Resurgence (29 page)
Lunchtime - Thurs 4/17/87 - Glib-tongued bartender at “Silent Woman” watering hole in West Village asserts that the last person seen entering Gibby Lester’s neighboring shop before Lester’s demise fit central casting image of a Columbian drug enforcer
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Addendum Sun 4/19/87 - Another source confirms existence of floor safe in Lester’s establishment emptied of all but trace evidence of coke matching bulk product found with Sid Kaplan’s remains. Porn link established
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Nothing more to be gained there, and maybe a lot to lose if he’s seen lurking that crime scene again, as alleged by Brownie Yates. So that’s an automatic reject. He focuses on the final choice—impressions jotted down three weeks ago following the run-in with a chronically confused New Jersey woman. He reads as far as her description of a phantom caretaker at the Chandler place before setting these notations aside. He needn’t plow through the details again—details that convinced Laurel something must be done about the rapidly failing Mrs. Floss—to recognize the old woman as the witness he’d most like to rely on.
With the same deliberate speed characterizing his initial response to the Yates bombshell, Nate locks away the notes and finishes some unrelated work before calling for his car to be brought around.
On the way to New Jersey he focuses on Amanda to keep from generating unrealistic hopes about gaining anything useful from Mrs. Floss. When they last spoke, three hours ago, Amanda was calling from rural Kent, where she was scheduled to go on an afternoon trek with Laurel and the older Elliot boy. Something about a field trip to the oast houses, she said, and he didn’t press for details.
His watch is still set to GMT, easier that way to estimate how long the present communications blackout will last. He’ll make a point of being home when she’s next free to call, which should coincide with his dinner hour and her bedtime.
No one’s yet discussed the possibility of resorting to phone sex while they’re apart. He probably shouldn’t suggest it until she’s returned to her London hotel apartment, where there’s less likelihood of being overheard.
But wait a minute. Who is he trying to kid here? No way in hell would Amanda say things over a transatlantic phone hookup she wouldn’t say in bed. And that’s just the way he wants it; that’s one of the main things setting her apart, and ensuring he won’t dabble with any trash-talking locals during the separation.
The separation—an even better topic for keeping at bay those high hopes threatening to attach to the current endeavor. How long will he feel compelled to stay in New York, Amanda justifiably wanted to know when they parted. As long as it takes, he told her. A tad too bluntly, as remembered now, the bluntness responding to a basic reluctance to commit and an inability to respond with any degree of certainty.
She deserves better than that. Did he learn nothing from a disastrous marriage during which he was best described as a moving target who never gave a straight answer? Has he made any progress at all? By asking himself that question, is he not admitting to the problem? By that admission is he not taking the first steps toward correcting it? By interrogating himself this way, is he not again flirting with the damnable indecisiveness that’s plagued him for the past several months? How long before ambivalence becomes the trait he’s best known for?
To demonstrate that this wishy-washy namby-pamby on-again off-again shit hasn’t yet affected his driving habits, he veers across two lanes of fast-moving Route 3 traffic just for the hell of it, and cuts off a stream of slower moving cars a few minutes later when he guns onto the exit ramp for Glen Abbey.
He proceeds in this recklessly resolute manner until he reaches the tranquil confines of Old Quarry Court, where he realizes he has no idea which house belongs to Mrs. Floss. This doesn’t worry him, though. If he sits here in front of the Chandler house long enough, she’s bound to show up in her role of neighborhood busybody.
Sure enough, only minutes have gone by when she emerges from a tall stand of hedge adjacent the Chandler property. She’s moving at a clip that belies her age; although she’s not wielding a broom or any other long-handled implement, her carriage suggests she’s armed for bear.
“Now you see here!” She stoops down to rap on the passenger side window just as he lowers it. “There will be no loitering of these premises!” Her voice goes up an octave in what sounds like a spiel she’s delivered more than once. “You’ll find no celebrities here, and there will be no window peeping whatsoever!”
