Now You See Her (29 page)

“They fought?”

“Tiger by the tail, both of them. A man came here one night and waited till the lady came down the elevator. The look on her
face when she saw him … like the ad says, priceless. He danced her out so fast her toes didn’t touch the floor.”

“What did he look like?”

“Just a middle-age man in a suit. He got her in an armlock like he had a black belt in jujitsu. She called him Bernie. He
had the darkest, blackest eyes I ever saw.”

A
mmo? Sure thing. What’ll it be?”

“I’d like some bullets for a .38 handgun.”

“FP? HP?” I stare like a dumb fool. I’m at Buck & Buck Sports in Burlington. The news about Jordan Wald and Sylvia Dempsey
kept me up till all hours, and I read and reread the note. “I appreciate what you do for me—J.” So now I know for sure.

“Flat point? Hollow point?” The chunky salesclerk has round shoulders and a round face. “You going to practice at a range?”

“Yes. This is for target shooting, my first time.”

“Revolver or semiautomatic?”

“Uh, revolver.” Behind the counter, a wall-mounted boar thrusts its tusks and glares. Hunting rifles surround me. The clerk
wears camo pants.

“Try the half jacket. See what you think.” He shows me a two-toned bullet with a brass casing and gray head. I buy a box and
a holster too. “You want a high-ride holster with a muzzle rear rake. They call it the FBI tilt. Make sure your belt fits
the slits or it’ll ride up. And hold your gun two-handed and lock your thumbs left over right, clear of the trigger. Unless
you want to lose your right thumb.”

I get on I-95 and go home to call Stark and brew a pot of his favorite coffee robusta.

“What do you mean, how do you load a hypothetical revolver? What crap is that?” Stark scratches Biscuit’s back. By this time,
it’s late afternoon.

“I mean, if I actually bought a gun. And bullets. Maybe a holster too.”

He scowls and runs a hand through his ginger hair. “You talkin’ single- or double-action revolver?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Cutter, if you’re interested in guns, take a course. I’m not your gun buddy. You’re almost out of sugar. Did you call me
for a gun quiz or what?”

I fill the sugar bowl. We sit at my kitchen table, and Biscuit settles at Stark’s feet. “Okay, here’s why I called. I want
to go to Eldridge Place on Tuesday night between two and three a.m. I want you to go with me. We have to sneak in.”

“We?”

“You and me.”

He stirs his coffee to a whirlpool. “Is this about your cop pal and the wrongful conviction?”

I nod. “A man named Carlo Feggiotti is the night manager at Eldridge. He’s the link to the old chop shop days and the arson
fire. And Henry Faiser knew him.”

“Faiser. The guy in Norfolk.”

I nod again. “These days Carlo’s up to something else. Twice a week he shuts down the Eldridge surveillance and alarm systems
in the name of security checks. The night I met him, he seemed upset when a worker tried to tell him about a shipment that
came in. There was a truck.” I stop. Stark will get angry if I talk about parking by the service road. “I think Carlo could
help Faiser. I want to know what he’s up to.”

“Why not call your homicide detective pal?”

“I thought about it. I gave it careful consideration.”

“You decided he’d blow you off, right? Or he’d cut you out. And that’s what bothers you, doesn’t it? I see the glint in your
eye. You want to be in the middle of the action. You don’t want to be sidelined.”

“I just thought if we went together—”

“The condo rent-a-cops could shoot at both of us?”

“We could find out what’s going on. Then I can go to the police if it’s worth investigating. So what do you say? How about
it?”

He chugs coffee as though it’s a shot of espresso. “What makes you think that Feggiotti’s up to anything?”

“Why else would he shut down the security system?”

“To check it out.”

“Twice a week? No. I think he’s running an illegal operation. A truck is involved, and some of the Eldridge workers too. The
young guy from Woburn—Alan Tegier—he worked the night shift at Eldridge. He was involved in the check times. That’s what they’re
called, check times. There’s someone by the name of Perk or Perkins too. I think he’s also in on it, but I haven’t found him.”

“But Tegier was offed.”

“Yes.”

“And maybe this Perk too?” I shrug. Who knows? Stark puts his cup down and plays with the dog. “So if anything screws up,
you and I get buried in beef fat? Cutter, these people are nasty. I recommend the cops. They get paid for high risk. Sometimes
it’s best not to dance. What do they call that?”

“Wallflower?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Then I’ll go by myself.”

