, did you put the newspaper down?" Two weeks ago, Babe Ruth sleepwalked right in
to the middle of a seriously X-
rated scene in our bedroom. Ever since then we've been putting crumple
d newspaper in front of our bed
room door at night,
so we'll get advance warning be
fore the Babe stumbles in and makes it a kinky threesome.

Andrea sighed. "The newspaper's downstairs. I for
got about it." She turned away from me in the bed. "I have to get final grades in tomorrow. I'm really tired."

"Don't worry, gorgeous," I said softly, then bent down and licked the back of her knee. "I'll take care of it."

And I did.

"Jacob.
Jacob,"
my wife said.

Andrea and I were sitting in a crowded library au
ditorium, listening to Steve Something-or-Other read from his novella. After fifteen minutes of this torture, I
still had no clue what
the cursed thing was about, ex
cept he used the word "ubiquitous" a lot. Everyone around me was asleep. I wished I was, too.

"Hey, Jacob,"
Andrea repeated.

"Shh," I whispered.

Now
Antoinette Carlson, looking stu
nning in a green, yellow, and black dashiki, came onstage and began lecturing about t
he future of video in this coun
try
.
As she explained it
, video's future depended on in
creased government funding for artists with true integrity and vision.

Artists like herself.

The audience applauded. Then Andrea shook my shoulder. "It's your turn to get up."

Everyone turned
around. I was supposed to go on
stage and pontificate
about "Is Art Possible in Holly
wood?" or some such topic.

"Hell, no, I won't go," I mumbled.

"Come on. Wh
at if Babe Ruth bumps into some
thing?"

Now I was thoroughly confused.

Andrea shook my shoulder again. "Honey, don't make me get up. I did it last time."

I opened my eyes. I was still in bed. But apparently Babe Ruth was no
t, since there were noises down
stairs.

I stood up wearily. "Yeah, okay, okay. Batman to the rescue." I found my pajama bottoms on the floor and put them on. To protect my eyes I left the hall light off as I felt my way down the stairs. When I got to the first floor I heard Babe Ruth call out, "Daddy."

"Coming," I said. Usually the Babe is silent when he does his midnight rambling, but every now and then he comes out with interesting comments. Like once, while still sound asleep, he asked me, "Why do people
make poop, and why did the Red Sox trade Babe Ruth?"

Questions I've been wondering about for years.

This time, my son asked, "Daddy, how come you're wearing a mask?"

It sounded like he was in the study. As I turned the corner from the dark dining room into the even darker study, I said, "Babe, I'm not wearing a—"

I froze. Somebody was crouching in the shadows by my desk, wearing a mask.

Whoever it was suddenly sprang out at me and Babe Ruth, knocking my son hard to the ground and swinging something at my face.

I jumped back and threw up my arms to ward off the blow. Luckily it turned out to be something soft, a bag maybe. The intruder started dashing around me, but without even thinking I kicked out with my foot and tripped him, sending him sprawling into the wall. Or maybe her; bulky s
weaters and darkness hid the in
truder's shape. I moved forward to attack. But then Babe Ruth screamed.

I glanced back at my k
id, and in that instant the per
son dove away, still holding the bag or whatever it was. I took a wild swipe at it, caught a strap, and held on. My day pack, I realized. The intruder yanked at the pack, pulling me forward. I landed on the floor, my forehead smashing into a dining room chair.

I could hear Andrea running down the stairs shou
t
ing. Somehow I was still gripping the strap, even though the person kept trying to yank my pack out of my hands. Babe Ruth screamed again. I suddenly let go of the strap, surprising the intruder, who tumbled backward onto the kitchen floor. "Babe, go to Mommy!" I yelled, and charged.

But the intruder was up again, jumping to the other side of the kitchen table. "You motherfucker!" I
screamed, and shoved the table in his gut. It hit him hard. He doubled over in pain. I dashed around the table to rip that mask off his face and finish him off.

But there was a big metal pressure cooker on top of the stove. Andrea is always telling me to put the pots away in the cabinet, and I guess this time I really should have listened. Because the intruder grabbed that pressure cooker by the handle and swung it at my head full force.
Ka-bo
om.
I went down, my skull burst
ing with fiery agony, and screamed. Behind me Babe Ruth screamed too, and also Andrea.

Ahead of me the intruder was dashing out the door. I fought the furious red jolts pulsing through me and ran outside.

The bastard was racing up the street. I jumped down the steps and chased him.

