by Scott Mackay
Outside, he heard a car drive up. He walked to the window and saw Joe and Jennifer in Joe’s flashy Fiat, a sports car with a black removable top and a school-bus-yellow body. He took a deep breath, happy to see them. Lombardo got out of his car, opened his big golfing umbrella, walked around to the other side, and opened the door for Jennifer. He helped her out of the low-slung sports car and they walked arm in arm to the house. Gilbert grew apprehensive. He was afraid Jennifer might be devastated by Joe’s gentle letdown. He heard the front door open. Despite his New Year’s resolution not to interfere, he left her room, hurried along the hall and looked over the railing, was just about to go downstairs but stopped when he heard Jennifer giggling. This was letting her down easy? He leaned over the railing, his knees seeming to pop from their sockets, and peered through the banister posts where, to his great consternation, he saw them kissing, their faces partially illuminated by the porch light. He didn’t know what to do. He felt paralyzed by the sight of his partner kissing Jennifer. Before he could stop himself he spoke out.
“Do you think that’s a good idea?”
The two broke apart, startled by his intrusion.
“Barry?” said Lombardo. Jennifer reached for the light, turned it on, and gazed at her father with contempt. Lombardo frowned at him. “Happy New Year, Barry,” he said, his voice flat, sounding as if Gilbert had just ruined his plan for a gentle letdown. Lombardo shut the door.
Gilbert walked around the end of the railing and descended the stairs, not sure what to do. “Did you have fun?” he asked, forcing an innocent tone to his voice.
“Were you waiting for us?” demanded Jennifer.
“No, I…I just woke up.” Now it was his turn to frown. “And please don’t speak to me like that,” he said.
“Jennifer, look, I’ll call you, okay?” said Lombardo.
She turned to Lombardo, scrutinized him, trying to sniff a turncoat. “Okay,” she said. “But don’t let him ruin things.” She glanced at her father as if he were the most despicable man on earth. “He always likes to ruin things.”
She dropped her skates on the floor, took off her coat, flung it on the chair beside the telephone table, and marched up the stairs. Gilbert felt disoriented, out of step with reality, trapped by his own behavior. He heard her tramp down the upstairs hall into her room. She slammed the door. Gilbert cringed at the sound.
“Shit,” he said.
“Barry, I’m sorry,” said Lombardo.
Gilbert felt more confused than ever. “You were supposed to let her down easy, Joe,” he said. “Do you call kissing her letting her down easy?”
Lombardo glanced up the stairs uneasily. “Maybe we should go to the kitchen,” he said. He took his gloves off and stuck them in his pockets. “Before we wake everybody up.”
Gilbert shook his head. “I think we already have,” he said.
They went through the dining room into the kitchen and sat down at the kitchen table. Gilbert stared at Lombardo, fighting to keep himself under control, to understand all this, comprehend how his good intentions could have gotten so out of control. Lombardo looked at him sheepishly.
“I could use a coffee,” he said.
Gilbert had to remind himself that this was Joe, and that Joe would never do anything to intentionally hurt his daughter. He got up distractedly. “Yeah,” he said. “Sure.” He walked over to the stove and put the kettle on. “I’m sorry, Joe. I’m sorry I’m acting this way. I’m sure you have it all figured out.”
Lombardo stared at the brass napkin holder on the table, looking unsure of the situation. “The last thing I want to do is hurt Jennifer,” he said. “You know that.”
This new dynamic bewildered Gilbert. “Sure I know it.”
Lombardo picked up the brass napkin holder and turned it end on end. “She’s a wonderful girl, Barry,” he said. “You’ve got a wonderful daughter.”
Gilbert stared at Lombardo as the kettle began to hiss. “Is this where you ask me for her hand in marriage?” he said.
Lombardo’s face remained set. “I’m serious, Barry,” he said. “She’s a wonderful girl. Karl was an idiot dumping her like that.”
