The Art of Deception b-8

by Ridley Pearson

  “Hey there,” LaMoia said, pulling himself up onto a bar stool and checking out the deerskin jacket in the bar’s mirror to make sure it hung right.

  “Hi.”

  “You’re Cindy?”

  “You’re the cop that called,” she said.

  “About Ferrell Walker,” he reminded.

  “Like I told the other guy, I only dated him a couple of times.”

  “Dated?” LaMoia asked. He didn’t remember reading a thing about that. How could Gilgau leave that out? “I thought the connection was Mary-Ann.”

  “Was, yeah, sure.”

  “But you dated Ferrell.”

  “Not for long. Nothing serious.”

  “I’m trying to find him.”

  “So you said.” She met eyes with him, hers a cool gray-blue that he was sure could look frightening if she were mad at you.

  They could make you feel other things, too.

  “You dated him recently?”

  “Two years ago.”

  He understood then why Gilgau would have discounted the importance. That was Ferrell Walker the fisherman, the Ferrell Walker before the fall brought on by his father’s death and his sister’s deserting the family business. He asked, “A week, a month, a couple months, or what?” He couldn’t see this girl with someone so unworthy. Sympathy fucks were one thing-he’d had a few himself-but sympathy relationships?

  “Or what,” she answered.

  “Cute,” he said, not meaning it.

  She left him, tending to a bearded customer in need of another pilsner.

  LaMoia thought about a drink, but it was seriously off-limits.

  So were pills, though he’d transferred the two he’d stolen from Matthews into his clean pair of jeans, and there they remained, in a coin pocket, only the thickness of denim from his enjoy-ment.

  When she returned, she said, “Off and on. He was fishing then, so it wasn’t exactly steady between us. It was fun because we did things with Mary-Ann, that’s all. But it kind of lacked chemistry, you know?” She leaned into him with that twin pair of headlights-her eyes and the ones in the sweater-and induced enough electricity to fry a pacemaker. He understood the sign behind the bar then that warned of the health risks associated with the use of microwaves. Probably guys dropping like flies around there before the sign went up.

  “Well, if it was a lack of chemistry,” he heard himself say, “it wasn’t any fault of yours.” Mikey liked it. He wasn’t sure what drove him to say such things, but there you are. He wasn’t sure about a lot of things. He didn’t lose any sleep over it.

  “That other cop called. You guys are better in person.”

  “Off-duty we get even better.” Where the hell had that come from?

  “Don’t doubt it for a minute.” She glanced over at the clock.

  “I’m off at twelve.” Less than twenty minutes.

  “I was on night duty for all of March. These past few days it has been pretty much twenty-four/seven. It’s hell on your social life.”

  “I doubt you suffer too much,” she said, turning to the bottles after a signal for a vodka on the rocks and overexaggerating the effort as she stretched to reach it. She caught him looking at her assets in the bar’s mirror.

  “Write me a ticket,” he called out to her, not missing a beat.

  “You busted me on that one.”

  She grinned. Bit her bottom lip. “Free country,” she said.

  “And me,” he said, “I’m supposed to keep it that way.”

  She poured the vodka, returned the bottle with a lot less effort, and delivered the drink. Looked like maybe a two-dollar tip for a four-dollar drink-maybe the gymnastics hadn’t been for his sake after all. Woman knew her trade.

  “Walker claimed to a colleague that Lanny Neal had gotten Mary-Ann jammed up with drugs. That he did stuff to her a guy shouldn’t do. Not the good stuff,” he added.

  “Sounds like Ferrell. Listen, Mary-Ann was a big girl. With Lanny Neal-you got the reputation, if you know what I’m saying. He could be hell on a woman, sure. But he was hell with the women, too.”

  “Got it.”

  “She knew what to expect. She could have walked.”

  “You think?”

  “ ’Course she could have. Except he got under her skin, I suppose.” She leaned forward on the bar again. “Some guys do that.”

