The Fives Run North-South (22 page)

“Can you tell me the name of the individual he was investigating?”

I shrugged. “Not offhand. I’ll have to check with my HR lead. Can I get that to you tomorrow?”

Narrow eyes did that thing again. Eyebrow/Johnson simply nodded. He reached in his breast pocket and pulled out a card, handing it to me. I glanced down. Oh. Eyebrow is
Jackson
not Johnson. I was close.

“Sure, Officer Jackson,” I said. “I’ll have my administrative assistant get you that information first thing in the morning.”
God, I hope we have an active claim
,
I thought. I’d cross that bridge when I got to it.

With another nod toward Suze, they started for the front door. I walked behind them quietly.

“Have a good night, sir,” narrow eyes said.

I closed the door behind them and turned to Suze, who was looking at me with her angry hurt look.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought you’d called them.”

“I didn’t. Who is this Viniteri?”

“It’s what I said, a guy we hire from work.”

“And you paid him yourself?”

“It’s complicated.”

“And while they were conveniently in the house, why in God’s name didn’t you tell them about our home invader?”

“It’s complicated.”

She shook her head tensely. I knew walking away would escalate things, but I had to figure out our next move.

My cell phone rang. I pulled it out of my pocket and felt the bottom of my stomach thud when I recognized the number. Randall Grosse.

Maybe this was my chance. I’d simply explain that we’d not called the police, and open up the possibility of a payoff for him to leave us alone. I had to get away from Suze.

“Let me take this,” I said.

“Oh, sure. Because I’m sure it’s much more fucking important,” she said, storming out.

I answered the phone. “Hello?” I said.

“Race is on,” he said, then disconnected.

24

“S
o?” Ben said.

Walter put the sheets down, looked at Ben, and said: “Okay, I guess.”

“Jesus,” said Paul. “Why is he even here?”

Ben held out his hand to his friend. “Easy.”

“I mean, you’re worried about what he thinks?”

“Not worried,” Ben said. “Just…interested.”

“I’m going to the kitchen for a beer. Anyone want one?”

“Can you put a lime in one for me?” Walter asked.

“Sure. You want a chilled glass and a foot rub while I’m at it?” Without waiting for an answer, Paul walked out of the den.

Ben smiled and sat back in his chair. He pointed again to the chapter in Walter’s hands. “Well?”

“So what happens next?”

Ben rubbed his temples. “As I’ve said, that’s not the mission here. This is the first chapter I’ve written of
Dented
,
and you’re here to give me the fan’s perspective. Does it feel authentic to you, someone who’s read all of my father’s books.”

“Twice,” Walter corrected. “Except
Blown Tire
.
I still think that wasn’t him.”

“What?”

“Come on, man. Everyone knows it. Your father didn’t write that book. It’s common knowledge on all the blogs. Everyone’s got a theory, but I subscribe to the most common: he had a deadline and a buddy who wanted to publish, so he gave him his name.” Walter paused, his eyes focused on Ben and his lips formed an “O.” “Or was it…”

“That’s ridiculous,” Ben said. “He wrote
Blown Tire
.”

“No way I’ll believe that.”

“Let’s get back to the point. Does this chapter fit?”

Walter shrugged. Paul walked back into the room with three bottles of beer, one with a lime sticking out. “Good,” he said. “A shrug. Just the kind of poignant insight we were expecting from fan boy here.”

Walter ignored him. “I’d like to read it again. In the other room.” He stood up.

“Of course,” Ben said.

“Yeah,” said Paul. “Knock yourself out. And by that, I mean,
really
—
knock
yourself out.”

“Joke worked so well in junior high you decided to keep it, hey?” Walter said as he exited the room.

Paul and Ben looked at each other with wide eyes. “Walter’s fighting back,” Ben said. Paul just shook his head.

When they were alone, Paul raised his glass. “You hit the mark, buddy, no matter what Doogie there tells you. It will work just right for your father’s audience.”

“Book doesn’t end after one chapter.”

“I’m not worried.”

“Well, you should be. I hear you don’t want to be on the bad side of the editors at
Esquire
.”

“Get me another chapter. Get writing.”

