Two Time (33 page)

After filling my aluminum cocktail tumbler with Absolut and crushed ice, I shook off the wrinkled khakis and oxford-cloth-shirt and went directly to the outdoor shower. There was a lot of day to wash off. It took half the tumbler and most of the hot water to even start the job. I could pound nails and set roof rafters for twelve hours and not be half as tired. It’s the mental fatigue that gets you, that clogs up the neural pathways and packs cotton behind your eyes. Proving empirically that the worst of weariness is a state of mind.

I put on a pair of clean blue jeans and a cotton shirt so threadbare you could hole it with a puff of breath and called Amanda on my rotary dial phone.

“You’re back.”

“How’d you like to come over and rot with me in the Adirondacks?”

“An original idea.”

“An invitation. Direct and unambiguous.”

“I have wine and a bowl of cherries.”

“I’ll be in the front yard. If I’m asleep when you get there, don’t hit me on the head.”

Walking barefoot across the lawn, cool and wet from the evening mist rolling in off the bay, I started feeling better.
The half tumbler of vodka had done its part, but the greater salve was being back in the company of the Little Peconic, back from those other places that weren’t livable for me anymore. As it often does, the prevailing south-southwesterly had shifted all the way west, kicking up a short chop and fluttering the emerging white petals on the grandiflora. It was a dryer wind, for reasons unknown. I wished I knew more about the underlying forces that controlled the breeze crisscrossing the bay every day, or how the patterns of the prevailing winds changed with the seasons. But not that much. It was enough to keep track and stay alert for anomalies, or simply mark the familiar shifts, gusts and lulls.

“Big day, I take it,” said Amanda, dropping down into the other Adirondack. Also barefoot, she wore a dress with a loud tropical print that looked two sizes too big for her. Her hair was wet, like mine, as if she’d also just taken a shower. She’d brushed it straight back so I could see the full shape of her face in the fading twilight, her prominent cheekbones and green eyes and the reddish brown of her skin, the color of a glass of fine cognac.

“It’s nice to see you,” I said.

She looked surprised.

“You, too. What’s the occasion?”

“For what?”

“Such friendliness.”

“I’m always nice.”

“No, you’re not. Not in the ordinary way.”

“I’m not?”

“Unless you’re avoiding. Is that what you’re doing? You don’t want to talk about the day”

“I don’t. Not now. I need time to think a little. But it’s still nice to see you.”

“Okay.”

We sat quietly sipping our drinks and watching the evening descend into darkness, with the moon taking over, dipping the tips of the little bay waves in light blue iridescence.

“Say, Amanda.”

“Yes, Sam.”

“If you ever catch me expressing anything like willful pride in my ability to perceive reality, to extract the true thing even when it’s cleverly hidden from view, I want you to remind me of today”

“I will if you tell me what happened.”

“What is it, July 30? Just say to me, ‘remember July 30.’”

“So this isn’t avoidance. It’s humility.”

“That’s right. Maybe with a little awe mixed in.”

“Okay You’re humbled and awestruck. While you’re at it, tag on abstruse.”

I was able to deflect further questions by suggesting we go skinny-dipping.

“Your hair’s already wet,” I said, getting up and jumping down off the breakwater, unbuttoning my shirt and waving for her to join me.

“Is it dark enough?” she asked, as she sat down on the top of the breakwater before sliding off into the sand.

“Nobody on the point but you and me. Might as well own the whole world.”

Since the wind was coming out of the west I knew the water would be warm. I had a theory that the wind scooped up the sun-warmed water from the surface of the shallow Great Peconic, then slid it over here, where it was captured and pooled against Jessup’s Neck. A ridiculous notion, I’m sure, but I didn’t care. There was nobody around to tell me it wasn’t true. There was only Amanda, slender and supple, laughing naked in my arms after we’d dashed across the
painfully knobby pebble beach and dove recklessly into the water, breaking through the surface into the fresh moonlight. Humbled, or awed, or simply grateful and surprised, it was easy at that moment to let all forms of thought dissolve into the sacred waters of the Little Peconic Bay, carrying away my manifold fears and indecisions, my uncertainties and confusion.

