The Complete Matt Jacob Series

by Klein, Zachary;

  It had been a long time since I’d thought about The End. Not simply because it was a forgotten part of my city, or because I was no longer involved in social service. Not even because I’d lost most of my faith in T, J, and A. I didn’t want to think about The End because it was where I had begun my disastrous marriage with my first wife, Megan. Things ended up so sour between us that it had lemoned damn near any place we’d ever gone. There were restaurants, movie houses, whole sections of town I still avoided. It didn’t seem to make any difference that I’d once thought of The End as home.

  But Blackhead’s remark, and the reminder of my new-found status, threatened my ability to Sherman the past. Or even hopscotch the present. Truth was, I was a naked landlord, sitting in my junk shop-furnished, art deco office, guilty and unhappy about my present life.

  I suddenly couldn’t stand to stay in the office. Grabbing my stash I flopped onto the living room couch. I flipped on the tube, and waited for the one-two punch of dope and television to work its magic. I kept watching and smoking, but couldn’t get rid of the hazy memories swirling inside my head. I hadn’t thought of The End or its lost people in so long that I had trouble matching names with faces. At least I hoped it was the passage of time. I didn’t want to believe it was the dope.

  Sleep brought uneasy tossings and jump starts of wakefulness. Eyes open or closed almost didn’t matter; there was no escaping the leering image of my first wife. Back then I had imagined that my work in The End signaled the start of a new life, the finish of an abusive past. But hooking onto Megan proved otherwise. Our relationship began with me courting, she regularly rejecting, then finally accepting. Our marriage wasn’t any different until after her second lover when I stopped courting. Then it was over.

  I awoke with an unusual sigh of relief. As if to wash the dreams from my eyes I reached for the phone and dialed Boots’ number. She picked up the receiver on the second ring and I drawled, “Hey, babe, who’s looking at ya?” my voice still thick with leftover memories.

  “You’re not really asking, are you?” Her low whisper suggested a still sleeping visitor. “Oh.” My eyes got sleep-heavy, and I suddenly wanted to make up for my fitful night.

  “Don’t sound so defeated, Matt, it’s boring. I thought you’d given up on mornings. Is something the matter?”

  “No, not really. I thought we could do breakfast. But since you’re busy…”

  “Slow down. If you can do mornings, I can do breakfast. It can’t be a long one, though.”

  I suggested Charley’s, gave her directions, then hung up the phone. My reaction surprised me since I wasn’t often thrown by Boots’ arrangement with Hal. Hell, I rarely even thought about it. By the time I was ready to leave the house, I had assigned the fetid taste to my Megan memories—how easily the unpleasant past infects the everyday present.

  She wasn’t hard to spot in a deserted restaurant. She wasn’t hard to spot in wall-to-wall crowds. In a town where fashion was typically defined by long skirts worn with running shoes, Boots’ expensive Soho stylishness invariably caught eyes.

  I detoured to the counter where Phil was hunched over the grill. He had to be cooking breakfast for himself, because there was no one else in the place. My lovely didn’t do grill.

  “Hey, dude, what’s happening?”

  He turned around, startled. “Well, look here, Matt Jacob. Didn’t hear you sneak up.” I smiled. It was nice to see him. “Where’s Red?”

  He scowled. “Good question.” He nodded toward the booth where Boots was looking at us. “The lady with you?”

  “Good question. She eat yet?”

  “Nah.”

  I held up a finger, walked over to the booth and took Boots’ smile and breakfast order. I returned to the counter and gave both to Phil along with my own. He turned his back and spoke over his shoulder. “Thought you might be eating in more elegant surroundings after that stuff in the newspapers.” He was careful to keep any criticism from seeping into his voice.

  It startled me to realize I hadn’t been there since the shooting. “I’ve just been laying low. Anyhow, this is my kind of elegant.”

  Despite his disbelieving grimace, I wasn’t lying. Black-and-white tile floor, baked-enamel-topped tables, with old-fashioned sugar bottles and thick heavy china, overhead fans. All the place needed was a train car exterior. And customers. Area gentrification had made winners of some, losers of others. And real estate brokers rich.

