The Complete Matt Jacob Series

by Klein, Zachary;

  His head dipped again, and he murmured in a quiet voice, “But I like drugs better than everything else. Your information is lousy. I got no reason to run anyone out of anywhere. No matter what Emil told you.”

  “The bartender said you do time with someone named J.B. That lousy too?”

  “That’s right.” Belchar’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “You gave the afternoon greedhead money, he had to tell you something.”

  It was his first lie. And he knew I knew it. I signaled for three for the road as Belchar mumbled something I couldn’t hear. “What did you say?” I asked.

  He kept his eyes closed, but talked louder. “What’s this really about?” “I told you. I want to know who doesn’t like me—and why.”

  “Me too,” he nodded. “What did Emil say that sent you this way?” “You were his dealer.”

  He burst into muffled laughter; the music stopped midstream. The bar’s customers reacted with scattered applause. Tom stopped laughing, looked at Boots, grimaced and shrugged.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  He went back to his playing. “I don’t sell dope to Emil. He has you chasing your tail. You oughta ask him why.”

  I drained my drink and waved my hand for another. My mind drifted to my afternoon’s match for the initials “J.B.” I didn’t like my hunch but, in its own way, it made for a perverse set of possibilities.

  I drank while Boots and Tom talked about the great music of the Forties. They reviewed every composer and major musician of the decade. It was disconcerting and a little exciting not to have known about Boots’ interest. The excitement urged me to take her home. All the while Tom’s hands rippled over the keys, lilting and sweet; Belchar was having fun.

  Before they started dissecting the Fifties, I rattled my keys. Boots reluctantly gathered her things. Tom suddenly stopped playing, but the noise in the bar had grown and nobody noticed. He stood and shrugged in Boots’ direction. I began to thank him when he volunteered, “I wasn’t kidding before. There really is no J.B. The afternoon man doesn’t like me very much.”

  He stopped my response with a wave of his hand. “If you do get upstairs, try not to use my name, okay? I don’t like stealing the old lady’s food money for my drugs.”

  I almost told him I’d use any name I damn well wanted, but he’d taken the worry lines out of Boots’ face. I closed my mouth and nodded. We left accompanied by the sounds of “The Party’s Over,” but I felt as if it had just begun. We walked to my car hand in hand while I wondered quietly about the “good” social worker and my opportunity to kick Blackhead’s ass. I didn’t even get angry about the parking tickets stuck on the car.

  We’d just landed in Boots’ apartment when she said, “I don’t understand the dance in your step.”

  “Oh shit, I completely forgot about the slow one. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not talking about that. I’ve seen you get parking tickets before. You’re usually insulted that you don’t get a free ride like the clergy.”

  The thought of standing in front of a well dressed congregation amused me. “More like an Avenging Angel than a Priest.” My eyes danced over the river and the lights below. “God, this room is wonderful,” I added.

  I could hear Boots move around the bedroom. “You seem awfully pleased about the conversation with Tom,” she called.

  “I am.” “Why?”

  “I’ve finally caught Blackhead in an outright lie.”

  Boots appeared at my side wearing a midnight blue satin nightgown. I felt a rush of desire flood through my body. I lit a cigarette and pulled the joint case from the wall-hatch where I had left it.

  “Tom lied to you about not recognizing those initials.” She stared at my face to see if the news would startle me.

  “You caught it too?”

  She smiled. “Honest men make lousy liars. I still don’t understand why you’re in such good humor. You walked out of there with no more facts than when you walked in?”

  “A few more. Blackhead’s lie, Belchar’s cover for J.B. Not much, but a beginning. Mostly a confirmation that things aren’t what they seem. Now I can pull at the edges until it takes shape.”

  Boots shook her head. “I’d think that would make you crazy?” “Not when I have cards to play. I have an idea about those initials.” She raised her eyebrows and waited.

  “Jonathan Barrie. Well placed, and has a young musician friend who travels. Remember, Barrie was the guy who took in the girl after her brother Peter was killed. Also, Blackhead hates him, and that might mean something.”

