She glared at him. “Keep it up, Laughing Boy. As soon as I get out of the hospital I’m gonna take a paring knife to the duck.”
“God, but you’re fickle. Only last evening you seemed excessively interested in the duck’s welfare.”
Ruby cringed against the surge of memory.
“Oh, damn,” she grunted. “I’m so pathetic.”
Crockett extended the pills and tomato juice.
“Here,” he said. “Take these with this.”
Ruby popped the aspirins in her mouth, chewed for a moment, made a face, and drank half the juice.
“Jesus, that’s awful!” she said.
“Why the hell did you chew the aspirin?”
“I’m punishing myself for being such a ludicrous wretch.”
“Coffee’s hot. Columbian dark with heavy cream. Coat your stomach. Need some Pepto or something?”
“Christ, no. I’ll throw up.”
“Okay. You got forty-five minutes ‘til Ivy expects you to arrive. I’m gonna go clean up and head downstairs. You’re on your own, Sunshine. See ya later.”
“If I live,” Ruby croaked.
At ten minutes after eight, Ruby walked into the atrium wearing a pale yellow blouse, tan slacks, a dark brown linen jacket and three-inch bone heels. Her makeup was perfect and her hair shone with highlights.
“Morning, everybody,” she smiled. “Am I late?”
Breakfast was Swedish pancakes, heavy cut pepper bacon, home fries and the like. Ivy ate well and seemed to be in excellent spirits. Marta, in spite of her diminutive size, pounded down as much as anyone. Ruby’s condition, which appeared to have vanished, did nothing to impair her customary culinary gusto. Fresh coffee was served after the meal and Crockett displayed a copy of the Amazing Disappearing Woman sketch.
Marta inspected the drawing. “Oh, dear,” she said. “This is unusual. You will recall, David, how I saw the woman in the trunk with her face badly disfigured?”
“Sure.”
“Therefore I cannot possibly tell if she and this woman in the drawing could be the same person. But I can tell you that, with only the tiniest of changes and different hair coloring, this woman and the young girl who came to me for the reading all those years ago, the same person whose face appeared to me so often after the nightmare, she and the woman in this picture would be identical. No pun intended, the woman in this drawing is a dead ringer for that girl.”
“You’re certain?”
“Absolutely,” Marta said. “My memory of her, after Ruby’s hypnosis, is perfectly clear. Besides, David, could you forget this face?”
“No.”
“Me either,” Clete said. “That is one handsome lady. Strange clothes though. Old fashioned.”
“But in fashion for that time,” Ivy said. “Quite fashionable for the 1940’s.”
The room was silent for a moment, then Crockett jumped in.
“Marta,” he said. “Concerning the dream where you saw the car and the woman being disposed of.”
“Yes?”
“Refresh my memory. What were the men wearing?”
“One had on a windbreaker, a short jacket. The other was in shirtsleeves.”
“Were they wearing hats?”
Marta’s eyebrows rose. “Why yes, they were.”
“What kind?”
“The type with brims that went all the way around, like you see in the old movies. The kind of hats you seldom see today. Fedoras, I think they’re called.”
“Because men,” Crockett said, “unless they’re in caps or something similar, don’t wear hats much. Especially dress hats.”
“Women either,” Ruby said.
“But fifty or sixty years ago,” Ivy ventured, “everybody wore hats. Especially for dress. Men and women alike. No lady’s ensemble was complete without the correct hat.”
“That’s true,” Crockett said. “And men had two or three, depending on what color topcoat or suit they’d wear. Every clothing store had a hat department.”
“Hairspray killed off the hats,” Ruby said.
Clete chuckled. “And some of the men,” he said. “Marta, the guys with the body. Did they seem furtive, nervous, hurried, anything like that?”
“No. They were quite calm and deliberate. Almost casual.”
Clete looked at Crockett. “Mob,” he said.
Crockett nodded. “She was in the wrong place at the wrong time, she pissed somebody off, she got in the way, she hung around with the wrong people, something.”