  “Women don’t tolerate abuse because they’re addicted to the sex,” he said. “It’s because they fear where it’ll go if they ditch out.”

  “You believe that shit?”

  “It’s in the manual that way,” he said, trying to win back some lost ground. He didn’t know if he wanted that ground for himself, or so he could continue to work her. That confusion disturbed him. Uncharted territory this, since his recovery. Dangerous ground even. Part of his distraction were the two pills in the coin pocket. The other part was looking him in the eye.

  She laughed a good laugh, from the gut with her shoulders raked forward. “You’re a piece of work.”

  “That’s what they say.”

  She could hardly believe he’d said that. Neither could he.

  Ten minutes to twelve. He had some decisions to make.

  He said, “Bad luck, what happened to her.”

  “Is it true Lanny did it?”

  “We’re still working that out. What do you think?”

  “Me?” That seemed to floor her. “Under different circumstances, no. From what I’ve read about it … if she’d been wearing more clothes … something like this … I’d say it was just plain bad luck. Wrong place, wrong time. It’s a different town than it was ten years ago, right? You’ve got to see more of that than the rest of us. Whole different place. But I don’t know-underwear and a T-shirt. That makes sense for her going to bed like that, and if she was going to bed, that’s Lanny, so I’d say you’ve got the right guy.”

  “We don’t have him,” LaMoia said.

  This confused her. “But I thought there was just a hearing.”

  “There was.” He realized that people close to Mary-Ann like Cindy Martin had stayed up on events, once again amazed at the connection the media supplied.

  “So? There’s gonna be another one, the paper said.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit,” he said. “Depends on what we turn up.”

  “Where’s Ferrell fit in?”

  “Top secret,” he teased, making light of it. He lied: “Walker’s a character witness in all this. We’ve got to make sure we got someone we can trust.”

  “Ferrell’s okay.”

  “Just okay? Maybe that’s not good enough.”

  “In ballet … you ever been to ballet? … they say you’ve lost your point. The arch of the foot just can’t take it anymore and you lose your point, and you’re basically finished dancing.

  After the accident … Mary-Ann’s dad, I’m talking about, not her … Ferrell lost his point. Lost me, too. Lost Mary-Ann to Neal. Within a year he’d lost everything else. Their daddy held those kids together. Fucked up the boat most all the time … the fishing … pissed them both off. Drank too much, sure. But he held them together. Him drowning like that. Probably should have seen it coming, but it fucked Ferrell up worse than Mary-Ann. Father, son, I suppose. Go figure.”

  “Never heard that ‘point’ expression.” He hadn’t heard a great deal of this, but he didn’t want her necessarily knowing that.

  “Yeah, you don’t strike me as the ballet type.”

  “I’m adaptable,” he said, winning another smile from her.

  “Why do I doubt that?”

  “He says … Ferrell, this is … that Neal was pretty brutal on Mary-Ann. Put her in the emergency room a couple times.”

  “I don’t know about that. The way she told it, that stuff happened out on the boat. Her and Ferrell out there trying to keep it going without their dad. I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first we’ve
heard about Lanny Neal and his women,” he said.

  “Listen, he’s no prince. Lanny has a wicked temper, no question about it. If Lanny was on meth … no, thank you. Makes him goddamn crazy, that stuff. He and Mary-Ann were practically married. Did I notice when she walked funny, or couldn’t use a bum arm? Sure I did. But I’m telling you, she said it happened out fishing, and I believed her. Not many girls work those boats, and those that do don’t do it for very long.”

  “I’d take a Sam Adams if you had one.” He thought about those pills again, how easily they’d go down.

  She drew him a draught beer. He paid with a five and left a couple bucks on the bar. He nursed the beer, not really in the mood to drink but wanting to be a paying customer. She said, “Let me get Stan to fill in behind the bar. I’ll catch up with you over in one of the booths.” The look she offered him took the darkness out of the dim room.

