Muscle Memory

by William G. Tapply

  “Unbelievable, huh?”

  “I heard you and she were friends.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  I shrugged. “Actually,” I said, “I had the impression that you and she were…” I let it hang there.

  Will frowned. “Were what?”

  I flapped my hands. “Close.”

  “Close? Fuck, man. What’re you trying to say?”

  “That’s what I want to know,” I said.

  “How am I supposed to know what you’re trying to say?” He fumbled in his pocket, took out a pack of cigarettes, and lit one with a disposable plastic lighter. “Look,” he said, exhaling a long plume of smoke, “I was in her class for a while, that’s all. Hell, it wasn’t even her class. She was a sub, you know? And then Moyle switched me to another class. And then I quit for good. I hardly knew Mrs. Fallon. Mostly I skipped her class anyway. I been in special classes all my life, and there was never anything special about any of them except you didn’t have to do any work.”

  “How old are you?” I said.

  “Nineteen.”

  “You’re a man, then.”

  “Oh, yeah. I work forty hours a week, spend another forty trying to get the grease out of my hair. I sleep in my father’s house, eat the food my mother cooks for me, and pay them room and board. I’ve got my own car, I registered for the draft, I could’ve voted last fall if I wanted to, and I even have sex once in a while. If that makes me a man, I’m a man. So what?”

  “So you’re old enough to answer some questions for me like a man, before the police do.”

  “Police, huh?” He smiled. “You trying to scare me?”

  “No.” I sighed. “No, I’m really not. I just want to talk to you about Kaye Fallon.”

  “I don’t mind talking about her,” he said. “Except there isn’t much to say.”

  “Did you ever try to kiss her?”

  He looked up at the sky and smiled. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Did you?”

  He turned to me. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I do that?”

  “Because she was pretty? Because she was nice to you? Because you had wet dreams about her? How the hell should I know?”

  “I never tried to kiss her, for Christ’s sake. I hardly talked to her.” He dropped his half-smoked cigarette on the ground and stomped on it, then looked up at me. “You know, you really got it backwards.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mrs. Fallon didn’t exactly try to kiss me. But she kept trying to get me to come in after school for extra help, kept saying we should go somewhere, have coffee, talk about things, get to know each other.” He took a deep breath. “Listen. When I was in her classroom trying to plow through some book or write something, she’d come up behind me, put her hand on the back of my neck, bend down so her face was practically touching mine and her boob was pressing against my shoulder, and ask some stupid question in this whispery voice, like it was real personal. She wore sexy perfume and these short little skirts, and she liked to sit on the edge of her desk and cross her legs. Sometimes when I’d be in there trying to read something, I’d look up and she’d be staring right at me.” He shook his head. “It was way spooky, man. I mean, she was old enough to be my mother, you know?”

  “But she was sexy and young-looking. And she liked you.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t just me. She was all touchy-feely with everybody.”

  “How’d you feel when you got transferred out of her class?”

  “Relieved, actually.”

  “So why’d you quit school?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Did you ever try to see her again?”

  “Who? Kaye?”

  “Were you on a first-name basis with her?”

  He flapped his hand. “That was her name. She called me Will. I didn’t call her anything, actually.”

  “So did you—?”

  “What, try to see her again? No. I quit school and got this shitty job, is what I did.” He frowned at me. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

  “I’m Mick Fallon’s lawyer.”

  “Mick?” He frowned, then nodded. “Ah. Her husband. The guy who did it. And you’re trying to pin it on somebody else.”

  “Not really,” I said, although he actually wasn’t that far off. “I’m just talking to as many people as I can, people who knew her, to see if I can figure out what really happened that night.”

  “Well, if you’re asking me who killed her, the answer is I don’t have any idea. You probably ought to talk to Moyle.”

  “The principal? Why?”

  He waved the back of his hand at me dismissively, then grinned.

  “Are you saying…?”

  “I’m not saying anything,” he said. “Talk to him.”

  “Do you remember where you were Sunday night?”

