The Long, Long Afternoon

by Inga Vesper

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘Sorry it all went wrong.’

  It is only when he pushes her back and looks at her with increasing alarm that she realizes she’s crying as well. He pats her hair, which is still slippery with conditioner, then wipes his hand on his shirt. A bubble of laughter rises in her throat, despite the tears. She lets it out, but it is defeated by sobs.

  His face falls at the sight of her tears. ‘Now, why are you crying?’

  ‘Because.’

  Because we always wanna change things and we can’t. Because I don’t know if it’s a sin like murder if you let someone go hang even though you could have stopped it. Because they found a dead baby on my kitchen floor. Because Joyce’ll never get justice and I can’t do anything about anything.

  Joseph wraps her up in his arms and she cries some more against his chest, like the white girls in the movies when the swamp monster is dead. Somehow, sometime later, the crying stops. Joseph hands her a towel and says: ‘You wanna rinse your hair? And when you’re done, mind if I take a shower, too?’

  The curtain rail won’t stay up no more. He holds the shower curtain for her, and then she tries to do the same for him, but she’s too small. He keeps ducking and diving to escape her gaze, and it turns into the funniest thing she’s seen for too long a time. Her insides go all fuzzy at the sight of his grin. She even contemplates dropping the stupid curtain and getting right in there with him. But the bathroom lock is busted, and soon Pa knocks with fresh clothes for Joseph and hints at coffee.

  ‘I saw what happened last night,’ she says, once they’re all in the kitchen. ‘I went for a drive with Detective Blanke to talk about the case. When I got out . . . I didn’t know I was so close to University. It was bad.’

  Joseph’s eyebrows contract. ‘So, you’re still partners in crime?’

  ‘Don’t think so. The case is solved.’

  Pa looks up from his coffee. ‘Atta girl. That might help the college fund.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She takes a sip of coffee. ‘Would be great if I got the reward, huh?’

  ‘Greatsville.’ Joseph laughs. ‘Say it like a white girl. Gee, Big Daddy, that’s totally primo.’

  ‘Absolutely golden, papaw, sir.’ Ruby chuckles. But the laughter in her belly is hollow. ‘Joseph,’ she says. ‘Let’s go get some breakfast.’

  ‘I dunno.’ Joseph eyes the window. ‘The police might still be—’

  ‘Please. I want to . . . I want to talk to you.’

  One corner of his mouth curls into a smile. It’s a wonderful sight. ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘Mr Wright, can I borrow your daughter?’

  *

  They hit the street just as the ocean breeze gives way to summer heat. The stench of burnt rubber lingers; it tickles the back of Ruby’s neck. Not sure what to say, she brings the conversation home to the obvious.

  ‘Why did things turn so bad last night?’

  Joseph flinches. ‘We had it all planned out. We were gonna do the peaceful thing. Demonstrate against the demolitions. Folks were meant to stay together. But then the police showed up and started beating everyone. The old ladies. The kids. Our boys wanted retaliation.’

  Ruby swallows. ‘That ain’t right.’

  ‘The hell it ain’t. But we’re angry, Ruby. We’re all—’

  ‘I mean what the police did.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He sighs. ‘It ain’t right.’

  They walk toward South Park. The streets are full of litter and only the straight folks with jobs are about. They’re scuttling for their buses, heads pulled down low.

  ‘They wanted it to happen,’ Joseph says to the morning sun. ‘’Coz now they can make us look like . . . like rebels without a cause. Which we’re not. We got a cause.’

  She takes his hand and presses it. ‘Yeah, we do.’

  ‘They’re gonna build that highway and people are gonna lose their houses and all we did was for nothing. All our committee work. All our debates on fighting without fighting. It’s just hopeless, ain’t it so?’

  ‘No, at least you did something. I mean, we have to keep at it. It’s too easy to stand by and see injustice, and not to do anything about it.’

  Her words hang suspended in the air. Thoughts intrude and march in rhythm with her steps. When there are so many problems in this world, where do you even start?

  ‘Joseph,’ she says, ‘I’ve got to ask you something.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘If you could save a white man’s life, would you do it?’

  He shrugs. ‘I dunno. What kind of white man?’

  ‘A bad one. But would you do what’s right? For a mother?’

