Hard Stop (33 page)

“Do you think this is formal enough?” she asked.

“Not for the Hells Angels. They’ll probably be there.”

“I don’t have a lot of black.”

My daughter could’ve helped her there. That’s all she had. Claimed it saved on laundry bills, but I knew it meant fewer decisions to make in the morning.

The day was fresh and clean. The sunlight hard and clear. We were in Amanda’s red pickup with the windows down so we could smoke without smelling up the upholstery. The soft air, blessedly dry, swirled around and created a pleasant side benefit: the resulting noise gave me an excuse to avoid anything so complicated as an explanation.

“But you’re going to tell me when we get on the ferry,” she said.

“Definitely.”

As it turned out a swarm of motorcycles was unloading from the ferry when we got there. I told Jackie to slide down in her seat.

“You can’t have her,” I said, as they roared by. “She’s mine.”

The sun reflecting off Long Island Sound as we crossed was nearly blinding, but we stayed topside, leeward of the hard breeze and secure in a pair of white plastic chairs.

“So,” said Jackie.

“So it’s quite a day.”

“Come on.”

“When I was a troubleshooter in the oil refineries I liked it when things didn’t make sense.”

“Typically perverse.”

“That meant I didn’t need to waste my time with the obvious. That I could focus everything on the unlikely, the unanticipated.”

“So what doesn’t make sense about Iku Kinjo’s murder?”

“It’s obvious.”

She swatted my shoulder.

“Come on.”

“Sometimes Occam’s razor needs to stay in the drawer.”

The look she gave me complimented her outfit.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” she said. “I knew you wouldn’t tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell you that you don’t already know. Only a few figments of my imagination.”

“Criminy,” she said, and let it drop.

I celebrated by getting us both coffee and spending the rest of the trip describing the potent currents of Long Island Sound, how they flowed like a bastard to the east for a while, then switched and flowed like a bastard to the west, making sailing a complex triangulation between wind, tide and expectations. And fishing an adventure in riding the chop above the shoals. She acted like she didn’t care, but I knew she was paying attention. Among Jackie’s more reliable afflictions was an uncontrollable interest in arcana. A sucker for a good fish story.

I hadn’t seen Bridgeport in almost ten years, and it looked a lot better than I remembered, especially around the harbor where the ferry pulled in. At the time, I was fresh out of Con Globe and fully invested in Jack Daniels, so the details were a little fuzzy, though I remember the lifestyle offered a marked contrast to the one immediately prior. I wondered how my associates in the inner city had fared after that thing with the dead guy and the shotgun.

To get to Stamford from Bridgeport you had to go down the coast and up a few socioeconomic strata. It was a short trip, with one stop to let Jackie pee and me refill my mug.

“Does the heart attack tell you when you’ve had enough coffee?” she asked me.

St. John’s Episcopal Church sat on a small hill, exaggerating the impression of a towering fortress. It was built out of Connecticut brownstone and establishment presumptions. You had to park in a lot to the side and walk up the hill to the front doors. There were only three vehicles in the lot, including a panel truck pulling a lawn tractor on a trailer.
One of the cars was a nondescript General Motors station wagon, the other a familiar Volvo.

I let Jackie hold on to my arm as we slogged our way up to salvation.

The priest came out the door before we were halfway there and walked down to meet us. He was startlingly young, with round frameless glasses and a smile that looked beatific, though that was probably influenced by the setting.

He held Jackie’s elbow when he shook her hand, as if to maximize the strength of the greeting, then did the same with me.

“Here for Ozzie, I hope,” he said.

“We are, Father,” said Jackie.

He nodded, obviously pleased. Then he took us each gently by the arm and guided us up the hill.

“I didn’t know him myself, but Priscilla is a regular here at St. John’s. She said she was doing this for herself and didn’t care if anyone came, but one always cares, right? Are you family?”

“Ex-coworker,” I said.

“His lawyer,” said Jackie, jerking her thumb toward me. “Here for moral support.”

“Lovely to have you,” said the priest. “Moral support is one of our specialties. By the way, I’m Hank Ortega,” he added, turning to walk backwards so he could get our names.

He looked at his watch.

“We’re actually about to start,” he said. “I was just checking for stragglers. Come meet your fellow mourners.”

The inside of the church was predictably dark, with vaulted oaken arches absorbing the meager light from the tall stained glass windows and incandescent lanterns. We walked down the center aisle past the empty pews to
the last row before the altar and sat down. At the far end was a beefy, grey-haired white guy in a flannel shirt. Next to him was a woman Ozzie’s age, squat, with a fleshy face and thin blonde hair.

Sitting next to her was Bobby Dobson.

I
WAS GETTING USED TO
his look of alarm, so I just reached across Priscilla and patted his knee. This was a little alarming to Priscilla, though her attention was quickly regained by Father Ortega.

He told us he was going to read a few prayers. We were welcome to follow along in the prayer book and could either kneel or sit, depending on our preferences. I sat, Jackie kneeled, with her back straight and hands clasped in front of her like a school kid.

The prayers were nice picks. Father Ortega had them memorized and spoke the words like he really loved what they said. They made me think of Ozzie a little differently for the first time, more positively, which I guess was the idea.

Then Father Ortega sang a hymn, joined only by Jackie, who turned out to have a beautiful singing voice. It was deep in the alto range, with a hint of rasp and spot-on
intonation. I was even more impressed that she read the music out of the hymnal.

After the hymn the priest closed his book and walked out from behind the little portable pulpit he’d been working from. He stood with his hands clasped in front and resting comfortably among the folds of his vestments.