  Ten minutes passed before she joined him. She brought him a fish and chips, telling him he looked like he could use it. She suggested vinegar on the fish, ketchup on the fries.

  “Tell me about this accident,” LaMoia said.

  “What’s to tell? Mr. Walker was a drunk. In this business,”

  she said, glancing around the dark barroom, “you get so you can spot them, believe me. Growing up, I didn’t know it, but trust me, the guy was a fool for peppermint schnapps.” She shook like a wet dog to show her disdain. “The stuff makes me want to puke.”

  “And he died how?”

  “Fell overboard into his own net. Shit happens, what can I tell you?”

  “And Ferrell gets the boat?”

  “It damn near destroyed him, the old man’s death. Him and me … we were an item before that, but he pulled a Humpty Dumpty on me, and I had to bail just to keep my own head together.” She got a faraway look. “Tell you the truth, when I heard Mary-Ann had jumped, I believed it, except that she couldn’t drive over a bridge, much less jump from one. That family paid their dues. A lot was asked of her and Ferrell after their mom passed. The old man on the boat or in the bar wasn’t a damn bit of good to them. Them so young and all. I can see Ferrell flipping out over losing her, because they were this incredible team, the two of them. He flipped out, right? That’s what I’ve heard.”

  LaMoia had read the newspaper articles on the case-all three of them. There’d been little mention of Walker beyond as surviving kin.

  “Why do you say that?” he asked.

  “That’s the word on the docks. Missed work. Got fired.

  Hell … he’s been living on the streets for the better part of the winter. Living like a pig from what I hear. It’s a shame.”

  “Do you have any idea where I might find him?”

  “Is that what this is about?”

  “It’s part of it,” he said, looking across at her.

  “What’s the other part?” she asked.

  “Did he ever bother you? Anything kinky-looking in your windows, that kind of thing?”

  “Ferrell?”

  He registered her astonishment.

  “You think he ever followed Mary-Ann and Neal around?”

  “That’s another story.”

  “Tell me that story.”

  “I’m just saying … yeah, he hassled Mary-Ann about seeing Lanny. Sure he did. What brother wouldn’t?”

  “Hassled how?”

  “Listen, he got down and out, right? Busted. Dead broke.

  And he hit up Mary-Ann for money from time to time. I know that because she told me. And she helped him out when she could, sure she did. But he got to be a pain in the ass, coming around Lanny’s place at all hours, trying to get Mary-Ann back on the boat. But she just wasn’t cut out for it, you know? All those years she’d done it because if she didn’t her father would beat the crap out of her. Stupid drunk. First chance to blow it off, she took it, but it screwed Ferrell in the process, and he kept trying to get her to come back.”

  “So he resented Neal?”

  She leveled a look onto him that let him know what an un-derstatement that was. “Hello?”

  A different picture of Walker was emerging, and LaMoia wasn’t entirely comfortable with it. He knew that Matthews needed to hear the bit about the father’s death and the repercus-sions on both his kids. Ferrell Walker had no doubt carried a lot of the weight of the family given the father’s alcoholism, and he’d cracked under the weight once the father was gone, which wasn’t the first time that story had been told. He thought the loss of the father was a button Matthews could push.

  Cindy Martin fiddled with her hair, an awful color of yellow bought from a box.

  LaMoia saw the change the discussion had brought on her.

  “You all right?” LaMoia asked.

  “Yeah … No. Not really. You think I messed him up, dump-ing him?”

  “Sounds more like his family messed him up to me.”

  “You don’t like the food?”

  He’d picked at it but hadn’t eaten much. “Not that hungry is all. It’s good. Very good.” He stuffed a bite in. Too greasy.

  She checked her watch. “My shift is over.”

  “So it is.”

  “You want to continue this someplace less smoky?”