“And if we’re talking about the 30’s or 40’s,” Clete said, “Chicago was still pretty much openly controlled by the boys from that particular ‘hood. She became inconvenient for someone.”
Crockett looked around the room. “So,” he said, “we have no idea who she was, but we do have a name for a young woman who looks just like her that came to Marta for a reading, when?”
“I went through some old papers and found out exactly when my Aunt Martha died and was buried. I saw the girl on June ninth, nineteen-sixty-five.”
“And her name was–”
“Leona Marie Walters.”
“Do you know where she lived?”
“No. She never told me. Chicago someplace.”
“Do you recall the reading?”
“She was concerned about whether to stay in the area and marry her boyfriend, or head for Hollywood and try to break into the movies. At least that’s what she said. She’d already made up her mind to leave town. She just wanted someone to tell her it was the right thing to do. A very lovely girl with very big dreams and a very small grasp on the reality of her situation. I told her that she had not come to me for a reading, advice, or consultation, but that she had come only to have her chosen course validated and I simply could not do that. I then returned her money and wished her a happy life.”
Crockett smiled. “Short reading,” he said.
“No reading,” Marta said. “Just a short visit.”
“I’m confused,” Cletus said. “Why would a woman who has probably been dead for sixty or seventy years, and her look-alike that you had a brief encounter with way back in ‘65, come back into your life now?”
“I think I can answer that, Clete,” Ivy said. “For the same reason I spoke to a hurting suspicious man about the woman he loved, my poor precious niece, a few weeks after her death. David Alan Crockett was needed to set some things right. It would seem he is needed once again.”
The entire group turned and looked at Crockett. He squirmed.
Ruby smiled.
“My hero,” she said.
After breakfast Clete talked with Marta for a while, then sat with Ruby and Crockett in the atrium.
“Well, boys and girls,” he said. “Later today I’m going to initiate a search for Leona Marie Walters. She’s got to be around sixty or more by now. If we can find her, we got a lot better shot of finding out who the gal in the drawing is. If they look so much alike, the two of them have to be connected somehow. I’ll take a copy of the picture, get on the computer, change the hair color to blond, and just focus on the face. Maybe we’ll come up with something. It’s also possible that we can age the drawing to get an idea of what she might look like today, if she’s even still around. I’ve got contacts all over the place, including NCIC and things like that. What we really need is a time machine.”
“A time machine would be good,” Crockett said.
“Yeah. We need a contact in the Chicago Mob circa 1940. Might as well look for a Neanderthal Man. “’Bout as likely to find one as the other.”
“Boys,” Ruby said, “if you will excuse me, I have to make a phone call or two.”
Cletus rested his chin in his hand as he watched Ruby walk away.
“Damn,” he muttered. “If a feller ever got a rope on that, he better hope to God his cinch was tight.”
Ruby didn’t show up for lunch, some sort of cold soup with pieces of stuff floating in it and small sandwiches containing nothing but rabbit f
ood. Crockett visualized a cheeseburger and dug in, but it didn’t work. After they ate, Clete got back on the computer, Marta wished him well and headed home, and Ivy drifted off to take a nap. Crockett flopped on a nicely padded chaise lounge in the atrium and began to contemplate the infinite. He was so engaged, possibly augmented with snoring, when Ruby moved his legs over with her bottom, put a cup of fresh coffee on the little table next to his elbow, and rubbed his knee.
“You awake, Crockett?” she said.
He regarded her through slitted lids.
“No.”
“I want to apologize for last night.”
“Gimme a kiss,” Crockett said.
She leaned in and kissed him slowly on the lips.
“Gimme another one,” he said.
She did.
“And one more.”
Smiling, Ruby complied.
Crockett stretched and yawned. “Now,” he said. “You were saying?”
Ruby smiled and patted his stomach.
“I was saying that you put a lot of conditions on the preparations for an apology,” she said.
“Just attempting to take advantage of your emotional situation to gratify my own lustful needs. Typical male behavior.”
