The Complete Matt Jacob Series

by Klein, Zachary;

“Probably.”

  “You should hear yourself. One case solved itself, the other is stuck. Boychik, it’s time to wake up—nothing solves itself. The stuck one means you’re stuck, not the case. I know gornisbt from detecting, but I know you don’t build a business sitting on your tuchas thinking cases solve themselves.”

  I usually reacted badly to a kick in the ass, but Lou was at least half-right. I was the one stuck about the robberies.

  “Lou, you are right, I don’t know the first thing about building a business. That’s what makes this whole thing seem ludicrous.”

  “It’s not ridiculous, you’re ridiculous. Youpished away more time than you realize. You’ve got to have a track record and contacts. With your friend Simon you might have the contacts, but you’ve got no record. And you won’t if you keep thinking this way.”

  I smiled. It was nice to be treated like a son. Never really felt it before I met Lou. Probably why it had taken me so long to recognize what our relationship was.

  “I don’t get it. I thought kingmakers grew nasty when they got old.”

  He laughed. “I used up all my nasties becoming a kingmaker, bubbelah.”

  We spent the next few minutes talking about the project and how to proceed. Lou was correct when he said I knew nothing about business. I grabbed a pen and paper and wrote as fast as I could. I wanted to get it right.

  My head was swimming when I hung up the phone. I looked at my list. From what I could gather I had authority over a ton of money in a local business account. I could hire someone to caretake as soon as I wanted. Even if we didn’t get the proper variance from the city we were going to create a project. I felt lightheaded and wanted to tell someone. By the time I thought of Boots and Simon, I was already deep into the details with Charles and Richard.

  They loved the idea. Richard welcomed a hands-on project and Charles was delighted by a paying job that kept him home. Richard took the morning off, and we spent the next few hours discussing my good fortune. I would have my basketball court after all. Despite the avalanche of details, I still had very little to do. Charles promised to let me know if he needed any help, but for the time being everything was covered.

  I thought about a celebratory joint but passed. I didn’t want to sit around the house and think about what had just happened. I would manage to find the fly in the ice cube. I wanted to go outside, get back to the cases. But there was one thing I had to do first for the project; I had to talk to Money.

  When I arrived at the bank I relearned a basic truth: an owner is not an outlaw. I was treated with the utmost respect. Apparently Lou had laid some heavy tracks. I could have worn my gun without being accused of attempted robbery after they heard his name. It was a basic truth I couldn’t integrate right away since, despite the money palace’s treatment, I still felt like a withdrawal, not a deposit. It was a relief to be back in my car headed for Towne Lincoln and Mercury, though I wasn’t thrilled about kissing the car manager’s ass.

  I didn’t have to. He wasn’t there. I asked around, but no one seemed too eager to spend any time with me. It was a letdown after the bank. Maybe I was integrating my new status better than I thought, though clearly I still didn’t look like multiple-dealer options. I finally bothered a salesman into listening. I used a James Garner rap about providing Starring with inheritance money. It went over so well I began to consider buying polyester clothes. The salesman left to retrieve Starring’s paperwork and, returning, loped toward me with a smile and a sheet of paper.

  “I thought the name sounded familiar.” He held up the single sheet. “Not much paper, huh?” He almost guffawed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Have you met this guy?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Listen. The reason there is so little paper is this joker bought the fucking car with cash. We’re not talking low end here. We’re talking top shelf, loaded. When you walk in with that much green there’s not too much to write down.” He looked at me and his grin grew bigger. “You just say thanks.”

  Looking at a showroom full of new metal drove home the bleakness of Starring’s apartment. “I understand about the paperwork but I still don’t see the humor. Were you the salesman?” I glanced at the clock. I didn’t want to run into the manager.

  “No salesmen for this deal. The manager handled it, but everybody knew. First of all it rarely happens, and second, this guy looked like he crawled out from under a rock. Most of us thought he scored big on a drug deal. I guess not, though?”

  I fought the sinking sensation in my stomach. “You guess not?”