  “Where do you have in mind?” He met eyes with her. He was hitting on her, and he didn’t know why. He felt like an asshole. He didn’t have to sleep with her, he told himself. He didn’t have to fall into that pattern. Times like this he felt pro-grammed. He thought about the pills again. They were part of the program. They helped him relax, to be himself.

  “I’ve got some pictures of Mary-Ann. That kind of thing. If they’d help?”

  “The father?” He was thinking of a trigger for Matthews to use. He was thinking of that sweater lying on the floor, and this woman along with it.

  “Might have. I’m not sure.”

  “I’ve got wheels,” he said.

  “I’m only a couple blocks,” she said.

  He nodded, knowing he shouldn’t. Some habits were hard to break.

  The wind drove the lines against the aluminum and steel down on the docks as LaMoia walked the three blocks with her. Twice he reached down into the coin pocket and touched the two capsules. He could dry-swallow them. A dozen thoughts churned inside him-images of a bloated old-man-Walker coming up with his net. The meds would slow down all thought, would kill the pain brought on by the wind.

  He knew if he took the pills he’d sleep with her. Two wrongs did make a right when meds were involved. If he wanted to sleep with a woman, he’d sleep with her-so why was Matthews at the forefront of his thoughts? An adolescent urge to prove himself independent of that thought arose inside him. If he drank enough on top of the pills, he might not remember much.

  Wouldn’t be the first time. He could have all the sex he wanted, he reminded himself. He wasn’t tied to anyone.

  Her place was the top floor of a former two-story saltbox.

  When she turned to unlock the door, at the top of a set of stairs added when the floors had been divided into apartments, LaMoia slipped the pills out of the pocket, glanced down at them in the palm of his hand, and then tossed them into the tall grass.

  He apologized to her, told her he couldn’t stay. Had to get back. He’d hurt her by accepting and then refusing. They both pretended otherwise. She said she hoped he hadn’t gotten the wrong idea. He kissed her-a good, solid kiss, one that she’d remember-and said how he wasn’t supposed to mix business with pleasure, and how he could lose his job over it. It was a lame excuse, but she allowed it to go unchallenged.

  “Talking about Ferrell,” she said, as LaMoia turned his back to leave. “He’s a fisherman, don’t forget.”

  “Meaning?” He found himself looking off the stairs, trying to see where he’d tossed the pills. He caught himself reconsidering a chance to lie down with this woman. God, how he needed it.

  “They’re patient,” she said. “They fish three, four, five days and may not catch a thing and then go right back
out there and try again. He’s been doing that all his life. You’ve never met a guy as patient as a commercial fisherman. They’re used to waiting for what they want.”

  “What’s Walker want?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Other than having Mary-Ann back? I don’t know.”

  Not good news for Daphne Matthews. He and she had expected it, but hearing it out of this woman’s mouth made it all the more real for him. “You’ve been a big help.”

  “Could have helped more,” she said, trying one last time.

  “You’ve got someone, don’t you?”

  Did he have? He thought she might be trying to salvage her own pride, so he said, “Yeah.”

  “You have that look,” she said.

  That comment worried him the whole way home.

  Hatred of the Father

  Matthews came awake to the sound of the door’s dead bolts turning. She’d fallen asleep for a few minutes on LaMoia’s king bed, the wide-screen TV halfway through Pollock, a movie she’d been stunned to find in LaMoia’s DVD collection. To rent it was one thing. To own it?

  She hit the wrong button on the remote, sending the volume higher instead of turning off the TV. At least she was sitting up by the time LaMoia appeared in the doorway.

  “You didn’t happen to walk Rehab?” he asked.

  “How’d it go?” she asked. LaMoia shook his head, discouraged. She wanted to explain herself-her being found on his bed-felt she needed to explain, even though he’d invited her to treat the place as her own. “I thought a movie might help with sleep.” She stood up, tugged at her T-shirt self-consciously.

  Crossed her arms because she wasn’t wearing a bra and felt awkward about it. “And yes … to Blue. The walk.”