The Complete Matt Jacob Series

by Klein, Zachary;

  “Come on, Simon, I’m more flexible about sex than the Pope.”

  “Again with the damn jokes. I’m serious.” His tone took on an imperious quality and he unplugged the cork from his mouth. “When I need to get in touch with you I don’t want to wait until it crosses your mind to answer the fucking phone.”

  He was pissing me off. “You know where I live. If it’s so damn important, drive over. I’m not pining away for your calls.”

  It was a good thing we were interrupted by the waitress. She didn’t ask who got the beer. I couldn’t swear, but she looked like the same lady who used to work here—just a serious twenty years older. Simon reached for the check and I started to complain. He pushed it back and told her to keep it running. I liked that; it was going to be more than a one-drink meet. I was already half through my beer and the waitress was barely gone.

  I looked at Simon and grinned, my annoyance easing as the alcohol said hello. “I don’t know about you, but this neighborhood gives me the creeps. What are we doing here?”

  He shook his head. “Instinct.” The coldness in his voice had changed to resignation; it wasn’t a tone I associated with him. “I figured Fran wouldn’t see us here, then I realized it wouldn’t matter if she did.” He kept popping the cigar in and out of his mouth. I wished he would light the damn thing. I dug into my pocket for my own smokes, lit one, and drained the rest of the beer. I stifled my immediate desire to find the waitress and forced myself to pay attention.

  Simon had his glasses up over his forehead and was rubbing his eyes. “I’m in trouble. I think my marriage is going down the toilet so I picked the place where it happened before. Sue me.”

  I couldn’t stop myself from twisting around in my seat. I needed the waitress. I turned back to Simon but he was too caught in his own thoughts to have noticed. At least that’s what I thought until I saw him raise his arm. I mouthed my thanks.

  He said carefully, “You just finished the beer and you need another.”

  “Simon, we’ve both kissed floor enough times in this bar that it’s tough for me to feel guilty by your granola conversion. Leave it alone. Now what the fuck are we doing here?”

  He pulled his glasses back down and looked at me intently. “I want you to follow Fran and I don’t want her to know about it.”

  I sat back in my chair and looked around for a place to put my eyes. Thankfully, the beer arrived, and I killed time fiddling with the glass. This was the second time today that reality seemed to slip out of focus. But I couldn’t deny a worm of satisfaction buried at the bottom of my disorientation. I must have looked embarrassed.

  “You think that I want photos,” he rushed to reassure me. “It’s not like that at all.” He smiled, “I always knew you had the head to be a P.I.”

  “Is that a compliment or an insult? I got enough on my mind without starring in your fantasies.”

  Simon looked at me with sudden concern. “Damn, man, I’ve been so mired in my own shit that I just got angry with the no-answers. Was the phone off the hook for some specific reason?”

  I couldn’t help smiling. It was impossible for Simon to imagine life without a telephone; I struggled to live with one. “I’m okay, but this is the second time today that someone is trying to turn a janitor into a detective. I never thought I looked like Eliza Dolittle.”

  Simon looked confused, “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing, except I’m not a fucking detective.”

  He said adamantly, “I don’t ever want my personal life linked with a regular detective firm. In this town confidentiality lasts as long as the next happy hour.” I started to protest but he waved me off, “Quiet a second. Hear me out.”

  I didn’t want to hear him out, but fighting would only postpone the inevitable.

  “After we got back from Nantucket Fran began having nightmares. Alex was there as well, and I thought the nightmares had to do with conversations that took place among the three of us. Alex was feeling his mortality and talked a great deal about his ‘arrangements.’ Given how close they are, the subject naturally disturbed her.”

  Fran’s father, Alex, owned a large piece of the Island and a good chunk of Maine so I was sure the arrangements were complicated. I had been invited to both places but something always seemed to come up. Mostly my own reluctance.

  “Is Alex sick? Dying?”

  Simon shrugged. “He says not.”

  “But you don’t believe him?”

