by Tim Cockey
After dropping Alcatraz off at home I headed over to Julia’s gallery and found Pete there, putting the finishing touches on Julia’s new counter. Chinese Sue was already ensconced behind it. She was nearly finished with The Mill on the Floss. Only because I’m a glutton for Chinese Sue’s particular brand of disdain, I asked her how she was enjoying it. She looked up from the pages and puckered her lips, then simply outstared me.
Munger was in a foul mood. I ambled around the gallery and looked at Julia’s stuff while Pete finished up. When he was done, he was in no mood for compliments. I gave him one anyway.
“Nice work, Pete,” I said.
Chinese Sue set her book down carefully and leaned as far as she could over the counter to appraise it upside down. She looked up at Pete and granted him not much, but still a damned sight warmer look than she’s ever given me.
“Only took me an entire week,” Munger grumbled.
“Took God just as long,” I said. “And a lot of the stuff he did ended up breaking.”
Pete said he wanted a drink. Turned out he wanted several. We went to the Oyster and I sat on the bar stool next to him while he put a couple of dents into a bottle of Jim Beam. I stuck with coffee. When Pete asked me why he was drinking alone I told him I was the designated listener.
“If you’ve got anything to talk about, Pete, I’m ready.”
He replied with a low threatening sound from his primal arsenal.
“That’s good, Pete. That’s a start. Just get the flow going.”
Which in fact he did. For the next forty minutes he didn’t shut up. He and Susan had had a fight. A real howler. Pete sought to put it in a historical perspective by taking a trip down memory lane to some of his and Susan’s previous altercations. I give Pete points here; he wasn’t condemning his wife. He didn’t cast Susan as the villain, but showed equanimity in dispensing the blame. His most recent tangle, he said, had featured his throwing a bowl of cereal across the kitchen in the morning room and Susan heaving a half gallon of milk right after it.
“Same thing happened at lunch,” Pete grumbled. “I threw my grilled cheese sandwich out the window. Plate and everything.”
“You might have some kind of eating disorder,” I said.
“Funny.”
“Who made the sandwich?”
“Susan did.”
“That was mean of you.”
“I guess that was the idea.”
“So what did Susan do?”
“She threw the frying pan.”
“The one she’d just cooked the sandwich in?”
“Yes.”
“Did she throw it at you?”
He shook his heavy head. “Out the window. I was egging her on. Married as long as we’ve been, you know how to push the buttons.”
“Why do you figure you’re doing it?” I asked.
“Because I’m an idiot.”
I told the idiot to drink up. “We’re heading down to Annapolis,” I said, reaching for my wallet.
Pete balked. “Like hell. I’m staying right here.”
“No, you’re not. You’re coming down to Annapolis with me. There’s someone I want you to talk to.”
“I’m not talking to Lee,” Munger said sullenly.
“In fact, Pete, that’s not who I meant. It’s a guy I ran across last time I was down there. He was mixed up with Sophie just before she died. I want to ask him a few more questions and I thought a surly lunk like you might be of assistance.” I signaled for the check. “But sure. Hey. While we’re at it, why not pop in on Lee’s show and catch a few tunes?”
“Last thing I need right now is to see Lee,” Pete grumbled.
“Wrong, bosco. She’s the elephant in the corner. You can’t just pretend she’s not there.”
Pete finished off his drink. He tested the empty glass in his hand.
“You don’t give a damn about my marriage, do you?”
“Your marriage sounds to me like a Warner Brothers cartoon, Pete. I’m picturing this house with all sorts of stuff flying out the window.”
“That’s how things go, sometimes.”
I slid off the stool. “Come on.”
Pete looked at me cross-eyed. “You’re not hearing me.”
“I hear you. And I’m ignoring you. Listen, if you really want to work on your marriage you’re going to have to settle up with Lee one way or another. You kicked open that door. You’re not going to be able to square with Susan if you leave it hanging open. It doesn’t work.”
“The expert.”
“I’m glad you’re finally starting to see reason. I’ll bring my car around.”
Pete murmured, “I can drive.”
“I know you can. You can also run your car into a telephone pole or maybe off a bridge. It’s amazing all the things you can do.”
I made Sally promise to pour at least one cup of coffee down Mr. Munger’s throat while I was off fetching my car. Even a gruff bear like Pete knows better than to argue with Sally. He was standing outside the Oyster when I pulled up. He was holding a paper cup.
CHAPTER
14
The Wine Cellar is a low-ceilinged brick sarcophagus in the basement of the George Washington Inn that feels very much like an underground bunker. The room used to serve as one of the inn’s two wine cellars until sometime in the seventies when management determined that they could get by with just one wine cellar. They converted the other cellar into a jazz and blues club. There was room for about fifteen tables. Twice as many had been shoehorned into the space, perfect for accidentally picking up the drinks of people at neighboring tables or going to scratch your ear and ending up in a fight.