  He looked at me sideways. “The night she was killed? Sure. I remember exactly.”

  “Where?”

  “The same place I’ve been every Sunday night since May. Playing left field for the Jiffy Lube softball team, then eating hot dogs and pounding down a few Buds at Frank’s house with the team. Ask Frank if you don’t believe me.”

  “Oh, I’ll ask him,” I said. “And if you were me, what would you ask Dr. Moyle?”

  “Do I have to spell it out for you?”

  I nodded. “Maybe you better.”

  He held up both hands, palms facing me, and smiled. “Not me, mister. I’m a shitty speller.”

  “Look,” I said. “If you know something…”

  He laughed quickly. “Hey, I’m just a dumb high school dropout. I don’t know a damn thing. You can ask anybody.” He glanced at his watch. “I gotta get back to the pit.” He waved his hand quickly, turned, and disappeared around the side of the building.

  Eight

  I FOLLOWED WILL POWERS around to the front, went into the waiting room, and approached the counter. “My car ready?” I said to Frank.

  “You’re the BMW?”

  “Yes.

  He shuffled some papers. “Here we go. How do you want to pay?”

  I handed him my Visa card. “Will tells me you guys have a softball team.”

  He glanced up at me and grinned. “Oh, yeah. Slow pitch. You know, for us old wannabe jocks. We ain’t much good, but we have fun.”

  “You’re winning a few games, I hope.”

  He shrugged. “We pulled one out the other night.”

  “That was Sunday?”

  “Right. Nineteen-seventeen.” He grinned. “Pitcher’s duel.”

  “Is Will any good?”

  “Oh, hell, yes. Bats leadoff for us. Runs like a damn deer.”

  “So what time was your game over the other night?”

  “Around six. Then we all trooped over to my house, grilled some burgers and dogs, had a few frosties like we always do. Tell you the truth, for most of us the game’s more like an excuse to get together, you know?”

  “It sounds like fun,” I said.

  Frank handed me a computer printout that listed all the parts of my car they’d looked at. “Sign right here,” he said, jabbing a greasy finger at a line on the bottom.

  I signed it and pushed it back to him. “Did Will go to your place after the game?”

  “Sure. He always does.”

  “What time did he leave?”

  “Will?” He rubbed his cheek. “Why? You checkin’ up on him?”

  “You might say that,” I said.

  Frank ripped the edges off the computer sheet and handed me a copy. “Come back in three months or three thousand miles, you get a discount. We’ll send you a reminder in the mail.” Frank picked up a clipboard and began flipping through the papers that were clamped onto it.

  I took the sheet, folded it, and stuck it in my jacket pocket. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  He continued to riffle through his papers. “Seems like you’re trying to nail ole Will for something,”
he said, “and I don’t want any part of that. Who the hell are you, anyway?”

  “I’m a lawyer,” I said, “and I’m not trying to nail anybody for anything. But I’d like to know how long he was at your house on Sunday, and if you won’t tell me, you should expect the police to come asking.”

  He looked up at me with his eyebrows arched, then smiled and nodded. “I figure there’s probably a right and a wrong answer to that question, huh?”

  “Yes,” I said. “The truth.”

  “Well,” he said, “the truth is, I didn’t really notice. I guess everyone was about cleared out of there by ten-thirty, eleven o’clock. Will might’ve left earlier than that, I don’t know.” He narrowed his eyes. “That the right answer?”

  “If it’s the truth, I guess it is.”

  “So no cops are gonna come asking more questions?”

  “I can’t promise you that.”

  I thanked Frank and went out to my car, which they’d left out back. I slid behind the wheel and lit a cigarette. It was a few minutes after six. I might still get in an hour or so of fishing if I headed for the Swift River.

