I couldn’t wait any longer. Not with those treasures out on the sidewalk. Suppose she decided there was something valuable in there and came out to reclaim them. I called Del.
“Hello. Del, this is Haggerty. Get over here. Right now. Immediately. I don’t care if you’re buck naked.”
“All right, all right. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“Make it three. I’ll pay the ticket.”
When Del pulled up next to me, I told him to go to the 7-Eleven and buy some large green trashbags and enough newspapers to scrunch up and fill them.
Del returned with the stuff, put it into my car, and hopped in. While we filled up the bags, I talked.
“Now listen. We’re going to go down there and switch these bags for her trash. Her house has the copper siding on the top of the front porch. I’m leaving as soon as I’ve got the trash. You’re on her until I return in the morning. If she goes anywhere or has any visitors, call me on my beeper, immediately. No matter what the time is.” I started the engine. “Del, one last thing. Don’t lose her. I don’t care if you get burned. Just don’t lose her. I want to know where she is at all times. There’s no case to protect here. It all goes down tomorrow. You understand?”
“Have no fear, Delmarva’s here.”
I rolled down my window as we backed out of the lot and headed for her house. As we rolled slowly down the block, I listened for any dogs. Sweet silence. We rolled past her house and turned in the cul-de-sac at the end.
As we headed back, Del asked, “Is this legal, what we’re doing?”
“Absolutely. The laws of garbage are all with us. It’s out for pickup, in an open area and unlocked. That makes it public domain. Slide out with the bags. Put them on the curb and toss hers in the car. If I have to leave anything behind, it’ll be you, not the trash.”
“I hear you.”
I stopped in front of her bags. Del ghosted out, dropped the matching bags, put hers in the car, and pulled the door closed behind him.
“All right. Well done. You’re now a professional garbologist.”
Del looked thrilled. I laughed. “Never saw this on TV, did you? Well, this is real detective work, Del. This is nothing, though. Next, we’ll do a motel dumpster. Say in August, when the smell’s so bad it’ll make your nose bleed. And the flies and bees are all over your head while you fish out the bags with a coathanger. Then it’s rubber gloves and tetanus-shot time. You come across some strange shit going through other people’s garbage.”
I dropped him at his car and headed back to the motel. I felt like my birthday and Christmas had arrived. If I’d had anyone to share it with, I might even have been happy.
31
I carried the bags into my room and set them on the floor by the bed. Returning to the car, I took a plastic tarpaulin and latex gloves from the trunk.
Back in the room, I turned on all the lights and unfolded the tarpaulin so that it covered the bed. Years ago, the latex gloves were mostly for protection from the distasteful or disgusting. Nowadays, even an accidental contact with a stranger’s bodily fluids was fraught with danger. I pushed the fingers down and flexed my hands. All I needed was a hunchbacked dwarf as an assistant and a raging storm outside. So, Doctor, I mused, what wonders will spring from this detritus?
The first bag had two smaller plastic bags inside. I pulled them out, set one on the floor, and dumped the other on a corner of the tarpaulin. My experienced eye concluded “Basic Bathroom” before it all stopped moving. I picked through ripped panty hose, moist Kleenex, a disposable razor, cotton balls with makeup on them, soap slivers, Q-Tips, a toilet paper roller, a burned-out bulb, and a couple of tampon tubes.
Once these were rebagged, I emptied the second bag. This was from her laundry room. Dryer lint, an old sponge, cleaning rags, an empty Clorox jug, and an Arm & Hammer detergent box.
I sealed up the two little bags in the larger green bag. Slivers of doubt started to push through me. Maybe there’d be nothing here. Maybe she had a shredder in her house. Maybe she was real careful, too.
This bag had a smaller one inside. I set that out and dumped the larger one onto the center of the bed. This was “Classic Kitchen.” I spread it out evenly and stepped back. Maybe I should spray a fixative on it and call it art: Suburban Spill-life. Maybe not.