For about ten feet. Then I stopped and threw up. My cranium was poundin
g and my ears rang like a four-
alarm fire. Andrea ran up to me.

"Jacob," she said.

"Goddamn pressure cooker," I groaned.

Then I threw up again.

8

Gretzky was still asleep. Thank God for small favors.

The Sultan of Swat was in the living room cuddling with Andrea and whimpering softly.

I was sitting on the floor in my study, praying for the aspirin and Jack Daniels to kick in.

"You should go to the hospital," Dave repeated yet again. Dave is the cop from across the street, nice guy, snowblows our driveway in the winter just to be neighborly. Andrea had run over to get him as soon as she dragged me ba
ck home. Now he sat there watch
ing me, drumming his fingers on my desktop. "You might have a concussion."

"Don't touch anything." It was painful moving my face enough to get the words out. "Fingerprints."

"I thought you said he was wearing gloves."

"I'm not sure. I told you, I'm not even sure it was a he."

"Listen, Jacob, the
department doesn't take finger
prints on a simple burglary."

"Simple burglary?!
That assassin practically ripped my head open! He assaulted my five-year-old son!"

Dave thought about it, then took his hands off the desktop. "Okay, we'll get someone in here to dust the place. Special favor."

"Thanks. Remi
nd me to mow your lawn this sum
mer." I tried to smile, but it didn't work.

"You really should go to the hospital—"

"I hate hospitals. What did Andrea say?"

"About what?"

"The guy."

"So your gut feeling is it was a guy."

"My gut feeling is it wasn't Dolly Parton. But it could've been a woman who was less endowed, if you know what I mean."

Dave nodded. "Andrea said pretty much the same thing you did, though she left out the Dolly Parton part. Between five and a half and six feet, not too fat, not too skinny."

I waited for more, but there wasn't any. "That's all she saw?"

"Yeah."

"Great." I closed my eyes. Even that small gesture was painful.

Dave stood up. "Com
e on, I'll drive you to the hos
pital."

I shook my head, instantly regretting the sudden motion. Then I gingerly leaned back against the wall and tried to think.

It was easy to figure out how the burglar got into our house. He or she had no problem there; this being safe, small-town America, or so we'd thought, we often didn't even bother to lock our doors at night.

The burglar's other activities were harder to fathom, though. My desk drawers had been thrown open, and my papers were strewn around; but other than that, the burglar hadn't touched anything in the whole house. Not even Andrea's purse, which was lying in plain view on the kitchen table. The only thing he'd stolen, so far as I could tell, was my day pack.

Why in the world would the burglar want my day pack?

I considered the bizarre possibility that someone
stole the pack because they'd seen me carrying Penn's magnum opus inside it. But if that's what they were after, why didn't they just open the pack, see there was nothing in it anymore but a couple of Disney videos, and then toss it aside?

Unless...

What if Babe Ruth enters the study just at the exact moment when the burglar finds my pack—but before he's had a chance to look inside it?

Highly unlikely.

But wait a minute. I gritted my teeth against the pain in my head. Wha
t if the burglar heard Ruth com
ing, dove behind my desk to hide
...
and that's when he suddenly sees my pack, or hell, even lands right on top of it. Because last night, like most nights, I'd left my pack on the floor at the far end of the desk, by the wall. Which meant it was partially hidden, I realized. So the burglar dives on top of my pack, figures out what it is, and
grabs hold of it as Ruth enters
...

Okay, maybe. I guess it was
possible
. But
why?
Who would want Donald Penn's literary oeuvre badly enough to burglarize my house, terrorize my child, and bust my head open?

I considered all the people who'd shown an interest, positive or otherwise, in The Penn's writing: the Mayor, Judy, Rob, maybe Madeline, Gretchen, Bonnie and her fellow artists. Could the burglar have been Steve the Novella Man, hoping to find some good stuff written by The Penn that he could pass off as his own work? Or Rob, in a fit of insane artistic m
ania, desper
ate to set up that exhibit at Madeline's? Maybe Judy Demarest, wanting to make sure I didn't double-cross her and give The Penn's literary pearls to a downstate newspaper? Or some overly dedicated editor from Simon & Schuster, up in Saratoga on vacation, who'd
overheard me talking to Judy on the street and thought maybe she could steal herself a bestseller?

Frankly, it seemed equally likely that the burglar had opened my pack, found our rented copy of
Mighty Ducks 2,
and decided he must have that video at all costs.