Pete and I descended the steep stairs to the Wine Cellar and worked out the engineering plan for getting ourselves safely to a table. Even before Lee appeared we were a captive audience. Our waiter lowered on ropes—so it seemed—and took our drinks order. He pooh-poohed Pete’s cigarette before it even got to Pete’s mouth. Pete eyed the guy. “Okay if I just chew on it?”
While we waited for our drinks I filled him in on the latest. He listened without interrupting, without so much as nodding his head, without giving any indication that he wasn’t daydreaming of a Gauguin-like existence on the faraway isle of Tahiti. I described for Pete how I had gotten nothing from my conversation with Mike Gellman beyond confirming that the two of us didn’t particularly care for each other. I told him about Stephanie and Faith and their leading me to Tom Cushman. I didn’t go into detail on The Seagull production, but I told him Tom Cushman’s story of his and Sophie’s visit to the home of Crawford and Virginia Larue and then of my visit to see Larue. The Sphinx across the table showed no reaction. I leaned across the table and waved my hand in front of his face.
“I’m here,” Pete grumbled.
“There was something strange going on,” I said. “It was clear to me on the phone that he was anxious to talk to me. But when I got down there and we talked, I don’t know, Pete. Nothing seemed to really come of it.”
“So he was anxious when you talked to him on the phone but he wasn’t anxious at the end of your meeting.”
“He didn’t seem it.”
“Then you must have said something to ease his mind.”
“But I didn’t really say anything,” I said.
Pete picked up his drink and looked at it a moment. “That must be what eased his mind.”
I mentioned Mike Gellman’s other problems and Pete said he had read about them in the paper.
“It sounds like your friend’s husband really stepped in it. They’re saying a buddy of his in the state legislature was a silent partner in a bogus law firm that was extorting money from the people putting together that arena deal. This so-called law firm was nothing more than a big black briefcase just sitting open on the floor. It didn’t really do anything except collect some big fat fees that found their way into
the legislator’s pocket. In return he twists a few arms, calls in a few favors, does what it takes to get this arena deal through. Good old-fashioned influence peddling. You drop in the money and good things will happen. The D.A.’s office should have been all over this. It was apparently a very crude operation.”
“And Mike’s being accused of stonewalling the investigation.”
“I think the word they use is ‘obstruction.’ Your friend Gellman could be facing some deep deep doo.”
“I think the word they use is ‘shit.’ ”
The house lights dimmed, then a soft blue light came up on the low stage. A shadow stepped up onto the stage and into the blue light. Lee Cromwell was in a sleek black dress that fit her tall body like a mermaid’s skin. The dress was ablaze with silver sparkles that threw back the blue light like a disco ball. I glanced at Pete. I’ve probably never seen a sadder look on a face.
There was a smattering of applause. Lee placed her hand on the standing mike and with her other hand chased a stray wisp of hair from her face.
“Thank you,” she said in a somewhat husky voice. “My name is Lee. I’ll be your singer tonight.”
“She looks good,” I hissed at Pete across the table.
Pete didn’t respond. I wasn’t there. Neither were the several dozen tables nor the people seated at them. I’m not sure if Lee’s bass player and the pianist even made the cut. Lee swung her arm back toward her bassist and counted off a languid, “One . . . two . . .” She lowered her lips to the microphone.
Can’t believe, you want to quit
Just when the sun’s gone down.
I can’t conceive, that this is it
Thought you were coming ’round.
I started to say something to Pete, but he hushed me.
Am I the fool who didn’t hear
The words you fought to say?
Or are you the fool, who won’t believe
Where there’s a will, there is a way.
I picked up my drink and leaned back in my chair. An image came to mind. It was an image of Susan Munger, seated at a table not unlike this one. Expressionless. She was placing a hand of cards facedown on the table and skidding back her chair.
Lee ran her show with scant patter between songs. At one point, maybe five or six tunes in, she did shield her eyes from the stage lights and look over in our direction. She consulted briefly with her musicians, then launched into “Don’t Come Around Much Anymore.”
“Subtle girl,” I remarked.
I was also keeping my eye on the time. The theater where The Seagull was playing was just down the street. I didn’t want to miss Tom Cushman.
At around ten, Lee took a break. The exaggerated hip moves required for her to make her way to our table are probably illegal in some countries. As she approached I stood up and told Pete I was popping upstairs to the bathroom. He tried to murder me with his look, but I turned and let it bounce off my back. As I did, Lee gave me a little wink.
Upstairs, a willowy blonde bumped into me as I exited the men’s room. Her hair was pulled back and tied off in a skinny ponytail and there was a smudge of flour on her cheek. She was wrapped in a well-soiled apron.
“I know you,” she said.
“I know you,” I answered back. “You’re Hope. Or is it Trust?”
“Faith.”
“I was getting there.”
“Hitchcock Sewell. Did I get it right?”
“Every syllable. So do you always run around in public in a dirty apron or do I assume you’re working tonight?”
Faith asked me if I had time for a drink. I told her I could probably rearrange my schedule. I followed her to the bar. Her skinny ponytail whipped and danced. So did my second chakra.
After we ordered our drinks, Faith said, “I never thanked you properly for helping out the other day.”