I started picking my way through coffee filters and grounds, an empty fifth of Jack Daniel’s, Diet Coke cans, junk mail addressed to resident, crumpled napkins, and balled-up aluminum foil that I opened up to no avail.
Next were a soapless steel wool pad, paper towels, an egg box, the wrapper to a stick of butter, and a carry-out menu from a local Chinese place. The only food was two grapefruit rinds and a steak bone. Food disposers have added years to a garbologist’s career. No molds, fungi, or larvae anchoring themselves to your gloves or crawling up your arms.
The rest of the pile was tea bags, corks, a cereal box, a bag of frozen peas, two Mexican TV-dinner packages, and an empty salsa jar.
The last bag was almost all mail. Probably the trashcan in her home office. I spread all the papers out and read each one carefully before tossing it back in the bag. First to go was her professional mail. Book clubs, workshop announcements, association meetings. Then I discarded her magazines, grocery tabs, late notices on her car loan and mortgage, and the agenda for a homeowners’ meeting. There was no personal correspondence in the pile. The last papers were bills. Some were just envelopes. Some had the stubs with them. Mobil, Exxon, Virginia Power, Falls Church Water Authority, Skyline Health Club, Media General Cable, Bloomingdale’s, Macy’s, AAA Trash Removal, Dr. Harry Joyce M.D., Obstetrics and Gynecology. Not a thing of use on any of them. Ripped up credit card chits told no tales. I flipped over the next bill. C&P. The long-distance call log was not there, only the pages explaining how the bill was computed and what taxes were levied. However, across the top of each page were printed the user’s phone numbers. There was Sylvia Francis’s name on the account and the back door she had used into BMR’s data banks. The circle was completed, and when it closed I heard the click of handcuffs.
32
Riding my optimism, I packed up my few belongings. I wanted to remove any trace that I’d ever lived like this. That done, I took a shower and called my service.
“Hello, this is Leo Haggerty. I have a message for Reverend Brown. Tell him that I’m fine and I believe this will be my last night under a rock. If things go well, it should all be over tomorrow and I’ll call to confirm that. Do you have that?”
“Yes, Mr. Haggerty. Is that all?”
“Yes … uh, no. I have a message for Randi Benson. ‘Hang in there. I’m sorry this all happened. It’ll be over soon. Love, Leo.’ Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
I lay down on the bed and played out all the options I could imagine. How to approach Sylvia Francis. How she might react. What my response should be. I tried to anticipate all her qualms, imagine her conflicts, her needs and fears, and how they balanced. How to shunt her into doing what I wanted and to think that it was also best for her. When I was done, I saw a way to let her maze be my funnel. Her shrewd negotiations my inevitability.
Tomorrow, our dreams would clash and then we’d pick our way through the debris we call life.
I called a friend and made some arrangements for the day’s events. Like Mr. Rickey said, “Luck is the residue of preparation.”
My last call was to Sam. Mercifully, she answered the phone herself.
I sat in silence for a while, then asked, “Why is this so hard?”
“A lot’s happened, Leo. It’s happened to us alone. None of it’s easy to talk about, especially on the phone.”
“Can’t we try? It’s not going to be like this forever. A day, two at the most, and it’ll be all over. We can go home and start living again.”
“Leo, it’s not going to be over. Not for a long time. Not for me, anyway.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do for y
ou? Any way I can help? There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.”
“No, Leo, stop. Please don’t say that.” There was a steel edge to her plea. The executioner asks the condemned to have some dignity.
I said nothing.
“Leo.”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“You can do one thing for me. Tell me the truth. Why is this man after you? What did you do? Why did this happen to us, to you, to me.”
The lie was on my tongue instantly, but the truth was paralytic. I knew what I should do, but that wasn’t enough. Insight isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It’ll name your crossroads, but it won’t move your tongue.
