Bag of Bones (63 page)

I gave a tentative chuckle. Rommie Bissonette looked tremendously relieved. So did Kennedy. John only looked puzzled.

“Funny,” I said. “Like a rubber crutch.” I pulled out the little mike from inside the mask and let it dangle. It swung back and forth on its wire, reminding me of the waggy clock's tail.

“What the hell is it?” John asked.

“Park Avenue lawyer,” Rommie said to George, broadening his accent so it came out
Paa-aak Avenew lawyah.
“Ain't nevah seen one of these, have ya, chummy? Nossir, coss not.” Then he reverted to normalspeak, which was sort of a relief. I've lived in Maine my whole life, and for me the amusement value of burlesque Yankee accents has worn pretty thin. “It's a Stenomask. The stenog keeping the record at Mike's depo was wearing one. Mike kept looking at him—”

“It freaked me out,” I said. “Old guy sitting in the corner and mumbling into the Mask of Zorro.”

“Gerry Bliss freaks a lot of people out,” Kennedy said. He spoke in a low rumble. “He's the last one around here who wears em. He's got ten or eleven left in his mudroom. I know, because I bought that one from him.”

“I hope he stuck it to you,” I said.

“I thought it would make a nice memento,” Rommie said, “but for a second there I thought I'd given you the box with the severed hand in it—I hate it when I mix up my gift-boxes like that. What's the deal?”

“It's been a long hot July,” I said. “Put it down to that.” I hung the Stenomask's strap over one finger, dangling it that way.

“Mattie said to be there by eleven,” John told us. “We're going to drink beer and throw the Frisbee around.”

“I can do both of those things quite well,” George Kennedy said.

Outside in the tiny parking lot George went to a dusty Altima, rummaged in the back, and came out
with a battered copy of
The Red-Shirt Man.
“Frieda made me bring this one. She has the newer ones, but this is her favorite. Sorry about how it looks—she's read it about six times.”

“It's my favorite, too,” I said, which was true. “And I like to see a book with mileage.” That was also true. I opened the book, looked approvingly at a smear of long-dried chocolate on the flyleaf, and then wrote:
For Frieda Kennedy, whose husband was there to lend a hand. Thanks for sharing him, and thanks for reading, Mike Noonan.

That was a long inscription for me—usually I just stick to
Best wishes
or
Good luck,
but I wanted to make up for the curdled expression they had seen on my face when I opened their innocent little gag present. While I was scribbling, George asked me if I was working on a new novel.

“No,” I said. “Batteries currently on recharge.” I handed the book back.

“Frieda won't like that.”

“No. But there's always
Red-Shirt.
”

“We'll follow you,” Rommie said, and a rumble came from deep in the west. It was no louder than the thunder which had rumbled on and off for the last week, but this wasn't dry thunder. We all knew it, and we all looked in that direction.

“Think we'll get a chance to eat before it storms?” George asked me.

“Yeah. Just about barely.”

*   *   *

I drove to the gate of the parking lot and glanced right to check for traffic. When I did, I saw John looking at me thoughtfully.

“What?”

“Mattie said you
were
writing, that's all. Book go tits-up on you or something?”

My Childhood Friend
was just as lively as ever, in fact . . . but it would never be finished. I knew that this morning as well as I knew there was rain on the way. The boys in the basement had for some reason decided to take it back. Asking why might not be such a good idea—the answers might be unpleasant.

“Something. I'm not sure just what.” I pulled out onto the highway, checked behind me, and saw Rommie and George following in George's little Altima. America has become a country full of big men in little cars. “What do you want me to listen to? If it's home karaoke, I pass. The last thing on earth I want to hear is you singing ‘Bubba Shot the Jukebox Last Night.' ”

“Oh, it's better than that,” he said. “Miles better.”

He opened his briefcase, rooted through it, and came out with a plastic cassette box. The tape inside was marked 7-20-98—yesterday. “I love this,” he said. He leaned forward, turned on the radio, then popped the cassette into the player.

I was hoping I'd already had my quota of nasty surprises for the morning, but I was wrong.

“Sorry, I just had to get rid of another call,” John said from my Chevy's speakers in his smoothest, most lawyerly voice. I'd have bet a million dollars that his bony shins hadn't been showing when this tape was made.

There was a laugh, both smoky and grating. My stomach seized up at the sound of it. I remembered
seeing her for the first time standing outside The Sunset Bar, wearing black shorts over a black tank-style swimsuit. Standing there and looking like a refugee from crash-diet hell.

“You mean you had to turn on your tape-recorder,” she said, and now I remembered how the water had seemed to change color when she nailed me that really good one in the back of the head. From bright orange to dark scarlet it had gone. And then I'd started drinking the lake. “That's okay. Tape anything you want.”

John reached out suddenly and ejected the cassette. “You don't need to hear this,” he said. “It's not substantive. I thought you'd get a kick out of her blather, but . . . man, you look terrible. Do you want me to drive? You're white as a fucking sheet.”

“I can drive,” I said. “Go on, play it. Afterward I'll tell you about a little adventure I had Friday night . . . but you're going to keep it to yourself. They don't have to know”—I jerked my thumb over my shoulder at the Altima—“and Mattie doesn't have to know. Especially Mattie.”

He reached for the tape, then hesitated. “You're sure?”

“Yeah. It was just hearing her again out of the blue like that. The quality of her voice. Christ, the reproduction is good.”

“Nothing but the best for Avery, McLain, and Bernstein. We have very strict protocols about what we can tape, by the way. If you were wondering.”

“I wasn't. I imagine none of it's admissible in litigation anyway, is it?”

“In certain rare cases a judge might let a tape in, but
that's not why we do it. A tape like this saved a man's life four years ago, right around the time I joined the firm. That guy is now in the Witness Protection Program.”

