The Complete Matt Jacob Series

by Klein, Zachary;

  I looked at Boots’ reflection in the medicine chest above the sink. Her eyes were full of concern. I avoided them, staring instead at her lightly accented lips. I caught the faint fragrance of perfume, and realized she wore more makeup to sleep than Melanie wore during the day.

  The comparison only added to my discomfort. I opened the chest and pulled out a container of Motrin. “Can I have something to drink?” I asked.

  Boots pointed to the bathroom glass but I shook my head. “Stronger.”

  We walked back into the living room where I corkscrewed myself onto the floor next to her sleek, lacquered maroon Japanese table. She poured our drinks and carried them over; I was glad she brought the bottle. While she sat down behind the other side of the table I gulped the pills.

  I lifted the bottle, added more alcohol to my glass, and teased, “Why don’t you spring for a table with legs? You can afford it.”

  The worried look remained but she played along. “I can’t bear to spoil the view. Don’t you know what furniture looks like these days?”

  “I don’t buy retail.”

  “I know, I know.” A brief smile flashed across her unhappy face. “If it doesn’t come from the Forties, it doesn’t exist.”

  I raised my good arm. “I’m no purist. I have lots of things from the Fifties.” “Sorry, my mistake. You’re only forty years behind the times.”

  We’d run out of lines. I sat silent, sorry for myself. For the hurt in my arm and the choreographed banter between us. I tamped down a sudden image of Melanie, and felt relieved when Boots broke the quiet.

  “You didn’t cut yourself shaving, did you?” she asked.

  “I ran into a group of rednecks in The End.” “Did they rob you too?”

  I shook my head. “No. I don’t think it occurred to them. It was sport, trash a stranger. A game I remember from the old days.” I wondered if I’d been on the ground long enough for one of them to grab at my wallet, but couldn’t recall an accurate time sense.

  Boots grimaced. “It’s hard to imagine living there, much less returning.”

  Her remark reminded me of our breakfast at Charley’s. Which reminded me of her breakfast there with Hal. “I told you I was working. It’s not like I’m moving back.” I couldn’t keep the hostility out of my voice. “I’m sorry,” I lied, “I’m still angry about the beating.”

  Her eyes combed my face. “Is that all?” she asked quietly.

  The words were out of my mouth before I could muzzle up. “Why the fuck did you go to Charley’s with Hal?”

  Boots pushed herself back from the table and wrapped her arms around bended knees. “Okay,” she said. “At least I know what’s going on.”

  “Well, I’m glad someone does. But I really am angry about the beating,” I insisted, embarrassed by my outburst.

  She nodded at my last sentence then ignored it. “I planned to speak with you.” Boots unwrapped her knees and curled her legs under her bottom. “Do you want to talk now?”

  I nodded, but all I really felt was a mixture of dread, jealousy, and guilt. “Hal wanted to meet. He wanted to ask me something.”

  I stood, walked to the expanse of glass, and looked down at the quiet river. A few months after I’d married Chana, we had visited Quebec for a long weekend. Our hotel overlooked the St. Lawrence Seaway, and we’d spent hours at the window holding hands, watching ships and barges work the water beneath us. The only boats you saw on the Charles were built for pleasure. But there was no pleasure on this river in November.

  “You must have really liked Phil’s cornflakes.”

  “I went to Phil’s to keep my relationship with Hal in perspective.”

  I kept gazing out the window. She didn’t have to tell me Hal’s question. Off in the distance I thought I saw Melanie invite me to come back. I turned toward Boots. “I don’t see how cornflakes could do that. Even Phil’s.”

  “Look, I want you to understand,” she said.

  I glanced away. “There’s nothing to understand. It’s a free country. You can eat where you want, marry who you want.”

  She waved her hand. “Look at me, will you? I took Hal to Charley’s to turn him down.” Boots stood, giving a characteristic shake of her thick black hair. She took two cigarettes from a bowl on the island between the living room and her tiny walk-through kitchen, lit, and brought them, and a gleaming crystal ashtray to my side. I took the offer and inhaled gratefully.

