John Lutz Bundle

by John Lutz

  On the other hand, the husband, Luther’s new temporary father, acted like he had a stick up his ass. While working the streets as a male prostitute in Kansas City, Luther had seen his kind of little weasel before. He thought he might need the wife to protect him from Mr. Sand. He was sure, just by looking, that she wasn’t like Mrs. Black.

  Cara—Mrs. Sand—was smiling at him. “Would you care for a glass of lemonade, Luther?”

  Time for the act. “I sure would, Mrs. Sand.”

  She stood up from the sofa, where she’d been seated next to her husband. For a moment she looked as if she might cry. “I wouldn’t expect you to call me mother, Luther, but Cara would do fine.”

  Milford stood up also. He bent over and brushed imaginary lint or dust from his pants. “I’d like to stay, but I need to get to the mine.”

  “Mine?” Luther asked.

  “The Hiram Lead Mine, where I’m head of accounting.”

  “Sounds neat,” Luther said.

  Milford nodded solemnly. “It is neat.” He pecked Cara on the cheek. “I’ll be back in time for dinner, dear. Bye, Luther.”

  “Bye,” Luther said to his retreating back.

  Cara went into the kitchen, then returned with two glasses of lemonade. She handed one to Luther, then sat down again on the sofa across from the wing chair where he sat.

  “He works so hard,” she said of her husband. “Even sometimes on weekends. When they’re behind at the mine.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Luther sipped lemonade and glanced around. “You sure got a beautiful house, all the room and nice furniture.”

  “Why, thank you, Luther. Mr. Sand and I spent months restoring it. The first two floors are done, and we’ll get around to the third-floor bedrooms someday.” She took a sip from her tall, frosted glass and crossed her legs, tugging down her flowered skirt demurely to cover her knees. “We sanded the floors, brought the kitchen up to date…. It’s such a job, keeping up with an old house. It never stops.”

  “Maybe I can help,” Luther said.

  “Why, thank you.” She smiled. “Maybe you can.”

  “I know you and Mr. Sand are putting yourselves out for me.”

  “Not at all. We volunteered because we like to help children—young men—like yourself. And if it’ll make you feel any better, Mr. Sand’s going to speak to someone about helping you learn a trade. A housepainter. You’ve done some of that, haven’t you, where you came from?”

  “I can paint some,” Luther said. His voice was tight, remembering the fire spreading over spilled paint, gaining glowing life, burning in a widening circle and filling the house with fumes. He’d thought the other kids were gone and the house was empty except for the scumbag Norbert, and Dara, who didn’t care. They were supposed to be all by themselves, fucking in the upstairs bedroom, not paying attention while the fire spread. It was when the screaming started that Luther—

  “More lemonade?”

  “No thanks,” Luther said, grinning shyly at Cara. “I best be getting unpacked, if that’s okay.”

  Cara placed her glass on a coaster and stood up. “Of course it’s okay. I’ll show you your room. I hope you’ll like it.”

  “I will,” Luther said, following her.

  The next Monday, after a breakfast of pancakes and eggs prepared by Cara, Milford drove Luther into town to introduce him to Tom Wilde.

  Wilde’s Painting Company was a green-and-yellow flat-roofed building that looked as if it had once been a corner service station. A rusty and dented Ford pickup truck and a newer-looking white van were parked outside. The van was lettered with the company name and phone number and had racks on top and three paint-splattered aluminum extension ladders lashed to them. One of the pair of overhead doors was open to reveal a shadowed interior of shelves lined with paint cans and folded canvas drop cloths. Nearby were several stepladders, a pair of wooden sawhorses, and stacks of white plastic five-gallon paint buckets.

  Milford parked his blue Ford Fairlane sedan at the curb, diligently setting the emergency brake even though they were on level ground. He said nothing as he and Luther got out of the car and walked toward the building.

