She took a deep breath. “I think I’m only compounding a mistake, but I’m sure what you say about next week is true. I know how stubborn you are. It was one of the reasons I thought of you.” She paused and I pondered my bullheadedness. When she continued her voice dropped an octave; she kept her eyes on the table and I felt myself grow tense. “Eban Holmes is a therapist and friend I care strongly about. He is considered a renegade by most local psychologists. His beliefs, his politics, fall outside establishment norms and values. In fact, he wouldn’t even like that I called him a therapist.”
She looked up from the table and searched my face for a reaction. I forced a blank look and tone despite my uneasiness.
“What does he call himself?”
She shrugged. “It depends on the week. Consistency is not one of his virtues.”
Something about her last remark left me wondering if she was referring to his work. I kept my tone neutral. “I don’t quite see the problem?” There wasn’t anything unusual about an oddball shrink. There sometimes seemed more charlatans hovering around the mental health field than clients. “He doesn’t sound terrible,” I added.
She seemed relieved by my remark. “He’s not at all terrible. Quite the opposite. He even gets grudging respect for his ability to work with people who wouldn’t go near a psychiatrist or psychologist.” There was a moment of quiet. I had a hunch we both were thinking of the same example.
She tossed her head as if she were shaking hair from her face. “It’s his writings that cause the stir. Since The Radical Therapist folded, no one will publish him. The journals won’t print his attacks on what he calls the ‘helping industry.’ Eban believes that the industrialization of a professional helping hierarchy is one way the culture maintains the status quo. He is brilliant but they won’t publish a word! Worse, they hate him for his assault on what he sees as their self-serving professional greed.”
I was surprised and embarrassed by the bitterness and passion in her voice. The delicate therapeutic relationship we had constructed over the past four years creaked under the weight of the morning.
Still, I was aware of a hint of relief mixed in with my discomfort. Also, Eban Holmes sounded interesting. An antitherapy therapist. My kind of shrink. But I didn’t think Dr. James was offering me a referral.
I lit another cigarette and offered her one but she shook her head and frowned. “I have a complicated relationship with Eban. We often disagree but he is a longtime friend and teacher.” She hesitated. “And sometimes therapist.” She stopped momentarily, as if considering whether to answer the question that shot into my head. She took another cigarette out of the pack, rolled it in her fingers, then flicked it onto the table. “I’ve tried to return his help as best I can. Since he is so far out of the mainstream he has difficulty getting referrals. I’ve helped him with that and other things.”
“Other things?” My curiosity outmuscled my discomfort.
“An office in Number 290 opened, and with a little help he was able to rent it at a cost he could afford.” Her voice faded.
“What sort of help?”
“One of my clients was related to the landlord.”
I shook my head. “I don’t see much harm in that.”
“I don’t want you to think I routinely make it a practice of asking favors of my clients.”
I smiled. “I can’t imagine you asking many favors of anyone. What you did sounds like a nice thing.”
She clenched her fist and a note of panic crept into her voice. “Maybe, but last weekend the building was ransacked. One of the offices broken into was his, and I feel responsible. I am indebted to Eban, and, if something horrible should come of this, I’ll never forgive myself.”
I realized that I didn’t want her to continue. Every answer brought me closer to Alice’s rabbit hole, but I heard myself say, “Dr. James, I can understand your feeling responsible, even though it seems like reaching, but so what? Won’t insurance cover any damage?”
She ran her hand back through her hair. “It’s not damage that I’m worried about. I’m afraid Eban is vulnerable to blackmail.”
I suppose a real P.I. might salivate at the mention of blackmail, but I wasn’t a real P.I. What kept me rooted to my seat was the tone of Dr. James’ voice, the explosiveness of her anxiety, ber vulnerability. But vulnerability to what?
My curiosity about Dr. James jumped to more personal territory. “Why me?”
“At the time I thought it simple—you are a detective.”
“I’m a janitor. You know what the detective stuff is about.”