“I will,” said Ben. “Tomorrow. But tonight I have a date.”

Paul rolled his eyes. “Another in a lineup of disposable women. Why do you even bother?” Then he looked at Ben. “Are you freaking blushing?”

Ben looked away.

“Holy crap,” Paul said. “You actually like this one?”

Ben was waiting at the entrance to Mama Rose’s when Cary got out of her cab. He held the door open as a light mist started falling from the sky. They smiled as the maître d’ found their name on the reservation list then instructed the hostess to escort them to a table Ben has selected when calling in earlier. They sat down and smiled nervously as they settled in, pulling napkins to lap, thanking the kid who poured water.

“This is nice,” Cary said.

“One of my favorites,” Ben said.

They each checked out the room, though neither saw anything worthy of starting a conversation.

“So…” Ben began.

“Welcome to Mama’s!” said the waiter, startling Ben.

“Well, you’re enthusiastic,” Ben said. Cary stifled a giggle.

They listened to the specials, giving the waiter the appropriate number of ‘ahs’ and ‘ooohs’ for each detailed description.

“Did he say ‘soupçon’?” Ben asked after he left.

“I’m pretty sure he did.”

“In an Italian restaurant. Soupçon. Good.”

They ordered a bottle of wine. She made him choose, which he found more difficult than usual. They ordered quickly, Ben suspected mostly to try and rid themselves of the waiter and his unbridled excitement. Both seemed to relax after their second or third sip of the wine.

“Good choice,” she said, looking around the restaurant again.

“Thanks.”

“I’ve said that already, haven’t I?” Cary said, with a laugh.

“I wasn’t going to say a thing. I think by the end of the night, I’ll have won the Most Goofy Comments award, so you haven’t got a thing to worry about.”

“I’m glad you could come out so soon after…well…how are you doing?”

“Not bad. I mean, I’m playing the top forty emotions through my head fairly regularly. With a heavy rotation of the top three requested numbers: guilt, shame, and sadness.”

“Seems unnecessary.”

“Oh, I know it is,” Ben said. “Times like these we fall into the predictable. We love the idea of free will, but the mourning process seems pretty locked into our DNA. To make matters worse, now that I’ve taken on Dad’s book, I can add another
top
-
seller
to my emotional spectrum: inadequacy.”

“Also, I’m sure, unnecessary.”

“I don’t know. It’s strange. I’ve wanted to be a writer since I held my first crayon. Makes it an odd calling when your father’s the
best
-
selling
author of his generation.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know…”

“I mean,” Cary said, “sons follow in their father’s footsteps in lots of professions. Plumbers and stuff.”

“Writing’s different than plumbing.”

“Maybe a bad example. But think of a profession. Lawyers. Doctors. Heck, we’ve even seen it with presidents. What makes writing so special?”

Ben tore off a piece of bread. “Well, since you put it like that…”

“Besides, everyone thinks their father is perfect. And we’re all wrong, whether we see it or not.”

“When it comes to writing, not much you can fault with my dad. And, yes, I know he wasn’t infallible, but he was pretty much better at everything than me. Including parenting and writing.”

“I started your book the other day.
Flier
.
I’d argue that. The writing part, I mean.”

“I’ve been waiting for my second reader. Thanks. I finished writing the next chapter of
Dented
earlier today. Whether I like it or not, I’m destined to get some readers here shortly, and frankly it’s just a bit terrifying. And you’re
right
—
why
should writing be about comparisons? But it is and it will be. As I put out these chapters, I have to be prepared for all kinds of reaction. Most of it in comparison with the great Rob Keaton and what he might have produced had he been able to finish the book himself.”

“So?”

“What do you mean, ‘so?’“

“So.”

“Well, it’s there, isn’t it?”

“So?”

“I wish I could shrug it off like that” Ben said, laughing.

“Why can’t you?”

“Okay. You want me to say it? Because I’m one of those writers, and many of us are like this. I know, there’ve been studies. One of those writers who just wants everyone to like what I did and gets all
fetal
-
position
when the criticism is harsh.”

“Aren’t you a book critic?”

“In my spare time.”

“Are all your reviews positive?”

