God Hates Us All (10 page)

My internal temperature rises to match the room. “Let me get this straight,” I say. “I just paid you five hundred dollars to skim the phone book?”

“You ever hear of Occam’s razor? The shortest distance between two points is a straight line.”

“Actually, Occam’s razor says the simplest explanation is usually the right one,” I say, drawing on my single semester of philosophy.

“No shit? Then what do you call the thing about the straight line?”

“I think that’s just ‘the thing about the straight line.’”

He holds up his palms in mock self-defense. “I never claimed to be a scholar.”

“So is Peter Robichaux in the phone book?”

“Fourteen of ’em.” Head consults a spiral-bound note-book,
which is encouraging. “A couple of ’em died in the five boroughs, meaning they got death certificates in Queens. I can’t tell you how much easier it is when the guy you’re looking for has got a death certificate.”

“You think he’s dead?”

“I’m just saying it’s easier, is all. Anyway, I don’t think any of the dead Robichauxs are your Robichaux. Too young, too old, too black. You said he was a white fella, right?”

“Glad to see you were paying attention. What about the living Robichauxs?”

Head nods and refers back to his notebook. “One’s in jail upstate on a murder beef. But I don’t think it’s him on account of who he murdered, as in his whole family. Your girl’s still alive, right?”

“She is.”

“Another’s in the service … Germany. I got a call in to him. Long-distance—you’ll see when you see the bill. As for the rest … squadoosh.” Head rubs his hands together like a magician. Another ironic gesture. “By a variety of reasonings I was able to eliminate each of the rest as potential candidates.” He jams a second yellow pastry into his mouth.

“Okay, assuming that’s true, where does it leave us?”

“Like I said,” he manages in between bites, “I got a call in to Germany.” He wipes his mouth with a handkerchief. “It’s a long shot, which is why I called you here. Our investigation has reached the proverbial cross in the road.”

“You mean ‘fork.’”

“How’s that?”

“The expression. It’s ‘fork in the road.’”

Head dabs his forehead with the handkerchief. “That don’t sound right. Fork’s got three points, maybe four. We only got two options.”

“Maybe you could just tell me what they are?”

“The first is to broaden the search … police records, motor vehicles, God bless. If you want, I can drive up to Albany. That’s where they keep track of all the other dead people. In New York, anyway. If he died in Jersey or Connecticut, that’s a whole different enchilada. They got their own phone books there too. But I gotta warn you. This kind of thing could take a while.” He rubs his thumb against his fore-fingers, letting me know that “a while” is going to cost me. “I’m not sure how deep your pockets go.”

“Not very. What’s the second option?”

“The second option,” Head says, “is to do absolutely nothing.”

I take a moment to consider these options. “I can’t say I’m particularly fond of either of them,” I say.

“What can I tell you? Sometimes we got to deal with the hand how it’s played.”

We finally agree to continue the investigation for another week, enough time at least to hear back from the Peter Robichaux in Germany. I hand Henry Head another five hundred dollars and descend back into a freezing-cold rain that wouldn’t let up for a week.

CHRISTMAS AT THE KIRSCHENBAUMS should be a contradiction, and would be if not for Larry Kirschenbaum’s pragmatism: If his clients come in all stripes of faith, then so can he. Each year, forty or so guests are treated to a ten-foot Christmas tree and sexy caterers, usually dressed as naughty elves, serving potato
latkes
. This year, the menorah will be joined by a Kwanzaa
kinara
, a nod to a medium-famous rap artist Larry successfully defended on gun possession charges. Still, out of deference to those Irish Catholics whose need to drive inevitably collides with their passion for drink—the bread and butter of Larry’s practice—the event itself will probably always be called “Christmas at the Kirschenbaums.”

After making my regular Friday night delivery to Danny Carr, I take the train back to the Island. It’s the first time I’ve been home since I moved to the city. This time, no one’s
awake to greet me. But it feels good to sleep in my old bed. When I wake up, my mother’s already in the kitchen. I sit down at the table while she makes me pancakes.

“Dad sleeping in?”

“I don’t know,” Mom says. “He didn’t come home last night.”

I’m pouring syrup on a stack of pancakes when Dad enters through the back door. He’s still wearing last night’s clothes. He kisses Mom, who’s joined me at the table, on the top of her head. “Goddamn Harvey made me sleep at the bar,” Dad says. “I told him I was fine, but you know Harv….”