He gives me a hard stare. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me. Just try me.” Somewhere a clock strikes the hour. Biscuit whimpers and licks my hand. “I’ll go alone.” It’s a weak
hand, but still I play it, maybe for the sake of pride. “Tuesday night at two, Stark, you know where to find me.”

Four days lie between now and Tuesday. The countdown turns each daily event surreal, and my broken sleep brings on borderline
hallucinations. At StyleSmart, the racks of clothes look psychedelic. The fruit and canned soup at Tsakis Brothers look like
infrared Warhols. I grab the first available parking space here on Barlow Square and stare until the grass and trees seem
radioactive. The Olds wagon with its fake mechanics does not reappear. There’s no sign of the brown-haired or the pointy-shoed
man. No person of driving age sports a ponytail either.

Yet it feels like calm before the storm, as if a category 5 hurricane is incubating offshore while I stay inside, my doors
locked as I work on “Ticked Off,” answer mail, and read. My tenant, Dr. Forest Buxbaum, reports a stuck window screen. I spray
it with silicone. And pretend that all’s well on the phone with my kids. Molly’s exhibit is nearing installation. Jack tells
me he’s now data mining on the computer. I make a crack about mother lodes of data, and my son pretends amusement. If my children
pressed, what would I tell them?

Stark makes no effort to contact me.

Late Sunday afternoon, I close the blinds, get out the .38, and lay it on the kitchen table. Did my Aunt Jo sit at this table
and load the gun? Did she keep it in her night table drawer, just in case? Did she ever fire it? Its barrel is four inches
long and gleams blue.

My fingers tremble. But I pick up the gun, take a couple deep breaths, and wrap my fingers around the grip. I put it into
the holster and pull it out, pointing the barrel away from me, keeping my thumb clear of the hammer.

A flick of the thumb against a little switch by the hammer, and presto, the cylinder releases sideways. Left-handed, I reach
for the bullet box, take out six cartridges, and line them in a row on the tabletop. I insert one in each chamber, then push
the cylinder shut. I put the gun down and stare at my tabletop arrangement: salt shaker and peppermill with loaded revolver.

A loaded gun belongs in a locked drawer. There’s a small walnut cabinet with a skeleton key, an antique of Jo’s. I put the
.38 inside, lock it, put the key on my ring. All day Monday, I avoid the cabinet. The skeleton key looks primitive. I try
not to think about it.

Then finally it’s Tuesday. I drink a Diet Dr Pepper at dawn and make a run to StyleSmart for a long-sleeved black jersey and
dark sneakers.

Nicole is suspicious. “First it’s a blond hair, Reggie, then you’re in the back room communing with the couture. Now high-tops?
What do you want with black canvas high-tops?” Yet she digs for an old pair of Converse while I rummage for a long-sleeved
jersey. “Most Junes in Boston, Reggie, we go in for short sleeves. And what about our Operation Peacock?”

“I’m your Technicolor project, Nicole. I just need a black sweater at the moment. This one ought to fit. It’s bulky and too
pilly for the racks. I’ll just take it off your hands.”

And so I do.

Night falls at last. I’ve paid some bills, downed two servings of spinach soufflé, flipped through the channels, tried on
the noir outfit twice. I take Biscuit out as usual. At eleven, I watch the news and weather and switch back and forth between
the two late-show monologues, Leno’s one-liners on breast implants on WHDH and Letterman’s hypochondria jokes on WBZ. I’m
not a bit sleepy but put on the X-large T-shirt I’ve been wearing as a nightgown and get into bed.

At 1:00 a.m., I’m wide awake. The TV’s off. Maybe I should call Devaney. I have his home number. No, he’d stop me cold. No
question about that. Then I remember: he’s in Orlando at the prison convention. I couldn’t summon him if I tried. Which makes
me uneasy, as if half my body is exposed.

Suddenly, I think about my hair. A night foray requires a cap. It’s 1:15 as I root through Jo’s scarves, then finally settle
on a dark brown cashmere cloche from the coat closet. By 1:35, I’m inspecting myself in the whole outfit in the full-length
mirror. The sneakers are a half size too big, but a second pair of socks helps. I unlock the cabinet drawer and buckle on
the holster to a stout leather belt. The sweater pulls down and covers the gun.

All this wool is hot. Biscuit wakes and whimpers, but two treats settle her down. I decide to step outside to test the air—
and am startled to see Stark at my doorway.

“Stark. My God, you scared me.”

“Get your helmet. It’s time to go.”

The motorcycle gleams in the quarter-moon. “I didn’t hear your engine.”