  Phil grunted and focused on his cooking. I stayed at the counter as long as I could, then walked back to the booth. It surprised me to see how well Boots’ chic fitted in with our surroundings; of course, I was often surprised by how well Boots’ chic fit in with me.

  “Why do I get the impression you regret having called?” She tossed her head and I watched her thick black hair swing wide and settle around her face. Her long-lashed Mediterranean-green eyes glittered and she smiled, but there was no humor in her voice.

  “I’m not sorry about calling. I’m sorry about my greeting.” “No, you’re not. You’re sorry about my answer.”

  I was too tight to trust a response. Instead, I shrugged, lit a cigarette, and waited quietly while Phil worked on the food. A couple of times Boots started to speak, then stopped. She held out her smartly painted fingers and I handed her the smokes. But before she finished lighting, Phil was piling dishes on a tray. I excused myself and walked over.

  He looked at me. “You think I’m too old to work?” “I needed a break.”

  He wiped his forehead with a white towel. “Must not be a client.” I nodded. “You charge extra for clairvoyance?”

  I placed Boots’ low-cal in front of her and unloaded my nitrites and cholesterol onto the table. Boots turned her attention to the food with the same enthusiasm she always did. I forced myself to eat; didn’t want to insult Phil and didn’t want to talk. Boots finished her cereal, sat back, and watched me toy with my meal.

  “You going to eat or play with that?” “Both.”

  “Give me another cigarette, will you?”

  As soon as he saw us smoking Phil was over, pouring steaming coffee into our mugs. Boots drank, grinned, and sat back smoking contentedly. “This place is a sweet find, Matt.”

  “How would you know? Your breakfast came out of a box.”

  “The look, the coffee. Reminds me of your apartment. You didn’t invite me here to sulk, did you?”

  “I’m not sulking,” I sulked.

  “Then what are you doing? You have an attitude a mile wide.”

  “Isn’t that what they said about Nixon?” I deflected. “Support a mile wide but only a half-inch thick?”

  “I’m not talking about the good old days, or Richard Nixon, Matt. I’m talking about your telephone call and your attitude right now.”

  “What attitude? I had a hard time sleeping last night, that’s all.”

  Boots inhaled on her cigarette and smiled sardonically. “You should have listened to the sound of your voice once you realized Hal was there.” She looked at me carefully, and I could see the crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes deepen. “I don’t expect that shit from you,” she added. “It’s not part of the bargain.”

  “The Bargain” wasn’t something we talked about, just lived. For Boots, it meant maintaining relationships that did nothing to threaten her independence; for me, it meant keeping romance and friendship separate. That duo had been the part of me Chana occupied, and when she died it went with her.

  We were both over the line…my jealous reaction, Boots’ demand for an explanation. “Bad dreams,” I said. “I ran into someone I knew from my days in The End.”

  A question pulled at her neat, thin eyebrows.

  “That’s where I met Megan,” I added. Boots knew who Megan was and, I was sure, what she was. Old friends, Simon and Fran Roth, had introduced me to Boots about a year after Chana died. Simon went back to my days with Megan and, though I was certain he hadn’t spared Boots any of the gory details, she and I never
spoke about it. Or why I no longer saw Simon or Fran.

  “I hadn’t realized you met there,” Boots said, her jaw rigid.

  Despite her usual tolerance, “there” rolled off her tongue like a dead fish. Most people thought of The End that way. If they thought of it at all.

  “I lived in The End when I first landed in town. A long time ago, twenty years.” It bothered me that I sounded apologetic.

  “This person you met, who recognized who?” A small smile played at the corners of her lightly glossed lips.

  “I recognized him. It wasn’t too hard, his voice makes my skin crawl. An ugly scene at the mall. He was getting busted and I sprung him.”

  “For old times’ sake?” I nodded.

  Boots looked carefully at the ash on her cigarette, then gracefully flicked it into the ashtray. “This morning was just more mall blues?”

  “Not really.” I hesitated, then pushed myself to speak. “For a moment your relationship with Hal piggybacked onto Megan. I was out of line.”

