“I know you did.”
“And a damned good thing I was mistaken, with no better priest than yourself to hear my confession. By Jesus, didn’t I find a rare lot of bad old things to tell you!”
“You went on for a while.”
“I have to say I don’t regret it. Oh, there’s more than a few of the deeds I regret. A man would have to. But I don’t regret telling them all to you.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“And you still stood with me and saw the night through, even after all I said.”
“To tell you the truth,” I said, “I don’t remember very much of what you told me.”
“What, were you not paying attention?”
“Close attention. I hung on every word. But they didn’t stay with me. They passed through me and I don’t know where they went. Wherever such things go, I guess.”
“In one ear and out the other.”
“Something like that,” I agreed. “All I really remember is the first thing you mentioned. About taking out the man’s eye and showing it to him.”
“Ah,” he said. ‘Well, that would be a difficult one to forget, wouldn’t it?”
Later he said, “I’ve been thinking of what I might do next.”
“I was wondering about that.”
“You know, we had a good laugh about the feeling I had.”
“The premonition.”
He nodded. “It may not have been altogether wrong. There are different ways of dying, and of being reborn. I’m unscratched, but hasn’t my whole life gone and died around me? Grogan’s in ruins, and the farm in ashes. Kenny and McCartney gone, and Burke and Peter Rooney. And Tom Heaney. And Andy.
“Gone, all of them. And O’Gara and his wife. And the pigs and the chickens, all gone.” He smacked the steering wheel. “Gone,” he said.
I didn’t say anything.
“I was thinking,” he said, “that I’ve no place to go. But it’s not true. I have a place to go.”
“Where’s that?”
“Staten Island.”
“The monastery,” I said.
“The Thessalonian Brothers. They’ll take me in. They do that, you see. You go there and they take you in.”
“How long will you stay?”
“As long as they’ll have me.”
“Do they allow that? Can people stay for a long time?”
“For a lifetime, if you want.”
“Oh,” I said. “You mean to stay there.”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“What’ll you do, exactly? Will you become a monk?”
“I don’t know that I could do that. I’d be a lay brother, most likely. But ‘twill be for them to tell me what I ought to do and when I ought to do it. The first step is to go there, and the second is to get one of them to hear my confession.” He smiled. “Now that I’ve tried it out on you,” he said. “Now that I’ve learned it won’t kill me.”
“Brother Mick,” I said.
As we were crossing the George Washington Bridge I said, “There’s something we’re forgetting.”
“And what would that be?”
“Well, I’m not sure I should mention this to a future servant of God,” I said, “but we’ve got a dead body in the trunk.”
“I’ve been thinking of it,” he said, “ever since we got in the car.”
“Well, I haven’t. It slipped my mind entirely. What the hell are we going to do with him?”
“It would have been best to leave him on the farm. To bury him there. He’d not have lacked for company. Or even to lay him out there on the lawn with the other dead. He threw in with them, he could lie with them, in the bed he made.”
“It’s too late for that now.”
“Ah, it was too late throughout, for how could we carry him through two or three miles of woods? And I didn’t want to leave him where we parked the car, and even if we’d found a shovel and buried him there somebody could have come upon the grave. I’ll tell you, the man’s as difficult to contend with dead as he was alive.”
“We have to do something,” I said. “We can’t just leave him in the trunk.”
“Now I was wondering about that. Isn’t it his car? And who has more right to be in its trunk than the man himself?”
“I suppose you’ve got a point.”
“I thought of leaving it on the street,” he said, “in his beloved Bronx, with the doors unlocked and the key in the ignition. How long do you think it would take before somebody took it for a ride?”
“Not long.”
“And they might keep it for a good long while, especially if we took care to leave it with a full tank of gas. Of course if they had a flat tire, and went looking for the spare . . .”
“God, what a thought.”
“Ah, it’s a hard old world if you can’t laugh, and even if you can. Do you know what I think I’ll do? I’ll wipe the fucker free of prints, as it’s full of mine after all the use I’ve given it this past week. And then I’ll take it over to the piers and run it into the river, with the windows rolled down so it’ll sink and stay sunk. Can they get fingerprints off a car hauled out of the water?”
“There was a time when they couldn’t,” I said, “but they probably can by now. I think they can just about lift them off motes of dust dancing in a beam of light.”
“I’ll wipe it good,” he said, “before I shove it off the edge. Just to be sure.”
After a moment I said, “What’ll you tell his mother?”
“That he had to go away,” he said without hesitation, “on a dangerous mission, and that it might be awhile before she heard from him. That should hold her for the few years she’s got left in the world. She has cancer, you know.”
“I didn’t.”
“Poor thing. I’ll pray for her, and him too, once they’ve taught me how.”
“Pray for all of us,” I said.
I rode up in the elevator, used my key in the lock. By the time I had the door open she was standing in front of me, wearing a black robe I’d bought for her. It had white and yellow flowers on it, and tiny butterflies.
“You’re all right,” she said. “Thank God.”
“I’m fine.”