“I walked the bike up from Tremont. Come on, get the helmet. It’s pushing two o’clock.” Mouth dry, I try to give him the directions,
but he waves me off. “I scouted Eldridge in case you were nuts enough to keep your word. There’s a back way with pylons where
the bike can get through. Here’s the plan. We’re gonna park a little way off and go through a fence and climb a wall by a
Dumpster. We’ll look over their loading dock. No talking. Follow my lead. How’s your shoes?” He feels my sneakers and grunts.
He’s in all black too, with a watch cap.

I start to admit to second thoughts, but the Harley growls to life. There’s no time to tell him about the gun. I climb aboard,
grab his hips, and we roar into the night.

In minutes, we pass the Eldridge complex and double back to an alley that dead-ends at the concrete pylons. Stark guides the
bike between two of them, and we proceed slowly on rutted, broken pavement to a weed-choked chain-link fence. Stark cuts the
engine. Truck traffic roars on the Mass Pike. We dismount and take off our helmets. I look for razor wire coils atop the fence
but see none. From the saddlebag, Stark gets out bolt cutters and clips the chain link up from the bottom to let each of us
through. Eldridge Place looms before us. A few condo lights glow, but the grounds are dark. This means it’s just past 2:00
a.m., check time. I hear my own breath as Stark motions me to the wall.

Fifteen feet high at least, it’s a ridged stone boundary barrier at the rear of the building. Stark motions me behind him,
flattens his palms against the base of the wall, and crouches down. I understand I’m to climb onto his back and then stand
on his shoulders to reach the top.

Stepping onto his muscle and bone boulder of a back, one foot on each shoulder, I touch the wall for balance as he slowly
stands up. At last, I’m high enough to grasp the top of the wall, which is flat, maybe a foot thick. Biting my lip to stay
silent, shoulders and arms straining, I work to pull myself up. The holster bulks awkwardly, and I shift my weight. Eyes closed,
I finally lie flat on my stomach on the top of the wall, my right cheek against rock and mortar. My workouts pay off. I’m
just a bit out of breath.

It’s a barrier, not a climbing wall, and Stark is clawing his way up to join me. His stifled grunts mix with night-bird sounds—
and with a stench. Something’s sour, rotten, like fermenting milk and meat. Didn’t Stark say a Dumpster was near? Yes, the
dark hulking big steel box is just below, maybe six feet down. I could gag.

Then I hear talking. It’s two men’s voices. “Where the hell is he?”

“Relax. We’re on schedule.”

Stark flattens himself on the top of the wall. We’re head-to-head, each staring sideways over the Dumpster. The holster digs
into my hip. The voices drift up. Coals of cigarettes glow in the dark below.

“He’s late. I coulda stayed at Fenway. They were in the tenth.”

“Shut up.”

Through his cap, Stark’s hair smells of the clean odor of leaf tobacco. I start to whisper but stay silent when an engine
sounds. It’s a truck. It’s approaching, lights dim, then off. It makes a tight turn and backs up. I see the shape. It’s a
tank truck. The door opens, the driver’s footfalls thud. “Shit, Denny, where you been?”

“Parking my ass on the expressway. A semi jackknifed by the gas tanks, it was down to one lane. You wanna complain? You make
the run and watch out for the state cops. I’ll stand here at the pipe and have a smoke.”

“ ‘Ah, our sandy place of squalor—’ “

“Cap off? You ready with the hose?”

“ ‘—and charred features scorched of hair.’ ”

That’s got to be an Inferno quote. It’s Carlo. “Okay, nozzle’s in. Hold it.” A low grinding hum begins. “Shit, hold it. I
said hold it. Now look, a fuckin’ spill. It’s a mess. Get a rag. Wipe it up. Do it the way Al used to. Al never let it spill.
Goddamn.” More curses and grunts. Then, “Okay, good to go. Now start it up. Keep it steady.”

The grinding hum resumes. Facing sideways, my cheek pressed against the wall, I see the tank truck emptying its contents into
a pipe protruding to the left of the loading dock. Is it oil? Heating oil for the building? Do Stark and I risk life and limb
to watch a heating oil delivery? In summer?

“Friggin’ hot.”

“ ‘Because the soles of both feet were aflame, so violently, it seemed their joints could burst.’ ”

“Shit, Carlo, that stuff gets on my nerves. I’m gettin’ earplugs.”

“Dante’s good for the soul. In the first circle, the only curse is hopelessness. So hang on. Two more loads of Perk, then
it’s over.”