There’d be time enough to gather all that up again tomorrow.

L
IKE
J
ONATHAN
E
LDRIDGE’S
,Gabe Szwit’s office was above a storefront. The only difference being the view, which for Gabe included the east end of Main Street and halfway down Job’s Lane in Southampton Village. And the store was a little different, since it sold $10,000-a-whack couture instead of $3.95 meatball grinders, unless you wanted a salad, which would add another $1.85.

It was early and few people were on the street. The shops wouldn’t open until about ten, so the sidewalks were mostly given over to early risers grabbing the
Times
at the cheese place, or couples walking their his-and-hers dogs down to the corner for breakfast and coffee. The light was diffused by the morning mist, and the angle of the sun as it tried to clear the trees and rooftops of the shops, offices and restaurants that lined the street.

As far as I could tell, you reached the office by an outside run of stairs at the back of the building, which also had a
small private parking lot. I had to assume Gabe would come in this way, though I didn’t know for sure, or even if he would show up for work that day. For all I knew, he only worked every other day. Or just kept the office for show, while spending the days cruising in his Jag and hanging out with grief-stricken widows.

I had the biggest size cup of coffee you could get from the place on the corner, and a fresh pack of cigarettes. WLIU promised to play jazz all morning, and the Grand Prix was the closest thing you could have to a rolling living room, so the wait didn’t promise to be that hard.

Still, after about three hours I was ready for Gabe to make an appearance. I could usually busy myself noodling out construction plans for the addition, or writing postcards to Allison, or casting about for ways to divert my mind from the litany of worries and regrets it would chew on if left to its own devices. It gets harder when all you’re looking at is the back end of a building, a Dumpster and a flight of rickety wooden stairs.

I gave myself to twelve noon, which is about the time Gabe pulled his Jag into the reserved parking lot, got out and locked the car, then plodded up the stairs, wearing a tan summer suit, his attaché held to his chest like a heavy bag of groceries. I waited until he was through the door at the top of the stairs before following him. The door had a translucent pane of glass in the top panel. It let in light, but you couldn’t see through it. I tried the doorknob, but it was locked. I recognized the door hardware—you could open it with a key, and it would still lock behind you. Made sense for Gabe Szwit.

I bumped the door with my shoulder to test its mettle. Its mettle was more than up to the task, so I went back down to the Grand Prix and got my little three-pound sledge and a
cat’s paw that had a hardened wedge at the other end. I wrapped a piece of terry cloth around the cat’s paw, stuck the wedge in the door next to the doorknob and gave it a hearty smack.

The door gave it up on the second hit, swinging into a dark passageway that led to another door with a translucent panel. As I walked down the hall the inside door swung open and Gabe was standing there, his suit coat off and mouth agape.

“Oh dear God,” he said, looking at the sledge in my hand.

I came at him quickly, holding the hammer at eye level.

“Shut up and get back in there.”

He almost leaped back into the office as I followed him, shutting the door and throwing the deadbolt. We were in a tiny waiting room and Gabe was trying to punch a number into a black office phone that was on a side table next to a stack of
Fortune
magazines. I swung my right arm and brought the sledge straight down into the middle of the phone. Gabe made some kind of groaning animal sound in his throat and cringed back against the wall, staring stupidly at the phone receiver in his hand, now dangling a disconnected cord. I used the hammer to wave him through the next door.

“Come on, keep going.”

He went through and I followed him. It was a standard lawyer’s office—sturdy walnut-veneered desk in the center of the room, shelves lined with law books, expensive carpet, Currier & Ives prints on the wall and the faint smell of cigars. There were two Hitchcock chairs in front of the desk with the seal of his alma mater, Boston University, stamped on the backrests. A desktop computer was on a work surface perpendicular to the desk, and a large credenza lined the wall behind, the surface of which was decorated with a pair of
small aquariums. To the left, under a large bay window, was a red chesterfield. I pointed to it.

“Sit over there.”

“Have you lost your mind?” he asked.

“Yes. I have. You’re going to help me get it back.”

