Line of Vision

by David Ellis

  “Call,” Littman says.

  “I got two pairs.” Jerry.

  “Three sixes.” Me.

  Nate throws down his cards in a huff. So does Littman.

  Scott looks at his cards. “Three tens.” He smiles. Then he turns to Littman. “Does that mean I win?” He loves to act stupid about cards, especially when he wins; it really gets a rise out of Littman. We throw the cards to Hornsby, who will shuffle next. Bryant continues as he pulls the coins into his corner.

  “So me and my boys are shooting pool, and who shows up but this lady.”

  “What’d she look like?” Jerry asks.

  “Seven-card,” says Nate. “Low ace in the hole splits. And she was a toad.”

  Scooter laughs. “I’m tellin’ ya, no way.”

  “She had an eye patch and a limp.” Littman.

  “Whatever.”

  “Just tell me where, Scooter,” says Nate. “Give me location and positions. I’ll fill in the rest tonight when I’m lying in bed.”

  Scooter waves his hand casually, but he’s beaming.

  “Are you gonna smoke that fucking cigar?” Nate says to Laz. “I brought two for each of us. We don’t got all night.” Not even two beers in Nate, he’s already talking like a southsider with a tenth-grade education. Littman, too, and he grew up in these cozy northern suburbs.

  Jerry eyeballs the stogie. He’s ready to light up, but he loves getting under Hornsby’s skin. “Uhhhhhh, I think I’ll hold off for now.”

  “Don’t you want to hear the rest of the story?” Scott has that whiny look now.

  “We’re giving you time to make the rest of it up,” says Littman, touching the first two cards as they are dealt to him. He does that for luck.

  Laz turns to me. “You talk to Rachel today?”

  “Of course he talked to her,” Nate says, still dealing. I shoot him a look, but he’s not paying attention.

  I turn sort of nonchalantly to Jerry. “Um, yeah, I called her.”

  “How was she?”

  “Upset.” I shrug. “You know.”

  “How come you didn’t touch the third card?” Scott asks Littman.

  Littman gives an exaggerated turn of his head to Scooter. “Because it’s faceup, dumbshit. What’s the point in tapping them when you already know what they are?”

  Jerry has a pair showing, so he throws in a dime.

  “Too rich for my blood,” Scott says.

  Littman turns on him. “You can’t fold now. There’s four more cards comin’.” He moves closer to Scott. “You have played cards before, haven’t ya, Scooter? I swear I seen ya here before.”

  “Well, I fold.”

  “Do they have any idea who did it?” Laz asks me.

  I shake my head. “No.”

  Scooter shakes his head, too. “I can’t believe you don’t wanna hear my story.”

  “I know how it ends, Bryant,” Nate says in a tired voice, pitching in his dime. “Yer humpin’ and pumpin’ in the backseat, top down, she’s crying out in pleasure. That’s the version we’re gonna hear, anyways.” He deals the next card, faceup. Littman gets an ace, giving him two showing. He rubs his hands together greedily.

  “You might actually win, Litt,” Laz says.

  Bryant is pouting now, staring down at his coins.

  “Oh, tell your fucking story,” says Nate.

  Scooter frowns. “He already guessed it. Location.”

  Nate turns to him, a hint of admiration crossing his face. “The car, huh?”

  Laz gets up with his empty bottle and heads for the fridge. He asks who needs one, and all but Bryant, who’s brooding now, give a nod. “None of that micro-yuppie stuff,” Nate reminds Jerry. He’s a Bud man and goddamn proud of it.

  “Can we play cards now?” Littman grunts.

  Nate turns on me. “So Rachey didn’t say much, huh?”

  “Uh, no,” I say, a little off guard, my knee suddenly twitching. “Just—you know, she was upset.”

  “What’d you say to her?”

  Jerry returns with fresh beers. I take a drink, too big of one, so that a little spills off my lips. I set down the bottle with a little tremble. I think Nate sees this.

  “I—you know—just how ya holding up.” Take a deep breath. Take a draw off the cigar and blow smoke rings up at the ceiling. Take another swig of beer. Tell a joke. But what joke? Christ, I got twenty at any given moment, except when I need one. What’s the one about the elephant with three balls . . .?

