Arthur found himself swaying on his feet while the gentle chirping went on and on. In this fashion he learned about the gentleman in the first-floor rear, the gentleman in the second-floor rear, and the gentleman in the third-floor front. It was as though her conversational stream had been dammed up so long that now it was released there was no containing it. And through it all he sustained himself with one thought. He had got away with murder—really and literally got away with murder. When the door to the storage room closed behind him, Charlie Prince could rot away without a soul in the world being the wiser. The checks would come every month, five hundred dollars each and every month, and there was Ann Horton and the world of glory ahead. The best of everything, Arthur thought in and around Mrs. Marsh’s unwearying voice, and he knew then what it felt like to be an emperor incognito.
* * *
—
The monologue had to come to an end sometime, the heavy door was locked and stayed locked, and Arthur entered his new station with the confidence that is supposed to be the lot of the righteous but which may also come to those who have got away with murder and know it beyond the shadow of a doubt. And even the tiniest fragment of unease could not possibly remain after he met Mrs. Marsh in the hallway one evening a few weeks later.
“You were right,” she said, pursing her lips sympathetically. “Mr. Prince is eccentric, isn’t he?”
“He is?” said Arthur uncertainly.
“Oh, yes. Like practicing writing his name on every piece of paper he can get his hands on. Just one sheet of paper after another with nothing on it but his name!”
Arthur abruptly remembered his wastebasket, and then thought with a glow of undeserved self-admiration how everything, even unforgivable carelessness, worked for him.
“I’m sure,” observed Mrs. Marsh, “that a grown man can find better things to do with his time than that. It just goes to show you.”
“Yes,” said Arthur, “it certainly does.”
So, serenity reigned over Mrs. Marsh’s. It reigned elsewhere, too, since Arthur had no difficulty at all in properly endorsing those precious checks, and even less trouble in spending the money. Using Charlie Prince’s wardrobe as his starting point, he built his into a thing of quiet splendor. Drawing from Charlie Prince’s narratives, he went to the places where one should be seen, and behaved as one should behave. His employer beamed on him with a kindly eye which became almost affectionate when Arthur mentioned the income a generous aunt had provided for him, and his acquaintance with Ann Horton, who had seemed strangely drawn to him from the first evening they spent together, soon blossomed into romance.
* * *
—
He found Ann Horton everything he had ever imagined—passionate, charming, devoted. Of course, she had her queer little reticences—dark little places in her own background that she chose not to touch upon—but, as he reminded himself, who was he to cast stones? So he behaved himself flawlessly up to the point where they had to discuss the wedding, and then they had their first quarrel.
There was no question about the wedding itself. It was to take place in June, the month of brides; it was to be followed by a luxurious honeymoon, after which Arthur would enter into a position of importance in the affairs of Horton & Son at a salary commensurate with that position. No, there was no question about the wedding—the envy in the eyes of every fine young man who had ever courted Ann Horton attested to that—but there was a grave question about the ceremony.
“But why do you insist on a big ceremony?” she demanded. “I think they’re dreadful things. All those people and all that fuss. It’s like a Roman circus.”
He couldn’t explain to her, and that complicated matters. After all, there is no easy way of explaining to any girl that her wedding is not only to be a nuptial, but also a sweet measure of revenge. It would be all over the papers; the whole world of fine young men would be on hand to witness it. They had to be there or it would be tasteless in the mouth.
“And why do you insist on a skimpy little private affair?” he asked in turn. “I should think a girl’s wedding would be the most important thing in the world to her. That she’d want to do it up proud. Standing there in the living room with your father and aunt doesn’t seem like any ceremony at all.”
“But you’ll be there, too,” she said. “That’s what makes it a ceremony.”
He was not to be put off by any such feminine wit, however, and he let her know it. In the end, she burst into tears and fled, leaving him as firm in his convictions as ever. If it cost him his neck, he told himself angrily, he was not going to have any hit-and-run affair fobbed off on him as the real thing. He’d have the biggest cathedral in town, the most important people—the best of everything.
When they met again she was in a properly chastened mood, so he was properly magnanimous. “Darling,” she said, “did you think I was very foolish carrying on the way I did?”
“Of course not, Ann. Don’t you think I understand how high-strung you are, and how seriously you take this?”
“You are a darling, Arthur,” she said, “really you are. And perhaps, in a way, your insistence on a big ceremony has done more for us than you’ll ever understand.”
“In what way?” he asked.
“I can’t tell you that. But I can tell you that I haven’t been as happy in years as I’m going to be if things work out.”
“What things?” he asked, completely at sea in the face of this feminine ambiguity.
“Before I can even talk about it there’s one question you must answer, Arthur. And, please, promise you’ll answer truthfully.”
“Of course I will.”
“Then you can find it in your heart to forgive someone who’s done a great wrong? Someone who’s done wrong, but suffered for it?”