  She stubbed the remainder of her cigarette into the ashtray and shook her head. “You’re a piece of work, Matt. Every time I turn around you’re bashing your head against some ghost. You don’t let go of anything, do you? Divorce, death, it doesn’t matter, Matt Jacob never lets go.”

  She was awfully ferocious about a two minute telephone conversation. I was sorry I’d said anything, but felt my temper slip. “Lighten up. I never give you shit about Hal.”

  I punched out my smoke, lit another, and proceeded to give her shit about Hal. “Maybe something’s bothering you about him? Christ, you don’t need him to pay for your apartment. You got your own money, and you’re a veep at Little Ma Bell. Damn, woman, he’s old enough to be your father!” I sat back in my chair and clamped my mouth shut around the cigarette. I didn’t know who was more surprised by my tirade.

  Whatever Boots’ surprise, it did nothing to lessen her anger. She tugged at the collar of her gray silk blouse, her green eyes flashing. “And you say Hal doesn’t disturb you? What bullshit!” She yanked her hand away from her shirt. “You’re damn right I don’t need his money. If I did, I wouldn’t touch a nickel. Try to get it through your head, it gives him pleasure to do something for me. It gives me pleasure to let him.”

  Boots stuck out her hand and I rapidly complied. She turned to the side and lit the cigarette. When she turned back she had an odd look in her eyes. “Despite his age Hal is there for me when I need him. Something your damn ghosts could never let you be,” she added softly, looking away.

  It was a relief to be outside her line of sight. I was still disconcerted by my outburst, and now I had her response for dessert. I wasn’t used to this kind of conversation with Boots.

  Mercifully, Phil lumbered over with the coffee pot. By the time he left, so had some of our anger. Boots dipped her spoon in her mug, then placed it on the table. We both sipped our coffee in silence, letting more of the tension drain away. Finally she looked up and asked, “Who was it you ran into?”

  I smiled at her, grateful to be on somewhat more comfortable ground. “A kid I knew from the old days. After I got the leash off, he insulted me for being a ‘cop.’”

  “Insulted you?”

  “Accused me of selling out.”

  “Selling out? Better you should be a janitor?”

  “It’s ‘manager,’ not ‘janitor.’ Drag your nose back down to earth.” I grinned, though I suspected more than a joke behind her dig and my reaction.

  “You sound as if you take this thief seriously?”

  “It doesn’t matter who throws your past in your face, if it’s no longer who you are.”

  “That’s called ‘change,’ honey.” She smiled at me. Both of us felt better on familiar ground, Boots trucking down her path, me limping down mine.

  “It’s a good thing,” she added. “What’s a good thing?” “Change.”

  I lifted my mug and finished the last of the coffee. Phil caught my eye, raised the pot, and I nodded. “That depends on the changes, Boots. It’s difficult for me to remember a time when so much seemed so important, and compare it to now.”

  “You imagine things don’t mean as much to you now?” “It’s not just me. I’m not the only person who’s given up.”

  Boots grinned and shook her head. “You haven’t given up; it’s just harder for you to find things to believe in.”

  “That’s my Boots. Glasses are always half full.” “That’s why we fit, Matt. You only see half empty.”

  We sat quietly thinking about the other’s vision. I saw her look at the clock and asked, “Do you want something else?”

  “No,” she answered. “I have to run. But Sweetie, I think you do.” “Do what?”

  “Want something. Your hostility about Hal sounds like unfinished business with Megan.” There was no hint of reproach but the comment was too much like the ghost crack. It annoyed me that she kept pressing the envelope. “Megan? I doubt it. The only unfinished business I have is the rest of my life.”

  I signaled to Phil for the check and slowly stood. “I can’t say this has been an unadulterated pleasure.”

  Boots closed her triangular leather bag. “Was that intended or just Freudian?” I laughed. “A little touchy, aren’t you?”

  She flipped the bag’s clasp and stood. “Maybe, maybe not.”

