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Authors: David Daniel

BOOK: The Marble Kite
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Hackett cleared his throat. I fidgeted in my chair. “And the owner—cool as ice—never said a word about anyone shitting on him or on the operation, he just gives a signal.” Hackett brought his palms together with a sharp clop. “And Squisher and the other guy pick up the toilet and drop it over the side. Ker
splash
. Right into the fuckin' river, the poor sonofabitch lashed to it! I couldn't believe it. I just looked at the stream of bubbles coming up—kept coming up for about five minutes, it seemed like, and then they stopped.”
My head was light. Hackett cleared his throat again. “‘Drink up,' the owner tells the rest of us. ‘Everybody relax, enjoy the cruise. You got a confession, tell a priest. The operation's looking for loyalty.' And he and Bud Spritzer and the other guy get in the motorboat and split. I drank all afternoon, musta had twenty beers—but you think I could unbuckle my thoughts? No way. My brain stayed cold sober.” He blew out a breath and fell silent.
I was the one suddenly wanting to move around, to talk. “Maybe the guy was guilty,” I said. “He could've been the one stealing and the owner knew it.”
“That'd be a nice piece of justice.”
“The owner might've just been psyching out the rest of you. It's sick stuff, but if you mess with someone like that … The guy should've confessed and taken his chances.”
Hackett smiled faintly and shook his head. “But he wasn't guilty. Okay? The one skimming the dough was me.”
I looked at him, feeling sick to my stomach.
“But I'll tell you what. I never did nothing like that again. Never took so much as a fuckin' dime. So you see? I learned. It is about psychology.” He leaned forward and brought his hand down softly on my desk. “Now you take this carny that supposedly killed the girl, and you working for his lawyer, trying to prove he didn't do it. Maybe you're right, maybe you're wrong, but it's like I learned on that boat. Sometimes it don't matter what side you're standing on. It comes down to being the wrong guy, wrong time, wrong place.”
I swallowed at my rising gorge and rose.
I didn't want to be with people like him. I walked over and opened the door, turning to usher him out, but before I could tell him to go, something heavy struck the base of my skull. White light flashed and I cried out, or vice versa.
I stood in an unfamiliar room, the walls moodily lighted with wall-washers that revealed a series of Gregorio Montejo paintings. It was a reception of some kind, and people were milling about. One was Squisher Spritzer, in a blue blazer with brass buttons and wearing a cream silk ascot. On him it looked like a yellow ribbon round the old oak tree. Officer Loftis was working out in spandex tights over by an hors d‘oeuvres table. Seeing me, she flashed a seductive smile. Grady Stinson was examining the paintings with a lorgnette, though he needn't have bothered; these canvases were strictly from hunger. Oblivious to it all, Maxwell Moses was sitting in a corner, chewing the end of a pencil. He said, “I need a word for ‘fool.'”
“You're looking at him,” I said.
But he wasn't. He had his attention on the
Times
crossword puzzle. “Seven letters.”
“Buffoon,” said someone else, who stepped from the throng. It was a young Ed St. Onge in a tasteful suit. “Or dead man,” he added.
I swam back up to the air and daylight of a world I seemed to remember, though when I blinked it into sharper focus, I saw that it wasn't the world I'd been in. I was inside a nasty-smelling vehicle, a panel
van. If well-being was unconsciousness about the self, as Phoebe's coworker Janelle believed, I definitely wasn't well. There were enough aches in my head to make five masochists smile; unfortunately there weren't any around to share with. I recognized the smell as vomit. I was alone, my hands shackled to the steering wheel. Through the van's dusty windows I saw that I was in an industrial yard, behind a stack of what looked like large boilers, bleeding rust at the rivets. Beyond them I could make out a smokestack and trees, and a field fading off into junked cars. It might've been the east end of town, though that was a guess; I could've been in Delaware. A wire fence, overgrown with dying vines, blocked any view beyond.
At a scrape of metal behind me I turned my throbbing head to see one of the van's rear doors open and Spritzer appear. He reached inside and took hold of a large tank of bottled gas that was lying on the bed. It grated over the floor as he pulled it out. A label on the tank said it was from Acme Rental. Spritzer noticed me and ducked his head to peer in. “Oh, you're feeling better,” he said.
“Says you.”