  I wasn’t seriously tempted. Fishing, for me, is a way to escape pressure. I want to lose all sense of time when I’m at a trout river. Sometimes I just lie on the bank, cradle my head in my hands, and study the clouds until my eyelids fall shut. Sometimes I like to sit on a boulder in the middle of the stream, watch the insects flutter over the water, try to spot the gray shadow of a trout lurking in the currents. I enjoy seeing kingfishers and swallows swoop over the water, hawks riding the thermals overhead. And when I locate a trout I’d like to catch, I want to feel that I’ve got all the time in the world to study his habits, divine his weaknesses, cast to him, change flies, shift my position, cast again.

  I love fishing, I’ve finally figured out, because more than anything, it gives me the illusion of being a kid again, when time was a limitless resource that I could squander with a guilt-free conscience. One hurried hour on the Swift River, regardless of how hungry the trout might be, would not give me what I wanted.

  So I pulled away from the Jiffy Lube and pointed my freshly oiled BMW at the city.

  I got back to my apartment a little after seven. I shucked off my lawyer pinstripes, pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and poured a couple fingers of Rebel Yell over a glass of ice cubes. I took my drink and my portable phone out onto the balcony, tilted back in one of the aluminum lawn chairs, and propped my heels up on the rail.

  The Boston Harbor is a poor substitute for the Swift River, and the steel balcony that hangs off the side of my apartment building is no streamside boulder. But the tankers and ferries and pleasure craft that leave white wakes behind them look trout-sized from six stories up, and gulls and terns wheel over the water and cruise on air currents just like freshwater birds. It’s water, and I never tire of watching it.

  Mick’s answering machine picked up, and when I told him I wanted to talk to him, he said, “Hey. I’m here.”

  “So how’re you doing?” I said.

  “Oh, boy,” he sighed. “Erin and Danny both called. Danny’s working at a hotel on Block Island and said he’d be home as soon as he could. Erin was driving out to San Francisco with a couple friends. She’s heading for the airport in Boise, and she’ll be here when she can get here. Danny heard it on the damn news, Brady. Erin called him from a pay phone just to say hello, and he told her. I’ve been trying to call both of them, but Erin hadn’t arrived yet, and I guess Danny never got my messages. Jesus, what a mess. Imagine, hearing your mother’s been murdered on the fucking news.”

  “How’re they taking it?”

  “Oh, they’re pretty shook up. Christ, who isn’t? But they don’t think I did it. That’s a plus, I guess.” He hesitated. “They both asked about a funeral. I didn’t know what to tell them.”

  “The police will have to release Kaye’s body,” I said.

  I heard him sigh. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

  “Do what, Mick?”

  “Be all the things I’m supposed to be here. Father to two kids whose mother was murdered. Murder suspect. Hell, I’m having enough problems being the husband of a murdered wife.”

  “You’ve got friends,” I said.

  “Yeah. You’ve been great. So’s Lyn. He dropped in again today, stayed for an hour. We just sat here watching TV. I couldn’t think of a damn thing to say to him, and I guess he felt the same way. But it was better than being alone. Gretchen called, too.” He snorted quickly. “She thinks I did it.”

  “Did she say that?”

  “Oh, hell, no. She was sweet as pie. But I could tell. God knows what Kaye’s been telling her about me.”

  “I’ll be talking with Lieutenant Horowitz,” I said. “I’ll ask him about making funeral arrangements.” I paused. “Mick, I wondered if you knew anything about some boy, a student who Kaye had removed from her class.”

  “Sure. What about him?”

  “Can you remember exactly what Kaye told you about him?”

  “He had a crush on her. Followed her around. Walked her to her car one afternoon, opened the door for her, and when she started to get in, he grabbed her and tried to kiss her. She pushed him away. When she came home, she was very shook up. I told her to get the kid the hell out of her class or I’d go to that school and deal with him myself.”

  “She said he’d tried to kiss her?”

  “Yeah. That’s what I just told you. Why?”

  “He denies it, and the principal of the school hadn’t heard anything about it.”

  “Well, of course he denies it. Maybe Kaye never mentioned it to the principal, I don’t know.” He paused. “You talked to them, huh?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Old Perry Mason.”

  “That’s me.”