  “Isn’t Barrie the community leader?” “Yup.”

  “That doesn’t slow you down?”

  “Too cynical for you?” Before the sentence was finished, I felt a sudden sinking sensation in my gut. Melanie wasn’t gonna be thrilled to have Jonathan in my crosshairs.

  Boots climbed all over my decline. “What’s the matter, Matt?”

  “Nothing.” I chose my next words carefully. “This Barrie seems like a decent guy, that’s all. He took the girl in, and gave her a real shot.”

  “The girl?”

  “Melanie Knight. Peter’s sister. I’ve mentioned her.” “More than once.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked sharply.

  Boots’ tone was even. “You keep calling her a girl, but she’s a woman now.”

  “Twenty years is a long time,” I agreed blandly.

  I sensed that Boots had more to say, but she deliberately stayed quiet, pointing to the dope. I quickly pulled a joint and fired up. When I handed it to her, she took it with a gentle smile. I ran my hand along her satin covered side. “No mistaking you for a girl…”

  “No more talk, please?” she asked.

  I nodded. We kissed in front of what felt like the whole world. I took her hand and led us to the bedroom.

  Afterward, while we lay in bed quietly smoking, I asked, “What am I supposed to do about Lou?”

  Boots sat up and pulled the covers just over her nipples. I felt myself stir; she looked so damn French. “I think you are going to have to talk with him. Tell him about your problems with family. It won’t surprise him.”

  Her words left me as unsettled as before. “I don’t know what to do,” I said glumly.

  “You don’t have to know. You just have to talk.” Her eyes lit up. “Who knows? Once you’re wired in, maybe you’ll like it.”

  “Wired in, huh? Ma Bell talk?”

  She whacked me on the top of my head as I burrowed under the comforter to nibble on her belly. “I have to practice wiring in,” I said, between tiny bites.

  This time our lovemaking was slow and languid. At one point I jumped out of bed, raised the thermostat level, and tossed the comforter to the floor. We sipped bourbon and toked dope between kisses and caresses. Sex became a lazy dream on a warm Caribbean beach…her body warm and open, our actions tender and loving. When we finished I lay on my back, spacey, with Boots tucked into the crook of my arm. I dumped my cigarette, and shifted into spoons.

  But the mood died in the morning when I awoke to Boots’ talking on the telephone. She wasn’t dressed for Saturday morning cartoons. I watched her gently place the receiver back in its cradle. When she turned in my direction she appeared startled to see me.

  “I didn’t hear you get up,” she said. “There’s coffee in the kitchen.”

  “Thanks, I’ll be out in a second.” I ducked back into the bedroom, and pulled on my clothes. If I didn’t change them soon they’d walk home without me. I filled the tiny kitchen as I helped myself to caffeine. The atmosphere was tense.

  “Hal, huh?” I glanced in Boots’ direction, and she nodded. “No surprise,” I said glumly. A look of anger darted across her face. “There you go again.”

  I sipped at the coffee. There was something familiar about this scene. “I didn’t hear myself give you any shit.”

  “It’s your voice, your attitude.”

  I raised my shoulders uncertainl
y. “What do you want my attitude to be?” “A little more honest.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I said, suddenly defensive.

  “I think you know. At first I thought it was only that ugly neighborhood, and your memories of Megan. Now I think it’s all of that, and also the Knight woman.”

  A jolt of guilt ripped through me; I started to protest. Boots wouldn’t let me. “Matt, please, I don’t want you to say anything.”

  She walked over to a wooden chair, pulled it out from the wall, and sat down. I refilled my cup, spilled a little, and found a napkin. I waited while she found her words.

  “Every time you talk about this case, your voice changes when you mention Melanie Knight. Your attitude about Hal has to do with you, not me.” She blinked her eyes rapidly, then turned her face away. “I can handle things if you’ll just be honest. But not if you take your hypocrisy out on me.”

  Guilty defensiveness triggered my denial. “How come every time we get into a fight it’s because of me? I didn’t call you this morning, Hal did. I didn’t expect you to get dressed up, Hal did. I expected us to hang out together. You interpret everything I say the way you want, then blame me for the hard times.” I waved my hands. “Don’t you think your theories are just a little too pat?”