“Of course not. I like to dish it out, but I can’t take it. And not all writers are as deserving as me. Or so I like to think.”

“Did your father ever get a bad review?”

“He wrote like fifty books. He had a few flat tires in there.” Ben wiped his face with his napkin. “You’re one of those ‘tough love’ kind of people, aren’t you?”

“I just like your book. And you.”

“Thanks. You read much of my father’s stuff?”

“I’ve not been much of a reader in my life. Until lately. Only thing by your father that I’ve read is
Dented
.
I can’t wait to see how it ends.”

“Wow…even a nonreader’s read one of Dad’s by accident. Or claims to have so they can fit in at parties. You’re a rarity.”

“Like I said, I’ve not read much. Until the last few years, while the marriage was crumbling. I found that reading in
bed
—
especially
a good
book
—
helped
force out the other thoughts that were dancing the mambo in my head. Ultimately, reading became the only way to shut it down so that I could flip off my brain and go to sleep.”

“Rough divorce, hey?”

“Aren’t they all?”

“I wouldn’t know. My brief semimarriage was too odd to use as a measuring stick. So I’m curious,” Ben said. “If you weren’t a fan, why did you come to my father’s funeral?”

“Ah,” she said. “The mystery question.”

Ben noticed a change in her expression.
Uh-oh
, he thought.

“I was afraid you’d ask that…actually, I knew you would. I thought I’d be better with a response,” Cary said.

“What do you mean?”

“Look, you’re going to hear what I have to say, and you’re going to make some assumptions about what I’m doing here. What I was doing at your father’s funeral. Can I ask one favor?” she looked as if Ben were about to hit her, her words coming out with an obvious struggle.

“You’re freaking me out a bit here,” Ben said.

“Well, the idea here is that you need to know that despite what brought me to know you, I really like being around you and want to see more of you.”

“Good to hear,” said Ben. “I think.”

“Well, it started when a girlfriend of mine called. She told me that I had to pick up the issue of
Esquire
.
She said I had to read
Dented
.”

“Okay…” Ben said, encouraging her to continue.

“She thought I’d find it more than fascinating. And she was right.”

“Glad you became a fan.”

“It’s more than that.”

“Go on.”

“I think I’m Suze.”

Ben’s stomach dropped.
Oh,
he thought.
One of those.

“Your eyes say it all,” Cary said, exhaling. “Let me explain.”

“No need,” Ben said.

“No, really,” she said. “I’m not some disturbed fan sucked into a fictional fantasy world. And it’s not what I want. But something odd is going on.”

“I’ll say.”

“The thing is, my
ex
-
husband
, in the last few months we were
together
—
he
got into a road rage incident. With some guy in a red SUV. And now he’s gone.”

“Who’s gone?”

“My
ex
-
husband
. I was at your father’s funeral because I think he based his book on my
ex
-
husband
, and even though I don’t love him any longer, I’m worried because he’s disappeared.”

Rob Keaton’s Funeral. Uninvited Guest #3

He dumped his empty plate into the trash can and turned toward the back entrance. This had been a mistake. He knew it. And he felt—as he often did—that the room was shrinking quickly, closing in on him. Though he knew they probably weren’t, he had the strong feeling that all eyes were on him, angry in their stares. They were accusing him, rightly, that he didn’t belong. Not just at this funeral, but in this town, this country, this world.

He resisted the urge to
violently shove the door open. He felt his body start to shake as he forced it to remain in control, act natural. Outside, he felt the rush of the sun, making him feel less invisible, overexposed like a photograph blasting with light. To his left, just outside the door, two men were smoking cigarettes. They’d been talking, but had stopped when he came out. Why? Why couldn’t they just carry on with their business? Why did they have to invade him by looking his way? Why couldn’t everyone just go away?

He felt his chest go tight, and he got his bearings. The parking lot was to the left. He breathed in the dusty smoke that had blown over from the two cigarettes. Steadying his legs as best he could, he started down the stairs. Two stone columns were at the bottom of the stairs. As he reached them he could hold it in no longer. He raised his arm and slammed his fist into one of the columns. He heard the bone snapping in his middle knuckle and saw a small swiped stain of blood left behind on the column
.