For a moment, after succeeding in getting out all he had gotten out, Jan felt Steve was withdrawing. That shake of his head and the lowering of his voice seemed to say, “In my condition I can’t do any thing about it anyway, so maybe I should let it go.”
Steve stared at her silently from across the table, the glow of the candle on the table reflecting in his eyes making him seem distant and vulnerable. Not his old melancholy self like before the stroke, some thing different. He looked like he needed more than rehab at Hell in the Woods, or going through old magazines trying to reconstruct the past. That’s when Jan decided to tell him about the investigating she’d done.
“Ever since you brought up the fact that you had a funny feeling about Marjorie’s accident, it’s been bothering me. We both wondered why no one bothered to clean up the puddle in the hallway that night. I began to wonder if someone felt they should leave it there for a while as proof she did slip and fall, that is was an accident. I also began to wonder about Marjorie dying en route to the hospital. Why would the paramedics take time to wipe up the blood if Marjorie was still alive and might be saved?
“So, yesterday and the day before, I did a little checking. I spoke to that nurses’ aide who found Marjorie, the one who took Marjorie’s walker back to the nurses’ station. When I first met her in the hos pital administrator’s office, I could tell she was reluctant to say any thing that might get her in trouble. So this time I met her for lunch, treated her to lunch to be exact. We spoke about other things at first, to make her feel comfortable. Then I brought up Marjorie’s fall, tell ing her that whatever she said I’d keep between the two of us. Well, maybe the three of us.
“Anyway, I found out she’s pretty sure Marjorie was dead when she found her. And the reason the paramedics reported the death took place in the ambulance was that she knew one of the paramedics and he suggested they do it that way to avoid unnecessary paperwork as well as any problems she might have with her superiors because of her being new on the job.
“After that I got in touch with the ambulance service and spoke with the two paramedics. They were pretty touchy about the whole thing, but I had a feeling they’d be that way if anyone came asking about time of death of one of their patients. They wouldn’t admit to anything except that sometimes determining the actual moment of death is tricky, especially in an emergency. When I asked about wip ing up the blood, they said one of them had time to quickly wipe it up while the other was wheeling Marjorie out and that it did not delay their departure.”
Jan could see this had aroused Steve’s interest. He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. He smiled a big old smile like the one he always gave her when she came to visit. Then he said, “You fishy kid.”
He laughed at this, apparently realizing how silly it sounded, then said, very slowly, “Went fishing … but something else. You did it … back to square one.”
“So,” she said, “you think I did good on my fishing expedition?”
“Yes.” “Think I eliminated the possibility of a conspiracy at Hell in the
Woods?” “Could be.” “Should I check some more?” “No.” He’d said it a little loudly, and repeated it more softly,
squeezing her hand. “No.” “You said something earlier about Marjorie indicating there was
something in the past that might be the key.” “Keys,” said Steve. “More than one.” Then Steve squeezed her hand again and frowned. “No more. Us.” “Us?” “Yes.” “You want to talk about us?” “Take care.” “We should take care of ourselves instead of fishing around?” Steve smiled. “Yes. You rest. Go with Lydia. Me back to rehab.” On the way to the funeral she had told Steve that Lydia was driv
ing to Wisconsin for a long weekend to visit friends from college. “You
mean you remember me saying Lydia is going on a trip?” Steve smiled. “Yes.” “And you want me to go?” “Go. Vacation. Getaway.” She stood, went around the table and hugged him. “The hell with
going away now, especially after the magic you did in your head today,
pulling out details the way you have.” “You should go,” he said, looking up at her. Before they left the restaurant they said goodbye to Ilonka who
gave them a box of strudel to take with. “New low fat recipe,” said Ilonka, smiling and wiping her hands in her apron.
When Jan arrived home that night she changed then went into the kitchen. She put ice in a glass, a shot of Johnnie Walker, water. Maybe Steve was right. Maybe it would be good to get away for a long week end with Lydia, especially the way Steve insisted before she left him.
In the living room she went to the stereo cabinet and rummaged through a shelf full of CDs and old cassette tapes. Several tapes Steve had added to her collection when they married. She selected one of Steve’s tapes and put it into the cassette deck. When she sat down on the sofa and the music began, she felt a melancholy wave of nostalgia for this music of ancestors she and Steve shared, both of them having had grandparents who lived in Hungary. But this was not the real reason for her nostalgia. The real reason was because the tape she se lected was the same one Steve had played for her ten years earlier just after they met.
She remembered he had gone out to his car to get the tape when, while asking questions related to her husband’s murder, he found out she was half Hungarian. She stood and took her drink to the window and looked out into the parking lot.
When she’d gone to the window ten years earlier in the previous apartment on the second floor and looked down into the parking lot, there had been an unmarked police car parked there, the police left to guard her because of her brief but terrifying kidnapping earlier that day. When Steve went out to his car to get the tape, he waved to the cops in their car on his way down the sidewalk, then ran back to the apartment like a little kid, his prize in his hand, his coat tails flapping like a bird too young to fly.
It was violin music. A music she remembered from long ago.