  He shook his head, “I don’t think about it much. It makes me too uncomfortable. I like the guy a lot. Also, I have my hands full at home. It’s been a couple of months but the dreams won’t go away. Worse, they’re creating an enormous amount of tension between us.”

  I interrupted, “Why are you telling this to me and not a shrink?”

  He looked at me strangely, started to speak, stopped, and began again. “Fran sees a shrink.” He stopped again as if inviting me to talk. I had nothing to say except, “I don’t want to hear anymore.”

  His eyes narrowed but he spoke softly, “You know, it wasn’t so long ago that we used to sit here and listen to each other talk about everything.”

  “You’re mistaken, Esquire. It was a long time ago and both of us hated our wives. Also, neither of us asked the other one to do something about it. I can’t spy on your wife.”

  He pulled the cigar out of his mouth. “You still got your mind in the gutter. I love the woman. I’m not trying to spy on her. The fucking dreams don’t disappear, she doesn’t sleep, I don’t sleep, the shrink helps, but everything keeps getting worse.” He paused momentarily and looked down at my glass. I quickly nodded and finished what was left. I needed to slow down, sip the next one before I said something stupid.

  “Simon, we both know you love your wife. I just don’t want to get involved.”

  It looked like he was going to say something about the edge in my voice, but instead he signaled the waitress. I braced myself for another shove down memory lane. I looked at the waitress intently when she brought the drinks, until I was sure she was the same lady. I felt oddly satisfied when I returned my attention to Simon. I had found someone else who aged as badly as me.

  Simon ignored what I had said. “I want you to look after her. She’s starting to have trouble functioning during the day. Misplaced car keys, forgotten errands, that sort of thing. When Fran blows appointments the shit is deep in the fan.”

  “Simon, no, I don’t want to do this. I’m not a detective, I’m not a day-care worker. Hell, Simon, I can barely take care of myself.”

  I thought he would get angry but he just sat there and shook his head slowly. “You confuse taking care of yourself with not doing anything. I’ll tell you, watching her be frightened of sleep tears me up. And not knowing what the hell the dreams are makes it worse.”

  “Why don’t you know what she’s dreaming about?”

  He shrugged. “First she can’t remember, then it’s too hard to talk about. Finally she comes into the den and tells me that she doesn’t really want to talk but generally the dreams are about someone watching her, then picking her up, and taking her someplace that she fears but can’t see. She says it makes her feel like a scared kid.”

  “Did you ask for more details?”

  “Well, I didn’t keep staring at the television.”

  “Did you turn it off?”

  His eyes darted from the table to my face and he started to react, but after a second said, “You asshole, someday someone who doesn’t know the decent side of you is going to do some real damage.”

  “It’s nice that you think I have a decent side.”

  A small grin flickered across his face. “I can’t help myself. Anyway, that was all she said, but I have to tell you I was relieved. I was afraid the dreams were somehow about us, something that would kill our marriage. Hell, I’m living with a woman who can’t sleep, then she starts feeling guilty about keeping me awake. Before I know it I’m sleeping in the guest room. More tension.
It’s making me a little crazy.

  “Then something she said caught my attention. That lately she has that feeling of being watched during the day as well. At first I didn’t think much of it. When you are doing nights like she’s been doing, some of it has to flop over into the day. But a day or so later it starts to nag at me. I mean, what if we’ve got it all reversed? What if someone is somehow fucking with her? Maybe someone is provoking all of this. She’s rich, and hell, I’ve pissed off a fair share of people. And who knows what Alex has been involved with? I know it sounds farfetched. But I’ve heard of enough weird things happening that I couldn’t just throw the idea away.”

  He stuffed the cigar back into his mouth and spoke around it. “That’s where you come in. You could keep an eye on her and at the same time see if something really is going on.”

  I lit another cigarette and stopped nursing the beer. “I think you’ve been sleeping alone for too long. What does Fran think of your idea?”