  Luther thought the old pickup truck looked interesting and wondered if he’d be driving it. Driving Norbert Black’s pickup was the only thing he’d found enjoyable about working for Norbert. Of course Luther didn’t have a driver’s license, which never bothered Norbert but might be of concern to Tom Wilde.

  As they got closer to the building, Luther detected the familiar scent of paint thinner. Then he saw in the dim interior of the building a stocky figure in white overalls, standing at a workbench with his fists on his hips. Drifting from what had obviously once been a service bay for cars came the thumping and vibrating rhythm of an electric paint mixer violently shaking a gallon can of paint.

  The man at the workbench sensed he wasn’t alone and turned. He was between thirty and forty, with kindly, handsome features arranged in a permanent, squinting smile. He had bushy brown hair and a somewhat oversize, lumpy nose threaded with red veins. His was the sort of face that made you like him at once, or at least trust him. Luther saw now that his white overalls were splattered with a rainbow array of paints.

  The man reached behind him and switched off the frantically thumping mixer; in the silence he looked at Luther and smiled wider. “This the lad?”

  “This is him,” Milford said, and formally introduced them.

  “I’m told you have some experience as a painter,” Wilde said. He had a soft, precise way of speaking, like a teacher.

  “Some,” Luther told him. “Painting barns, some houses.”

  “That oughta be good enough. Pay’s every two weeks, minimum wage. That’s about all I can afford.”

  “That’d be fine.”

  Nobody spoke for a while; then Milford said, “I’ll leave you two to tell paint stories and get acquainted.” He looked at Wilde. “I might have to work late at the mine. Can you drop Luther off at the house after you’re finished with him?”

  “Won’t be a problem.”

  Luther and Wilde watched as Milford returned to the Ford. He glanced back and waved to them as he was lowering himself behind the steering wheel; then he drove away fast, making the car’s wide back end dip.

  “He sure seems to like his job,” Luther said.

  Wilde laughed. “A kinda workaholic. And don’t let his frail appearance fool you. He spent time in the military as a ranger, then some years at hard labor in the mine while he was getting his accounting degree. You never want to mix it up with him, Luther.” As if reminded of his interrupted task, he turned on the paint mixer again, then motioned with his head. He and Luther walked outside, where it wasn’t so noisy and they could talk.

  “We got a job today?” Luther asked, still trying to imagine Milford Sand as a hard ass tough guy. It was just possible.

  “Sure do. You good at cutting in?”

  “Cutting in?”

  “Trimming with a brush.”

  “I’ve done that,” Luther said. He had, a few times. Mostly for Norbert he’d lugged materials, scraped and sanded, or rolled paint onto large surfaces, doing the backbreaking work. Maybe painting where there were wasps or hornets nearby on hot days beneath the eaves of barns or farmhouses.

  Wilde looked at him in a way that made Luther think he was taking his measure. “What you have to know, Luther, is I’m no ordinary painter. There are tricks to this trade. I can match colors perfectly, tell people what color schemes will work, tint and layer paint so things show their best, make rooms look larger or smaller, create light and shadow where none really exist. You understand what I’m saying?”

  Luther nodded. “You’re kinda like an artist.”

  Wilde grinned. “Sometimes, Luther…sometimes. What I am all the time is a craftsman. That’s why people hire me. That’s what I need you to be working toward—craftsmanship. Use your God-given talent and don’t abuse it, and it’ll take care of you. You believe that?”
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br />   “Maybe.”

  “An honest answer.” Wilde walked back inside and switched off the mixer, then came back out into the sunlight. “Craftsmanship. You interested?”

  “I think so,” Luther said honestly.

  “Me too,” Wilde said, and patted him on the arm. Not We’ll find out. He was on Luther’s side. “Help me load the van and we’ll go spread some paint and cheer up our corner of the world.”

  Surprisingly, the day went fast for Luther. He found that he was interested in painting, if it was done the way Tom Wilde did it.

  They worked on an old house on the other side of town, a three-story Victorian, which was something like the Sands’ house, that was being totally redecorated. It was ideal for the task of teaching.