She tight-lipped a smile and shook her head. “I know what you think your license is about, and I know what I think it’s about. Perhaps if I had kept the difference straight I wouldn’t be here.”
“What are you saying?”
“Nothing that I haven’t said before. You are honest and smart and loyal. When you latch on to something you see it through—despite yourself. Your therapy is a good example. Also, you’re not very talkative.”
“Sounds like you got your client list confused.”
She looked exasperated. “My mind has been so full of Eban since the break-in that I began to think like him. I don’t know how many times he has talked about ‘clinical distance interfering with honest intuition and real human interaction.’ ” She shook her head. “When the offices were burgled I thought of you.” Her sarcasm wasn’t heavily disguised. It seemed like Holmes’ theories were dissipating in the face of reality. I was off the hook. All I had to do was sit there.
“Dr. James, are you and Eban Holmes lovers? Is he married? Is that why he’s so vulnerable to blackmail? Is that why you are so upset?”
Her head snapped back. I wanted to choke myself. Her eyes flashed and she began to speak, then jammed the words back down her throat, and pulled herself to her feet. “This was a lousy idea”—she pointed to the dope on the table—“for many reasons.” As she leaned over to pick up her purse from the floor, I watched the rear of her black skirt ride up her calves.
I knew enough to keep quiet, but I had to take my mind off her body. “Look, don’t steam out of here angry. I wasn’t accusing you of anything. I’m sorry if I insulted you but I just asked the obvious.” I told myself to shut up, but I wouldn’t listen. “What is it you actually want me to do?”
“Right now I don’t want you to do anything. It will be difficult enough to continue our therapy.”
“Dr. James, right now continuing our therapy is impossible. I doubt if I’ll be able to help, but I can’t see you go without knowing what the hell you’re worried about.”
She moved back toward the chair and sat on its edge. I fought a battle to take my eyes off her legs. I wondered if I was losing all selfcontrol: I’d just urged her to tell a story I didn’t want to hear, held out a hint of help I didn’t want to give, and felt myself grow heated toward a lady I thought of as a friendly teacher. Like the one I had in grammar school—the one who liked me mostly out of pity.
It was too late to stop. “What about the cops? What are they saying?”
“The police are calling it a simple case of someone breaking and entering random offices.”
“Offices?”
“Yes. There were two other offices that were broken into.”
“If the police aren’t attaching anything significant to the robbery, why is Dr. Holmes? Also, why didn’t he at least come here with you?”
“Dr. Holmes isn’t attaching any significance to it, I am. He doesn’t know that I’m here.” She smiled ruefully. “While he would not approve of my coming, he would applaud my attempted spontaneity.” A frown crossed her face. “Certainly more than I do. Anyway, the building houses medical doctors and none of their offices were disturbed. If you were a thief wouldn’t you at least check for drugs?”
Did Dashiell Hammett drink? “What did the cops say about that?”
“They told me not to worry. That’s one of the things I had hoped you might find out.”
“But somehow you don’t think the police are doing a good job?”
“No, I don’t. Their attitude seems totally laissez-faire.”
“Well, I don’t feel very active myself.”
“You never do; but it doesn’t keep you from getting things accomplished. Look, Mr. Jacob . . . I’m sorry, Matthew. I think this was one of those ‘good ideas at the time.’ It’s best to forget it and work through the feelings, don’t you think?”
Unfortunately, no, I didn’t think. And if she had she wouldn’t have been here. But she hadn’t thought and now it was too late. I couldn’t just forget she came, even if I did talk about the feelings.
“I’ll look into it.” I held up my hand as she started to talk. “Don’t say anything. I won’t be able to learn more than you already have, but I’ll try.”
A look of relief crossed her face despite her ambivalence. Part of me felt pleased and another part of me got more angry.