She looks inside the car, does a classic double take, and backs off a little. “Oh. It’s
you
. Conscience-stricken and finally come back to shoulder responsibility, I see. I’ve a good mind to report you for shirking, you know. What would Laurel think if she found out it’s been over two weeks since you or
anyone
put in an appearance? Shameful! No better than
thievery
to take money for nothing.”
She goes on like that for another thirty seconds or so. When she seems to be running out of censure, he gets out of the car and moves into her direct sphere. There, he’s subjected to a quick appraisal and no further criticism. Whatever she sees in his casual dress must agree with the persona she’s constructed for him, and whatever that is, he’s not about to refute.
Nor is he going to argue any point or challenge her in any way beyond testing the memory of what she divulged the first time they collided. Toward that end, he asks if there is somewhere they could comfortably talk in private, an obvious ploy to get inside her house and give her home-field advantage.
She consults her wrist watch, then squints at him over the top of eyeglasses that have slid down her nose—her gambit almost as transparent as his. “Well I suppose I
could give
you lunch, couldn’t I? That fella you elbowed outta the way was mighty grateful when I offered
him
food from my table.”
To keep her in this mode and her thoughts on this plane, Nate demonstrates enthusiasm he doesn’t feel and silently vows to consume whatever’s set before him, even if it’s shit-on-a-stick.
The scrappy old meddler leads the way to her house, situated near the entry point of the court. Her kitchen, where he’s directed to have a seat at a Formica-topped table with chrome legs, is a testament to the 1950s. When’s the last time he saw a freestanding stove, a single-door refrigerator sporting decals instead of magnets, linoleum countertops, a wall display of copper Jell-O molds, a lineup of chipped metal canisters with strawberry motif, and a Howdy Doody character cookie jar? He’d be even harder put to say when he last smelled anything more redolent of a childhood holiday than the aromas surrounding him now.
“The flanken’s from last night, but the latkes I’m making fresh,” she says and ties on an apron. “If you’re lucky, I’ll cut into the kugel I made for the evening meal, but don’t expect any blintzes. There
does
come a time when blintzes are just too much bother, you know.”
She shakes a finger at him and starts grating potatoes, a task that strikes him as a lot more bother than stirring up a bowl of blini batter. She shows no curiosity about his reason for being there until the task is finished and the shredded potatoes are soaking in a bowl of water.
“Lemme guess.” She whirls around and again squints at him over the top of her glasses. “You’re sorry you took on the job you’ve been shirking, and now you wanna relinquish it to the fella you stole it from.”
“Uh . . . yeah, whatever you say . . . Yes, that’s exactly what I have in mind. Making amends. Do you happen to know where I can find him?” Nate says.
“No,” she says, and reapplies herself to the latke project.
“Do you have a name for this fellow?”
“No name.”
If she adds anything to that, it’s lost in cooking sounds as she vigorously beats an
egg
and chops an onion. After she transfers the drained potatoes to a kitchen towel and squeezes them dry, she fixes him again with her trademark squint.
“I suppose you’re waiting for me to describe him again the way I did the first time I spoke up on his behalf,” she says.
“That could help . . . help me find him and give his job back . . . That’s what I meant to say.”
“I have quite the eye for detail, you know.” She moves to the stove, pours vegetable oil into a large cast-iron frying pan, turns on the flame under it. “That’s the main reason I was encouraged to take up art at my advanced age, although I’m nowhere near as old as Whistler’s mother was when she began her career.”
She undoubtedly means Grandma Moses, but that’s not necessarily a strike against her in this reassessment of her faculties.
“My memory’s top notch, too.” She tests the temperature of the pan with a potato shred, turns the heat down a little. “I never forget a detail.”
“I do,” he says. “I forget things all the time. That’s why I’m depending on you to refresh my mind about this guy I put out of work.”
In an impressive burst of activity, she stirs together the components for the latkes, ladles small amounts of the mixture into the sizzling oil, portions leftover flanken from a pot that’s been simmering on the back of the stove, and lays out table settings along with bowls of sour cream and applesauce.
“When he first showed up here, he was driving a rattletrap with out-of-state-license plates.” She flips a test latke. “It was a blue 1975 Jimmy with rusted-out rocker panels and Michigan plates.”