Something her grandfather played for her on his small record player at the nursing home before he died. She had been in high school then, already dressing pretty outrageously—jeans with holes, tee shirt with no bra—and she remembered that her grandfather seemed the only person in her family with whom she could communicate.
“My grandfather had records like this,” she had said.
Steve had smiled, his smile more melancholy then. “It’s Sandor Lakatos, the famous Gypsy violinist. He learned the violin from his father, and his father from his father. Five generations of Hungarian Gypsy violinists.”
The solo violin began slowly, almost weeping, exactly the way it had been on her grandfather’s record player back in the nursing home. Although the tune increased in momentum, it maintained a haunting feeling as each note faded in and out. In a way, the music was like a stroke, starting slowly, then going faster and faster, approaching a cli max using the mystery of its minor keys.
She recalled Steve standing on the other side of the coffee table playing an imaginary violin, swaying from side to side as he stared at her with those dark eyes that seemed larger at a distance.
The music sped up, other instruments joining in. Steve kept play ing the imaginary violin, smiling at her, then laughing when the music became so fast he could hardly keep up. When the song ended they both laughed and, following Steve’s lead, Jan drank down the wine she had poured for them.
The next song was very slow, at first seeming sad, but there was a contradictory pleasure to the anguish, the music soothing like watch ing a sad movie and enjoying the sadness.
Again, Steve played along, swaying as he bowed his make-believe violin, alternately staring at her and closing his eyes. Perhaps he’d been thinking about the tragic death of his fiancee in Cleveland as the music played. His first love struck down in pointless violence. Per haps she’d been thinking that she would become like him, melancholy for the rest of her life.
They drank the wine down between songs, put the glasses on the table, and danced.
Steve held her tightly and they danced slowly, his arms strong, his legs pressing against hers, his breath at her ear. When the music sped up they continued holding one another as they danced faster and faster and the music grew louder and louder.
“The czardas!” said Steve.
“I know! I remember my grandfather dancing it with me at a wedding!”
“How old were you?”
“Very small! He bent over!”
They danced around the living room, into the dining room. When the czardas ended, another slow song played and Jan led, waltz ing them slowly, very slowly, down the hall to her bedroom.
They fell onto the bed in the dark, side by side, Steve’s arm across her breasts. After a moment Jan stood and turned on the light. Steve looked up at her, sat up. The music from the living room sad as hell and Steve’s eyes sad as hell and her sad as hell she hadn’t met him twenty years earlier.
When the music ended and the tape deck clicked off, Jan put down her glass of scotch. She had wished the scotch into red wine served ten years earlier. For a few minutes, while the music played, Steve had been there. She had been able to recall the evening vividly because it was the first time they had made love. She wondered if the same evening was somewhere in Steve’s brain. That evening trying its best to fight its way through dead and injured brain cells to make it self known once again in sad minor keys. Could those have been the keys Steve referred to when he mentioned Marjorie’s past? Perhaps Marjorie’s death reminded him of his mortality. Memories from the past locked away, and if only one could find the keys before …
As she stared at her empty glass, Jan recalled what Steve had said about the glass he’d found near Marjorie’s body. Something about a sink in a janitors’ closet and him thinking maybe the puddle on the floor had been made by someone using the glass to spill water there. He’d wanted to have her give the glass to someone to get fingerprints off it, but somehow the glass had broken. Now, as she recalled Steve telling her this, she wondered if the disappointment he expressed was because of a glass that had broken, or because of his realization that the story of the glass might have been concocted in his head.
She thought of Lydia again, and the long weekend coming up. It was late, Lydia had said she was going to leave Thursday night and was probably already gone. Obviously she had delayed calling because she did not want to go, but wanted Steve to think she’d gone. She recalled Steve saying, “You fishy kid,” and wondered if the “fish” in what he said was an indication he’d been thinking about what she was think ing right now. A fishing expedition.
A name came to mind, someone Steve had used for fishing expedi tions. So easy to go on a fishing expedition when she and Steve knew a guy like Phil Hogan who had his fingers in so many things and had a reputation at the Chicago PD for being unable to keep his mouth shut, especially when he was drinking, and, according to some, he was always drinking.
She recalled that, before his stroke, after a phone conversation with Tamara, Steve had said something about Phil Hogan maybe being on the take, something about wondering whether Phil should be trusted. But Phil seemed friendly enough, especially lately. Could be a good sign. Could be Phil was having some luck getting off the booze, not drunk all the time and that’s why he’d been calling more often asking how Steve was doing.
Jan wondered if maybe she should call Tamara and ask her what she thinks, both about the fishing expedition and about whether Phil was someone to be trusted. But if she called Tamara, it wouldn’t be a fishing expedition. What would happen is that Tamara would want to arrange to speak with Steve and her together. Then, if there was something worth fishing for, Tamara would insist on opening an offi cial investigation. And, for some reason, it seemed that was something Steve did not want to happen right now. If she was going fishing, it had to be on her own. Chances are she’d find nothing, but at least she’d feel good knowing she’d done it. At least she would have tried. Steve seemed genuinely pleased with her questioning of the nurses’ aide, and she’d done that on her own. No involvement on Steve’s part, no big waves, only small ones.