  ‘You talking about the Haney woman?’

  ‘Thing is, the detective has found his man. But he’s the wrong guy, I know it. That man’s going to hang if I don’t speak up. But . . .’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Well, the problem is the man who really did it is probably gonna come after me.’

  ‘And who’s that?’

  ‘Mr Haney.’

  ‘Damn.’ Joseph swallows. ‘Your boss? Mr Rich?’

  ‘Yeah. I think he’s framed the other guy. I think Frank Haney and Mrs Ingram are working together to put that man away. They’ve been cheating together, you know?’

  ‘Shit. Ruby, don’t say anything. I told you before, don’t get involved.’

  ‘But if I could prove it was Mr Haney who killed Joyce, it would make things right. And I’d save McCarthy from the rope.’

  ‘Is he worth saving?’

  McCarthy’s grin jolts her memory. The way he swung open the bedroom door. Barbara’s fingers clawing at her neck.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘No, he ain’t. But look.’ She searches for words that will explain the rift in her belly. ‘Joyce was the only one in Sunnylakes who treated me like a person. I know you keep saying we weren’t real friends, but . . . she saw me as a friend. Maybe the only one she had there. And now she’s dead, and so is her baby. Remember him? Remember how tiny his fingers were? If they hang the wrong guy, then—’

  Joseph picks up her thoughts. ‘Then the real killer will never be found. It’s an injustice.’

  ‘And, like I said, it’s too easy to see injustice and not do anything about it.’

  ‘Truth, justice and the American way.’

  ‘Joseph. You don’t get me.’

  ‘I do. But are you sure about this? After all, it’s nice to see a white guy getting done in, for once.’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘So, what do you wanna do? Call the detective and tell him it’s Mr Haney?’

  ‘I tried to tell him already, but he doesn’t believe me.’

  ‘Figures.’

  ‘So I need to prove it. But I don’t know how.’

  ‘What’s your evidence so far?’

  She sighs. ‘Mr Haney gave Mrs Ingram his gun right after Miss Klintz was killed. And I know he wasn’t at the conference when he said he was. So I gotta find proof for that. Have a little rummage, you know?’

  ‘Why don’t you?’

  She turns to him. ‘First of all, his mother fired me. Second, because I’m scared. That house is freaky. Mr Haney and Mrs Ingram and his mother, they’re all, like—’

  ‘Plastic,’ Joseph says. ‘Like storefront dummies. Makebelieve.’

  ‘That’s right. I don’t like going there anymore.’

  ‘Did you ever like it?’

  She shrugs. ‘The kids are sweet. And I like the way the lake brings up a cool breeze.’

  Joseph laughs. ‘Sounds romantic. The hum of the refrigerator, the scent of bleach on a shitty toilet bowl . . .’

  ‘Stop mocking me. At least I’m making—’

  He puts an arm around her. ‘Just teasing, honey. Don’t worry.’

  Honey. Ruby blushes all the way down her neckline.

  ‘So,’ Joseph says. ‘How ’bout you take me along next time? I’d sure like to see the wonders of Funnylakes.’

  ‘What? Are you mad? Mr Haney’s mother�
��’

  ‘She doesn’t need to know. You said there’s trees. I can hide out. Keep an eye on you. Then you do your rummaging, we get the proof and take it right to your detective.’

  ‘Yeah. But I got fired. Mrs Estrada told me yesterday.’

  ‘So what? Pretend you didn’t get the message. Ring Mr Haney up tonight and ask if you’re supposed to come in tomorrow. For forty cents an hour. Cheaper than anything. He won’t say no.’

  ‘You think that’s gonna work?’

  ‘Like piston grease on roller-skates. You’ll get some college money and save a white man from dangling, and therefore you won’t be guilty of . . . what’d you call that? Inverted lynching?’

  Ruby elbows him in the side. ‘Don’t even joke about that.’

  ‘If you can’t laugh, you gonna cry. So you better laugh.’

  ‘That’s what Momma used to say.’