“Play it.”

He leaned forward and pushed the button.

*   *   *

John:
“How is the desert, Ms. Whitmore?”

Whitmore:
“Hot.”

John:
“Arrangements progressing nicely? I know how difficult times like this can—”

Whitmore:
“You know very little, counsellor, take it from me. Can we cut the crap?”

John:
“Consider it cut.”

Whitmore:
“Have you conveyed the conditions of Mr. Devore's will to his daughter-in-law?”

John:
“Yes ma'am.”

Whitmore:
“Her response?”

John:
“I have none to give you now. I may have after Mr. Devore's will has been probated. But surely you know that such codicils are rarely if ever accepted by the courts.”

Whitmore:
“Well, if that little lady moves out of town, we'll see, won't we?”

John:
“I suppose we will.”

Whitmore:
“When is the victory party?”

John:
“Excuse me?”

Whitmore:
“Oh please. I have sixty different appointments today, plus a boss to bury tomorrow. You're going up there to celebrate with her and her daughter, aren't you? Did you know she's invited the writer? Her fuck-buddy?”

John turned to me gleefully. “Do you hear how pissed she sounds? She's trying to hide it, but she can't. It's eating her up inside!”

I barely heard him. I was in the zone with what she was saying

(
the writer her fuck-buddy
)

and what was
under
what she was saying. Some quality beneath the words.
We just want to see how long you can swim,
she had called out to me.

John:
“I hardly think what I or Mattie's friends do is any of your business, Ms. Whitmore. May I respectfully suggest that you party with your friends and let Mattie Devore party with h—”

Whitmore:
“Give him a message.”

Me. She was talking about me. Then I realized it was even more personal than that—she was talking
to
me. Her body might be on the other side of the country, but her voice and spiteful spirit were right here in the car with us.

And Max Devore's will. Not the meaningless shit his lawyers had put down on paper but his
will.
The old bastard was as dead as Damocles, but yes, he was definitely still seeking custody.

John:
“Give who a message, Ms. Whitmore?”

Whitmore:
“Tell him he never answered Mr. Devore's question.”

John:
“What question is that?”

Does her cunt suck?

Whitmore:
“Ask him. He'll know.”

John:
“If you mean Mike Noonan, you can ask him yourself. You'll see him in Castle County Probate Court this fall.”

Whitmore:
“I hardly think so. Mr. Devore's will was made and witnessed out here.”

John:
“Nevertheless, it will be probated in Maine, where he died. My heart is set on it. And when you leave Castle County the next time, Rogette, you will do so with your education in matters of the law considerably broadened.”

For the first time she sounded angry, her voice rising to a reedy caw.

Whitmore:
“If you think—”

John:
“I don't think. I know. Goodbye, Ms. Whitmore.”

Whitmore:
“You might do well to stay away from—”

There was a click, the hum of an open line, then a robot voice saying “Nine-forty
A.M
. . . . Eastern Daylight . . . July . . . twentieth.” John punched
EJECT
, collected his tape, and stored it back in his briefcase.

“I hung up on her.” He sounded like a man telling you about his first skydive. “I actually did. She was mad, wasn't she? Wouldn't you say she was seriously pissed?”

“Yeah.” It was what he wanted to hear but not what I really believed. Pissed, yes.
Seriously
pissed?
Maybe not. Because Mattie's location and state of mind hadn't been her concern; Rogette had called to talk to me. To tell me she was thinking of me. To bring back memories of how it felt to tread water with the back of your head gushing blood. To freak me out. And she had succeeded.

“What was the question you didn't answer?” John asked me.

“I don't know what she meant by that,” I said, “but I
can
tell you why hearing her turned me a little white in the gills. If you can be discreet, and if you want to hear.”

“We've got eighteen miles to cover; lay it on me.”

I told him about Friday night. I didn't clutter my version with visions or psychic phenomena; there was just Michael Noonan out for a sunset walk along The Street. I'd been standing by a birch tree which hung over the lake, watching the sun drop toward the mountains, when they came up behind me. From the point where Devore charged me with his wheelchair to the point where I finally got back onto solid ground, I stuck pretty much to the truth.

When I finished, John was at first utterly silent. It was a measure of how thrown for a loop he was; under normal circumstances he was every bit the chatterbox Ki was.

“Well?” I asked. “Comments? Questions?”

“Lift your hair so I can see behind your ear.”

I did as he asked, revealing a big Band-Aid and a large area of swelling. John leaned forward to study it like a little kid observing his best friend's
battle-scar during recess. “Holy shit,” he said at last.

It was my turn to say nothing.

“Those two old fucks tried to drown you.”

I said nothing.

“They tried to drown you for helping Mattie.”

Now I
really
said nothing.

“And you never reported it?”

“I started to,” I said, “then realized I'd make myself look like a whiny little asshole. And a liar, most likely.”

“How much do you think Osgood might know?”

“About them trying to drown me? Nothing. He's just a messenger boy.”

A little more of that unusual quiet from John. After a few seconds of it he reached out and touched the lump on the back of my head.

“Ow!”

“Sorry.” A pause. “Jesus. Then he went back to Warrington's and pulled the pin. Jesus. Michael, I never would have played that tape if I'd known—”

“It's all right. But don't even think of telling Mattie. I'm wearing my hair over my ear like that for a reason.”

“Will you
ever
tell her, do you think?”

“I might. Some day when he's been dead long enough so we can laugh about me swimming with my clothes on.”

“That might be awhile,” he said.

“Yeah. It might.”

We drove in silence for a bit. I could sense John groping for a way to bring the day back to jubilation, and loved him for it. He leaned forward, turned on
the radio, and found something loud and nasty by Guns N' Roses—welcome to the jungle, baby, we got fun and games.