He grimaced inwardly. “Of course I can. I don’t care what wrong anyone’s done, it’s my nature to forgive him.” He almost said her but caught himself in time. After all, if that was the way she wanted to build up to a maidenly confession, why spoil it? But there seemed to be no confession forthcoming. She said nothing more about the subject—instead, spent the rest of the evening in such a giddy discussion of plans and arrangements that by the time he left her the matter was entirely forgotten.
* * *
—
He was called into Mr. Horton’s office late the next afternoon, and when he entered the room he saw Ann there. From her expression and from her father’s, he could guess what they had been discussing, and he felt a pleasant triumph in that knowledge.
“Arthur,” said Mr. Horton, “please sit down.” Arthur sat down, crossed his legs, and smiled at Ann. “Arthur,” said Mr. Horton, “I have something serious to discuss with you.”
“Yes, sir,” said Arthur, and waited patiently for Mr. Horton to finish arranging three pencils, a pen, a letter opener, a memorandum pad, and a telephone before him on the desk.
“Arthur,” Mr. Horton said at last, “what I’m going to tell you is something few people know, and I hope you will follow their example and never discuss it with anyone else.”
“Yes, sir,” said Arthur.
“Ann has told me that you insist on a big ceremony with all the trimmings, and that’s what makes the problem. A private ceremony would have left things as they were, and no harm done. Do you follow me?”
“Yes, sir,” said Arthur, lying valiantly. He looked furtively at Ann, but no clue was to be found there. “Of course, sir,” he said.
“Then, since I’m a man who likes to get to the point quickly, I will tell you that I have a son. You’re very much like him—in fact, Ann and I were both struck by that resemblance some time ago—but unfortunately my son happens to be a thoroughgoing scoundrel, and after one trick too many he was simply bundled off to fend for himself on an allowance I provided. I haven’t heard from him since—my lawyer takes care of the details�
�but if there is to be a big ceremony with everyone on hand to ask questions, he must be there. You understand that, of course.”
The room seemed to be closing in around Arthur, and Mr. Horton’s face was suddenly a diabolic mask floating against the wall.
“Yes, sir,” Arthur whispered.
“That means I must do something now that Ann’s been after me to do for years. I have the boy’s address; we’re all going over right now to meet him, to talk to him and see if he can’t get off to a fresh start with your example before him.”
“Prince Charlie,” said Ann fondly. “That’s what we all used to call him, he was so charming.”
The walls were very close now, the walls of a black chamber, and Ann’s face floating alongside her father’s. And, strangely enough, there was the face of Mrs. Marsh. The kindly, garrulous face of Mrs. Marsh growing so much bigger than the others.
And a trunk, waiting.
Animal Rescue
DENNIS LEHANE
THE STORY
Original publication: Boston Noir, edited by Dennis Lehane (New York, Akashic, 2009); revised and published as The Drop (New York, William Morrow, 2014)
AS ONE OF THE MOST DISTINGUISHED WRITERS of mystery fiction—no, change that—of literature, working today, Dennis Lehane (born 1965) has produced fourteen books that have developed an enthusiastic popular and critical following. He began by writing a series of Boston-based private detective novels featuring the team of Patrick Kenzie and Angela Genarro, beginning with A Drink Before the War (1994). Four additional books in the series quickly followed, plus another more than a decade later, one of which, Gone, Baby, Gone (1998), was adapted for a 2007 film of the same title. Directed by Ben Affleck, it starred Casey Affleck and Michelle Monaghan as Kenzie and Gennaro. Lehane, who has gone to work in Hollywood, did not write the screenplay. He said that he never wanted to write the screenplays for films based on his own books because he has “no desire to operate on my own child.”
Lehane’s first nonseries book was Mystic River (2001), which inspired an outstanding film of the same name in 2003, directed by Clint Eastwood and starring Sean Penn, Tim Robbins, and Kevin Bacon. His next book, Shutter Island (2003), also inspired another successful film with the same title as its source. Directed by Martin Scorsese, the 2010 film starred Leonardo DiCaprio and Mark Ruffalo. After writing episodes of the highly acclaimed television series The Wire and Boardwalk Empire, Lehane did “operate on his own child” when he adapted “Animal Rescue” for the film The Drop.
The short story features Bob Saginowski, a sad, lonely man who hears a dog whimpering in a trash can and, with the help of a young woman, saves and nurtures it. The original owner, who had starved and beaten it, shows up and demands its return unless Bob gives him $10,000, easily obtainable from the bar where Bob works that is used by a Chechen mob as a drop for large amounts of money.
“Animal Rescue” was selected for The Best American Mystery Stories 2010. After writing the screenplay for the film based on it, Lehane revised and expanded the story and it was released as a book titled The Drop in 2014.
THE FILM
Title: The Drop, 2014
Studio: Fox Searchlight Pictures
Director: Michaël R. Roskam
Screenwriter: Dennis Lehane
Producers: Blair Breard, Peter Chernin, Dylan Clark
THE CAST
• Tom Hardy (Bob Saginowski)
• Noomi Rapace (Nadia Dunn)
• James Gandolfini (Marvin “Cousin Marv” Stipler)
• Mattias Schoenaerts (Eric Deeds)
Lehane’s “operation” was a success. The film closely follows the story line of his short story, expanding the elements involving the Chechen gangsters who use the bar where Bob works, which is owned by his cousin, Marv.