  Boots slipped on her coat while I paid the bill and said goodbye to Phil. I held her arm and walked toward the door, confused and disquieted by our conversation. I felt impatient to see her again, to talk in our old way about the usual things. I was about to ask, but the door to the diner suddenly flew open. Red breezed through, bringing a gust of freezing air. She looked surprised to see me, then more surprised when she eyed Boots and her five-hundred-dollar suit. “I didn’t think you had it in you, stranger,” she murmured, winking.

  I rushed my hello, rushed my goodbye, then quickly followed Boots’ tracks outside. I looked up and down the block before I walked back to the car. Boots had disappeared. Red was right, I didn’t really “have it in me.”

  Home is where the telephone is, was, and unfortunately always will be. I grabbed the receiver hoping it was Boots. It had been almost a week since we’d met for breakfast, and I still hadn’t left her completely behind.

  It wasn’t Boots, or even some administrator with a belated summons to monitor the day’s shopping lust. It was that noxious, nasal voice of gloom and doom. Still, I was almost glad to hear from him, a definite testament to the week’s three mall blues.

  “Is this Jake, I mean Matt Jacobs the gumshoe?” He accented and dragged out the last word. “Jacob, Blackhead. Without the ‘s.’”

  “Stop calling me Blackhead, will ya? I hate that fucking name.” “Sorry. Emil, right?”

  “It’s good to see that you’re not totally stupid. After you told me you were a cop I wondered.” My streak of glad faded. “I’m not a cop, Blackhead.”

  “Not much difference in being paid by the State or by the people the State works for, is there?”

  “Did you call to lecture me about my role as a running dog lackey for the capitalists?” Despite the bark, my words didn’t contain much bite. When I saw past Blackhead and Megan, I realized a lingering affection for The End.

  “Some,” he admitted without the sarcasm. “I’m sick and tired of everyone who supposedly had principles during the Sixties, chasing the green just as hard as the people they said they hated.”

  I’d chased a lot of things, but money wasn’t one of them. “You got no one else to talk to about this? You want a shrink referral?”

  “I don’t remember you having a wise mouth.”

  “Has to do with age.” I suddenly wanted off. “What did you call about, Blackhead?” “Emil. Don’t be a shithead.”

  “Okay, Emil. What is this about?”

  His voice dropped into a conspiratorial whisper. “I want you to look into something for me.” “I’m not a social worker anymore,” I reminded.

  “
If I needed a social worker I’d stick a butterfly net out my window and catch half a dozen.”

  I chuckled. The End had always been locked and loaded with workers. Just graduate from social work school? Work in The End. Want to relate to the tired, poor, and the wretched? Work in The End! Want to play with psychotics? Work in The End!! There used to be constant debate whether there were more workers than clients. But all of us social workers were afraid to count.

  “Emil, you call, insult my job, then ask for help.” I hesitated, then added, “I don’t think you can afford it.” I wondered why I’d given him an opening; I didn’t want to be a detective “worker” in The End.

  “What do you charge?”

  When I told him he exploded. “That’s what you get paid for catching people with their pants down? Do you get extra for photos or are they included?”

  “I don’t do divorce work. If that’s what you are looking for, I can’t help.” “That’s not why I called,” he said sullenly.

  I wasn’t surprised. It was hard to imagine Blackhead married. “Emil, I told you what I charge if—and it’s a big if—I take the job.”

  “I can afford it.”

  It didn’t sound like a lie, and my growing curiosity was suddenly spiked with suspicion. “You get nailed stealing socks; now you tell me you can afford my cost. I don’t do illegal work, Blackhead. I don’t fuck with the law.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with illegal. Anyhow, don’t talk shit over the phone.”

  I knew better than to stay on the line. I knew better than to even consider working for Emil. The last time I’d worked for someone I knew, I had exchanged my best friend for a permanent keepsake—I could feel the bullet wiggle in my thigh.

  But something had me hooked. Maybe it was The End, or maybe it was seeing people I’d known twenty years earlier. Maybe it was that unfinished business Boots had talked about.

  I did know I was still holding the damn receiver. “So what is it?” “I don’t want to talk on the phone. Where do you live?”