“I’m sure he just wanted to be sure you were safe,” my mother says without looking at him. “Honey, would you please pass me the syrup?”

“What? You don’t believe me? Call Harv and ask him.”

“Are his phones working?” she asks.

“What do you mean, are his phones working?”

“I mean if his phones were working, then you could have called. Or called a taxi.”

“Like I need this shit first thing in the morning,” Dad growls.

Welcome home, kid. Fortunately Tana calls, giving me an excuse to go back to my room.

“You’re coming tonight, right?” Tana asks.

“So it’s true. Your basic greetings have finally become passé. Hello to you, too.”

“Are you coming or what?”

“I’m here, aren’t I? At my parents?”

“I’m just making sure,” she says.

“Let me guess. You’re having some difficulties with a representative of the gruffer sex?”

“Something like that.”

Tana sounds anxious in a way I can’t quite pinpoint. “Is this something that can wait? Because I can come over now.”

“I won’t be here. Dottie’s booked us haircuts and manipedis. Oh yeah, and a massage.”

“Sucks to be you,” I say.

“I’ll see you tonight.” She hangs up, good-byes apparently having gone the way of hellos. I turn to head back to the freak show in the kitchen, but the circus has come to me. Dad’s framed in the doorway like the maniac in a slasher flick.

“You got a minute to talk?” he asks.

“Sure,” I reply. “Is this about the money you borrowed?”

“Heh,” he says, closing the door behind him. “No. I’m thinking of leaving your mother.”

The silence gets awkward. “Okay,” I finally say.

“That’s it? Okay?”

“What do you want me to say? ‘Don’t do it’? ‘Congratulations’?”

“You’ve got every right to be angry….”

“I’m not angry. We both know Mom deserves better than you. I’d say that I hope the bimbette is worth it, but knowing you, she’s probably not.”

“
Janine
. Her name is Janine. We didn’t mean for it to …”

“Dad,” I say, “I really don’t give a fuck.”

He stands up, looking at me as if he wants to say something
else. After a false start or two, he claps me on the shoulder and exits.

I spend the rest of the morning hiding out in my room. When it’s time to go to the party, my mom insists I ride in front with Dad. “And away we go,” he says, starting the engine, “to another one of Larry Kirschenbaum’s tax write-offs.”

We finish the trip in silence, turning the car over to one of the red-suited valets Larry has hired for the occasion. Dad makes a beeline for the bar, leaving me alone with Mom. She looks pale. I want to say something, but I don’t know what my father’s said to her. “Go mingle,” she tells me. I give her a hug and wander into the living room.

I’m scanning the crowd for Tana when one of the Naughty Elves appears beside me. Black hair, maybe thirty, with a mole above her lip like Cindy Crawford. Not quite as tall, but she earns major points for her costume: I had no idea elves wore fishnet stockings.

“
Sufganiot?
” she asks. Her voice is husky. I can imagine her, thirty years from now, playing canasta with a long brown cigarette dangling from her mouth. Strangely, I don’t find this a turnoff.

“
Gesundheit
,” I reply.

“It’s a jelly donut.”

I should admit that hooking up with one of the Kirschen-baum elves has long been a fantasy of mine. In the past, they’ve seemed remote and unattainable, like supermodels. But now that I’ve spent a little time next to supermodels, an elf from the Island doesn’t feel like such a stretch. “If I were
Santa,” I say, accepting a donut, “I don’t think I’d let you out of the workshop.”

She’s already moving away with the tray. “Be careful,” she says over her shoulder. “Bad boys usually wind up with coal in their stocking.”

“What was that?” asks Tana, who at some point has materialized behind me.

“Just me figuring out what I want for Christmas this year.”

“Uh, hi,” she says, annoyed that I haven’t bothered to turn around. My jaw drops open when I do.

“Holy shit,” I say. “Look at you.”

Tana is definitely something to look at. A short black cocktail dress makes the most of her already formidable cleavage. And heels. Tana
never
wears heels. “Who are you trying to impress? Is Bono coming this year?”

“You could just tell me I look great,” she says.

“You look great. But you could have just looked around the room and gotten the same opinion.” Indeed, most of the heads are turned her way, their faces forming a continuum between “sneaking glance” and “drooling stare.”

Tana blushes. “I need a drink,” she says.