“I didn’t know Ozzie,” he said, “but I heard a lot about him from Priscilla. For many years she and Ozzie enjoyed a very happy marriage, bolstered by the affection of friends and a close and loving family. And then Ozzie entered a period of grave difficulty. Like many natural achievers, success only drove Ozzie to work harder and harder. And then harder again, driving himself unmercifully, until he became untethered from those priceless human connections that give us perspective, that help us understand the true priorities in life: love of God and family, the companionship of friends and the blessings of a composed and peaceful heart. This left Ozzie vulnerable to a different type of association, the dark and unforgiving fraternity of illegal drugs—amphetamines to fuel his unrelenting drive and ambition, and cocaine to soothe the agony of his troubled soul.

“Yet we’re not here to condemn Ozzie, but rather to honor him, for in the moment of his deepest despair, he found within him the true beauty of his character and sought help for this cruel affliction. And he found it, and after many years of trial, also found sobriety, and, if not peace of mind, at least personal satisfaction for having conquered what many believe unconquerable.

“We’re also here to honor Priscilla, who stood by Ozzie even as their marriage fell asunder. And Robert Dobson, who spoke to Ozzie every day from the moment they were joined together in rehabilitation, whose loyalty and steadfast
faith in his friend was likely the most powerful influence on Ozzie’s daily recovery.

“We also thank those who have come to say goodbye to Ozzie—Richard, Sam, Jackie—and ask that you now join us in prayer. Our Father, who art in heaven …”

I stopped listening after that. First off, I knew the prayer. Secondly, I didn’t think God would mind if I mentally drew in the lines between a few of the boxes on the yellow pad back at the cottage.

“Holy Toledo,” I heard Jackie say under her breath, more than once, so at least one of us was still in a religious mood.

We all stood up when Father Ortega signaled the end of the service by walking down from the altar and leaning over to hug Priscilla. Jackie was already out of the pew and moving around to the other end, where Richard had Bobby conveniently boxed in.

I was ready for him to leap into the pew behind us and make a run for it, but he stayed put until Richard cleared out and Jackie could get a grip on his arm. I abandoned my position and went around to help her. Father Ortega and Priscilla were talking and hugging, oblivious to the situation.

I took Bobby’s other arm.

“Let’s chat,” I said, in as low a voice as I could.

If you can look terrified and smug at the same time, that’s how Bobby looked. Then he looked over at Priscilla.

“I don’t have to say goodbye,” he said. “She hates my guts.”

He turned and started walking down the side aisle. I dropped behind, but Jackie kept a grip on his arm, though looser, more like an escort than a prison guard. He didn’t seem to care either way.

Outside the sun half-blinded us after the murky atmosphere of the old church. Bobby put his hand over his eyes and moaned.

“Just right for a headache,” he said. “I gotta sit down.”

I pointed to a gigantic copper beech growing partway down the hill.

“How about over there, in the shade?”

“I guess,” said Bobby. “It doesn’t matter.”

“There’s the spirit,” I said.

I waited until we were sitting under the tree to ask the obvious. The black miniskirt presented Jackie with some logistical challenges, but she worked them out.

“Why did Ozzie shoot himself?” I asked Bobby.

“He was a miserable, paranoid, antisocial, depressive junkie. Other than that, who knows?”

“You met in rehab.”

“Roomies. I guess they thought an older guy would mentor a younger guy, and the younger guy would lend some energy and optimism. They were right.”

“So you guys shared everything,” I said.

He looked at me carefully.

“Why don’t you just tell me what you think you know,” he said.

“Yeah, Sam, why don’t you,” said Jackie, helpfully.

Like the father said in there, Ozzie loved to work. Loved it more than anything. Probably too much. Now I knew how he could work past midnight, then be back at his desk at seven in the morning looking like he’d just come back from a week in the Caribbean. Why he never exercised but kept losing weight. I was oblivious to stuff like that.

“Some people think confession is part of recovery,” I said. “I don’t know about that. I’ve never recovered. But I can
see how Ozzie would need to unload a little. Rehab’s an intimate environment. They encourage you to open up. And he did, didn’t he? To you, his young craphead roommate.”

“Cokehead. More or less the same thing,” said Jackie.

“Then you turned around and told Iku, didn’t you? An old throb from the glory days of Princeton. There she is, sitting in the house on Vedders Pond. Letting off steam that had built up over months in a high-pressure project. Letting down her guard. Entertaining the group with stories of trysts with corporate bigwigs and takeover conspiracies with scary hedge fund operators. She talks about the inner workings of Eisler, Johnson and Phillip Craig, which was interesting enough, but then she gets to Con Globe and you’re thinking, ‘Holy shit, I know those guys. I know what’s going on here. I’m not supposed to, but I do. And she has no idea that I know.’ You got off coke, but you still drank. Enough to let down your own inhibitions. Enough to betray bosom rehab buddy Ozzie Endicott, selling out his secrets in return for Iku’s attention. Finally impressing her. It was just too irresistible.”

Bobby’s face registered a tinge of triumph to accent his sullenness and fear.

“Brilliant analysis, smart man. Try proving it.”

He stood up, slapping the dust off the seat of his pants. Jackie stood up as well and pointed back to the ground.

“Not yet, hero. We’re still talking,” she said.

He shrugged and plopped back down.

I was glad for the interruption, because it gave me a chance to think. It was time well spent, however brief.

“I am a dope sometimes,” I said to Bobby, looking over at Jackie for validation, which she gladly provided. “I keep confusing duplicity with ordinary shallowness. They’re not the same, though you seem to manage both quite handily. Jerome Gelb must really love you.”

Sullenness and fear seemed to deepen, squeezing out the triumph.

“What was the deal, Bobby?” I asked. “A better job, a piece of the action, a ride in the corporate jet? It had to be pretty good to sell Ozzie down the river. Was it worth it? Was it worth the poor guy’s miserable life?”