I scribbled a few quick equations on the walls of my skull. What does she know? Guess? Wish? Fear? Which way is out? What can I keep? What gets left behind?
I opened my mouth and a stranger said, “The night I was out with Arnie, the guy we picked up planted a key in Arnie’s car. That’s what the guy wants. That’s what it’s all about.”
“Thank you, Leo. That’s pretty much what I thought.”
I sat there in a silence I rarely ever knew. No plots, no deeds, no plans played in my head. No voices, no images, no future. Just the empty present. The slowing click of an empty movie reel.
“What are you going to do, Leo?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let the police handle it, Leo. If you have anything, give it to them. Let them bring him in. You won’t fix anything by killing him. Arnie won’t come back. I won’t feel any different. What’s important happened between you and me, not him.”
From the frozen center of things, I said, “Maybe I’ll feel better. Maybe it’ll fix that.”
“And maybe you won’t, Leo. This guy killed Arnie. What makes you think you can take him? Did you ever think of that?”
“All the time, Sam. All the time.”
“Then keep thinking, Leo. You haven’t made one right move in this yet.”
33
At five, I woke up, showered, dressed, and called Del.
“Hello.”
“Good morning, Del. How’s sleeping beauty?”
“Just that. Lights out at eleven forty-five. Been that way ever since.”
“Excellent. I’m on my way over. What do you want for breakfast?”
“Where you going?”
“Don’t you get your hopes up. It’ll be styrofood no matter where I get it.”
“Okay. How about a biscuit and gravy and coffee?”
“Coming up. I should be there about six-fifteen.”
I cleared my stuff out of the room, turned in the key at the office, and drove away. One more day and I’d have been out of clothes.
When I pulled up next to Del, he shot me a quick look and smiled when I showed him our treats. He unlocked his car and I slid in and handed him his breakfast in a bag.
We unpacked and set out our coffees. I checked my egg, sausage, hash brown sandwich for symmetry and worked my mouth around its perfect preformed circularity. Del handed me his notes from the surveillance. After setting out her trash, Sylvia Francis had stayed downstairs for about thirty minutes. Lights out at 11:07. Upstairs, lights on until 11:45. Probably showering or a little reading. All quiet after that. No lights. No visitors. Nothing.
“Anybody notice that you were here?” I asked and worked on the sandwich.
“No. The only foot traffic was a guy walking his dog, about ten-fifty. I could see him but he didn’t get up this far. At the end of the block he turned around and headed back. He did let his retriever do a nasty all over his neighbor’s lawn, and he didn’t clean it up.”
“High crimes in suburbia, Del. What can I say?” Wiping my mouth, I hastened breakfast on with some caffeinated corrosive.
“Couple of teenagers came in late, around one. Also had some company here in the lot.”
“Yes?”
“Couple of kids making out. So I rolled down my window, hit the stereo, and they vanished.”
“Any police around?”
“Couple of times. Down Cedar Lane. I slid down when they came by. They didn’t see me. Two cruisers were in the Mobil over there about three, swapping donuts and bullshit. That’s about it.”
When Del finished eating, I said, “Let’s go down to her house. Park as close as you can. I’m going to go calling on our subject.”
Del backed out, turned around in the lot, and drove down the street. He parked three spots up from Sylvia Francis’s front door.
I slid out, and before I slammed the door, I ducked down and told Del, “If I’m not out in thirty minutes, call the cops.”
Del checked his watch and nodded.
I pushed the doorbell and put my thumb over the peephole. Two more rings and I was rewarded with a “Who is it?”
“Courier, ma’am.”
“It’s awfully early for a delivery.”
“Well, it’s marked extremely urgent, and we guarantee round-the-clock service. That’s why we’re Early Bird Courier.”
“All right, step back where I can see you.”
I did as she asked. When the door opened, I congratulated myself for keeping the windbreaker with the name tag and the billed cap in the trunk. Add a clipboard, an empty manila envelope, and a smile, and presto, you’re ubiquitous and benign.
