Fiddlers
Page 20
‘Dad? Do I need a lawyer here?’
Good ploy, Carella thought. Turn the innocent smile and wide eyes on Dear Old Dad, always worked before, should work now. Mr. and Mrs. America at the breakfast table with their darling, thirteen-year-old, average-American twins - except that one of them may have been smoking pot on her thirteenth birthday.
‘Answer your mother’s question,’ he said.
‘I forget the question,’ April said, and grinned at Mark for approval. Mark kept spooning Cheerios into his mouth.
Were you smoking pot at Lorraine’s party? Teddy signed.
‘D-a-a-a-d, do I really have to answer that?’
Carella had been here before. Too many times before. During too many interrogations of too many criminals on too many nights in the same grubby squadroom. But this was his own breakfast table, on a bright sunny morning toward the end of June, and it was his own daughter doing the tap dancing. He knew the answer already. He had been here before.
‘Everybody smokes a little pot,’ April said.
Wrong answer.
‘April,’ Carella said, ‘answer your mother’s question.’
April sighed a heavy, soulful, rolling-of-the-eyes, tweener sigh.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I took a few tokes
Tokes, he thought.
‘… on a joint, all right?’
Joint, he thought.
‘Is that such a big deal?’ April asked.
Yes, Teddy signed.
‘Well, I’m sorry, but
It’s a big deal.
‘Only if you’re
In this family, it’s a big deal.
‘You’re grounded,’ Carella said.
‘Come on, Dad! Every kid in the world…”
‘Not my kids,’ he said.
I’ll talk to Lorraine’s mother, Teddy signed.
‘You’ll embarrass me to death!’
Good. Be embarrassed.
‘Besides, she won’t know what the hell you’re saying. She doesn’t know how to sign. Leave it alone, okay, Mom? Don’t turn this into a friggin federal case!’
He had never struck one of his children in his life, and he did not slap April now, though he certainly was tempted. Instead, very calmly, he said, ‘This isn’t a squadroom, watch your mouth. You’re grounded till further notice.’
‘The Fourth of July is coming! There’s a big party at…’
‘You’ll miss it.’
‘What am I supposed to tell Lorraine? Jee-sus Christ!’
‘Mom and I will talk to her mother
‘No, you won’t!’
‘… explain what’s going on.’
‘Promise me you won’t!’
‘We will, April.’
‘She’ll kick you out of the house.’
‘Not if she’s smart,’ Carella said.
‘She won’t believe
‘We’ll make it clear.’
April threw down her napkin.
‘Okay, so be a whistle-blower, go ahead!’ she shouted. ‘Ground me forever, see if I care! If you think that’s gonna stop…”
Listen to me! Teddy signed, and rose suddenly, and pointed her finger at her daughter. This is the end of this, have you got that? You will never again go anywhere near that shit!
This was the first time April had ever seen such fire in her mother’s eyes, the first time she had ever heard her use the word ‘shit.’ She hoped for a moment her father might change his mind, come to her rescue at last, thought at least her twin brother might say a word in her defense. But no, the censure at this table was unified and determined. No one here was about to enable her. She felt suddenly ashamed of herself.
She did not, however, say she was sorry.
‘Gonna be a long summer, I guess,’ she said, and rose, and turned her back, and went to her room.
When they were small, if ever one of them was being scolded, the other twin would burst into tears.
Mark did not begin crying now.
‘You okay?’ Carella asked him.
‘I feel like a rat.’
‘No,’ Carella said.
‘Because, you know, she’s right in a way. All the kids are smoking pot.’
‘You’re not,’ Carella said.
Mark looked at him.
Then he simply nodded, and went back to his Cheerios.
Carella hoped he’d got it.
* * * *
Kling still hadn’t called either one of them.
By ten thirty that Tuesday morning, he’d caught two hours’ sleep, made himself a cup of coffee, paced the apartment for ten minutes or so, and still didn’t know what he planned to do.
As it turned out, he didn’t have to do anything at all.
The two most recent women in his life had already made their own decisions.
* * * *
Sadie Harris was the first to call.
‘Hey, Bert,’ she said.
‘Sadie?’ he said. ‘Hi. I’ve been meaning to call you.’
‘Actually, I’m glad you didn’t,’ she said. ‘You were right, Bert.’
‘I was?’
‘I’m not a librarian.’
‘You’re not?’
‘I’m a hooker, Bert, you were right.’
‘If you’re kidding me
‘No, no, cross my heart, hope to die. I was lying about everything but my name, Bert. You got a free ride cause you’re so damn cute, be grateful. But given the circumstances… me black, you white… me hooker, you cop… me Jane, you Tarzan… I don’t think we should see each other again.’
‘Well, I’m not so sure
‘I am, Bert. Too risky, emotionally, and every other which way. So… have a nice week, be careful on the job, and don’t go picking up strange girls in bars no more. By the way, I don’t have anything you need to worry about. Good-bye, Bert,’ she said, and hung up.
* * * *
Sharyn called five minutes later.
‘I hope I’m not waking you, Bert,’ she said.
‘No, I’ve been up. In fact, I was just about to…”
‘I’ve given this a lot of thought,’ she said without preamble. ‘I know you think this was a simple misunderstanding, Bert, but I think it goes far beyond that. I think it goes to the very essence of our relationship. You followed me because you didn’t trust me, Bert…’
‘I was mistaken, I admit that. I’m sorry for what I…’
‘It’s not a matter of being mistaken, Bert, we both know you were mistaken. It’s that you simply didn’t trust me. And you didn’t trust me because I’m black.’
‘No.’
‘Yes. That’s what I think and that’s what I can’t get past, Bert. You didn’t trust me because I’m black. That’s what’s wrong here. And maybe that’s what’s wrong with America, too, but I don’t give a damn about what’s wrong with America. All I care about is how this affects me personally. I know I can’t live with it, Bert.’
The phone went silent.
‘You remember what we said after the first time we made love, Bert?’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘I said, “Let’s give it an honest shot…’“
‘And I said, “Let’s.”‘
‘Bert,’ she said, and her voice caught. ‘You didn’t,’ she said, and hung up.
12.
AT 11:05 ON Sunday morning, the Fourth of July, Patricia Gomez rang the doorbell to Ollie’s apartment. She was wearing blue jeans, a white cotton blouse, and red sneakers, and she looked somewhat like a patriotic schoolgirl.
Ollie opened the door.
He honestly didn’t know whether the smile on his face was an anticipatory leer or just a happy welcoming grin.
‘Hey, Patricia,’ he said, ‘come on in.’
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