“It was no problem. I had fun.”
“Stephanie tells me you’re an undertaker. Is that for real?”
“My customers think so.”
“Well, that must be interesting.”
“Good days, bad days. Like everything else.”
Our drinks arrived and I tossed out a few of my stories on the trade. Faith was drinking a seltzer water with lemon. The bartender had given her a red stir straw with her drink. She stuck it in her mouth like it was an oversized toothpick and grinned at my stories. Every time she laughed that damned straw bobbed about in her mouth like she was conducting a symphony orchestra. We chatted on a bit until our drinks ran dry, then Faith said she had to get back to the kitchen. I thanked her for the drink. She set her fingers on my hand and left them there.
“No problem.”
I reached out with my free hand and plucked the straw from her mouth.
“Sorry. It was driving me crazy.”
“It’s a nervous habit,” Faith said. We slid off our stools at the same time. Same side. This left roughly a centimeter between us.
“You should come back sometime and try the food,” Faith said. “If I do say so myself, it’s very good.”
“I’ll do that.”
“I get off in a couple of hours. Are you staying for the next show?”
“Actually, I’m popping out right now. But I’m coming back.”
“Good. Why don’t you find me?”
“That sounds like a good idea.”
Faith slid away from our close proximity. She picked up the straw from the bar and popped it back between her teeth.
“It is.”
She headed off for the kitchen and I headed out the front door.
Five minutes later I was nearly killed.
I had left the inn and trotted down Main Street toward the harbor. My chat with Faith had eaten up more time than I realized and I was afraid I was going to miss Tom. I paused on the corner just across the street from the theater. The tail end of the audience was coming out the front of the theater. As I stood there, the rear door of the theater opened and out came Shannon, followed by Tom Cushman. They started off in the opposite direction from me. I called out.
“Tom!”
They stopped. Tom spotted me.
“Hold on!” he called out. He said something to Shannon and then came trotting across the street. “It was great tonight!” he said as he neared the curb. He was beaming. “Constantin got some real respect. He—”
I never heard the rest of the sentence. The actor never got the chance to finish it. Or if he did his words were swallowed up by a loud squeal as a dark blue car came barreling through the intersection. I jumped, and landed hard on my front on the sidewalk. It was not squeezably soft. I heard a large sound, sort of like a sack of dough being dropped onto the floor—rather, thrown onto the floor—and something dark flew past me. It rocketed into the plate-glass window of an ice cream parlor on the corner. I heard an explosion and then glass was raining down on me. I ducked my head just as a large wedge of glass landed on me. I felt a kick in my hand.
And then there was silence.
And then there was screaming.
CHAPTER
15
PVA910. PVA910. PVA910. . . .
A Korean War veteran from Lansing, Michigan, got to me first. I raised my head to a pair of skinny legs with doorknob knees, a pair of Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt that read Erin Go Bra-less. The shirt included a cartoon of a perky colleen, barebacked, raising a mug of beer and winking over her shoulder.
PVA910. PVA910. PVA910.
“Don’t move,” the Korean War veteran instructed. “You’ve been hit.”
PVA910. PVA910.
The Samaritan had a face like a beaten biscuit. Funny, because that’s exactly how I felt. The man stripped off his T-shirt, revealing a Buddha-like torso tufted with wiry gray hair. He got down on his knees next to me and gingerly wrapped the shirt around my left wrist. The tip of his tongue peeked from the corner of his mouth as he went a
bout it. He was wearing glasses, which were sliding down his nose. He kept knocking them back into place like those prizefighters who jab themselves as they dance around the ring.
“What’s your name, son?”
I muttered, “PVA910.”
He frowned and shoved his glasses again. “You’re in shock.”
He finished wrapping his T-shirt around my arm and asked me if I thought I could stand. He helped me to my feet. I was woozy, so he slid his shoulder under mine for support.
“We’ll get you a medic.”
Shattered glass was everywhere. I picked a few pieces out of my hair. People were darting every which way. Tom Cushman, however, wasn’t. He was laid out on one of the ice cream parlor’s cast-iron tables, which is where he had landed after going through the window. He was as still as the center of a glacier. There had been a couple seated at the table. The girl was the one who had started screaming. Her face was pinpricked with blood and a thick strand of her hair was dark and matted. It looked like a piece of pull taffy. She was standing next to the table where Tom Cushman lay. One of the actor’s tennis shoes had come off. There was no sock. I stared at the motionless foot and my heart sank. The big toe just seemed to be begging for a tag.
Opposite the girl stood . . . I don’t know. Her boyfriend? Her date? Her brother? Her guru? Whoever he was he was contending with a shirtfront covered with ice cream and chocolate syrup. He seemed quite focused on it.
I was still muttering, “PVA910. PVA910. PVA910.”
“We need to get you to sit down, son,” my good Samaritan said to me.
“Paper,” I said. “Write it down.”
“What?”
“Write it down.”
He dug into his pants pocket and pulled out his wallet. He extracted a business card. He turned to a woman who was of an astonishingly similar body type and asked her if she had something to write with.