  Her voice had a brittleness that surprised me. “I can’t really imagine myself married,” she continued. “You see, I’m more like you than you realize.”

  “I still don’t understand what Charley’s has to do with anything.”

  She ignored me. “But I’m tempted by security and, the fact is, marriage to Hal would be as secure as it gets. If he left his wife after thirty-five years, I wouldn’t have much to worry about.”

  “Sounds like a good deal.”

  She looked directly into my eyes. “Fuck you Matt, I said tempted. Whatever it’s taken, I’ve lived this long without that kind of ‘deal.’ I took Hal to Charley’s to reinforce our differences.

  It’s exactly the kind of place I love and he hates. I wanted him to understand why I could never feel at home with him—or he with me.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t just to protect yourself from entangling alliances?” I wanted to push her away.

  “You still can’t see past my makeup, can you?” she snapped. “If I went there to protect myself from anything, it was from giving you up.”

  Giving me up. I felt a rush of panic cleave my gut. I didn’t know what was happening between us, but I didn’t want her to give me up either. I walked back to the bathroom and fished around in my jacket. Miraculously, the joint was still intact, and I lit it off the cigarette. I returned to the table and sat awkwardly on the floor.

  “I thought you were getting your jacket to leave.”

  I still wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I don’t want to go.”

  “Good. I don’t want you to go either.” She reached across the table and took the joint from my hand, inhaled, and placed it in the ashtray. “We have more to talk about.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed halfheartedly. “But not tonight.”

  I thought she would protest, but she nodded and looked relieved. “Will you tell me about your case? I don’t want to sit here in silence.”

  And we weren’t yet ready for sex. I filled her in while we both calmed down. I thought she looked at me strangely when I gave her an abbreviated version of my meetings with Mel, though I couldn’t be sure. But I was relieved when she asked, “Could Blackhead have arranged your beating? He said he wanted you out.”

  “Nah, I don’t see him willing to go to the trouble, nor able to pull it off.” But something inside me still wondered, and I mentally added her question to the others I had. I smiled grimly: I wasn’t done with The End yet.

  “What’s so funny?” Boots was calm. Probably as pleased as I to be back on the right side of our line.

  But we weren’t on the right side and I knew it the moment we sprawled across her damask sheets. When I closed my eyes and touched her breasts, I felt Melanie’s. I pushed the head of my cock into Boots, but felt Melanie open and bathe me with her wet. I grew more excited as Melanie’s mouth ate mine, and her hands held me in. It was Melanie’s softness, not Boots’ muscle I felt, until someone’s cry pierced my shudder. I opened my eyes, startled to see Boots’ face. We shifted positions and I felt the ache in my wounded arm as my movements took their toll and the Motrin its leave.

  Boots’ head was on my belly, her hand stroking my thigh. “Something was different,” she said.

  “The beating, our fight,” I lied to the back of her head.

  “No, something else.” She kept her head where it was, but her fingers stopped moving on my leg.

  “Only thing left is Lou,” I lied again.

  “Lou?” She turned her body and propped herself up with her elbow. “Yeah, he’s coming to visit.”


  “You don’t want him to?” She sounded surprised.

  This was one time when “out of the fire, into the frying pan” really was upwardly mobile. I could tell the truth about this problem. I sat up, lit two cigarettes, and handed her one. “You don’t know how he’s been lately,” I said. “It’s like there’s no air left for me to breathe when we talk. I’m afraid I’ll suffocate when he comes to town.”

  “He’s needy, Matt. Martha…”

  I was immediately defensive. “Believe me, Boots, I understand about Martha. And I don’t mind trying to help. But I have trouble with someone grabbing at me.”

  “I know.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Damn, woman, how many times do I have to apologize for my reaction to Hal?”

  “I wasn’t talking about you and Hal, Matt. I was thinking about how it feels the same for me.” I felt like a fool. The back of my head throbbed where it had been hit and I wanted to disappear. From her, from Lou, from my head.