  During the next few days Wilde showed Luther how to stencil a border around a room, how to tint paint and shade the beveled edges of door panels to make them appear recessed so the doors looked thicker, how to use the mixer and paint scale to match colors precisely from only a tiny paint chip. Luther applied himself carefully and didn’t make too many mistakes. The ones he did make didn’t seem to upset Tom Wilde, who helped to correct them. Wilde worked steadily but not fast; he was more interested in results than in making money on the job.

  The week went by, almost without Luther realizing it had happened.

  His days flew past, and in the evenings he enjoyed watching Cara Sand work around the house, dusting, vacuuming, preparing dinner for Milford, who always seemed to arrive home late from his job at the mine. Cara had those wonderful dark eyes, and Luther couldn’t help staring at the roundness of her hips beneath her housedress, the graceful turn of her ankles. There was something about her flesh, its creaminess, that made him yearn to touch it. He was sure she didn’t suspect he was thinking of her in that way, and he didn’t want her to guess. Sometimes in her presence it was an effort not to get an erection, which she might notice if for some reason he had to stand up suddenly. It wasn’t just the way Cara looked, her lush body and perfect eyes and lips; it was her smile and the way she listened to people when they talked—really listened.

  Luther loved most of all to watch Cara working in the kitchen, the way she stood at the sink, up against it, with its edge pressed into her stomach, making her round breasts appear even larger, while she peeled potatoes or washed dishes. He studied how her clothes clung to her and her calf muscles gave shape to her legs when she stretched to reach things high in the cabinets.

  She caught Luther once staring at her when she stooped low to reach something toward the back of the refrigerator, but she pretended not to have noticed. He knew she’d caught him looking, though, and she knew he knew—a special and unspoken secret between them. It was the things people didn’t say that made them close.

  Cara was somehow able to sense when Luther was hungry and would prepare snacks for him. Once she even baked him a peach pie after he mentioned it was his favorite. Her voice became like music. “My growing boy,” she would call him as she placed food before him, with that smile that flooded his heart.

  Luther began to dream about Cara almost nightly. On some mornings he’d discover he’d had an orgasm in his sleep. But his dreams were not only carnal; in his mind Cara was a lady. He never considered actually touching her, or declaring how he felt about her. You didn’t shit in your own nest was something he learned early on the streets. But Milford, Luther decided, was crazy to spend so much time at his job.

  The Saturday after getting his first paycheck, Luther walked down to the drugstore and bought a razor and shaving cream, which he barely needed, and a bar of soap that was better than the cheap stuff provided by Milford that left him itching and scratching.

  It was at the drugstore that he first heard people talking about him, and where he first heard the gossip about Tom Wilde.

  21

  New York, 2004.

  Quinn got the phone call from May late at night.

  “Frank?”

  Even though he was in bed and half-asleep, he recognized her voice immediately. Besides, she was the only one who called him by his first name.

  He scooted back to lean into his wadded pillow and pressed the plastic receiver harder to his ear. “Something wrong, May?”

  “Something I have to tell you. I’m sorry to call so late, but I couldn’t sleep thinking about it.”

  “Is it about Lauri?”

  “No. She’s fine.”

  “We still don’t speak,” Quinn said.

  “I know. I’m sorry about that, Frank.”

  Are you? It was you who turned her against me. If you’d believed in me…

  Quinn sighed, wondering what kind of trouble was coming his way. “So what else are you sorry about?” he asked.

  “How you might take what I’m going to say.”

  “I’m lying down.” Trying to make a joke of it.

  “I’m going to be married.”

  Quinn felt as if the ceiling had dropped on him, though he knew he shouldn’t care. May was no longer his wife and hadn’t been for years.

  Still, they shared a history; they were part of each other.

  Married! Jesus!

  “Who’s the lucky man?” he forced himself to ask, loathing how trite and hollow it sounded.

  “Elliott Franzine. He’s a cost accountant.”

  Whatever that is. “A successful one?”

  “Reasonably. He works hard.”