  Nate returns to his cards, rearranging them. “This is your big chance, Kalish.”

  That one stops me. I try to look confused. Hornsby, thankfully, is not looking for a reply; it was just another off-the-cuff remark he makes all the time. So I just sort of scrunch my face and act like I have no idea what Nate means. Only that won’t work with Jerry because he knows or I should say he suspects about me and Rachel, so me acting all innocent isn’t so believable, but Jerry of all people wouldn’t say anything. And Nate is just looking at his cards, so he’ll probably let it pass. But I hope it doesn’t register with Bryant and Littman, who don’t work at the foundation and didn’t even know who Rachel was until this conversation began. I don’t need them remembering this conversation two days or two weeks or two months from now, when the police ask them about me. On the other hand, if things get that far I’m probably cooked anyway, but still, if they do remember the comment Nate just made—what did he say? Something like, Now’s your big chance, or something—and they also remember that I didn’t deny it, they will assume there is some degree of truth to it, but if I do deny it, and I go overboard in doing so, I’ll seem defensive, and really if it wasn’t true why would I bother denying it because it would be so obvious that a denial wouldn’t be necessary but maybe the best thing to do is to deny it in sort of a flippant casual way, but the other danger there is it might spark more conversation about me and Rachel and that’s about the worst thing that could happen so maybe I’ll just blow it off but I think I’m starting to sweat and I don’t want to seem nervous but I have this problem that I sweat so much that people always notice so maybe I should make some comment about the flu or something to cover it up but my whole plan was to be as normal as possible but I already blew that at work anyway when I told my secretary that I had the flu or was it Frank Tiller I said it to but it doesn’t matter because an innocent person wouldn’t remember that kind of thing anyway because it was such an innocent comment anyway or maybe it was Nate I said it to when I called him back about the foundation speaker who canceled but I don’t think so but that still makes Deb and Frank who will be able to tell the police that I was acting strange the day after Dr. Reinardt was murdered and now Scott and Littman will also say whatever God am I sweating—

  “What’s his big chance?” Scott Bryant asks Nate.

  Nate, still looking at his cards, jabs a thumb in my direction and starts to speak. We’re going to talk about this some more now and I have to be ready with an answer a denial is the best thing but a casual denial be very very casual and I wish I could think of a fucking joke because that would be so casual and nonchalant what do you do with an elephant with three balls—

  “I almost forgot,” Jerry says, snapping his fingers. “I have homecoming tickets next weekend.” All eyes, and all attention, turn to Jerry. God, how I love this guy. “Ellen”—his girlfriend—“can’t go. I’ve got three more. Anyone interested?”

  “Count me in,” Nate says, as the rest of the table joins in as well. Everyone but me, that is. I mumble something about how I can’t make it.

  “He’s got a date with Rachey,” Nate says. I turn my attention immediately to my cards, biting my lip in concentration. Shake your head. Laugh. Wave your hand. Tell him to shut his fucking mouth why does he have to keep bringing this back up?

  Lazarus comes to my rescue. “Hornsby, pick your spots, all right?”

  Nate looks up from his cards innocently. “What’d I say?”

  “In case you’ve forgotten,”
Littman tells Nate, “you’re the dealer, pal. Usually that means you deal the cards right about now.”

  Hornsby throws out card number six. I have nothing showing, and I throw down my cards. I instinctively get up from my chair, my legs a little wobbly.

  “Where you goin’?” Littman asks.

  I point to the fridge.

  “You got a fresh one.”

  I point upstairs.

  “Are you telling us you want to take a wee-wee?” Nate asks condescendingly. “It’s okay, Kalish. Simon says.”

  I head up the stairs. I can hear Jerry’s voice scolding Hornsby (“You can be such a prick sometimes”) and Littman bitching (“Is this a goddamn sewing circle?”) as I make it into the bathroom.

  I close the door and sit on the toilet, the lid still down. I pull the guest towel off the rack behind me and wipe my face. My hands are trembling, my breathing coming in short gasps, my vision spotty. The floor tile in the bathroom is yellowish circles. Yellowish circles. Count the circles. Focus on the circles. Ten . . . fifteen . . . seventeen circles in a row from the wall to the door. Count the next row. . . .