  ‘No wonder she got a daughter like you.’ He squeezes her. ‘Come on. Let’s get your sister some breakfast.’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Mick

  O

  n TV, when a case is closed, there’s this moment of elation. Perry Mason grins in triumph as the guilty man is led away. When it all clicks into place, the chief will shake Joe Friday’s hands and he’ll be thanked by a lady with a tremble on her crimson lips. The officers will crowd to cheer, and the youngest, the one with freckles and shiny eyes, will say: ‘Gee, Mr Detective, I sure wish to be as good as you some day.’

  Reality isn’t quite like that.

  Santa Monica station is humming the tune of a Thursday morning. Just as Mick weaves past the officers, Jackie raises a hand to stop him. ‘Murphy’s considering a deal. If McCarthy gives up Joyce’s remains, maybe he’ll dodge the rope.’

  ‘All right,’ Mick says. ‘Sounds about fair.’

  ‘Wait. You’re forgetting the tickets.’ She hands him an envelope.

  ‘How’d you do that?’ He thinks of Genevieve Crane. ‘I thought they were sold out.’

  ‘I told them I’m from the police.’ She winks. ‘Although I’m not sure you can claim for them anymore. Now that it’s over.’

  Now that it’s over. That’s about as much cheering as he is going to get.

  He pockets the Amblioni exhibition tickets and surveys his office. The crime scene photographs are buried under soda bottles. He pushes them aside and picks up the picture of the kitchen. It’s a good photograph. You can almost feel the warm rays of the sun filtering through the curtains.

  If only it weren’t for the bloodstains. That’s the thing about crime. Twenty years a cop, and he never gets used to the loss. Jimmy might reveal the location of Joyce’s body. They’ll dig her out and bury her properly. But a murder cannot be undone. No matter how much policing he does, the blood stain will never disappear.

  He should tidy up in here. Get ready for the next tragedy. And the one after that. Maybe, in ten years, they’ll give him a golden lapel pin.

  Ah, forget about it. He grabs the car radio, just in case, and his notebook. Maybe a final chat with Haney will cheer him up.

  *

  At Griffin Corps, Mick is ushered into a climatized meeting room with views of Beverly Hills. Somewhere in the haze beyond lies Sunnylakes, where hundreds of wives stand in hundreds of kitchens and wait for their husbands to escape from meeting rooms just like this one.

  He’s just taken a seat on a leather couch when Haney enters. The man has made it past wrecked and is now merely broken. His hair is freshly cut and his tie a tasteful match to his blue shirt. Only the bags under his eyes speak of too many sleepless nights, and many more to come.

  ‘Detective,’ he says. ‘I ought to thank you. For everything you’ve done. I . . . I should feel relieved, right? But I just keep thinking I’d love to twist that bastard’s head right off.’

  Mick shakes the proffered hand. It is slippery and cold. ‘That’s entirely normal,’ he says. ‘Just don’t actually do it. I’ve come to tell you that we’ve even offered him a deal. If he gives up the body, he might not swing.’

  ‘It will go to trial, though, right?’

  ‘The evidence is overwhelming,’ Mick replies. And a jury of Frank Haney’s peers will do the rest.

  Haney nods. ‘My lawyers will need to know about any holes in the case.’

  ‘No holes.’ Mick forces a grin on his face. ‘Well, some witnesses have told us different things, but that’s entirely normal in—’

  ‘What? Who?’ Haney’s face pales. ‘You just said the evidence is overwhelming.’

  ‘It’s just . . . it’s not quite clear yet where McCarthy was during the time Deena Klintz was shot. He handed in his car at a garage that day. We found it. I mean, Miss Wright found it, actually.’

  ‘The help?’

  ‘Just by coincidence. Her steady works in the garage where McCarthy handed in the car. The papers show he did so at the time of Deena’s murder. But the fellow running the place is cooking his books. It’s not going to be a problem.’

  ‘But what’s she got to do with you? Why’d you talk to her?’

  ‘She was a witness, remember? Which reminds me, we need to speak to your boss again to confirm your whereabouts on the day. There seems to be some doubt about how long you spent at the conference, and—’

  ‘That also something Ruby told you? What’s going on here?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Something pings in Mick’s stomach. ‘Mrs Ingram is our star witness. With her help, it’s a watertight case.’

  Haney’s handshake is firm this time. Mick lets himself be guided down the corridor and to the lifts.