My increasin
gly deranged musings were inter
rupted when the telephone rang. I jumped. So did Dave. It was three a.m. I grabbed the phone.

Before I could speak, a voice boomed out at me, "Seven fifty!
Seven fucking fifty!"

What the hell—? I was so scared and pissed off, I started shaking. "What do you want?!
Who are you?!"

"I'm your guardian angel, kid! I just got you an extra two-fifty grand!"

My mind reeled. B
y now I'd figured out it was An
drew, my agent, but I hadn't the foggiest what he was saying to me. It was like he was speaking Swahili. Maybe I really did have a concussion. "Andrew, what in heaven's name are you talking about?"

"Mutant beetles, kid! They're hot!"

Mutant beetles.
It all came back to me with a rush. I groaned. "Look, do you have any idea what time it is?"

"Hell yeah, I've been working on this deal all day, baby! Awesome, huh? So you gonna thank me or what?"

I hung up the phone and poured myself another shot of Jack Daniel's.

The next morning, or rather, later that
same morn
ing, I woke up with a splitting headache, whether from concussion or ha
ngover I didn't know. But I fig
ured either way a cup of coffee couldn't hurt.

I stepped carefully downstairs, avoiding sudden movements, and came upon Gretzky in the living
room putting on knee pads. "Daddy, let's play hockey!" he crowed, delighted to see me.

Hockey
. My aching body cringed at the thought. "Not right now, sweetie."

He shot me an outraged look. "Why not, Daddy?"

"Later." I headed toward the kitchen as fast as the old bod could carry me. If Gretzky started crying, my skull would crack into little tiny pieces.

I heard noises from the study and went in. Dave was with another cop, collecting prints from my desk. The purplish-gray powder they were using made me sneeze, which made my head feel even worse. Dave and his partner looked up. "Let me see your thumb," Dave said.

I held it up, and he examined it under the lamp and compared it to a thumbprint they'd taken off the top drawer. "Yup, it's a match," he said.

"You find any others?"

"Sure. Andrea's."

I watched for a while until it became apparent they weren't getting anywhere, then went to the kitchen. Andrea and Babe Ru
th were in there reading a base
ball book. I looked up at the clock: 10:35. "Hey, how come you guys are still at home?"

Babe Ruth ran and jumped into my arms, hugging me tight around the neck. It jarred my head painfully but I didn't complain. Babe Ruth isn't a kid who hugs too often, so when he does hug me, I treasure it.

Andrea kissed my forehead as her eyes searched mine. "We wanted to make sure you're okay. How are you feeling?"

"Nothing a cup of coffee and another hug wouldn't cure."

But the Sultan of Swat pulled away from me. Enough of this hugging stuff; now for the important
business of the morning. "Daddy! Who won the Mets game?"

So we settled into our usual routine of checking the box scores and discussing the Mets bullpen. How had my son, at such a tender age, already turned into a guy who wasn't comfortable giving hugs, but would talk sports with you ad infinitum? Was it something I did? Something he pic
ked up from watching men in gen
eral? Or is there really something defective about that Y chromosome?

All of this speculating wasn't doing my head any good, especially with Gretzky running in an
d de
manding to know if it was "later" yet, because if it was, then we should be playing hockey already.

I reached out for the coffee that Andrea had placed on the table for me. And that's when I noticed, on the obituary page placed for some reason at the back of the sports section, the small item about Donald Penn. His viewing was scheduled at Otis Funeral Home from 10:00 to 11:00 this morning. "Damn," I said. I got out of my chair.

"What's wrong?" Andrea asked.

"I gotta hit the funeral home. The showing's almost over." I threw on my jacket.

"But you promised you'd play hockey with me!" Gretzky screamed.

"How about the Devil Rays?" Babe Ruth shouted. "Who won the Devil Rays game?"

"Honey, are you fe
eling well enough to drive?" An
drea asked.

"The Brewers, three to two," I told Babe Ruth, and headed out the door.

"Jacob, my grades are due today. When will you be back to take care of the kids?"

But I was gone. And so was my headache, driven off by adrenaline. Because I had a strong intuition.

A strong intuition that whoever cared enough about The Penn to break in
to my house looking for his mas
terpiece would also care enough about him to be at Otis Funeral Home, viewing his body.

By God, I was going to find out who had walloped me and terrorized my kid.

And I was going to make the bastard pay.