  “What—are you going to do?” Rachel asked me, as I stood over her husband with the gun in my hand.

  My heart pounds as the memories flood back; I squeeze my eyes shut to keep them out. God, I was so calm last night. Why can’t I be now? I look at my watch. I’ve been in here for five minutes already. I have to go back down. I have to.

  . . . sixteen seventeen eighteen circles in the next row . . .

  They’re talking about me downstairs. It was nice of Jerry to come to my rescue but now it looks like I’m upset and I ran off like I have something to hide and maybe Nate is starting to put it together downstairs and Jerry who is smarter than Nate and me combined has probably already figured it out but he would never say anything anyway so now I have to go back downstairs and act normal and pray like hell it doesn’t come up again maybe I can think of another really good excuse my sister my sister is sick she’s very sick and I just found out today and I’m very worried—

  A knock on the door. “Hey.” Jerry Lazarus. “You okay, man?”

  I flush the unused toilet. “Never better.” I throw the towel haphazardly on the rack and open the door. The expression on Jerry’s face tells me I don’t look so hot.

  “We don’t have to stay,” he says. “I’m not feeling so good myself. You want to take off?” This man truly understands me. Probably better than I would prefer.

  “Only if you want to.” Then, to turn the focus to him, “You feel okay?”

  “Yeah,” he says, “I’m fine.”

  “You just said you don’t feel so good.”

  “Yeah, well—I’m just saying we don’t have to stay.”

  I flip the back of my hand against his chest. “I’m fine,” I say. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

  My sister is very sick. Nod thoughtfully. Sigh. Yeah, just found out today. What’s wrong with her? I’d rather not get into it. Is she gonna be all right? We can only hope. Cross your fingers for luck. Anyway, it’s got me a little on edge today and that’s the reason why I seem so upset it’s because of my sister. . . .

  7

  SATURDAY MORNING TYPICALLY MEANS AN EARLY start for me. Run a few miles before most of the neighborhood is awake. A long breakfast while I read the paper. Then I usually go to work for a few hours. Saturday is the most productive of the workdays. Even when others are in the office, it’s only because they have to be. And they want to get out as soon as possible. So socializing is kept to a minimum, and I catch up on the stuff I couldn’t get to Monday through Friday.

  But no work for this papa-san today. I run my three miles much faster than usual and pick up the Saturday paper on the way back inside. Before I’ve made it to the kitchen, I’ve ripped off the blue plastic and started leafing through the front page.

  “No Leads in Highland Woods Abduction,” the paper announces on the top of section 2. I take a deep breath, adrenaline following a second later. Abduction, that’s good. They’re thinking about a kidnapping. Not a murder by a jealous lover. The article contains nothing new, just a brief overview of the case. So far, so good. I realize that every day will be like this, waiting to see if the cops are getting any warmer.

  The doorbell startles me. I open the sports page over the rest of the paper. As I walk to the door I look through the dining room window and find a beige sedan that’s seen better days parked in my driveway. I open the door to two men, one squat, one long and lean.

  The stockier one flashes a badge, one that resembles the fake tin ones we used as kids, though judging from this guy’s sour expression, this isn’t playtime. “Mr. Kalish?”

  I answer yes as I open the screen door. And I hold my breath. No big deal. Chill.

  “Detective Cummings, Highland Woods Police. This is Detective Nicholaos.” He nods to his partner. “Could we have a minute of your time?”

  Still on pause I am, no good ideas moving about my head yet, just telling him, “Sure,” and telling myself, Calm calm calm.

  I take them into the living room and point to the couch. I sit opposite them in a love seat. I’m very calm. Nicholaos is looking around the room, at the art, the old piano from my parents’ house, the framed pictures of my family and my sister’s kids.

  “I hope we didn’t catch you at a bad time,” says Cummings, but he knows he did, appraising my outfit and the sweat still clinging to my face. Anyway, it’s hard to imagine a good time for meetings like this. Cummings is middle-aged and burly, loose flesh under his chin, bald on top with long hair on the sides that touches his ears, a seen-it-all look shrouded, as far as I can tell, in drowsiness. He reeks of cigar smoke, and it’s not ten in the morning. I imagine his days have blended into nights since the good doctor disappeared.