Sylvia Francis stepped from behind the door. One hand gripped her china blue silk robe at the throat, the other demanded her package.
I stepped forward and handed her the clipboard to sign. She reached for it with both hands. I poked it against her chest, surged into her house, and closed the door behind me. She staggered back. Before she could turn and run, I pulled out my gun and got her full attention.
“Oh my God.” She gasped and backed away haltingly.
“Not quite. But thanks, anyway.”
“What do you want?” she asked and then gripped her robe tighter, as if that held the answer.
It never ceases to amaze me how precious words are when our lives are at stake. We seem to believe that if we’re still talking, composing thoughts, exchanging them, reasoning together, then we can’t possibly be screaming and bleeding. As if thinking and dying were mutually exclusive. Gunpoint conversations do have the purity of distilled desperation, though.
“I just want to talk to you,” I drawled and punctuated that thought with a big grin.
“Okay, sure, we can talk. Whatever.” Sylvia relaxed and nodded her head enthusiastically. Her eagerness to talk reflected her confidence in her mind. She’d lull me with her patience and interest in whatever I had to say, but her cunning mind would plan a trap for me. If we were going to match wits, then she was in no danger from me.
“Good. You see, I tried to talk to you once before, but you didn’t have any time for me. So here I have to go and do something like this.”
“I’m sorry, really. I don’t remember the situation. I’m sure there was a good reason why we couldn’t talk then.”
“Oh, there was.” I pointed my gun at her sofa. “Why don’t we sit and relax. No need to be so tense.”
“Sure, uh, can I get you some coffee or something?” Her hands trembled as she made the offer.
“Is it fresh? I just can’t stand instant.”
“Yes, I was just putting it on. Uh, are you hungry? I’ve got some fresh croissants.” I furrowed my brow. “Uh, rolls.”
“Sure, yeah, that’s good. Some of them.” I wasn’t sure how long I could keep this up, but it was fun.
I followed her into the kitchen. She pushed a button on a small drip coffee maker and opened a bakery bag. While she did that, I reached down and unplugged her kitchen phone. Then I sat down and crossed my legs and let my gun dangle as casually as a cigarette.
I watched her back as she moved barefoot from cupboard to cupboard, getting cups, plates, spoons. A memory of Sam, padding about, sun dappling her legs under one of my shirts, shuddered through me and I almost shot her on the spot.
She microwaved the croissants, put them on two pla
tes, poured the coffee, and looked up between each action to see if I was still smiling. I lifted my cup and beamed at her, letting her know I relished her every act of service.
“Would you like some butter or jam on that?”
“Yeah, that sounds good. And how about some cream for this coffee?”
She brought the items from the refrigerator, set them out on the table, and sat down with her hands in her lap. I put down my coffee and pointed my gun right between her eyes.
“Take out the knife you put in your pocket and put it on the table. Slowly.”
She clenched her jaw and slowly reached into the robe. The blade she put on the table was six inches of carbon steel.
“A little much for spreading butter, don’t you think?”
I pulled the blade over and balanced it on my saucer.
Sylvia’s blond hair was wet and slicked back, not a good look for her. Her ears were long-lobed, thin and translucent, like natural pearls mounted on her head.
“So, let’s talk,” I began affably. “I called you at your office to discuss your relationship with Mr. Terry Onslow, and you didn’t want to talk. Now I can understand your reluctance. This could be a trap. I could be bluffing. You already had a deal going to get your data back from Onslow.” That last nugget got her attention.
“I don’t have time to screw around with you, so I’m going to prove to you that you have to deal with me. Here’s the bottom line. Terry Onslow found out that you were backdooring your way into BMR’s data base and fucking around with their data. So he deleted the real data and hid it from you. You need that stuff pretty bad, so you hired somebody to get it back. Well, your boy fucked up. I’ve got the data. So you have to deal with me.”
A Fistful of Empty Page 13