  “He’s coming for Thanksgiving,” I said. “There’s going to be a party. Of course, you’re invited.” I stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray and passed it to her.

  Boots took the ashtray, put out her smoke, but kept her eyes averted. “I won’t be able to come.”

  I started remembering where I’d dropped my clothes. “I’m going on a trip with Hal.” She paused, then said gently, “I didn’t know about Lou’s visit. Holidays never mean anything to you.”

  I stood up and hunted for my pants. I didn’t think Boots would object: Hal gets his consolation prize, I get to go home. “Holidays don’t mean anything,” I agreed. “It’ll go all right.”

  “If everything is so okay why are you running out of here?” she asked. “I’m going to work tomorrow;”

  “You’re leaving because of the malls?” “The End.”

  That sat her up. “Why?” She jumped off the bed and pulled on her pajamas. “Why?” she repeated. “You don’t have a case. He fired you.”

  “I got a new client. Me.” I finished dressing, hoping to leave while the ensuing argument still obscured the real conflicts between us. It even brought us closer.

  “You’ll freeze if you don’t wear your jacket.”

  I looked at the bloody ball of denim in my hand. “I don’t want to wear it.” For a moment I was tempted to tell her to call when she returned from her trip, but I bit my tongue. I leaned down and kissed her lips. “I’ll be fine,” I said, pulling out of her grasp, then out of her house.

  But I wasn’t fine. I walked to my car, threw the damp jacket on the back seat, and took off, hardly giving the engine a chance to warm. I drove straight for home. Hard. Too hard, and too fast to decide whether I felt lost or free.

  Dr. Ruth might say it’s all right to think about one person while you make love to another, but my night-to-morning was a long painful do. Face after face kicked me awake, and, by daybreak, I was more uneasy than I’d been the previous night. I understood the dreams about Boots and Melanie; it was Megan’s continued appearance that threw me. I almost surrendered to the living room sofa. But years of Fritos and commercials asking whether I was the type of guy who liked to work with my hands but hated having dirty fingernails made me leery of couching it before noon.

  I dressed and thought about checking with Phil for the police report but didn’t want to push him. Hell, I was in no rush myself. Countless shopping malls stretched before me when I finished with The End, and I needed stronger ammunition in my struggle to remain vertical.

  As the morning minutes dripped away, upright rapidly became more difficult. I thought about visiting Blackhead, but my arm was pretty sore, making me reluctant to add to the pain. And there would be additional hurt if I caught the slightest hint of his involvement with my beating. Truth was, I didn’t trust myself; it’d be too inviting to beat on him without any hint at all.

  The soreness in my arm finally spurred my feet. Revenge wasn’t my favorite motivational tool, but this morning it kept me off the couch. If Blackhead was behind the mugging, there was a chance Jonathan Barrie might be of help.

  During the drive to The End I noted my change of focus: I was a lot less interested in Peter Knight than in Emil Porter. I remembered thinking, before my breakfast with Boots, how the past infects the present. Today it was evident how easily the unpleasant present supplants the unpleasant past.

  The thought of Boots disturbed me till I shook her out of my mind. Unfortunately, the vacuum gave Melanie room to appear. After a little while, I longed for the days when my emotional problems came one at a time though, I reminded myself, during my days with Megan they had.

  The sky halfheartedly threatened snow by the time I parked across the street from the social agency. The same group who’d been on the steps were there again. And no less reluctant to let me by. But now I knew the coin of the realm; it cost me close to half a pack, but my price included taking a good hard look at their faces. I finally got to the door, disappointed. I couldn’t tie any of them in with yesterday’s beating.

  The room was louder and busier than the other afternoon. It looked like Hope House would have no trouble calling for that minyan. I quickly ducked into the receptionist’s office and closed the door. I wanted to avoid the neighborhood people. I didn’t know if my guilt reflected a sell-out or embarrassment as to the nature of my concerns. Maybe they were the same thing.

  Sally stood alongside the desk, fist on ample hip, glaring. “Why’d you close the door?”