  I walked out of the kitchen and glowered at her as she stood and walked around the room gathering my stuff. The dismissal just annoyed me more. “What time does the Hal Show begin?”

  There were tears in her eyes as she handed me my jacket. “I’m not trying to analyze you,” she said quietly. “I’m trying to make sense of what’s happening between us. I thought since we had a good night we could talk without the bullshit. But this morning you’re still doing the same thing.”

  “You say ‘us’ but just talk about me. You don’t say a word about Hal.”

  Boots walked to the door and opened it. “What I’m talking about has nothing to do with Hal.” I didn’t move. “It never does. That’s what I’m talking about. You say you don’t want to marry him, but you wear him like a damn shield.” The speech diffused most of my anger, and I walked the rest of my guilt to the door.

  There was a doubting look on Boots’ face, but she took my hand once I was in reach. “I can’t stand the same thing happening over and over. You’re wrapped up with the case. Find the damned driver and finish with The End. That way we’ll both have time to think.”

  She squeezed my hand and, when I lifted my eyes from the carpet, she was crying. I nodded awkwardly, caught in my own unhappiness. Boots finally let me go, gently closed the door, and relieved us both of our immobilized misery.

  I took a long slow boat to the car. She was right about one thing: I wanted to find that driver. The hunt had become a reprieve from making decisions.

  Momentarily I thought I’d caught another reprieve when I got inside my apartment and found Lou gone. But relief was quickly replaced by the lure of action when I saw Jonathan Barrie’s name and telephone number with the word “urgent” alongside the name, scrawled in Lou’s sloppy handwriting.

  The line was still busy on my third try when the door opened and Lou entered. I nodded but got busy dialing. Right then I had more to say to J.B. than to Lou.

  He said, “I was worried, Matty.”

  “I heard, Boots told me. There was no reason, I was fine.” “She said you were working on the case.”

  I listened to the busy signal, replaced the receiver, and motioned toward the bedroom. Lou followed me in. “I thought you were quitting,” he said.

  “Things change. I’m up to my eyeballs.” I sniffed. “I need a shower.” “You need to burn your clothes.”

  I grinned as I peeled them off my body. “A wash will probably do.” “Where are you going to bury them until you get around to a wash?” “Lou, you’re insulting my housekeeping.”

  “No, Boychick, I’m insulting you.” He said it with a smile, but he was upset. I stayed silent rummaging through the drawers for something to wear.

  “I think we need to shmooze,” he said quietly.

  I kept pulling out clothes and stuffing them away. “Okay, okay, I’ll do a wash.”

  “I don’t mean about that.”

  I finally found usables and threw them on the bed. “Look, I acted stupidly the other day. I’m sorry if I spoiled the party.”

  Lou lowered his bulk into the chair which creaked but held. “I don’t give a damn about the party. I don’t like the fighting between us.”

  “I don’t like it either, Lou.” I felt foolish standing there naked. “That’s why we need to sit and talk,” he said.

  He was right, but I wasn’t ready. “This isn’t a good time for me. Did Barrie say anything else?”

  “No, but he sounded very upset.” A look of annoyance crossed his face. “It’s been difficult to find a good time for us, Matt.”

  “I know, I know,” I conceded. “But now is really bad. I have to see this guy.” “I’m leaving in the morning, Boychick.”

  I felt pulled when I wanted to push. The image of the truck’s tires, and, oddly, Belchar’s dirty kids, hit me and I rushed to placate him. “We’ll talk tonight, I promise. Try to understand, two nights ago somebody tried to run me over. Now I have a lead to follow.”

  His face was set, his body stiff and uncomfortable in the chair. “You’ve been dodging me since I got here.”

  “Lou, didn’t you hear me?”

  “I heard you. Did you hear me?”

  I started out of the room. “We’re not getting anywhere now. Let me clean up at least, okay?” I continued to the bathroom and hoped he’d nodded yes.