“TJ’s sleeping on the couch,” she said. “I was going to bring dinner over to him but he insisted he could come over for it, and then I wouldn’t let him go home. I was afraid, but I don’t know who I was afraid for, him or me.”
“Either way, you’re both all right.”
“And you’re all right, and thank God. It’s over, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s over.”
“Thank God. And what about Mick? Is Mick all right?”
“He had a premonition,” I said, “and that’s a story in itself, but it turns out he’s got a touch of astigmatism in his third eye, because he’s fine. In fact you could say he’s never been better.”
“And everybody else?”
I said, “Everybody else? Everybody else is dead.”
“I’ll remind you,” Ray Gruliow said, “that Mr. Scudder is here of his own volition, and that he’ll answer only those questions I’m willing for him to answer.”
“Which means he won’t say a goddamn thing,” George Wister said.
And that turned out to be pretty close to the truth. There were half a dozen cops in the room, Joe Durkin and George Wister and two guys from Brooklyn Homicide and two others whose function was never explained to me. I didn’t much care who they were, because all they could do was sit there while I said essentially nothing.
They had no end of questions, though. They wanted to know what I knew about Chilton Purvis, whom they’d linked to the murder of Jim Faber as a result of information received, which meant that somebody’s snitch had indeed come up with the news. They didn’t have any evidence to support the snitch’s word, however, and so far they hadn’t been able to find an eyewitness to the Lucky Panda shooting who would look at Purvis’s body and ID him as the shooter.
I c
ouldn’t help them out. Anyway, I figured it was their own fault. If they’d coached their witness properly he’d have given them what they wanted.
Maybe one or both of the unidentified men in the room were from the Bronx, because there were questions about Tom Heaney and Mary Eileen Rafferty, which turned out to be the name of Tom’s landlady. Tom, I learned, had been shot with bullets from two different guns, and none of the slugs matched any of the bullets retrieved in any of the other homicides in question, although one matched up to a bullet dug out of a corpse in SoHo in 1995. Since most of the players had spent that year in Attica, I figured the gun had some old history attached to it.
All in all, I didn’t really give them anything, and I didn’t pay close attention, either. I just sat there and watched Ray, and I didn’t open my mouth unless he gave me a nod. And he didn’t do that very often.
I suppose we were there for about an hour, and then Wister lost it a little and said something nasty, and Ray had been waiting for that. “That’s it,” he said, getting to his feet “We’re out of here.”
“You can’t do that,” Joe said.
“Oh, really? Just watch us.”
“And kiss your license goodbye,” Wister said. “I got papers on my desk, formal request for the state to pull your ticket, with all the reasons laid out to make it real easy for them. You walk out of here and I fill out the rest of it and toss it right in the mail.”
“And there’ll be a hearing,” Ray said, “and you’ll be subpoenaed, which I know you fellows just love. And by the time the dust settles he’ll have his license back, along with a whole lot of newspaper coverage to make him look like a hero.”
“He won’t look like a hero,” Joe said. “He’ll look like a fucking criminal is all he’ll look like. Which more and more is what he’s been looking like anyway.”
“That’s enough,” Ray said.
“No it’s not, it’s nowhere near enough. Matt, what the hell’s the matter with you? You’ll lose your license.”
I said, “You know something? I don’t care if I do.”
“Don’t say another word,” Ray said.
“No,” I said, “I’ll say this much, and I’m saying it to you as much as to them. They can do what they want, and if the state rescinds my license that’s fine. You could fight it, and maybe we’d win, but it’s not worth the bother.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Joe said.
“I know I got along fine without a license for over twenty years,” I said. “I don’t know what the hell made me ever think I needed it. Maybe I make a few more dollars with it than without it, but I always made enough. I never missed a meal, and back when I drank I never lacked the price of the next drink. You want to pull my license? Go right ahead. What the hell do I care?”
We walked out of the station house and down the steps, and when we were out of earshot Ray said, “They’ll get your license pulled, and I’ll get it back. Not a problem.”
“No,” I said. “Thanks, but I wasn’t just sounding off. I mean what I said. We’ll let it go, and the hell with it.”
“You never needed it in the first place,” Elaine assured me. “What, so you can work for a few more lawyers? And they can bill a little higher for your services? The hell with that.”
“Exactly my point.”
“Besides,” she said, “we know the real reason you got the license. You wanted to be respectable. And it’s like all those folks on the Yellow Brick Road, baby. You were respectable all along.”
“No,” I said. “I wasn’t, and I’m still not. But the license didn’t change anything.”
And that would be a good place to leave it, except there’s a little more to the story. Like everything else, it’s not over till it’s over.
That was in September, and in mid-December we got a Christmas card with a return address on Staten Island. It said Season’s Greetings instead of Merry Christmas, no doubt in deference to the Jewish vegetarian he’d once given a ham to, and inside, beneath an unexceptionable printed message, he’d written God’s love to you both and signed it Mick.
Elaine said she was sure he’d sign it Fr. Michael F. Ballou, S. J. I said he was with the Thessalonians, not the Jesuits, and she said goyim is goyim.