  “I mean, with you here to give him money and all?”

  “Mr. Starring’s looks belie his means.” But not much different from your stereotyped drug dealer.

  “No shit. Is he going to get a lot of money?”

  I did a professional number and ignored what he said. “I assume your manager checked on the legitimacy of the currency.”

  He took a turn at being professional while I reached for the paper. The only thing new it gave me was a date and an address in New Jersey. I pointed toward it. “Out of state residence.”

  He looked up from the document suspiciously. “Don’t you recognize that address?”

  I avoided his question. “Was this address confirmed or was it another ‘just say thanks’?”

  He puzzled over that for a moment but the suspicion never really left his face.

  “You’ll have to ask the manager. I thought you worked for his family?”

  “I don’t remember saying who I worked for.”

  “Well, who do you work for?”

  Again I pretended deafness, gave him back his papers, and thanked him before he could continue his questioning. I was just out the large glass door when, in my haste, I nearly collided with the manager. His eyes opened wide when he recognized me. Before he could speak I stuck out my tongue and skipped to my car.

  I wasn’t so in love with myself after I scribbled down the Jersey address and thought about what the car salesman said. With all the television I watched, I hadn’t really considered drug money. On top of that, the date on the paperwork preceded the burglaries. Another case starting to solve itself. I’d end up a fucking squire yet. I thought of Lou’s disbelief in magical fixes. At least this one was an easy check. If it was drugs it had to have been big enough for Julie to know about.

  I started the car, wondering whether Boots had tried to get in touch. For a moment I regretted not having a machine. It was only a momentary lapse. I really didn’t want to go back home and sit around to wait for a telephone call and contemplate my new wealth. I drove toward Brighton. The skinny beard with his fancy cash car bit at me like a bad case of crabs. A simple conversation with Julie, regardless of what I discovered, was not going to be a strong enough shampoo. If the kid was just a lowlife drug dealer, I still wanted to know what he’d been doing hanging around 290 and the Aquarium. Let the fucker convince me of coincidence.

  Also, visiting Starring meant a reprieve from returning home.

  I pulled into the cut-though and was surprised to see the creamcolored Lincoln parked sedately under a tree in the far corner. I pulled in next to it, got out of my car, and walked around kicking its tires. The Lincoln was empty and locked. I thought about busting in, but I walked over to Starring’s building instead. The only noticeable change was the orange dumpsters had more shit in them.

  I walked into the hallway and rang his buzzer. There was no answer.

  I rang it again. A long one, but there was still no answer. I would have left but someone hadn’t locked the downstairs door properly and it was too open to ignore. I walked up the stairs and finished concocting a story. Somehow I still expected to speak with Joe Starring.

  I hammered on his door, frustrated when he still didn’t answer. Although I didn’t figure he had left his Lincoln behind, I let myself into the apartment prepared to wait for his return. Inside, I stared through the glare of the naked, one-bulb overhead that illuminate
d the emptiness Starring called home. Only it wasn’t empty. When I realized the tie-dyed mural on the far wall was a mixture of face, brain, skull, and blood, I held on to my stomach, backed out of the room, and ran like hell.

  I sat in the car and tried to regain control of my gut. Television hadn’t prepared me for this. I smoked furiously, trying to rid my nostrils of the smell of blood. Then I tried to remember if anyone had seen me.

  I started the car and thought about racing home, but instead shut the engine off and lit another cigarette. I should have looked more closely at the body. But the moment I thought of returning, the abstract blood picture on the wall snapped the idea in half. Still, I didn’t feel right about just walking away.

  I hopped out of the car and jogged across the lot to Brighton Avenue. The first bar I entered had one of those exposed phone booths so, after a very quick boilermaker, I kept going. You couldn’t make a fucking private call these days, not even in a ginmill. In a drug store I spotted a real booth back in the corner; I walked in and dropped an anonymous tip to the police. Then I ran back to my car and drove it to another spot in the parking lot where I could see the building but remain fairly well hidden. I wished I had my gun.