Gilbert was touched by how fervently Lombardo seemed to feel about his daughter. “I think he was too, Joe.” Gilbert wondered how he was ever going to find his way out of this alternate universe. “Though I can’t say I’m sorry. All I want…I just want Jennifer to be happy.”
“Then you’ll understand why I had to kiss her.”
Gilbert tried to make the stretch but he couldn’t. “I’m not sure I do,” he said.
Lombardo put the brass napkin ring aside and looked up at Gilbert. “Because she was expecting it.” He paused. “Because we had a great time. Because we danced, skated, had a drink over at the Sheraton Center, then went back to the bandstand and danced some more. Because it was a romantic evening and all romantic evenings have to end with a kiss. She’s a wonderful girl, Barry, but she’s also bright. She’s not expecting much out of me besides a few pleasant evenings.”
“I’m not sure that’s true, Joe. She’s vulnerable right now.”
Lombardo’s brow creased in frustration. “What else was I supposed to do?” he asked. The kettle whistled on top of the stove. “She expected it. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Don’t worry, she knows it can’t last.”
“Yeah, but if you kiss her too much she’s going to get other ideas.”
“No, she won’t.”
“Yes, she will.”
“She’s going back to school in a couple weeks,” said Lombardo. “She’s got more sense than to make a thing about me. By February I bet she has a new boyfriend.”
“Spoken like a true heartbreaker.”
“I would never break your daughter’s heart.”
“I know you wouldn’t,” said Gilbert. “But it might just end up getting broken anyway.”
Gilbert got up and made coffee. While he was stirring the Coffee-Mate into the mugs, Regina came into the kitchen.
“What happened?” she asked. “She’s up there crying.”
He continued to stir the coffee. He felt as if he were sinking into his alternate universe even deeper. “I caught them kissing at the front door,” he said.
She looked at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. “What did you say to her?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I just asked her if kissing Joe was such a good idea,” he said.
Regina glanced at Joe, who looked like a fox caught robbing the henhouse. “What’s so bad about that?” she asked. As if kissing Lombardo seemed like a good idea, even a desirable one. Gilbert felt his face settling. Joe immediately brightened.
“Tell her I’ll call her tomorrow,” he said. “Tell her I’ve got everything under control.”
Regina stared at the steaming cups of coffee, then finally nodded. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll do that.” She glanced at Gilbert. “And try not to stay up too late, Barry. You’re always cranky in the morning when you stay up too late.”
Gilbert watched his wife leave the kitchen. Why was he the culprit here? He brought the coffee over to the table and sat down. He slouched. He felt defeated. He wasn’t going to fight anymore.
“Look, Barry, you’ve got to trust me on this,” said Lombardo. “I’ll make sure she’s all right. She’s going to be fine by the time she goes back to school.”
“Whatever you say, Joe.”
“Don’t worry.”
“Can’t I worry?” he said, looking up. “I’m her father. Just let me worry, okay?”
“She’ll go back to school, she’ll get caught up in her classes, she’ll make new friends, she’ll forget about me, and by March break she’ll be fine.”
Gilbert nodded sullenly. “Whatever you say, Joe.”
“Trust me,” said Lombardo. “That’s how it’s going to happen.”
“Are you going to see her again?” he asked.
Lombardo looked away. The man looked as guilty as a skunk. “We
’ve got a date a week this Friday,” he said. “It was her idea. I swear, it will be the last.”
“Why didn’t you just tell her no?” said Gilbert. “It’s not that hard, you know.”
Lombardo looked as if he were growing impatient with Gilbert, his dark Mediterranean eyes simmering. “Because I just didn’t, okay?”
“This is bad, Joe.”
“I know it’s bad, but what do you want me to do?”
Gilbert took a sip of his coffee. He hardly tasted it. He finally said, “Could you please cancel?” He looked at his hands. “I’m asking you as a friend…and I’m asking you as Jennifer’s father…please…think up some excuse. Maybe wait until the day, then tell her you’ve got to work late on the case. Anything. But please…let’s just end it. It’s time for cold turkey, okay?”
Lombardo nodded weakly. “Okay,” he said. “I’m sorry, Barry. I’m sorry it turned out this way.”