  “I’ve no intention of telling her. She has enough on her mind, don’t you think?”

  “I think your idea about the dreams spilling into the day makes more sense.”

  “Sense or not, I want you to follow Fran and make sure that my idea is crazy.”

  I felt like I was drowning. Again. “Roth, the only reason you want me to do this is because you can’t stand sitting still any longer. If something is happening around you, you can’t leave it alone. Never could. You know what kind of detective I am. We’re not talking Lew Archer here. I may not be a friend of Fran’s, but I know her well enough to feel damn stupid traipsing around after her. Hell, if she catches me I’ll never get off her shit list.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you that you’re not on any list.” He sighed, “Neither of you gives each other much of a chance.”

  “There will be no chance at all if she spots me. This is crazy. Let me pick up the check and you go home and take a nap.”

  He looked at me and raised his bushy eyebrows. “It wasn’t crazy when you wanted the detective license, was it? Damn, Matt man, if you were someone else I’d tighten the screws. Christ, you owe me enough, but that’s not what this is about. I don’t have anyone else I can ask. Or want to ask. When I first had the idea I went to Alex to see if he had any suggestions …”

  “I can’t believe Alex would suggest me.”

  Another smile crossed his face. “No, he didn’t.”

  “So listen to your father-in-law.”

  His tone was final. “If Fran bumps into you I’ll take the weight. But I think you can do a decent job. Christ, you watch enough TV and read enough of those hard-boiled books. I didn’t bust my balls getting you that license so you could browse the library.”

  “There’s not going to be anyone out there,” I said futilely.

  It was going to come out the way Simon wanted, no matter what.

  “I know the odds. I just want you to make sure of it.” He reached across the table and grabbed my hand. “It relieves me that you’ll keep an eye on her.”

  We sat talking for another fifteen minutes or so and I got a sense of how deeply upset and helpless he felt. Welcome to the club. It should have pleased me to help him out, but all I felt was depressed. As we walked through the dreary tavern toward the door the waitress thanked us and hoped we’d come again. This time I felt no satisfaction; all she looked was old. When I got to the car I rummaged through the ashtray looking for a discarded roach. I needed to get away from this side of town.

  In my rush to leave the area I flooded the engine. I pounded my hand on the steering wheel. It was still too early for the afternoon movie; if I went home I would mope and wind up playing plumber. By the time the dope burned my finger the El Rancho and the Monument sat squarely •in my rearview mirror. That relaxed me enough to head across town to the discount lumber yard to price materials for a deck that Charles and Richard wanted me to build. Richard was a high priced architect who cared enough about the porch to work out an inventive design. Although it would cut into the small area where I fantasized laying cement for a basketball court, that was a minor objection. I had imagined the court since I moved in, but doing something or doing nothing always got in the way.

  Since I was on Dorchester Avenue anyhow, I nosed around a row of secondhand stores. There was a ‘40s radio; unfortunately old plastic was in but the price was out and I was in no mood to haggle. My earlier depression was beginning to reappear, so I stopped at the market and bought a couple of bags of junk food. A man has to do something besides smoke when he’s flat on a couch.

  I had used up most of the day’s light by the time I returned to the building. I parked in the alley but walked to the front to pick up the mail. I pushed through the front door cradling my groceries, and nearly tripped over Charles and Richard sitting on the interior steps with an oversized suitcase at their feet.

  “Another fight?”

  Charles smiled and took Richard’s hand. Rich said seriously, “Business. The firm is sending me to Detroit to save a building the locals are butchering.”

  “Well, no doubt you’ll kick ass. How long will you be gone?”

  “Too long,” Charles wailed, letting go of Richard and reaching for his own head.

  “Two days to two weeks.”

  The grocery bags were getting heavy but I delayed moving. “I priced the deck today.”

  “OH-FUCKING-KAY!,” Charles suddenly hollered, threw his hands toward the ceiling, and began to dance and sing. “We’re gonna have a deck tonight, we’re gonna have a deck tonight. We’re really gonna rumble …”

  I nodded, “What’s he on?”