That roughly describes the vehicle tailing him just prior to Colin’s accident. Nate coughs. Hard. If he’d had food in his mouth, it would either have choked him or shot across the room.
She takes his reaction in stride and says with a twinkle, “Surprised that I can identify older vehicles?”
“Did you mention those details . . . before?”
“Probably not. As I recall you weren’t very interested in what I had to say that day.”
“Sorry. I see now that I should have been. Interested. Please go on.”
“The foreign fella started out as a day laborer with the local landscaping people.” She flips the rest of the latkes and goes on to provide many of the same details supplied at their earlier meeting. Granting her extra credit for consistency, he doesn’t interrupt the retelling until she gets to the part about the upside down sign on the replacement truck.
“Did you happen to catch the make and model of his new truck?”
“Indeed I did. It was a maroon and silver 1986 El Carmen Cavallaro with custom pinstriping and made-to-order fiberglass cover on the load bed. Same Michigan plates and the sign I was telling you about when you interrupted.”
She brings the food to the table while he figures out that she’s referring to a Chevrolet El Camino or GMC Caballero, not a piano stylist from the fifties. He doesn’t count that as a strike against her credibility either, and pays strict attention when she takes a seat at the table and resumes her recollecting.
Again, much of it’s detail heard before. As heartening as this is, he’s compelled to interrupt, this time to ask if she remembers anything about the license plates other than origin.
Between bites of flanken, she rattles off a three-numeral, three-letter combo that agrees with Michigan’s designation system.
He could kiss her. He could waltz her around the kitchen. Hell, he could do that just on the basis of the sensational food he’s shoveling in with such great gusto.
“You know, I have a drawing of the foreign fella that might help track him down,” she says when she gets up to put the kettle on for tea. “It’s only a preliminary sketch for a painting I’ll probably never get around to, so you’re welcome to it.”
Do not fucking get your hopes up, he very nearly says aloud. Don’t forget that she was referencing Grandma Moses when she misspoke herself minutes ago. Don’t let yourself hope that she draws or paints less primitively than her probable idol—that her subject matter will be any more identifiable than a standard Moses figure.
“If that starts to whistle, turn off the flame, will you?” She indicates the teakettle and hurries down the hall leading from the kitchen.
She’s gone long enough for him to start totaling up the revelations he feels he can depend on. She’s gone so long that he does have to get up and turn off the teakettle. Then, in the quiet after the whistle is silenced, he hears clatter from above and the sound of her voice, going on at length, rising and falling as though cajoling, but otherwise unintelligible.
She’s scolding herself for having tipped over an easel; she’s coaxing a cat down from a curtain rod; she has a housemate nobody’s told him about. All are possibilities, aren’t they?
He pretends to have heard nothing when she returns to the kitchen with a large sketchpad open to a better than amateur drawing of a man’s head and shoulders. The man’s features could belong to a Mexican, a Columbian, a Puerto Rican, even a Spaniard with North African blood. Most of all, they could belong to an American Aborigine for being raw and unrefined, with an angularity traceable to Mongol forbears.
As depicted, the man could be any age between twenty-five and forty, coarse-haired and beardless, and any height and weight that would cast him in the unremarkable range.
“Did he sit for this? Did you draw this from life?” Nate asks.
“Heavens no, that was done from memory . . . like this one of Laurel.”
Mrs. Floss opens the sketchbook to another page—one he’s afraid to look at because if it doesn’t resemble Laurel, it’s reasonable to believe the drawing of the subject in question is inaccurate as well.
His heart sinks when he confronts a well-executed sketch of a lovely young girl who might have been Laurel. But not lately—not anytime within the last twenty years. His heart sinks even further when Mrs. Floss excuses herself to prepare a lunch plate for Mr. Floss who, according to Laurel, is long-dead.
“I’ll be right there, Miltie,” she calls out at the doorway to the hall, “As soon as the tea’s ready.” She assembles the tea things and explains in a conspiratorial tone that her reclusive husband sometimes gets impatient when she has people in.