  When I came out, Lou was nowhere in the apartment. I pushed my misgiving into a corner of my head and dialed Jonathan’s number. It was still busy so, after a couple of hits on my pipe, I quickly dressed. Halfway out the door I decided to wear the gun.

  The hunt had generated an enthusiasm that left me engaged in something larger than my separation from Boots or my confusion about Lou. I still didn’t know what I was engaged in, but I did know it felt terrific to work again as a living, breathing detective.

  It was Darryl Hart who had run out of air.

  Barrie met me at the door, his eyes red and puffy. He wore a pair of khaki twills and another wool cardigan, its elbow patches rubbed raw. He blurted out his message before I got to the top of the outside stairs. For a moment we just stood there. Jonathan worked to hold back tears while I, once I registered the name and digested the news, wondered why Barrie had called. But the November cold finally penetrated my jacket and I nodded my way through the door.

  “What do you mean ‘dead’?” I never let surprise spoil the quality of my questions. We stood in a long muted-pastel hallway as the “D” word hung heavy in the air.

  Jonathan’s mouth opened, but he was smart enough to ignore me. He motioned, then walked us through a misshapen doorway on the left-hand side of the hall. The opening led into a small dark room dominated by a modern free-standing, self-contained fireplace, its embers an empty threat to the chill.

  Jonathan shrugged me toward the furniture, and I walked through stacks of magazines and books while he knelt beside the fireplace and rekindled the flame. His back gave me a few moments to look around the rest of the room.

  Away from the fireplace’s black enamel ugly, and the stack of New England logs, the odd tomblike room wasn’t half bad. A couple of Pollock repros, naives, and an enormous number of books lined all available wall and floor. Their warmth softened the cave like atmosphere, especially after the fire cast a warm glow over the comfortable second-hand furniture. I looked around and noticed there were no windows.

  Barrie caught my wonder. “Strange about the windows, isn’t it?” He turned back to check on the fire. “Don’t know what this room was originally used for. I discovered it when I renovated. Much too big for a closet.” He seemed relieved to make small talk.

  I could wait. “Discovered it?”

  He knelt and pushed at the fire with
a long metal poker. “Yes. I stripped the hallway down to its bones and found this odd little doorway. Here we are, one serious urban archeology dig later.” He stood, turned toward me and planted his feet, his knuckles bloodless where he gripped the iron. “The police are calling it an accident.”

  I remained cautious. I had been used too many times recently to simply climb right in. “Calling what an accident?”

  He took a deep breath, walked to the couch, and sank into its corner. The metal stick half thudded, half clanged as Jonathan dropped it onto the small Oriental throw and the floor. “Darryl was found drowned in Quarry’s End.”

  I felt my stomach fall as if I’d been dropped into a hall of distorted mirrors. Barrie plunged forward while I forced my shocked bewilderment into the background.

  “The police say it was an accident or suicide. Darryl had two ounces of cocaine in his pocket. According to them, if it had been a sour drug deal, the coke wouldn’t have been there.” He put his hands to his head. “When I tried to tell them about Peter’s death they were polite but patronizing.”

  “Patronizing?” I trod softly, the twenty-year echo loud enough.

  “They invited me downtown to see the numbers. A ton of people have died in that quarry in the last twenty years. They said it was coincidence.” He opened both hands. “I’m sure plenty of people have died there, but this was no coincidence.”

  “Why not?”

  He looked at me with a ravaged face. “The two people I planned to live with die in the same way in the same place?”

  Planned to live with? The look between Barrie and Darryl in the butcher block bar flashed into my head. My nerves turned kinetic, though a calmer voice prevailed. “I didn’t know you were going to live with Darryl?”

  He reached into his sweater and came out with his blue packaged cigarettes. I grabbed for my own. Jonathan leaned across the couch to an overloaded end table and found a deep amber ashtray. He placed it on the floor between us and sat back up. “We loved each other.”

  I couldn’t stop my mouth. “Did you love Peter the same way?” A New York Post picture of a depraved Midwestern social worker showing police his burial sites steamed through my mind.