“I was a real shit last night, Crockett. I’m sorry.”
“Number one, you weren’t a shit. You were just drunk. Number two, you were cute as hell. Number three, all’s well that ends well.”
“I behaved terribly.”
“Who better to behave that way with than me? Who knows you better than me? Who loves you more than me? Answer? Nobody. Ha!”
Ruby smiled. “I was awful,” she said.
Crockett nodded. “That’s true,” he said, “but not awful enough. If you were, I’d have scratches on my back, a hickey on my neck, and a duck too weak to walk. Fortunately, it’s never too late. Want some vodka rocks?”
“No.”
“Wesson Oil?”
“You’re not gonna let me apologize are you?”
“Shrimp sauce?”
“Crockett, you are the premier asshole on the planet.”
“See,” Crockett said, “all better. And no cheesy apology.”
“Kiss me, Dummy.”
They embraced for a moment, enjoying the intimacy and familiarity. As they parted, Ruby quickly licked his upper lip.
“If you’re good, I’ll take you for a ride tomorrow.”
Crockett leered. “Really? A ride?”
“A drive, Letch. A drive to Horizon Manor. It’s an extended care facility.”
“Aw, c’mon, Ruby. Don’t do it. I still got a few good years left! I’ll eat my oatmeal and everything!”
Ruby ignored him. “Within the confines of Horizon Manor,” she said, “resides my great uncle.”
“We’re going to visit one of your relatives?”
“My great uncle’s name is Salvatore Calucci. He is ninety-seven years old. When he was young, he was a member of the Chicago mob.”
“Uncle Sal,” Crockett said.
“I haven’t seen him in nearly five years. If he is still coherent and remembers the old days when he was an active member of the Italian family, he may well be our time machine.”
“You’re Italian?” Crockett said.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Sal
The next morning, Crockett and Ruby had a light breakfast and left the house about nine. Her driving was surprisingly sane.
“So, you have family in Chicago?” Crockett said.
“Not really. I used to, but I left when I went to school and never really came back. I have an aunt, my father’s sister, who lives in Cicero, but I haven’t seen her in years, except for my parents’ funeral in ’97. Everybody else is dead, I guess. There’s just my great uncle Sal. He was my grandmother’s brother. Got a couple of kids I don’t even remember that are in their sixties. I guess they take care of his bills and stuff. I called the nursing home yesterday and the old guy is still going strong. We have an appointment with his caseworker in about fifteen minutes.”
“Oh. The place is close, huh?”
“Yeah. Just over by Lake Zurich. We’re almost there already.”
“If it’s out in this area, it must cost a buck or two.”
“Sal’s got it,” she said.
“Why did you leave home?”
“Too many old guys with bent noses and sharkskin suits named Dom or Pauly hanging around. Too many of their sons who figured I was up for grabs, and I do mean grabs. Too much control, too much scrutiny, too much personal history. Personal history and family expectations can eat you alive, Crockett. I’d rather wear an albatross around my neck. At least the burden becomes a fashion statement.”
Crockett rubbed his chin. “Too many men trying to tell you what to do, expecting you to value them while they failed to value you.”
“Whoa. Crockett! What’s this, insight?”
“Lucky guess,” he said.
Ruby looked at him for a moment. One eyebrow raised.
“So you think you’ve got me figured out?” she said.
“Not me. You’re the psychologist. I’m just a one-legged ex-cop.”
“Finding out just what makes the faggot female tick, Crockett?”
“Faggot female? Jesus! Take it easy.”
“Like maybe you got a handle on me, now, huh?” Ruby spat.
The flare of anger in her voice took Crockett by surprise.
“What? Settle down, willya? You got Samsonite stenciled on your forehead? Why the hell would I want a handle on you? Why the hell would I need one?”
“Got the Lezbo all pigeon-holed, Davey?”
“Christ, Ruby! Lighten up!”
“You don’t know shit, Crockett. Let it lay!”
“Get a grip! I’m not the one who brought it up!”