  I couldn’t sit still so I trotted over to the Lincoln and let myself in. There was nothing, not even a garbage bag, or half-smoked butts. The trunk was different. Its floor was littered with paper, and there was a battered blue gym bag shoved into the corner. It looked as if someone had dumped the contents of the bag onto the trunk floor and pawed his way through. When I noticed Eban Holmes’ name at the top of beige stationery I knew I’d struck gold.

  Sirens in the distance; after a moment of indecision I stuffed all the records into the bag, and wiped down the trunk with my handkerchief.

  I slammed the lid and walked back to my car, where I wedged the gym bag underneath my spare tire. I got back in, lit a cigarette, and waited for the police to show. The case wasn’t solving itself.

  None of the police assigned to the scene were interested in anything but the scene. No flashing lights, and they even canned the siren before they turned onto the block. No big red ribbons or sawhorses. Just one ambulance and a few cops. I was impressed that they had brought the ambulance before they confirmed the call. When I was a caseworker and law was needed, police were a lot more aggressive and hostile than they appeared to be here. Maybe they were more comfortable confronting the dead. If I stayed in this business would it be the same for me?

  I pushed the image of the dead kid out of my mind and watched the cops go upstairs. After a moment one of the uniformed officers reappeared and used the radio in his car. I felt a little better when I saw him get out of the car, go to the side of the dumpsters, and puke. I hoped he wasn’t a rookie.

  He leaned up against the side of the building and lit a cigarette; I grimaced and lit one myself. His heave had bonded us. We were about halfway through our smokes when a gray nondescript sedan pulled up in front of the building, double-parking on the wrong side of the street.

  At first all I could see was a hand snake out the window. Suddenly there was a blue light flashing from the roof. I looked back at the uniformed officer and noticed his cigarette was gone. When I saw who he was looking at I drew on mine harder. Every inch of Washington Clifford was neatly crossing the street.

  My body reflexively slouched low in the seat as my free hand groped for the ignition. I forced my fingers away from the keys, and peeked out the window. It wasn’t easy. Washington Clifford scared the hell out of me.

  He stood next to the uniform, registering no surprise at whatever the man was saying. I prayed I hadn’t left a trail. Dealing with Clifford officially would be no more pleasant than it had been unofficially. I figured it would only be a matter of time before he went upstairs and I could leave. My body hadn’t hurt for a couple of days, but watching Clifford rock lightly back and forth revived all the bruises he and his mastiff had inflicted. The pain felt so real I looked at my palms expecting blood to spurt, but nothing happened. It was comforting to discover limits to his power.

  Clifford didn’t go upstairs. Instead, he walked back to his car, leaned up against it, and stared vacantly ahead. In the far distance I heard the multiple squeals of a siren working an intersection. The sound began to close in. Clifford also seemed to hear it. He pulled out of his reverie, took the light off the roof, and burned rubber as he jackrabbited his car.

  Momentarily I wished I could question the cop about Clifford, but sanity prevailed. The sirens became police cars, and suddenly the scene looked a lot more like Quincy. I started my engine and drove toward the Brighton Avenue exit. I had just pulled the car into traffic when I realized what I’d seen—a criminal returning to the scene of the crime.

  Just like I knew Clifford was a cop when I first saw him, just like I knew that Starring was connected to the burglaries at 290, I knew that Clifford had murdered Starring. It was easy to picture him blowing Starring’s head onto the wall. The thought piled dread on top of the panic already lodged in my gut. I jerked the car over to the side of the street. I didn’t have time to think. It was all I could do to roll down the window and stick my head out. The horror in the apartment, the fear of Clifford, and the new knowledge that I was mixed up in something that I didn’t understand came pouring out in a bucket of sick. When I stopped throwing up I looked guiltily up and down the block to see if anyone was watching. With my luck I’d run into a meter maid.