He shouldered the tank and slammed the door. In a moment he came around to the driver's side, where I sat. He wasn't wearing an ascot. “You were breathing okay when we waltzed you outta your place, so I wasn't too worried, but you got sick on yourself. You got a headache, I betcha.”
“When you're done throwing bouquets, maybe you can get me the hell out of these shackles, and out of here. Where are we?”
“It's your town, you tell me.”
Which I took to mean he didn't know. Hackett would've picked the place, and I didn't waste time asking for a road map. Up close to Spritzer, I could feel heat and smell the wintergreen tang of old liniment coming from him. It smelled better than my shirt. He unlocked the handcuffs. I climbed out, wobbling only slightly I rubbed circulation back into my wrists. Piled on the ground nearby were a second tank of bottled gas and the hoses and nozzles for several acetylene torches. There was an egg on the back of my head that belonged in a museum.
“I had to tag you and let you sit out a couple dances, so Louie could go talk to Sonders in peace.”
“In the hospital?”
“Wherever. With you hounding around, that ain't easy.”
“I was sitting in my office. You came to me.” I realized it was pointless arguing with him. “Anyway, you wasted time if it's about getting Pop to sell. He won't.”
He showed yellow picket-fence teeth. “You figure he's got much choice?”
It caught me off guard. Then I remembered the article in the
Wall Street Journal
, and I felt a ripple of anxiety. “What's this stuff for?”
“Once we get the show, we keep what's good and dismantle and sell the rest for scrap.”
“What about the people who work for Pop?”
“Tough shit, wouldn't you say?”
My lips felt cracked and dry. “So Gordon Gekko was right.”
“Who's he?”
“Someone you and your partner would understand.”
His flat black eyes worked me over for a moment. “Yeah, well, wish I had the time, but we gotta get back. Your shitbox is over there.” I saw my car parked near the rusty boilers, saw a man get out of it, and recognized Ray Embry.
“Keys are in it,” Embry said as he approached. “No funny stuff.”
“That coming from you?”
“This wasn't my idea,” he murmured, and got into the van, with Squisher Spritzer at the wheel.
As I followed their lingering dust trail, I briefly tried to find sense in things, but they weren't any clearer than my dream had been.
I got home, and surprisingly I felt better than I had any right to. To keep it that way, I took three ibuprofen tablets and then phoned Phoebe. Tonight was my night to see her, and having that to look forward to had kept me going all day. She wasn't home yet, so I left a message to say I might be a tad late but would be along. I showered until the bathroom was thick with warm steam, then shaved and put on fresh clothes. I called the hospital and learned that Pop Sonders had been discharged. I tried his trailer office but got no answer. Next I phoned Fred Meecham but got his answering service. I didn't leave a message. Where was Randy Nguyen's wired world when I needed it?
I stopped at a wine shop and picked out a Louis Jadot Chardonnay that the merchant said would be a good complement to grilled fowl; it had a crisper finish than its California counterpart—a “French finish,” he said. I took his word; my two rules about wine were go with a corked brand if you can't find a vintage date on a screw top, and don't chug it straight from the bottle.
Phoebe had a small house off Stevens in the Highlands, the remnant of her brief marriage. She greeted me at the door smiling and vivid in a green sweater with an autumn-leaves design and faded blue jeans. As she
stood tiptoe for a kiss, she stopped and her eyes popped wide. “Alex, what happened? You look awful.”
“Always nice to hear from my fans.” I hadn't intended to say much about my day, but I told her the story, wrapping up with my visit from Rag Tyme's controlling partners. It did nothing to calm her. Her face didn't unfrown for a long moment.
“Have you told this to anyone else?”
“Not the last part. The earlier stuff, Fred Meecham. And Lieutenant St. Onge, too. I figured I owed him.”
“Are you sure you want to do this tonight? We could make it another time.”
“I've been looking forward to it.”
Her enthusiasm made a tentative return. She hugged me and softly fingered the knot on the back of my head. She clicked her tongue. “Do you want anything for that?”
“A drink would be a step in the right direction.”
“Okay. I was just about to light the charcoal. Why don't you come out back with me, and you just sit while I fix us one.”
“I'm not an invalid. What can I do to help?”
But she was insistent, so on the little backyard patio, with wind chimes tinkling softly and plants still blooming in their border beds, I sat and let her be domestic. To lighten the mood, I told her about seeing a Southeast Asian fisherman land a huge carp from the Concord River earlier that day. “Maybe somewhere in the city right now,” I said, “there's a family of seven sitting around that big old fish, their mouths watering.”