  I smiled. “I didn’t want anybody to die of shock when Jonathan breaks up a busy day twice in a row.”

  She shifted slightly and rolled the day’s version of spandex against the side of the desk. “Ain’t you a funny customer. You want me to call him, don’t you?”

  I nodded. Sally shook her head but made the call.

  This time I made it through S.I.’s bikinis twice, plus the first of a three-parter on the Merchant Marines. Changing locales all the time like the M.M. didn’t read like fun; you took your head wherever you went.

  Barrie didn’t sound very apologetic when he hurried through the door. “Sorry you had to wait,” he said. “I keep a tight schedule that’s difficult to juggle.” He stopped talking and a frown appeared. “Why was the door closed?” he asked.

  I pushed myself off the fake leather couch. “My fault, Mr. Barrie. I got agoraphobia.” Before he took me seriously I added, “I’m joking. I just closed it automatically.” I wondered if Sally would tumble to my wisecrack but she remained silent.

  “Just Jonathan.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “I expected you last night,” he said grumpily. “Sorry, I didn’t think to call. I was busy getting knifed and beaten.” I saw Sally draw back and lift her hand toward her mouth.

  Jonathan looked at me closely “In The End?”

  I nodded. I saw his lips tighten and he turned toward the secretary. “Can you excuse us for a while?” She nodded and left the room, carefully leaving the door open after her. Barrie walked over and closed it.

  “You really have a thing about the doors, don’t you?” I asked.

  “Not exactly,” he said. “When I first came to Hope House the people who worked here were extraordinarily distant from the community, and that’s putting it politely. Arrogant and elitist is probably closer to the truth. I should have fired the lot of them, but it was my first job in a new career and I didn’t have the nerve.”

  “So you took the doors off instead,” I grinned.

  “I took the doors off,” he said, still pleased with his strategy. “They fired themselves; it just took a little longer.” He smiled at me. “But not much longer. Sometimes it’s a pain in the ass, but it still works.”

  Jonathan walked to the chair behind the desk, rolled it out, and sat. I went back to my seat on the couch.

  “You didn’t come here to talk about doors, did you?” he asked.

  “No. I’m hoping you’ll help me find out about last night.” I told him what had happened, and described
the gang as best I could. I thought I saw a flicker of recognition when I painted Sludge’s picture, but I couldn’t be sure.

  “I don’t understand what you plan to do with them,” he said pointedly. “Unless you plan to turn them in?”

  “I want to know if it really was random.” “You think it wasn’t?”

  “It probably was. But I want to be sure.” I thought for a moment then added, “I’m pissed about it.”

  “Of course,” Jonathan nodded, then, abruptly, “Why were you in yesterday asking about Peter Knight?”

  He tried to keep his tone conversational, and for the most part did. For the most part. “Today is one beating later,” I said. “Today I’m not really interested in Peter Knight.”

  “You’ve visited with Melanie.” He said it easily, without a demand for an answer.

  “Let me guess. You knew I was a detective because you had spoken with her about me.” “Don’t flatter yourself,” he answered without malice. “We speak all the time, about most everything. Your name came up.”

  I grinned and stood. “Yes, I’m interested in Melanie, but that’s not why I’m here. Can you help me?”

  It took him a moment or two to get started but, when he did, he tore into it. We went to his office upstairs where he sat down behind a modern bank of Ma Bell equipment. I listened to short staccato conversations with people whose numbers were dialed automatically. No one asked for his last name.

  Despite Barrie’s activity, we were as if in the eye of a storm. The din from downstairs surrounded us; every few minutes, someone charged into the office, usually holding a form. They’d look at Jonathan on the telephone, grumble, and leave. It wasn’t long before I realized that, had I worked at Hope House when Jonathan came on board, I’d have been among those who fired themselves.

  At one point I thought he called Melanie; though he never used her name his tone softened and swelled. Finally he rose and shrugged. “I don’t have anyone else to call. One guy was out but he’ll say the same thing as the rest.”