Although it is a crime film with its share of violence, The Drop is also a touching, poignant character study of loneliness, experienced by both Bob and Nadia, who have something to offer each other.
The British actor Tom Hardy quickly became successful after his debut in Black Hawk Down (2001), appearing in numerous motion pictures, television shows, and theatrical productions. Coincidentally, he had two rescued dogs (one of which died in 2017).
The Swedish actress Noomi Rapace had been working for several years but achieved fame with her portrayal of Lisbeth Salander in the 2009 Swedish film adaptations of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, The Girl Who Played with Fire, and The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest. In 2011, she was nominated for a BAFTA Award for Best Actress for her performance in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.
James Gandolfini was best known for his role as Tony Soprano, the Italian-American crime boss in HBO’s television series The Sopranos. He was universally acclaimed for his performance, winning three Emmy Awards, three Screen Actors Guild Awards, and one Golden Globe Award. His role as “Cousin Marv” in The Drop was his last, as a month after the film wrapped he suddenly died at the age of fifty-one while in Rome.
During the filming, Hardy and Rapace went to an animal-rescue center to prepare for their roles and Hardy adopted a pit bull puppy, which he brought to the set.
ANIMAL RESCUE
Dennis Lehane
BOB FOUND THE DOG in the trash.
It was just after Thanksgiving, the neighborhood gone quiet, hungover. After bartending at Cousin Marv’s, Bob sometimes walked the streets. He was big and lumpy and hair had been growing in unlikely places all over his body since his teens. In his twenties, he’d fought against the hair, carrying small clippers in his coat pocket and shaving twice a day. He’d also fought the weight, but during all those years of fighting, no girl who wasn’t being paid for it ever showed any interest in him. After a time, he gave up the fight. He lived alone in the house he grew up in, and when it seemed likely to swallow him with its smells and memories and dark couches, the attempts he’d made to escape it—through church socials, lodge picnics, and one horrific mixer thrown by a dating service—had only opened the wound further, left him patching it back up for weeks, cursing himself for hoping.
So he took these walks of his and, if he was lucky, sometimes he forgot people lived any other way. That night, he paused on the sidewalk, feeling the ink sky above him and the cold in his fingers, and he closed his eyes against the evening.
He was used to it. He was used to it. It was okay.
You could make a friend of it, as long as you didn’t fight it.
With his eyes closed, he heard it—a worn-out keening accompanied by distant scratching and a sharper, metallic rattling. He opened his eyes. Fifteen feet down the sidewalk, a large metal barrel with a heavy lid shook slightly under the yellow glare of the streetlight, its bottom scraping the sidewalk. He stood over it and heard that keening again, the sound of a creature that was one breath away from deciding it was too hard to take the next, and he pulled off the lid.
He had to remove some things to get to it—a toaster and five thick Yellow Pages, the oldest dating back to 2000. The dog—either a very small one or else a puppy—was down at the bottom, and it scrunched its head into its midsection when the light hit it. It exhaled a soft chug of a whimper and tightened its body even more, its eyes closed to slits. A scrawny thing. Bob could see its ribs. He could see a big crust of dried blood by its ear. No collar. It was brown with a white snout and paws that seemed far too big for its body.
It let out a sharper whimper when Bob reached down, sank his fingers into the nape of its neck, and lifted it out of its own excrement. Bob didn’t know dogs too well, but there was no mistaking this one for anything but a boxer. And definitely a puppy, the wide brown eyes opening and looking into his as he held it up before him.
Somewhere, he was sure, two people made love. A man and a woman. Entwined. Behind one of those shades, oranged with light, that looked down on the street. B
ob could feel them in there, naked and blessed. And he stood out here in the cold with a near-dead dog staring back at him. The icy sidewalk glinted like new marble, and the wind was dark and gray as slush.
“What do you got there?”
Bob turned, looked up and down the sidewalk.
“I’m up here. And you’re in my trash.”
She stood on the front porch of the three-decker nearest him. She’d turned the porch light on and stood there shivering, her feet bare. She reached into the pocket of her hoodie and came back with a pack of cigarettes. She watched him as she got one going.
“I found a dog,” Bob held it up.
“A what?”
“A dog. A puppy. A boxer, I think.”
She coughed out some smoke. “Who puts a dog in a barrel?”
“Right?” he said. “It’s bleeding.” He took a step toward her stairs and she backed up.
“Who do you know that I would know?” A city girl, not about to just drop her guard around a stranger.
“I don’t know,” Bob said. “How about Francie Hedges?”
She shook her head. “You know the Sullivans?”
That wouldn’t narrow it down. Not around here. You shook a tree, a Sullivan fell out. Followed by a six-pack most times. “I know a bunch.”
This was going nowhere, the puppy looking at him, shaking worse than the girl.
“Hey,” she said, “you live in this parish?”
The Big Book of Reel Murders Page 109
