by Laird Barron
Two straight mornings I awoke, sweating and panicky. These were the bad old days of my youth once again.
I kept busy during the day with numerous calls, including one to Detective Rourke. Rourke provided me with a short list of names and addresses courtesy of his pals on the gang task force. He didn’t want to “know nothing about nothing.” Station scuttlebutt indicated the Feds were definitely sniffing around, but that was old news of course.
I made a couple of local trips. Over to Newburgh first. Merely a recon mission to get the lay of the land and a feel for what opposition might await me in The Battery. Newburgh wasn’t by any stretch a tourist attraction. The wrong side of its tracks reinforced the notion that the Great Recession of the 1980s clamped steely fingers around its throat and hung on like grim death. The rough end of Kingston seemed posh by comparison. Fifteen minutes parked in a chain supermarket lot, I counted more gang badges in the form of do-rags, bandannas, and plaid jackets than I’d seen in a year on the streets of Anchorage. No doubt, The Battery was the place to go if one desired an ass whipping or a bullet through the brain.
My second trip took me to Gardiner, a town south of New Paltz, in search of Dr. Peyton. For a hundred bucks I cadged his address off Mr. Blandish, the clerk at Grove Street Academy. Blandish informed me that the doctor had x’d out his schedule until Monday for a conference in Seattle. Peyton, his wife, and four kids, lived in a modest late-model home on a quiet street lined with similar houses. I spent an afternoon in the shade of a maple watching a cute blond kid shoot free throws into a collapsible hoop stand. Mom, harried and frowning, came and went in the family Subaru, but no sign of her husband. I concluded that he really had gone to the Pacific Northwest and wasn’t lying low.
Meanwhile, life around the farm slowly returned to its normal rhythms. Horses to be fed and shit to be shoveled were things that never changed. Each day Jade dressed in her riding duds and led mighty Bacchus into the lunging ring. Without Reba’s gentling touch, he’d regressed to a mythic beast, rearing and taking great swipes at Jade with his jaws. The sessions were brief and I sensed that the horse got the better of their engagements. He tore through fences but didn’t wander far, almost apathetic in his defiance.
Thursday after sundown, Lionel appeared on my doorstep schlepping two duffel bags clanking with hardware. We spent a joyous hour or two breaking down and checking over an assortment of pistols, shotguns, and rifles. The question was where to stash my arsenal, as leaving it lying around the cabin was a no-go.
My compatriot walked me through his foolproof method of securing illicit weaponry—guns I wanted to keep accessible were stored in the space between the interior and exterior wall behind the Hercules painting. Everything else got greased and sealed into vacuum bags with oxygen absorbers, then slid into PVC pipes with caps screwed onto either end. We humped the collection to a hollow tree behind my shack, wrapped the works in a canvas tarp, and stashed it within.
Lionel explained he’d used a similar method to secure a quantity of semiautomatic and fully automatic assault rifles on the property. His stockpile hadn’t come cheap. Ex-president Obama, a black northerner and liberal Democrat, terrified heaps of libertarians and conservatives. Conspiracy theories regarding UN databases and secret gun-confiscation programs had flourished, along with a concomitant run on tinfoil. The typical response whenever the GOP was ousted from power. On the bright side, Obama’s retirement signaled an end to extortionate rates for weapons and ordinance.
“Jade would definitely not approve,” Lionel said as we rested on the porch, him with a cigarette, me with a glass of cold lemonade. “‘Live by the sword, die by the sword,’ she’d say.”
“Chop up the other bastard with your sword, is what I say.”
“An excellent sentiment.”
Emmitt, the salvage dealer, rumbled into the yard, leaning on his horn by way of greeting. The old man parked. He waved to Lionel.
Lionel slapped his knee and laughed.
“Oh, yeah! Almost forgot. I bought you a present.” He went to the van and briefly chatted with the codger. Money changed hands. He returned toting a modest flat-screen television and a set of speakers. “Dunno where Emmitt scored this. Probably hot. But who gives a shit? Let’s wire this puppy. I got about three tons of bootleg DVDs for you to peruse.”