  He starts with the obvious, they’re investigating the disappearance, just have a few questions. I’m suddenly feeling very fortunate for my recent workout, a convenient excuse for any coloring of my face or, worse, sweat.

  I open my hands. “How can I help?”

  “How well did you know the Reinardts?”

  I tell them what they already know, the reason they’re here; I work at the foundation, knew the cochairs in passing.

  “What did you do at the foundation?” Cummings will do the talking. I look at the other guy, Nicholaos. He has flipped over a little notepad and started scrawling.

  “I was part of the fund-raising committee, mostly. I occasionally work in the programs, too. But basically I work on fund-raising.”

  Cummings has his hands in his lap, and he’s leaned forward on the couch. “Did you have a lot of contact with the Reinardts?”

  “Not much. They attended all the functions, of course. But I was just one of about sixty people in fund-raising, which is only a part of the whole foundation. It’s a big organization.” This is routine Q & A, but I’m still not sure how I’m doing. Should I make eye contact or not? Seem disinterested or concerned? I . . . am . . . calm.

  “You didn’t know either of them on a personal level?”

  You mean besides sleeping with Rachel?

  “Not really.” I scratch my face. “I’m sure they would recognize me if they saw me, but they probably wouldn’t know my name. You know, one of a hundred faces.” I wonder if I’m being defensive.

  Cummings, looking into my eyes, pauses a split second before continuing. “Well, we’re interviewing everyone who worked with the Reinardts. We’re tryin’ to see if anyone would have any reason to do ’em wrong. Anyone come to mind?”

  I crinkle my face and stare at the wall over Cummings’s head, at a painting from my house growing up, an abstract piece with violent waves of deep blue and purple. I slowly shake my head. “No. No, I don’t think so.”

  “Anyone at all? Somebody with a grudge? Someone resented them, had an argument with them?” He brings a hand to his face.

  “The foundation is not exactly a place that breeds enemies.”

&
nbsp; “What about Mrs. Reinardt?”

  “I thought she was included in the last question.”

  Cummings pauses. He doesn’t appreciate the comment, I’m guessing, but he’s also wondering if maybe a light has turned on. “Let’s just focus on her, then.”

  “I have no idea who would want to hurt her.”

  “Hmm.” Cummings looks like he’s feigning disinterest now, a little too casual in his shake of the head. I wonder what his radar’s picking up here. Maybe he’s just feeling me out. Maybe he really is disinterested. “Well, okay,” he says. “But maybe someone didn’t want to hurt her. Maybe someone liked her. Liked her a lot, let’s say. Maybe that led to some ill will towards her husband?”

  I try to look confused. I just shake my head and open my hands. No verbal answer; I’m afraid the throat might close up if I speak. I’m hunched forward, elbows on my knees, with a suddenly painful knot in the back of my neck and, by my estimate, every ounce of blood in my entire body now gathered in my face.

  Cummings leans forward even farther now, his eyes set on mine. “You see what I’m askin’, Mr. Kalish. Would you characterize Mrs. Reinardt as flirtatious? Someone who enjoyed the attention of men?”

  “No, I wouldn’t.” My anger strengthens my voice. “I would characterize her as someone who cares deeply about her work. Someone all of us admire and respect. You might show her some respect yourself, Detective.”

  I see a flash of anger in Cummings’s eyes, just a brief clenching of his jaw; cops don’t accept disrespect well. He opens his mouth to respond but catches himself. Just like that, the anger is gone, replaced with curiosity. He nods and smiles a little too eagerly at me. “Yeah, you’re right,” he says amiably. “We’ve been workin’ around the clock, you know how it goes.” He keeps his eyes locked on mine, with that fake smile. But he doesn’t talk, like if we sit here in silence I’ll fill in the space with something helpful.

  About sixty seconds pass, me and Cummings playing Mexican, before Detective Nicholaos jumps in. He is still fresh-faced, thick-necked, and athletic in his cheap plaid sport coat and open collar, probably just made detective. “We aren’t trying to insult Mrs. Reinardt,” he says, “but we need to explore everything. A jealous boyfriend is something we have to look at, or we wouldn’t be doing our job.”