  Richard smiled. “Show tunes. A bad habit he picked up from his mother. He sings them in times of stress.”

  “West Side Story, right?”

  Just as suddenly Charles stopped dancing around the hall. “Who’s been teaching you, Matt? Could it be that little fireplug who rattled our nice tranquil home at some ungodly hour this morning?”

  Calling Dr. James a fireplug was more than I could bear. “You better take care of that man before you leave, Rich. He’s a basket case already, and I gave up social work a long time ago.”

  Richard started to reply but I cut him off. “As for you, Charles, you’re in real trouble if you have nothing better to do than play Peeping Tom with me.”

  Charles raised his eyebrows and leered, “I like to watch.”

  I shook my head and started toward the back of the building, then remembered why I had used the front door in the first place. The two of them watched while I cleaned Ed McMahon out of my box. I was almost to the back stairs when I heard Richard call.

  “Before you buy anything I’ll take another look at the plans and see if we can steal a little more space for your basketball court.”

  I nodded my thanks as I went through the door to the basement. I got to the apartment and managed to put the bags down and the mail in the garbage before Mrs. S.’ light began to flash. She probably stood at her windows waiting for me. I felt guilty about my wave of annoyance and telephoned upstairs. But it wasn’t her leaky faucet; she wanted me to come to dinner. As unappealing as another solitary supper of Taylor Pork Roll on an English seemed, talking to someone was worse. I thanked her, declined, and promised to get to the faucet within the next couple of days.

  I searched futilely through the TV Guide, but turned the tube on anyway. I was starting to roll a joint when I heard Julie’s patterned knock. If it had been anyone else I’d lock myself in the bathroom, but Julie was different; you don’t ignore your dealer. I started to speak, then, appreciating quality work, I stood silent and listened to him pick the lock. It was a game. I changed the lock a couple of times a year but neither of us ever mentioned it. This one was going to be a piece of cake. Second time in a week, the same lock.

  When he saw me watch him enter, he shook his head and jerked his thumb back toward the door. “You’re a smart fellow, but you spend hundreds of dollars a year betting a losing hand. If I di
dn’t get in you would be morose.”

  “Tradition doesn’t count for much today, huh?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. You’re not supposed to talk about the locks. Not only would I be morose, I wouldn’t get my dope.”

  “I heard your psychologist visited today. I thought it wise to check it out.”

  I rubbed my face. He was a sweet guy. “How’d you find out she was my shrink?”

  “I like to ascertain my surroundings. People keep me informed.”

  I wasn’t going to push. This wasn’t the first time I’d wondered about what lay behind his gentle face and close-cropped gray hair. It was strange, though, to think of myself as someone other people kept an eye on. The whole damn day continued to surprise.

  “Well, she was here all right but it wasn’t about me. She wants to hire me to do detective work.”

  “You look none too cheerful, slumlord.”

  “I’m not. You ever been caught in your shorts in front of your shrink?”

  “I thought seeing a psychologist meant taking your underwear off.”

  I grimaced. Julius was another tenant I inherited when Lou bought the place. A powerfully built, medium-height, fifty-five-year-old black man. For almost a year he had barely acknowledged my presence. Just a check, right as rain, in my box. One day I came home and found him sitting at my kitchen table with a large beige canvas bag.

  “Sit down now, boy.”

  His voice was deep, quiet, and commanded attention. Not unlike God in The Ten Commandments. “IVe been observing you for a while and I like what I see. Respectful to the tenants and the building. I like that. I am also impressed with your concern for Mrs. Sullivan. She’s getting on but no one cared to acknowledge it. I know about you and I know you got a cop license that don’t move. If you prefer this to rent money, tell me.”

  He pushed the bag over to me and I pulled out a large ziploc full of dope. You wouldn’t need a hookah to realize this was some fine stuff. All buds. Gold.