“You have no fucking idea what I’ve been through. Back off!”
“Back off? Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to? This is me, LaCost. Me! Not some forty-year-old investment banker with a Martini, a fat wallet, a limp dick, and the answers to all your problems! And you got ‘em, Sweetheart. Lots of ‘em. So do I. So do all of us!”
Angrier than he thought he should be, Crockett forged ahead.
“You wanna go see Uncle Sal and take an emotional trip back to your twisted girlhood, fine. Just don’t expect me to be the surrogate for all those rat-bastard spaghetti hounds that beat the shit outa your teen-age self-worth. I wasn’t there then, and I damn sure ain’t goin’ there now! You wanna talk about it with me, I’m all ears. You wanna take it out on me, hit the fuckin’ bricks.”
Ruby was gripping the wheel with white-knuckled hands, staring straight out the windshield.
“And another thing,” Crockett said. “I don’t love you because you’re straight or love you because you’re gay. I don’t love you because you’re fat or love you because you’re skinny. I love you because you’re Ruby, Goddammit! With all the baggage and bullshit, with all the joy and sorrow, with all the power and insecurity, with that smart mouth and that tender heart. You got a problem with that, you let me know. You wanna fight, pull the fucking car over and let’s go. Just remember that I’m a cripple, for crissakes.”
Silently, Ruby turned off of Lake Zurich Road and up an asphalt drive, past a sign that read Horizon Manor. She pulled the car over and sat for a moment staring at her hands as they rested on the wheel. At length, she turned in Crockett’s direction. Her eyes looked tired.
“Why, do you suppose,” she said, “that whenever I get really emotionally stressed, I treat you like shit?”
Crockett stroked his mustache.
“Well,” he said, “that’s a very interesting question. Why do you think you do?”
Ruby’s eyes crinkled a bit. “Maybe it’s because you’re such a jerk.”
“Go with that,” Crockett said. “Validate the feeling. Possess it. Own it, if you will.”
Ruby leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
“Christ
,” she said, “can I be a queen-size bitch, or what?”
“You homos are a pretty unstable bunch.”
“Thanks, Crockett, for more than you know.”
Crockett kissed his own hand.
“Whatta guy,” he said. “Let’s go see the time machine.”
Horizon Manor looked like a cross between an upscale motor hotel and a country club. Acres of manicured lawn stretched away into rolling perfection, punctuated by paved wheelchair paths, graveled benches, and small pavilions. Flowerbeds stood poised and ready to bloom at a moment’s notice. In the far distance, two or three graceful ponds twinkled in the morning light. In the near distance, behind the main building, they could just see a smaller structure with a sign reading Malt Shoppe on one end and Beauty and Barber Shoppe on the other. Beside it was a tiny parking lot with narrow spaces. Two of them were filled with those little scooter things. Sections of split rail fence highlighted curves and bends in the paths, and a couple of shuffleboard courts waited patiently under metal roofs. Staff members seemed to outnumber the patients.
The pristine orderliness was dotted with old folks. Old folks in wheelchairs, old folks with walkers, old folks on scooters, on benches, on Thorazine, on Compazine. It was lovely and it was creepy. They turned on the walk to the reception area and strode into shadow.
“Very nice,” Crockett said. “Pretty, pleasant, well-kept, neat. I hope they send my saddle home before it comes to this.”
“Extended care for the nearly useless,” Ruby said. “Sad in some ways, encouraging in others. I considered geriatric psychology for a while.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Joints like this. Don’t get me wrong. This is a wonderful facility. Much better than the average place of its type. The care is excellent, food’s great, lots of activities, well-managed conditions, highly qualified staff. This is as good as it gets. I just couldn’t handle the specter of a living graveyard. The fault is totally mine.”
Crockett looked around as they neared the front doors.
“Promise me one thing, LaCost,” he said.
“What?”
“The day before I’m due to be shipped off to someplace like this, promise me that you’ll screw me into a terminal heart attack and smile me on my way to the big white light.”
Grave Promise Page 11