A few minutes later, armed with spiked eggnogs, we settle into the couch for what’s become an annual Christmas tradition for Tana and me: taking turns guessing the sins of each of the guests. “International terrorist,” I say of a man with a pencil-thin mustache.

“Not even close,” replies Tana. “That’s Mr. Atkins. Tax evasion. What about the guy over there in the red sweater?”

I see Red Sweater but my eyes keep going until they reach my father. Scotch generally keeps my Dad in one of two states—
loose
or
too loose
—but right now he just looks uncomfortable.

He’s glancing nervously at a frosted blonde in a business suit on the other side of the room. She isn’t a head-turner, but she’s attractive. She’s standing next to a tubby, balding guy in a brown Christmas tree sweater. He has his hand wrapped around her waist. They’re talking to another couple, smiling. She looks sidelong at Tubby, making sure his attention is on the other couple, then throws a half-smile across the room to my father. I’m not exactly sure how I know, but I’m sure this is Janine.

“Your ten o’clock,” I say to Tana. “I think it’s the trollop Dad’s leaving my mom for.”

Tana whips around to face me. “Excuse me?!” I quickly bring her up to speed on the morning’s conversation.

“What a fucking prick!” she says, jumping off the couch.

“Where are you going?”

“To find out who she is.” And then she’s parting the crowd, making her way toward the two couples. I watch her introduce herself. So does my father, who looks at me with an expression teetering between anger and confusion. I toast him with my glass, which I discover is empty. Rising from the couch, I return to the bar and order a scotch. Dottie, who is talking to my mother, calls me over.

“I’ve just been hearing all about your job,” fawns Dottie.
“And living in the city. Maybe you can help my Tana find a job when she finally finishes college.”

“She’s got your looks, Dottie. She doesn’t need my help.”

“Oh you,” Dottie says, patting my arm like a frisky cat. My mother, in contrast, looks glassy-eyed.

“You all right, Ma?” I ask.

She doesn’t respond. Dottie zooms in. “Judy?”

Mom jerks awake. “I’m fine,” she says. “I just need some water.”

“Come on,” says Bonnie, taking her by the arm. “I’ve got some of that Evian in the kitchen.”

I look for Tana. She’s been cornered by the medium-famous rapper, but isn’t complaining. “
Koki?
” asks a familiar husky voice.

“Now you’re just making shit up,” I say, turning to find the sexy elf.

She smiles. “Kwanzaa food. I believe it’s made out of peas.”

“I’ll stick to scotch,” I say, raising my glass. “I guess we’re going to have to find some other way to celebrate Kwanzaa.”

“Like what?” she asks.

Tana darts over before I can reply, grabbing one of the appetizers off the tray. “I’ll try some of that.” The sexy elf smiles and moves along.

“That, little girl, was a
koki
-block,” I say to Tana when I’m sure the elf is out of earshot.

“Her?” Tana snorts. “Please.”

“Whatever. So what do you know?”

“I know that J-Bigg plays all his own instruments.” Tana looks across the room at the rapper. J-Bigg catches her looking and smiles. Several of his teeth are capped with gold.

“I’ll bet,” I reply. “Did he ask you to play his skin flute?”

Tana shoves me. “What is wrong with you?!”

“Maybe I’m jealous.”

“You should be. He said we could ‘
roll
together.’”

“Look at you,” I say. “Already part of his crew. One of his hos. Now what did you find out about Frosty the Snowlady?”

“You were right. Her name’s Janine Canterbury or some-thing like that. Married to Ted Canterwhatever, he of the hideous sweater. I mean, a brown Christmas tree? That’s wack.”

“Did my dad invite her here?”

“Doubt it. She seemed to know Larry,” Tana says, adding when I raise an eyebrow: “In a professional way.”

“My mom seems really out of it,” I say, looking around the room for her. She hasn’t returned from the kitchen.

“Do you think she knows?” asks Tana.

I shrug. “Hey … didn’t you have something important to talk to me about tonight?”

“Later,” she says. “When did you switch to scotch? I feel like I’m falling behind.”

We’re on our way to the bar when Dottie stops us. Mascara running down her face. Two minutes later I’m upstairs, yelling for my father, ripping open doors. I finally find Dad in Dottie’s cedar closet, where he and Janine are making out like a couple of teenagers. He raises his hands
in frustration. Janine brushes down the front of her hiked-up dress.