  ‘Send it back up, will you?’ Haney tries a tired smile. ‘I’ll do a half-day today. I want to be with my kids.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Mick keeps his face tight until the doors click shut. Then he bites his knuckles and curses. You and your big, fucking trap. If Ruby wasn’t already fired, that would have cost her her job.

  He pats his coat pocket, where the Amblioni tickets sit crisp and tight. The Buick won’t start, but he bangs his fists on the dashboard until the engine comes on with a whine. Five minutes later, he’s on the road to Sunnylakes.

  *

  Mrs Crane’s lounge is a haven of sophisticated tranquility. On his way here, Mick thought long and hard over which excuse he could use to see her again. Closing the case, however, is as good a reason as any. He called Jackie to tell her he’d be out all day tying up loose ends with the witnesses, and now he finds himself back on the comfortable couch, a lemonade in hand. Mrs Crane is grief-stricken, but composed.

  ‘How sad that it must end like this,’ she says. ‘I had really hoped . . . I mean, it sounds silly, but she is not alive anymore, right?’

  Mick lowers his head with a suitable amount of gravity. ‘I’m afraid it’s unlikely.’

  ‘I knew it. I knew it the first day.’ She sighs. ‘When Deena and I drove to the house on Tuesday afternoon, I had this feeling that something horrible had happened.’

  ‘Well, it was a crime scene.’

  ‘But you couldn’t tell from the outside. I mean, the police and the neighbors were all out searching. The house wasn’t locked up. We had no idea it was something this bad. Deena even went inside. She had something she wanted to return to Joyce, so she just popped in to leave it in the house while I walked around to find Laura Kettering. The whole search operation was organized from her backyard. When Deena returned, she was shaking. She told me she’d seen blood all over the kitchen.’

  In Mick’s head, a billion particles compress into a star. Deena stole the paintings. But she did more. The beer bottle. Now you see it, now you don’t. It wasn’t there in the morning, and then it appeared in the afternoon. What had Ruby said? It was weird-looking.

  Damn that Hodge and that ugly lawn chair. What good is crime scene tape if you snooze in the garden and don’t lock the goddamned front door?

  ‘She planted that goddamned beer bottle,’ he mutters. ‘I can’t believe we’ve been
so stupid.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He shakes his head. ‘The crime scene photos taken the afternoon after Joyce disappeared, they show a big-ass bottle of Blue Ribbon on the kitchen counter. Right by the sink. But when I visited the scene earlier that same morning, it wasn’t there. I thought I’d just missed it.’

  ‘You think Deena . . . ?’

  ‘She drank with Jimmy McCarthy. We found more bottles at her house.’

  She stares at him. ‘Detective, I’m not sure if I should ask this, but do you want a drink?’

  The whiskey is excellent. Not that blended shit, but real, single malt. Mick listens to his intestines twang and allows himself a smile. He always had Genevieve Crane down as a whiskey girl.

  She inhales the vapors from her glass before she sips. ‘Why did she do it, do you think?’

  ‘Leave the bottle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To blackmail Jimmy. To make really, really sure she could nail him down. They were intimate, did you know?’

  Mrs Crane looks up sharply. Her lips compress, which makes her look too much like a schoolmistress for Mick’s liking.

  ‘I didn’t know. Oh, my. Who told you this?’

  ‘Nancy Ingram.’

  Mrs Crane sighs. ‘Of course. I should have known.’

  ‘Known what?’

  ‘Deena had only one ally in that committee and that was Joyce. No matter what I tried, the other women could not see past her . . . origins. With Joyce gone, Deena was fair game.’

  ‘Maybe she ought to have behaved better around her best friend’s lover.’

  She pinches the bridge of her nose. ‘It is more complex than that. A woman like Deena cannot win. Society tells her that she needs a man to be complete. And if she does not find one, she is branded a failure. I know that, despite their friendship, Deena was jealous of Joyce, of all she had achieved through her marriage. Perhaps she thought that Jimmy might do for her what Frank did for her friend. Give her a kind of stability. A feeling of worth.’

  Mick nods carefully. ‘But she also tried to blackmail him.’

  ‘To coerce him. From the moment she was born, Deena was told that she was worthless. Perhaps she simply couldn’t imagine that a man would stand by her just for her sake. She wanted to make sure he wouldn’t up and leave, like all the others.’