I questioned her about the nature of Holmes’ vulnerability but I didn’t get very far. He was married, but she wasn’t worried about her relationship with him. She wasn’t as self-assured when I asked her about his clinical practice. I dropped it when it became clear that she didn’t wish to speculate. All she would say was she wanted no harm to befall Eban Holmes. I wasn’t surprised by her closemouthedness. It was one thing to ask me to nose around, another to take me into her confidence. Throughout the course of our relationship, while Dr. James had seemed personally involved, she always gently but firmly declined to offer information about herself despite my sporadic interest. Although I now felt able to ask whatever I liked, I really didn’t want many answers.
“I have very mixed feelings about this, Matthew.”
“So do I, Dr. James.”
She reached into her purse and pulled out a checkbook.
“No, no, Doctor. I wouldn’t know how to go about charging for this and I certainly don’t want money from you.”
“That’s out of the question. I expect to pay for the work I ask someone to do.”
I shook my head, “Look, you came here for a favor. Let me check around and we’ll talk money when I see you next week.”
At the mention of our appointment another look of relief crossed her face. She stood. “It pleases me that you feel all right about continuing therapy.”
I didn’t think I said that but I didn’t want to start another conversation. I got up and both of us stood awkwardly for a moment before she shook her head ruefully, smiled, and walked toward the door. She turned back to me, “Thank you, Matthew.”
I shrugged. She turned her back and I could make out the faint ridge of her underwear beneath her skirt. I was relieved when she finally left.
It wouldn’t take a weatherman to know which way the wind was going to blow. I went into the bedroom and pulled the stash out of my drug drawer. I felt angry, anxious, and depressed. Dr. James’ visit had seriously disrupted my morning routine. I swallowed a Valium and lit the offending roach. I went back into the kitchen, brewed a fresh pot of coffee, and when the pot began to perk I walked into the alley for the newspaper. Since the delivery service expects no tip, finding the paper usually doubled as my morning exercise. When I returned I relit the joint, poured the coffee, and struggled to decide between the sports and TV sections.
I started with sports but when I felt the drugs come on I switched. Despite its hectic start I still had a chance to massage the edge off the day. But reading wasn’t going to get Dr. James out of my head. I gathered the roach, cigarettes, and coffee and headed toward the living room when Mrs. Sullivan’s light flashed.
When Lou first bought the building I decided to become a responsible caretaker, and installed intercoms from all the apartments to mine. As time passed and I got sick of hearing the damn things go off I removed them, but changed Mrs. Sullivan’s to a flashing light. She really was too old to leave unattended. Although she talked about having a son somewhere in the Midwest, I’d never met him, and for all I knew he had forgotten she existed. It made me angry and guilty. It also made for more work.
I called to get the sentence and it wasn’t bad. A leaky faucet. I promised to get the plumber upstairs before the end of the day; she always liked my little jokes.
I finally made it to the couch. I lit a cigarette, leaned my head back, and watched the plumes of smoke. I rc’d the TV and spun the dial. It seemed only proper to celebrate my new job by watching Harry O. A boring dead man resurrected as a detective, and I enjoyed the joke until I remembered the phone.
To turn on or not to turn on? I chuckled out loud as a touch of drug hubris coursed through my veins. I walked over and turned the damn thing on, and I was surprised that punishment was as swift as it was. The fucker began to ring.
“Well, would you believe this, Mr. Alienation is up for air,” Simon’s voice growled into the earpiece. “Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been trying to contact you for two long days.”
I felt lightheaded. “Good things come to those that wait, my friend.”
“Yeah, well, this is important, Matt.”
“What isn’t important to a big shot like yourself?”
“I’m not joking around. Why don’t you at least buy an answering machine so people wouldn’t have to wonder whether you’re lying in that basement being eaten by rats?”
“Don’t insult my housekeeping. If I had a machine I’d have to return calls.”
“You don’t get enough calls to make that a worry.” Simon’s tone changed to business. “We need to meet right away.”
“What’s the matter, wheeling and dealing not leaving you much free time?”