“No offense, but I’m not much for Bollywood porn.”
“Okay, two-point-five tons of DVDs for you to check out.”
* * *
—
BY FRIDAY MORNING the weather cooled and the easterly breeze tasted damp. I welcomed it. I welcomed action after the lull of preparation.
Calvin Knox’s words continued to whisper in my hindbrain. Reba was definitely dead and one or more of the Three Amigos had done the deed. That they remained so conspicuously absent from the affairs of the world cemented their culpability in my estimation. How to find them and extract the truth? Via the White Manitou—and the direct route into the Manitou would be through someone the gang trusted or needed. I rolled the dice on the gang’s interest in a steady supply of scrips supplied by an unscrupulous psychiatrist—Peyton. There were other ways. Ways more suited to a patient man.
Dr. Jefferson’s garden party fit my purposes. One whale of a bash, highlighted in a preview on the society page of the Kingston Star. Local celebrities from every list would be in attendance. I made certain to put on clean underwear and my second-best suit, which was still “snazzy enough for government work,” as Dad would’ve said.
* * *
—
THE JEFFERSONS WERE Nouveau riche, and that by the skin of their pearly whites. Wouldn’t suspect the thinness of the veneer from the aspen-girded drive, the topiary and fieldstone fences, much less the elegant lines of their old Georgian mansion and the fleet of limos and luxury cars arrayed in the huge white-cobbled lot. Clean-cut boys in livery parked those fancy vehicles and toted handbags while guests proceeded in twos toward the curving granite steps.
A functionary was probably supposed to check my invitation at the massive oak-paneled door, but, seriously, of the countless times I’d crashed parties over the years, nobody ever had the balls to try it. Besides, I looked damned fine in my Brooks Brothers special. Made me wistful I’d gone stag—Meg would’ve shone diamond bright on my arm. Dangerous to think that way about a woman I hadn’t even slept with yet. Also, the lady was no trophy and would’ve slugged me for even fantasizing it.
Oh, yes, I had it bad, which was bad.
I helped myself to a glass of pink champagne, albeit merely to blend in. A one-drink limit was my vow for the evening. My preferred bull-in-a-china-shop approach might be less than useful in this environment, if occasional prior experience of galas and high society soirées could be trusted to guide me through the woods. This was a vipers’ pit, and, no mistake, keeping my wits was job one. Unless someone pissed me off. Then I could booze it up for an imminent battle. So that was the exception.
I put on a brute scowl and swaggered a bit. No takers, though.
The floors were either polished marble or covered in exquisite Persian carpet. Furniture had been imported from exotic lands where everything was carved for giants who adored scrollwork on every last household decoration. The gold-tiled ceilings backed a hanging garden of small chandeliers—a massive, multitiered affair glowed like the moon in the parlor where all too many suits and dresses congregated, sucking down cocktails between bouts of tittering, guffawing, donkey-braying peals of laughter. A quartet of solemn men played chamber music. I loathe chamber music unless it’s performed by scantily clad lasses and the volume is dialed to zero, and I’m drunk.
Bobby the Whip, a Deluca soldier I’d met at the Sultan’s Swing, bumped my arm as he waltzed by with his dame of the evening, a redhead who’d plastered on plenty of eye shadow and rouge. He winked and told me not to murder anybody if I could help it—it was a real nice party, see. I patted his ar
m and made no promises. I fleetingly speculated how long it’d be before I had to shoot him and a few of his wiseguy pals.
Deeming it best not to dwell on melancholy fantasies, I proceeded to mix with my betters. An attractive older lady in a taffeta gown gestured to several other women as she explained that the modern mansion stood upon the foundation of the Colonial house—a cannonball remained lodged in one of the walls to this very day! The hors d’oeuvres were tasty crab cakes, fancy crackers with dip, and caviar. Every time a waiter approached bearing a platter, I availed myself of the goodies and praised my forethought in arriving on an empty stomach.