  My hands were shaking but I got them working well enough to light a cigarette. I inhaled and held my breath to regain some control. I sat there for a couple of moments and finished the smoke. I knew it was time to leave when I relaxed enough to smell the foul odor of my puke wafting through the open window. Nursing the car home like I was sixty-five and the car had 140,000 took some time, but I couldn’t afford more surprises.

  I went straight for the alley. If I went through the front Charles or Richard would buttonhole me. Thinking of them reminded me of how the day began, of Lou, only it seemed so much longer than a few hours ago. I didn’t feel much like a squire. I unlocked the door, started inside, and stopped when I remembered the gym bag.

  I dropped everything on the kitchen table but didn’t stop moving until I dug out my stash and rolled a fat doobie, returned to the table, and sucked on the joint. After I dumped the records on the table I organized them into neat piles. There were no papers with Dr. James’ name on them. I got up and prowled from window to window, though I didn’t know what I was so anxious about. No one had seen me and I could, if I had to, explain my prints at Starring’s. Couldn’t I? Jesus, I hadn’t shot him.

  Suddenly panicked about my gun, I walked quickly to the bedroom. I dropped to my knees, grabbed the strap of the holster, and yanked it toward me. The gun was there, which brought an audible cry of relief. At least I wasn’t being framed.

  Framed by whom, for what? I flopped down on my ass and tried to steady my nerves. It was all right to be overwhelmed. This was my first time out of the box. Any more todays and it would be my last.

  I grimly strapped the holster on my shoulder. It made me feel safer. Calmer. But I didn’t like it. Guns. Vigilantism. Suspicion. Not the kind of world I’d spent much of my life advocating.

  I felt myself get angry. When the mental image of Starring’s wall wriggled in its brainfold I didn’t feel my stomach rise. Only a rotten taste in my mouth and the growlings of starvation.

  In the refrigerator I saw the food I had bought in the North End. I stood there with the door ajar, then closed the fridge and turned toward the table covered with office records. I wanted them out of my house, so I postponed eating until I had called Dr. James. While I stood there I checked again to be certain there were no records with Gloria’s letterhead.

  I was in deep shit and I didn’t know how I got there. Worse, I didn’t know the way to shore.

  I went to the bathroom intending to shower but was reluctant to remove the gun, so I brushed my teeth and rinsed my mouth instead. I di
dn’t have many memories of my old man. One I did have was watching him rinse his mouth in the morning. He’d make a big production of it, cupping his hands rather than using a glass, and gargling loudly. I looked at myself in the mirror and used a glass. Quietly. The older you get the more appreciative you become of nuances.

  When I finished I walked to the phone. On the third ring I was answered with a recorded message informing me that Dr. James was away for a couple of days but I could most certainly leave a message. If it was an absolute emergency I could call the number left on the tape at the end of the message. I grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled the emergency number. I didn’t want to leave a fucking message and it was an absolute emergency.

  I had barely finished dialing when I heard a gruff male voice.

  “Holmes here. Who is it please?”

  “Matt Jacob, Dr. Holmes.”

  “Oh, Matthew, please call me Eban. I was just on my way out.”

  “This shouldn’t take long. I’m looking for Dr. James. She left this number on her machine.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. That was in case any of her clients were in crisis. I really don’t know how to get in touch with her until she calls.”

  “Who does?”

  “I don’t think anyone. She wanted to be alone for a few days.”

  “Bullshit. She may have wanted to get away, but I don’t believe she didn’t leave her number with someone”

  “I’m sorry you don’t believe me, but I don’t think I can help you. If you want to leave a message I can pass it along if she calls.”

  “Goddamnit, I don’t want to leave a message.” My voice rose a decibel level. “I want to speak to her.”

  “I’ll leave your number for her.” He paused then continued, “As I said, I was just on my way out.”

  “Listen, motherfucker, I want to speak with her. Stop playing gargoyle. I recovered the stolen records from 290 and we need to talk.”

  His voice never changed inflection, nonetheless there was no mistaking his abrupt detachment. “That sounds wonderful, Matt. I’m sure Gloria will be pleased to hear that. I’ll be sure to tell her if she calls.”