“Me too, Joe.”
Roger Pemberton from Missing Persons came to Gilbert on the morning of January second, shuffling around the desks and down the aisle carrying a slip of paper in his hand, his huge feet barely leaving the floor, his ape-like hands hanging straight down at his sides.
“I got a call from a Detective Doug Pilch earlier today,” he murmured. “He’s with the City of Tampa Police Department.”
Gilbert looked up from his report writing. Outside, sleet fell from the sky. He’d fishtailed twice driving to work today. “They found Garth Surrey?” he asked.
Pemberton shrugged equivocally. “Uh…no,” he said. “They found a friend of Garth Surrey’s.”
“A friend?” said Gilbert, pushing back from his desk.
“Steve Zidner.” Pemberton paused. Paused for ten seconds, looking around the squad room as if he couldn’t remember how he got there. His eyes finally settled on the Christmas tree hung with brass cartridge shells. “Someone he’s known for years. Pilch says Zidner came in and told him about Surrey. Zidner and Surrey shared some drinks at a bar in Tampa just before Christmas. Zidner’s a drummer.” Pemberton lifted his big hand and scratched behind his ear, checked his fingernails, then looked at Gilbert. “Got a little bit of eczema,” he informed Gilbert. “The halog cream doesn’t seem to be working.”
“What about Zidner?” said Gilbert.
“He was playing a job at this place. A place called the Concord, one of the local jazz clubs.” Pemberton raised his eyebrows, about as animated as his expression ever got. “After the two of them got drinking for a while, Surrey boasted he’d killed his wife’s boyfriend, shot him to death. He told Zidner the boyfriend was a Chinese gang member.” Pemberton shrugged lethargically. “Thought you might like to know.”
“How long before Christmas?” asked Gilbert, sitting forward.
“Well, let’s see…December the twenty-first.”
“And it took Zidner that long to tell Detective Pilch about it?” said Gilbert.
“Don’t blame me,” said Pemberton.
“Surrey could be anywhere by now.”
Pemberton tried to hoist the corners of his lips in a helpful smile, but the effort was too much for him, and he abandoned the attempt. “I got Pilch’s number, if that’ll do any good,” he said, and handed the slip of paper to Gilbert.
Gilbert phoned Tampa and got in touch with Detective Doug Pilch. Pilch sounded like an older man, with the rough voice of a chronic smoker.
“Zidner came to me on the afternoon of the twenty-ninth,” said Pilch, “just as I was getting ready to go home. I’ve been reading your lookout posting every day at roll call, especially because we know the Surreys have a place down here, so I immediately knew who Zidner was talking about. I’ve had Zidner in a few times on drunk and disorderly conduct. I’m not about to believe every damn thing he says. But then he started talking about this Chinese gang member, like you got in your posting, and I knew he had to be telling me something close to the truth.”
“Why did he wait so long to come forward?” asked Gilbert. “Eight whole days.”
Pilch paused. “Well, he…he says he first thought nothing of Surrey’s claim. Just a hollow boast. Anybody can start bragging about anything they like, especially when they’re drunk, even killing a Chinese gang member. But then Zidner kept thinking about the details. How Surrey climbed a fire escape, how he broke into the Chinaman’s third-floor apartment, how the sky had been pissing rain. Zidner figured Surrey wouldn’t go to the trouble of all those details if there weren’t some truth to it. That’s when he came to see me. He gave it to me like he was swearin’ on a stack of Bibles, and he was able to confirm at least one of the details in your posting.”
“Which one?”
“Zidner says Surrey knew about the fatal gunshot wound to the stomach. So I expect Surrey’s your boy.”
Gilbert felt his blood quickening. Pilch was right. Garth Surrey could know about the gunshot wound to the stomach only if he had been there. So maybe this had nothing to do with tongs and triads after all. Maybe this was just a jealous husband.
“And Surrey and Zidner saw each other on the twenty-first?” said Gilbert, now thinking about the logistics of tracking the man.