  “Gonna track down the killer, huh?”

  “Sure. You bet.”

  “You don’t think this kid…?”

  “I don’t know. What do you think?”

  “All I can tell you for sure,” he said, “is that it wasn’t me.” He was quiet for a minute. “Brady?” he finally said.

  “Yeah?”

  “What’m I gonna do?”

  “About what?”

  “My kids. What the hell am I supposed to say to them?”

  “Tell them you love them. Hug them tight.”

  “But everybody thinks I killed her.”

  “Not everybody,” I said. “I don’t. And Erin and Danny don’t, either.”

  “If they did,” said Mick, “I’d shoot myself.”

  “Please,” I said. “Don’t do that.”

  After I hung up with Mick, I went into the kitchen and made myself a ham-and-cheese on rye, slathered with Grey Poupon. I took my sandwich back out onto my balcony and devoured it while the sky grew dark over the water and the stars started popping out.

  I finished my sandwich, then tried Horowitz at State Police headquarters on Route 9 in Framingham. The receptionist told me he was off duty, and I declined to leave a message.

  A couple of years ago, when I was involved in a case he was working on, Horowitz gave me a secret phone number. It rang the cell phone he carried in his pocket so I could reach him no matter where he was—at his desk, in his car, out on his boat, or in the bathroom. He’d warned me never to use it except in an emergency.

  So I dialed it.

  He answered on the second ring. “Who’s this?” Not a warm and friendly greeting.

  “Coyne.”

  “You know where I am?”

  “Gee, no. Where?”

  “Fenway fucking Park.”

  “What’s the score?”

  “It’s on TV, Coyne, and you didn’t need to call me to get the score.” He paused. “So what’s up? This better be good.”

  “Just a quick question,” I said. “Has the ME pinned down the time of Kaye Fallon’s death?”

  “Eight to midnight Sunday. Why?”

  “You might want
to check on the whereabouts of a guy named Will Powers. He works at a Jiffy Lube out in Loomis. He’s got no alibi for the latter part of the evening, and he might have a motive.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” I told Horowitz about my visit to Dolley Madison Regional and my interviews with Ron Moyle and Will Powers.

  “Okay,” said Horowitz when I’d finished. He paused, and I heard the sounds of thirty-thousand people yelling.

  “What happened?” I said

  “Nomar just hit one into the triangle. Stand-up triple. You about done with me here? My beer’s getting flat.”

  “When’re they going to release Kaye’s body?”

  “No idea.”

  “You gonna arrest Mick?”

  “You’ll be the first to know,” he said. “How’s that?” He sighed. “Look. I appreciate your sleuthing, Coyne, and we can talk about the damn case, all right? But I’m sitting here in Section Twelve with a hot dog in one hand and a paper cup full of warm beer in the other and this goddamn phone squeezed against my ear, and Nomar’s standing on third base with one out, and I been spending sixteen hours a day at the job, and right now all I wanna do is see if one of these bums can hit the ball far enough into the outfield so Nomar can make it home. Call me tomorrow.”

  “Well, okay. I’ll—”

  But he’d disconnected.

  I put my phone on my lap and lit a cigarette. A bank of clouds obscured the line between sky and water toward the east, and a damp breeze had begun to blow up off the water, carrying with it the rich mingled low-tide aroma of seaweed, diesel fuel, mud, and salt. The dolorous dong of the bell-buoy out at the mouth of the harbor echoed in the damp night air.

  I got up, went inside, pulled on a sweatshirt, then returned to my balcony. Information gave me the phone number for Ronald Moyle out in Harlow. I thought it was either brave or foolhardy for the high school principal to have a listed phone number, but I was grateful for it.

  A woman answered—the severe-looking dark-haired wife in the portrait on Moyle’s desk, I assumed—and told me cheerfully that Ron was out back and she’d be very happy to fetch him for me if I’d give her my name, which I did.

  A minute later, he said, “Mr. Coyne?”

  “Hi, Ron. Sorry to bother you at home.”