Amidst sipping champagne, munching crab cakes, and smiling at the pretty lasses, I located one of my quarry. Dr. Neil Jefferson reposed on a divan near the cold hearth, surrounded by several men. From their receding hairlines and easy, if refined, jocularity, I took them for colleagues in the headshrinker racket. Dr. Jefferson was pushing fifty and billiard bald. He wore rimless glasses and, for reasons beyond me, a gray turtleneck. While conducting his audience, he nonetheless noted my presence. His lips curled into a momentary sneer that vanished as he devoted his attention to one of the sniggering sycophants and pretended to dismiss the spooky-eyed lummox encroaching upon his inner circle.
I’d performed due diligence. The good doctor graduated medical school in the late ’80s and gone on to a distinguished and lucrative career. Fifteen years ago, his wife, Melinda, inherited a bit of money from her parents. Currently, she traveled in Spain pursuing her career as an architectural consultant. The union had produced one child: sweet dancing queen Kari. Reading between the lines of a hundred newspaper columns, I figured Dr. Jefferson to be well connected with law enforcement, and undoubtedly the darker element as well.
I set my empty glass on a passing tray. I crossed my arms and frowned the way heavies in movies do when they’ve come to collect a past-due debt. It had the desired effect.
Dr. Jefferson excused himself and approached.
“Hello. I don’t believe we’ve met. Dr. Neil Jefferson. And you are . . . ?” His hand felt brittle and damp.
“The bell that tolls for thee, doc.” I clamped my grip precisely enough to put a smidgeon of fear in his eyes.
“Hi, Uncle Eli!” Kari swept in and caught my elbow and stood on tiptoe to peck my cheek. “Dad, this is Reba Walker’s uncle.” She might as well have put air quotes around uncle. The blue dress and pearls were decidedly more conservative than the last ensemble I’d seen on her. Calvin Knox, who’d obviously been attending to the girl, was decked out in a tuxedo. He gave me a discreet thumbs-up.
“Uncle Eli,” Dr. Jefferson said, comprehension dawning. “Kari says you’ve decided to assist in the search for Reba.”
“Hi, and yes,” I said.
“I invited him, Daddy.” She dazzled me with a klieg-light-quality smile that said Don’t blow my cover stripping for thrills and dope.
We’d see how it went. Everything was on the table.
Daddy dearest glanced from me to his daughter to her stylish older man with his Super Fly Afro and back again. Dr. Jefferson radiated a no doubt carefully cultivated aura of icy command. Just so, bracing him in his castle while his daughter and guests observed proved to be to my advantage. Cracks splintered his façade. The curl of his lip, the flare of his nostrils, suggested a slipping of control. Spasms ticked his left hand like he was trying to crush a walnut.
“Erm, how . . . nice,” he said.
“Oh, oh—this is Calvin Knox,” Kari said, reaching out and pulling Calvin’s sleeve until he stepped forward. “He’s a photographer.”
Dr. Jefferson’s expression revealed that he had jumped to unpleasant conclusions regarding the type of photography Calvin indulged in.
“Freelance news stories,” Calvin said. He exuded an impressive combination of modesty and arrogance. “I was a war correspondent.”
“He won an award!” Kari said, clutching his arm.
“Lovely,” Dr. Jefferson said. “Which award?”
“The Pulitzer!”
“You won a Pulitzer?” I said to Calvin. “Do they even give those to black guys?”
“The white dude got robbed,” he said.
Dr. Jefferson stroked his chin while propping his elbow in his free hand. Classic trick, that. Calvin’s Pulitzer revelation hadn’t seemed to impress him much.
“Fine, Eli. Perhaps you would care to join my friends and me for a drink?”
“I don’t wish to meet your pals,” I said. “We need to have a conversation. Private.”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed, doc.”
“As you will.” He smoothed his turtleneck and frowned the frown of an important man tasked with a trivial yet inescapable obligation. “Mr. Knox, help yourself to refreshments. Kari, please excuse me for a few minutes . . .”
“On second thought, she should tag along,” I said.
Kari’s smile wavered, then reasserted itself.