“That’s what Zidner says.”
“And does Zidner have any idea where Surrey might be?” asked Gilbert.
“No,” said Pilch. “Not a one.”
Fourteen
Rosalyn Surrey, when told of her husband’s boast to Steve Zidner, turned from Gilbert, her hands reaching forward to clutch her knees as she sat in the passenger seat of Gilbert’s Lumina. He had the car parked on the sidewalk near the ferry docks, not far from the turnstiles and the boarding area, right next to the Harbor Castle Hilton. He wanted her out of her office, in a place where she could react freely. On the other side of the harbor he saw Ward’s Island, low and gray, with a small collection of tiny clapboard houses bearing the brunt of Lake Ontario’s worst. The trees out on Hanlan’s Point, leafless and gray, huddled like stubble close to the cold wet grounds of the park. The sleet had again turned to rain and lashed against the windshield with an angry persistence. He saw a commuter airplane come in for a wobbly landing at the Island Airport. He was surprised that the control tower hadn’t shut the place down, what with all this wind.
“So you know Steve Zidner,” he said.
She looked up, gave him a distracted nod. “He’s one of Garth’s oldest friends,” she said. “They played in a band a long time ago.” She wore a dark woolen coat and a black beret. Her gloves, he noted, were new, black leather lined with rabbit fur.
“Would you mind telling me what’s going on, Rosalyn?” asked Gilbert. “Could we have another go?”
She hesitated, struggled, lifted her hands from her knees, looked at them as if she weren’t sure what to do with them, then swung her head quickly away, sniffling, fighting to control herself. She was a strong woman. She was willing to stand up to a lot. But under these circumstances he wondered how far she would go, whether she would tell the truth once and for all. She didn’t fall back or regroup as she had done on previous occasions. She simply allowed the news to wash over her, to confuse her, and, at last, to overwhelm her. She showed her grief. She mourned for the loss of Edgar, he knew that. He could tell it in her grief-blasted eyes. She finally allowed Gilbert to see her grief. She reached into her purse and pulled out a small package of Kleenex. She withdrew one from the cellophane wrapping and dabbed her eyes.
“I was going to leave Garth,” she said. Rosalyn got her tears under control. “When I was younger, I admired Garth. I adored him. Ten years ago I was a much different woman.” Her lips squeezed together, and she seemed to be swallowing against a hard knot in her throat. “I didn’t want then what I want now.” She shook her head. “All I wanted was Garth. I worshiped him. Not only was he a consummate musician, but he had mastered the art of…well, the art of living.” She turned to him with a deprecating grin. “Foolish, isn’t it, the way that sounds? But everything he said or did seemed to have meaning.”
She looked at the dashboard with unseeing eyes. “He had this energy, this power…and he hypnotized me with it. I gladly let myself be hypnotized. I was so young then. I didn’t know any better. I didn’t know how things could be so easily ruined by…by marriage. When I married him, I began to expect things from him. And that was a mistake. Garth’s not that sort of man. You can’t expect anything from him. You have to take whatever he wants to give you.”
Gilbert saw this was hard for Rosalyn. Though he had specific questions he wanted to ask her, he let her go, allowed her to continue as she might. “Marriage is a funny thing,” he said, offering this neutral comment to let her know he understood.
“I don’t know whether he lost interest in me,” she said, “or whether he felt he could just take me for granted, that I was safe and secure, and would stick with him no matter what he did. He had his music. He had his friends. And there wasn’t much time left over for our marriage.” She looked at Gilbert, her eyes wide. “How would you feel?” she asked. “You spend all this time in the sun, and the minute you marry him you suddenly have to spend all your time in the shade. We have a spot on the front lawn under our maple tree. Every year I try to plant new grass there. I plant it early, before the leaves come out, and at first it grows well, green and lush, but as soon as the leaves get big, and the shade grows thick, the grass pales, and finally dies. That’s what I mean. I married him, and suddenly I didn’t have any sunlight. He never spent any time with me. I had nothing to do. He was never around.”