He kept his eyes on me as he backed into the couch and sat down. His face, usually tinted a faint green, had gone solid white.

“You’re going to jail,” he said as he sat down.

I pulled over one of the Hitchcock chairs.

“One of us is.”

He looked like he didn’t know whether to scream, clam up or pass out.

“You mind if I smoke?”

“Yes, I do.”

I took out a cigarette and lit it, leaning back in the Hitchcock and snatching a piece of pottery off the bookshelf to use as an ashtray.

“That’s a McCoy,” he said. “I’m calling the police.”

“Go ahead. While you’re doing that, I’ll call Appolonia.”

He stayed put on the couch, fear and fury in his eyes.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“To talk a minute.”

“You expect me to talk to you when you’re threatening me with a cudgel?”

I looked at the hammer.

“It’s a three-pound sledge. Here. You can have it.”

I tossed it in his lap. Half standing, he grabbed it with both hands and flung it to other side of the couch, as if I’d just popped it out of a kiln.

“Settle down,” I told him. “I just want to talk.”

“You could have made an appointment.”

“I just did. Does Appolonia know?”

“Know what?”

“Any of it.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You lied about Butch Ellington. You said you never met him. You’ve known him all along.”

He sat a little straighter on the couch as he regained some of his professional poise.

“Who I know, or don’t know, is my concern.”

“Fair enough. I’ll just fill in the blanks myself and check it out directly with Appolonia.”

He didn’t like that.

“She loathes her brother-in-law,” he said. “I didn’t want her trust in me clouded by that association.”

“Nothing like a big lie to build trust.”

“Jonathan never found it necessary to reveal such a trivial thing. I presumed that was his wish and have merely honored it. And no one cared more about Appolonia’s well-being than him.”

“How about Belinda? She in on it, too?”

“Heavens no. And what difference could it possibly make? Is that all this is about? You break into my office, threaten and assault me, simply because I’ve preserved a client confidence?”

“Watch the allegations, Gabe. If I’m going down for assault anyway, I might as well bash you on the head and make it worth it.”

Whatever color had found its way back into his face drained off again.

“And all that legal crap doesn’t work with me. Part of my engineering training.”

“Crap?”

“Yeah, you’re already making your case. Won’t work with Appolonia either since it won’t change the fact you’re hiding
your relationship with Butch. Which I can prove, so don’t waste our time practicing jury summations. You’re busted. Concentrate on what you want to do about it.”

“Do about it?” he asked, his voice getting hoarse, as if his throat was starting to constrict.

“Answer my questions or I’m leaving now and heading directly to Appolonia’s.”

“If I do, will you leave her alone?”

“You’ve know Butch since college. BU. Maybe before. When did you meet Jonathan?”

He looked away.

“About the same time.”

“Butch is the one who had the mother committed. Needed you for the legalities. Still does.”

“The parents split up when they were young. Butch lived with the mother, so he knew how troubled she was, how she’d never function safely on her own. That she belonged where she is now. Jonathan didn’t like it, but he acquiesced. Jonathan hardly knew her. He was raised by his father. Didn’t know enough to contest the decision. But he liked me administering the details. Didn’t trust Butch to do it properly.”

“Who pays the bills?” I asked.

“The bills?”

“Who pays the Sisters of Mercy?”

He looked reluctant to answer the question, thinking about it longer than he should have.

“Arthur. Butch. He always sent the checks. I didn’t question it. No need.”

“No. I suppose not. As long as she was looked after. Butch was more her kid, if you think about it. Whatever happened to Arthur Senior?”

“Their father? I don’t know.”

“The cops think he’s dead.”

“Then I suppose he is. They should know.”

“Where’d they live, Jonathan and his father?”

Gabe finally let himself sit back in the sofa, looking a little less braced for an imminent blow.

“What difference does it make?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Just curious.”

“I think mostly around Riverhead and the North Fork. The father was an accountant. Commuted to somewhere up island. Put in long hours. Jonathan was on his own a lot. Made him very self-reliant, he claimed. Toughened him up. Although you probably know that already. You seem to know a lot.”