“If this is about Reba, yes, I want to hear what Uncle Eli has to say.”
“Of course you do, kiddo,” I said.
* * *
—
DR. JEFFERSON MADE HIS APOLOGIES to the other men and briskly shepherded us into his den. The books in cases were newish, lending the impression he’d acquired titles by the gross from central casting. He seated himself behind a pristine oak desk and made a steeple with his fingers to obscure his mouth.
“You dislike psychiatrists,” he said, demonstrating his ability to read minds.
“I dislike lots and lots of people,” I said and seated myself on the edge of the desk. I snagged a peppermint candy from the ornate glass bowl next to the chopping-block arrangement of fountain pens and a genuine human skull paperweight. “Gee, doc. I’m surprised you didn’t go all out with quill and ink.” I crunched the peppermint in my teeth.
“Touché. Second drawer, all the makings. Parchment, sealing wax, et cetera.” He watched me intently.
“Your daughter is a stripper.”
“Hey!” Kari gave an anguished yelp, smothered by her hand.
“The tension was killing me,” I said. “Besides, your old man already knew.”
“Daddy?”
“Yes, dear,” Dr. Jefferson said.
Kari’s sobs may or may not have been genuine. The rage in her teary eyes when she glared at me crackled convincingly enough.
Dr. Jefferson tutted and said, “You are quite excellent at innuendo and intimidation, sir. Thugs and lowlifes such as yourself gain much amusement from terrorizing the innocent. Is that why you came here? To embarrass and bully us? Kari, now you see why I didn’t want you associating with that girl. This is the reward for your charity.”
I counted to five and tried again.
“Reba is missing. The only thing I want—”
“I haven’t a clue about where Reba Walker has gotten to. Nor does Kari. Dig for clues elsewhere—you’ve overstayed your welcome.”
I sat on the edge of the desk and stared at him impassively.
“You remind me an awful lot of a guy I shot a few years ago. He too yipped and yapped with patrician arrogance. More important, he lied through his teeth and assumed I, an ignorant savage, would swallow it.”
There were several ways Dr. Jefferson might’ve reacted. My expectations were divided among bluster and counterthreats of lawsuits, leave the premises or he’d summon the cops, or maybe a stammering denial. Instead, his shoulders sagged.
“Reba Walker likely ran afoul of criminals. She kept bad company.”
“The last person to see her was your daughter,” I said.
“No! Wait!” Kari wiped away tears. “I told the cops, I told you—she was at the apartment when I took off for work that day. I don’t know where she went.”
“Not to tell a plow horse how to pull, but perhaps you’d do better interr
ogating the ruffians with whom Ms. Walker associated,” Dr. Jefferson said.
“Oh, that’s why I’m here. Grove Street Academy and the Smyth and Coe pain clinic are pill mills.” I showed him a bottle of OxyContin with Reba’s name dated three weeks before. “I found bottles for five different medications. None of which she needs, according to her guardians. She’s been off the program for a long time. There’s Dr. Harold Peyton’s name printed on the label. Odd.”
“I don’t oversee Grove or the clinic—”
“Dr. Harold Peyton.” I waved the bottle. “A dear friend and colleague of yours. He’s chowing down on caviar in the ballroom as we speak.”
“Yes. Whatever you are accusing Dr. Peyton of—because we’re associates—”
“Close personal buddies.”
“—just because we’re associates doesn’t indicate any malfeasance on my part.”
“Doesn’t it?” I was enjoying this, his embarrassment, his dread and fear. Reformation hadn’t cured my taste for tormenting assholes.
“Despite what you may believe, I’m not party to the corruption that has, allegedly, overtaken my colleague. Interrogate him, if you must. But I’d prefer you do it elsewhere.”
“Nah, I don’t really give a rat’s ass about either of you. Your daughter is who I want. Kari ran with Reba and Reba’s dubious associates as a thrill. Isn’t that right, honey? For some reason, we never have an honest conversation. Doc, I hope you can prevail upon her to come clean and name names. Buy her a new car, a pony, whatever. The alternative isn’t happy for anyone.”