“Stop the jokes. I have a problem that I want you to look into.”
“ ‘Why is this night different’ and so on. Just send me the material and I’ll do the research. My schedule isn’t exactly bursting at the seams.”
An unfamiliar tension crept into Simon’s voice. “It’s not a regular job. Look, I don’t want to talk over the phone. Do you remember the El Rancho, the place under the highway where we used to go for quahogs?”
I felt a touch of alarm at the mention of El Rancho. “Jesus, isn’t that a little out of the way?”
“That’s why I’m suggesting it. How soon can you be there?”
“Are you okay?”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “No.”
“I’ll be there in a half-hour.”
I heard a muffled thanks before the line went dead. Simon never thanked me for anything. I shook my head, stuffed a cigarette into my mouth and wandered around the apartment organizing myself to venture out. It wasn’t something that came easy, but today nothing had. I guess it was my day for strange.
I was driving around the dead-end ramp of the terminally unfinished highway when my past reached out to grab me. I edged onto the raw concrete overpass and caught sight of the rundown Irish tavern where Simon and I first met. The Astros-Phillies playoff game had been on the box but we were the only two interested. Most of El Rancho’s clientele were impatiently waiting for the hockey season to begin, since the hometown ball club had been dead in the water for months. Still, I loved baseball, and if there was something on the line, I didn’t care who was playing. Simon, I quickly discovered, was a loyal exPhiladelphian.
By the time the game ended we realized we had more in common than baseball. Both of us lived in the adjoining gray landmark neighborhood, and both of us were in the bar to escape the sinkholes of our marriages. There was still shine on our first rings, but we were both already shellshocked from soured fantasies. Although he was on the road to importance and I was listing toward anonymity, the similarity of our present lives put us at ease with each other. Our childhoods were remarkably similar as well, though neither of us talked that trash until well into our friendship.
Before I pulled off the overpass I looked toward my old turf and reconfirmed my reasons for avoiding this side of town. The bleak three-deckers and the new rehabs—all overwhelme
d by the hulking granite local monument—brought on the same grinding stomach ache I had most of the time I lived here. Neither the sight of El Rancho nor the chemicals in my bloodstream offered solace from the unhappy feelings I associated with the neighborhood. Almost two decades, a second marriage, a disaster, and drugs dented the quantity, but not the quality.
I didn’t notice much difference in El Rancho’s gloomy interior, maybe another layer of city grit and tears on the walls, a few more brown cigarette burns on the oval formica bar. Simon was seated at one of the few rear tables. Since he was usually late and I had arrived early, my stomach knotted even more.
I thought about ordering a drink at the bar but walked directly to his table. “I don’t get it. You’re important people, but in the middle of a work day you decide to roust me out to reminisce? Is this the anniversary of your divorce? Or mine?”
He looked at me from underneath his mop of unruly sand-colored hair that threatened to obscure the turned-up collar on his camel sportcoat. Whether he wore corduroy, the way he did when I first met him, or cashmere like he did now, some piece of his clothing was always out of whack. How anyone could look like he just ran out of a shvitz and still be an important lawyer in this town was testimony to how smart and hard Simon really was. His second marriage also helped. Hey, he was smart enough to marry her, and I was glad he was a friend.
“Your beer is on the way.” Despite the fat cigar stuffed in the corner of his mouth, his words were clear and clipped. He looked at me balefully from tired, bloodshot eyes. “It’s not too early for you to drink, is it?”
“Not unless they legalized narcotics.” I twisted around to see what was keeping the waitress. Something about his mood was making me thirsty.
“Are you high now? Jesus, between cigarettes and dope your lungs only see gray. And I don’t understand why you won’t get a fucking answering machine. Getting in touch with you is tougher than reaching the Pope.”
He chewed on his unlit cigar. I noticed a bottle of imported water in front of him. I suppose a regulation of success is staying healthy.
The Complete Matt Jacob Series Page 2