She reached for the phone and punched in a number.
“Yeah.”
“Phil?”
“Jan, that you? Hey.”
“Yeah, Phil, it’s me.”
“Hey, honey, how’s good ol’ Steve doing?” Once Phil relaxed his guard she could tell from his voice that he’d been drinking as usual.
“He gets a little better each day. But it’s gradual and I find myself wanting him back exactly the way he was, yet knowing it may never happen.”
“Yeah, I been thinking ‘bout you guys a lot. Everyone downtown who ever worked with Steve asks about him. Even his old boss from cop days.”
“Donovan?”
“Yeah, Donovan the schnause.”
“Phil, Steve asked me to tell you about this other guy named Phil who’s got a room across from his at Saint Mel’s. He asked me to do it when I was listing names of friends one day and your name came up. He said to tell you what this other guy named Phil says all the time.”
“Oh yeah? Did this guy have a stroke like Steve?”
“Yes, he did. But a little more serious.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. What does this Phil say?”
“Apparently he’s only able to say two words, always the same two words. I’ve heard him and sometimes it’s kind of funny. I guess that’s why Steve wanted me to tell you. He likes to tell people things that make them laugh.”
“Okay, Jan, honey. Make me laugh.”
“Jesus fuck.”
“What?”
“Jesus fuck. That’s all the guy ever says. If you say hello to him, he says, Jesus fuck. If you ask how he’s doing, he says, Jesus fuck.”
“I guess that could be pretty funny, depending on the circum stances,” said Hogan, beginning to sound more sober, as if he knew this couldn’t possibly be the reason she called.
“Anyway,” said Jan, “I promised Steve I’d call you sometime and tell you that. And one other thing as long as you’re on the line.”
“What’s that?”
“Suppose someone at a nursing home was found dead and hap pened to be related to a guy named Max Lamberti. And suppose some one else at that nursing home thought maybe some water was spilled on the floor to make it appear that this older relative had slipped, but she really hadn’t slipped. And suppose further the glass that had been used to spill some water around was available to fingerprint.”
When he did not answer immediately, Jan wondered if she’d said too much.
“You there, Phil?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“So, what do you think?”
“I don’t mean to be rude, Jan, honey, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. Is this something Steve wanted you to ask me?”
“No. It was someone else at the nursing home attached to the place where Steve’s a resident. This woman I’ve gotten to know there told me this crazy story, and when I told her I knew a cop or two, she asked me if I’d ask around about it.”
“This woman gave you that name … What was it?”
“Max Lamberti? Yes, she gave me the name.”
“The name rings a bell, Jan. Of course I don’t personally know the guy, but with a name like that in a city like this …”
“The mob?”
“Could be, Jan, but it would only be a guess on my part. If you like I’ll check around and give you a call if I find anything.”
“Thanks, Phil. I really appreciate it.”
“Sure, Jan, sure. And say howdy to Steve next time you see him.”
After Jan hung up she retrieved her glass and went into the kitchen. She rinsed the glass in the sink and put it on the counter. As she stood at the kitchen sink staring down into the drain where the disposal waited to tear apart flesh or anything else that would fit down there, she remembered the cesspool in hell joke Steve said he shared in rehab. Standing in a cesspool up to their chins, all the people in hell w
ho’d chosen the door behind which there’d been no screams of pain are whispering, “Don’t make waves,” to one another.
So maybe it was time for her to make a few waves. Or maybe she’d already made some, because she knew damn well Phil Hogan must have known exactly who Max Lamberti was. Phil Hogan had been one of Steve’s main sources at Chicago Police Headquarters. And during the last ten years, Jan understood enough about Steve’s cases to know Phil Hogan made it his business to know all the hoods in the city.
As she got ready for bed, she made plans for the next day and hoped she was doing the right thing. What the hell. Maybe she could do something to find out if there was a possibility Marjorie had been murdered. And if so, the unearthing of a case for the two of them to work on would most likely do more for Steve’s recovery than all the magazines in the world.
After turning out the bedroom light, she realized she’d left the light on in the living room. On her way down the hall to turn out the light, she saw movement at the kitchen window and paused in the hallway. After a few seconds, and having seen nothing, she mumbled, “Right, probably a monkey escaped from the zoo was swinging in the tree branch. Or better yet, maybe there’s this thing called wind that moves the branches from time to time and causes shadows from the parking lot.” Then she realized the reason the movement had caused her to stop was because she was still used to the kitchen window on the second floor where it was above the small tree near the entrance.
In the living room, after turning out the light, she parted the drapes to look out at the parking lot and saw a man standing beneath the light in the center of the lot. The man was short and his clothes were baggy. Although the light was above and behind him, she could see he wore a baseball cap. And by the way he moved, punching the air like a shadowboxer, she saw the cap was on backward. Funny thing about this was that even though it was obvious the cap was backward, there didn’t seem to be much of a profile on the man, or at least much of a nose.
Final Stroke Page 15