Then in late April TJ mentioned that he’d passed Grogan’s and had seen a Dumpster at the curb and a construction crew hard at work. I said evidently there’d be a Korean greengrocer in there before long.
And then a week later the phone rang, and Elaine answered it and came to tell me I’d never guess who it was.
“I bet it’s Father Mick,” I said.
“Ah, Jaysus,” she said, “and get along with ye, and haven’t the wee folk gifted ye with the second sight your own self?”
“Begorrah,” I said.
I picked up the phone and he invited me to come down and see how the work was progressing. “Of course it’s impossible to get it so it looks old,” he said, “and there are bullet holes they want to cover up, and they ought to be left as they are. There’s history to them.”
I went over there, and for all of that they seemed to be doing a good job, and getting it more right than not. I said I gathered this meant he was back in business.
“I am,” he said.
“You said you’d stay there until they kicked you out.”
“Ah. Well, they didn’t do that. They’d never do that.” He took a drink from his silver flask. “They’re lovely men,” he said. “The nicest men I’ve ever met in my life. And they were so good as to let me take my time to realize for myself that I didn’t belong there. I half wish I did, but I don’t, and they allowed me to see as much.”
“And here you are.”
“And here I am,” he agreed. “And glad to be back, and are you glad to have me?”
“Damn glad,” I said, “and so’s Elaine. We missed you.”
His story, as I said early on, his story far more than mine. But how could you ever get him to tell it?
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author is pleased to acknowledge the considerable contribution of the Ragdale Foundation, in Lake Forest, Illinois, where this book was written. He is grateful, too, to the following venues, all in Greenwich Village, where some of the early work was done: the Writers Room, Caffè Lucca, Caffè Vivaldi, Peacock Caffè, Homer’s Restaurant, the Jefferson Market branch of the New York Public Library, and the coffee shop of Barnes & Noble on Astor Place.
About the Author
The prolific author of more than fifty books and numerous short stories, Lawrence Block is a Mystery Writers of American Grand Master, a four-time winner of the Edgar Allan Poe and Shamus Awards, and the recipient of literary prizes from France, Germany, and Japan. Block is a devout New Yorker who spends much of his time traveling.
BOOKS BY LAWRENCE BLOCK
The Matthew Scudder Novels
The Sins of the Fathers • Time to Murder and Create • In the Midst of Death • A Stab in the Dark • Eight Million Ways to Die • When the Sacred Ginmill Closes • Out on the Cutting Edge • A Ticket to the Boneyard *A Dance at the Slaughterhouse • A Walk Among the Tombstones • The Devil Knows You’re Dead • A Long Line of Dead Men • Even the Wicked • Everybody Dies • Hope to Die
The Bernie Rhodenbarr Mysteries
Burglars Can’t Be Choosers • The Burglar in the Closet • The Burglar Who Liked to Quote Kipling • The Burglar Who Studied Spinoza • The Burglar Who Painted Like Mondrian • The Burglar Who Traded Ted Williams • The Burglar Who Thought He Was Bogart • The Burglar in the Library • The Burglar in the Rye
The Adventures of Evan Tanner
The Thief Who Couldn’t Sleep • The Canceled Czech • Tanner’s Twelve Swingers • Two for Tanner • Tanner’s Tiger • Here Comes a Hero • Me Tanner, You Jane • Tanner on Ice
The Affairs of Chip Harrison
No Score • Chip Harrison Scores Again • Make Out With Murder • The Topless Tulip Caper
Other Novels
After the First Death • Ariel • Coward’s Kiss • Deadly Honeymoon • The Girl With the Long Green Heart • Hit List • Hit Man • Mona • Not Comin’ Home to You • Random Walk • Ronald Rabbit Is a Dirty Old Man • The Specialists • Such Men Are Dangerous • The Triumph of Evil • You Could Call It Murder
Collected Short Stories
Sometimes They Bite • Like a Lamb to Slaughter • Some Days You Get the Bear • Ehrengraf for the Defense • One Night Stands • The Lost Cases of Ed London
Anthologies
Death Cruise • Master’s Choice • Opening Shots • Master’s Choice 2 • Speaking of Lust • Speaking of Greed • Opening Shots 2
Books for Writers
Writing the Novel from Plot to Print • Telling Lies for Fun & Profit • Write for Your Life • Spider, Spin Me a Web
EVERYBODY DIES
“Lawrence Block’s estimable private eye Matthew Scudder is one of the most fully developed and credible characters working in the genre today . . . In Everybody Dies, Block reshuffles the deck by putting his protagonist and his closest friends in real jeopardy . . . Block does a masterful job of showing us that words can sometimes be more powerful than bullets—when wielded by a master of the genre.”
Chicago Tribune
“HARROWING . . . A GRAND, GRIPPING, AND GRISLY TALE . . . This is Block at his best, right up there with 1992’s A Walk Among the Tombstones and the Edgar-winning A Dance at the Slaughterhouse.”
Everybody Dies (Matthew Scudder) Page 29