There were clay pots with mint and basil growing in them, and Phoebe plucked a few leaves and tore them and put into the marinade, the way I'd seen chefs do on television. I thought about the little herb garden in Flora Nuñez's apartment, about people cooking for other people whom they cared about. It seemed such a basic form of affection, and when Phoebe was finished, I pulled her onto my lap. “A spontaneous gesture,” she cooed. “Todd was a plan-way-ahead guy. I sometimes thought he had every move on a little list in his pocket.”
I didn't confess to the dark thought that had prompted my hug. I kissed her and she kissed me back. She squirmed around so she was sitting facing me, her legs straddling my hips. Our lips pressed hard against each
other's and soon our breath came fast. I slid my hands up her back and sides, felt her nipples rise hard to my fingertips through the fabric of her bra, and suddenly I knew—as she had to know, too—that tonight would be the night when we would make love for the first time. Not here, not now; there'd be drinks first, and dinner, and intimate unhurried conversation—but a deal had been struck. It was all unspoken, but we knew.
We drew ourselves apart, and Phoebe handed me the chilled Louis Jadot. I uncorked it and made ready to pour.
“Wait. You have to let it breathe.”
“Couldn't we just give it mouth-to-mouth?”
“It won't take long.”
We went inside, and she took out a jug wine she had in the refrigerator, already open, and poured us each a glass of that. We settled on a couch on her screened porch and watched the news. The case (which the media were calling the “Carnival Murder,” or, in one of the more colorful Boston papers, the “Carny Slay,” happy to turn the verb to a noun) got another mention; they were keeping it alive. The phone rang, and Phoebe went into another room to get it. I heard her make some brief conversation, and after a moment she came back in. “Kathy, from work. You met her. Just checking in.”
On the national news, Hurricane Gus was the story, having opted on a run back at the Bahamas. The broadcast showed fishing boats bashed to matchwood against a jetty, a coastal village being leveled. The days of kidding about storm names and indecision were over. We watched the footage of collapse and fragmentation, the ground of people's lives being swept away. “Dear God,” Phoebe murmured several times, and I knew what she meant. The news anchors tried for a light counternote at the end of the broadcast with a story about early snow in Montana and pictures of the first snowman of the season. It was a good try.
We went out on the patio again. The sun had set, leaving only lingering splashes of gold on the tall pines at the back of the small yard, moving now with a cooling breeze. I held my hands above the grill, savoring the warmth. As Phoebe got ready to put the Rock hens on, her expression was troubled. “What?” I said.
“I think you should get out of this.”
“‘This' meaning … ?”
“It's more complicated than what you took on. And dangerous. Can't you call someone and say you're resigning?” Color had risen in two patches on her cheeks, like daubs of rouge.
“What's wrong?” I asked, taking her hands. “Was it your friend's call? The newscast?”
“This is no good, Alex. A policeman? Maybe others? Do you have any idea what could happen? What if they come after you?”
“I don't think that's likely.” I thought about the guy yelling at me from the car on Merrimack Street. Random harassment was more likely.
“But it's possible. Or something else that's bad. Don't ask me what. I don't know” Her voice was taking on an edgier, more manic note. “I just know that I like my drama on TV, where it's safe, and I can turn it off when I want to. I don't want it in my life.”
I liked it at a distance, too, but it had this bad habit of not staying there. I picked up trouble like gum on my shoe, and it tended to stick.
“I'm serious, Alex. I think you're being blind about this.” She gripped my hands and fixed me with a soft, questing gaze. “Is a woman still the way to a man's heart?”
“She can be.”
“How about to his senses? To reason? Darling, do you understand what could happen?”
I could play stupid; it never came hard to me, but this wasn't the time for it. I said, “Not all of it, no. Some, though.”
She was looking steadily at me, her green eyes bright and concerned and slightly desperate. “Tell me.”
I glanced at the bottle of wine and had to restrain myself from reaching and pouring our glasses full and raising mine in toast to clink against hers and to hell with the wine breathing, let's
us
breathe, let's dance, let's …
I said, “If I go for the cops, I'm challenging the system. It can be done,
has
to be sometimes, but usually as part of long-term investigations, blue ribbon commissions, with lots of Beacon Hill backbone and federal probes and more time than anyone's got. This is too uncertain. If I stick with Sonders and the carnival”—
assuming I stayed healthy,
I thought but
didn't say—“there'll be people in the city who'll never forget it. Influential folks, some of them. They'll call it betrayal.”