  “Sounds like a settled, secure guy who keeps regular hours.” Not like a cop.

  “He is. You know that’s what I always needed, security.”

  “There’s really no such thing, May.”

  “Then call it predictability. That’s what was missing in our marriage. It’s the uncertainty that eats away, Frank.”

  She was right about that. He’d seen it with too many cops’ marriages. “Yeah, I can understand that, May. I wish you and…”

  “Elliott.”

  “…Elliott the best. I really do.”

  “Frank—”

  “Life moves on.”

  “What about your life? How are things going for you? Some of the news about those New York murders is reaching us here on the other coast.”

  “I’m back on the force, in a way. But you might call it a probationary situation. It’s kind of my last roll of the dice.”

  “It’ll work out for you, Frank. I’ve got a feeling.”

  Do you have a feeling I didn’t rape Anna Caruso?

  But he didn’t put the question into words.

  They talked for a while longer, about their daughter, the upcoming wedding, where May and Elliott were going on their honeymoon—Cancun. At least it was a place where Quinn and May had never been.

  After hanging up, Quinn couldn’t come close to going back to sleep.

  May Franzine…

  Around midnight he gave up and climbed out of bed. He went into the kitchen and got down an unopened bottle of scotch from the back of a cabinet shelf.

  May and Lauri Franzine…

  What was he, disappearing?

  It was raining the next morning, so Quinn went to meet Pearl and Fedderman at the Lotus Diner on Amsterdam.

  It was a long, narrow place, with wooden booths along a wall of windows opposite the counter. A haze of cooking smoke hung just beneath the high, stamped tin ceiling. There were half a dozen customers eating breakfast alone, three at the counter, three in the booths. Two of the ones at the counter were having only coffee and reading the Post, probably about the Night Prowler. The scent of overfried bacon made Quinn a little queasy the moment he came through the door. The line of booths went beyond the counter and windows. He sat in one of the back booths and was trying without much success to get down coffee and a glazed doughnut while waiting for his detective team.

  He’d used an umbrella and walked here from his apartment in order to clear his mind. It had worked to an extent, but his head still ached and his stomach objected to the half bottle of scotch he’d killed last night. His ankle
s felt cool every time somebody came or went, and the draft from the open door flowed over his pants cuffs that were still wet from his walk through the rain.

  Pearl was the reason for the latest cool draft. She’d driven her unmarked here alone. Fedderman and a detective named Drucker had worked late yesterday evening questioning the Grahams’ neighbors who held jobs and weren’t available during weekdays. Fedderman and Drucker were going to reinterview neighbors in adjacent buildings today and would arrive soon in Fedderman’s plain Ford Victoria.

  Quinn started to stand to make himself noticeable, but Pearl spotted him and walked toward the booth. She had on black slacks today, black boots that looked waterproof, and a black raincoat that was trimmed in green and came to her knees. She wasn’t carrying an umbrella.

  She unbuttoned the coat, draped it over a brass hook on the opposite wall, and slid into the booth to sit across from him. He saw the alarm on her face. “You look like shit, Quinn.”

  He knew he should take offense but didn’t; she was, after all, right. “Tough night.”

  She made a face as she got a whiff of his breath. “And you smell like a still.”

  “I did imbibe.”

  He explained what had happened, telling her almost everything about May’s late-night phone call. Once he’d begun talking, he couldn’t stop; the words were inside him like winged things that had to get out, had to be heard and shared.

  Her reaction surprised him. “Your sleeve’s unbuttoned. Your cuff got dunked in your coffee.”

  Quinn looked down and saw the brown triangular stain on his dangling white shirt cuff. He tried to button the cuff with his left hand but couldn’t. His fingers were trembling in a way they hadn’t for months.

  Pearl reached across the table and deftly fastened the button. “Is Feds bringing Drucker by here this morning?”

  “That’s the plan,” Quinn said.

  “Let’s change the plan. You don’t want anybody else to see you like this. I’ll drive you home.”