Her look stayed worried, but at least I was talking some sense. “So let the carnival guy find someone other than you,” she said, an undisguised plea in her tone. “Couldn't you do that?”
“Phoebe. Who? No one's lining up to get in on this.”
“There must be somebody that … who's …” She drew a breath and let it out in a gust.
“Dumb enough?”
“Idealistic enough.”
“Jimmy Stewart is dead.”
“Just stop, then. Resign!” Her abruptly chopping hand hit a wineglass and knocked it onto the patio, where it broke. She ignored it. “You've got that in your contract, don't you? That you can terminate a client?” I picked up the biggest piece of broken glass and set it on the table. “Aren't you afraid?” she went on.
“A little,” I admitted.
“I am. I'm really afraid.”
I reached for her, but she stepped back. “Talk to me,” I said.
“No, I just did. It didn't work.”
I lowered my arms. I paced a little. A shard of glass crunched under my shoe, and I stopped. “I can see it play out. Pepper comes to trial, with evidence and testimony from you-know-which cops. He'll be tagged for the murder so fast his bunk will still be warm when he gets back to jail. Except he won't be in county. Even if Meecham can get the charge reduced, he'll be on the yard at Walpole. He'll do fifteen to twenty hard.”
“Maybe he is guilty.” She shook her hands dramatically. “Have you forgotten that?”
I hadn't. It was the thing I couldn't entirely let go of.
“Isn't that card in the deck somewhere?” she asked.
“It's there.”
“Okay. You were a cop. Did you often arrest a wrong person?”
“Almost never,” I admitted. But all at once I was thinking of the man on the junkyard toilet, and the stream of bubbles rising in the mouth of the Harlem River.
“Suppose he did do it, and you risk all this and the verdict comes out
the same? If you don't quit, how's that going to affect your work? You're your own boss, aren't you? You don't owe those carnival people anything you haven't already given them. They'll forget.”
She was probably right; people do forget—but the point was, I wouldn't. If I walked, I'd have to live with their faces—Pop and Nicole, Moses Maxwell, Penny, Tito, Red Fogarty—and I'd always know that when …
I let the thoughts go. “Oh, hell's bells. I'll deal with all this later. Let's eat.”
She lifted her shoulders in a forlorn shrug. “I don't have any appetite.”
Suddenly I didn't, either. “Some wine, then.” I picked up the bottle. It was plenty cold. “It's supposed to have a French finish, not the kind of thing you get hammered on, but it's a start. You like Ben Franklin—didn't he compile a long list of synonyms for getting drunk? Let's add a few. The hell with all this. Let's put a package on, let's get snookered, let's paint the town.”
Phoebe shook her head slowly. “I wish I could. I'm not in the mood.” I set the bottle back. I took her hands. They felt warm. She looked me in the eye. “I've been to all those singles events, the mixers and the soirees at the art museum … I told you all that. And do you know what single people think about most?”
“Is it a three-letter word that is often mistaken for a four-letter word?”
“Wait. When you and I went out that first time, you told me you thought my name was a happy one.”
“Phoebe. It is.”
“Names are just names. I have my dark moods, too; believe me. But being on my own these past few years … I've come to know what it is that most of the single people I've met really think about deep down. They don't want to die alone. How would that work for us? Just supposing we got together? Would I end up alone anyhow? A widow?”
“Those all sound rhetorical.”
“When I first met you, you came by the office, dressed in a nice suit, and I thought your job was sitting at a desk, like most people, and filling out your share of paper, moving it around, making phone calls.”
“I do all of that.”
“But it doesn't end there,” she said with gentle insistence. “You've also got that scar on your leg you told me about, and the lump on your head today.”
“I imagine most people have got scars. They come from living.”
Smiling wanly, she shook her head, and I shut up. “I'm no different than those other people I mentioned. I don't want to be alone, either. But if I have to, I'd rather stay alone than go through that loss again. I think you need to decide, and then act. When you do, and if all of this craziness is behind us, call me. We'll have a nice time together.”
As though she were sealing a bargain, she kissed me gently on the mouth and then turned and went quickly into the house.

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