Greely's Cove

by Gideon, John

  The waitress showed him to the table, and he gave Lindsay one of his patented, brown-eyed smiles, the kind that had melted her elder sister’s heart back in her college days. But Lindsay’s heart did not melt. She had seen plenty of his type in Seattle’s business world—guys with proper tans and jaunty clothes and health-club bodies. Guys who traded on charm, not brains or ability.

  Lindsay stood up, shook his hand firmly, and managed to return his smile. They exchanged civilities (her mother would have been proud), and Carl ordered coffee and a cinnamon roll with raisins.

  After the inevitable too bad this isn’t under better circumstances, Lindsay said, “Well, how are things at J. Howard Maynard and Associates, Political Consultants Extraordinaire?”

  “Busy, this being an election year and all,” said Carl, sipping his coffee. “We’re handling four Senate races and ten House races. Plus we’re doing some polling and analysis fora couple of presidential candidates.”

  “Wow, the money must be rolling in,” said Lindsay, and the remark hung awkwardly.

  “It’s a good job,” said Carl finally, without disapprobation. “I get to travel around a lot, meet people. Nice benefits; no heavy lifting.” He attempted a grin.

  “Well, if that’s what you’re good at...” Despite her promise to her mother, Lindsay was making it plain that she didn’t hold Carl’s line of work in high esteem. Political consulting and lobbying, in her view, were mere steps above parasitism.

  “And how’s the world of stocks and bonds?” asked Carl. “I trust you’re making the best of this bull market.”

  “I suspect we’re in for a slide sometime before the fourth quarter,” replied Lindsay, using her professional tone. “But that’s all the free advice you’re going to get.” They both smiled uneasily.

  “Then I suppose we’d better get down to cases,” said Carl, his face darkening. “Have you heard anything more about the autopsy?”

  “Yesterday afternoon I talked to the police chief—what’s his name?”

  “Stu Bromton; old friend of mine.”

  “Whatever. He informed me that there won’t be an autopsy or inquest. The medical examiner and the prosecutor both agreed that the cause of death was”—here she took a deep breath—“was suicide. We’re free to get on with the arrangements. I suppose you know that Lorna had always said she wanted to be cremated.”

  “Yes, I remember that. We should probably see the mortician today.”

  “I told him yesterday that we’d want cremation, but you’re right—we should finalize things with him this afternoon. It’s on my lists of things to do.”

  “Did Stu say anything else?”

  “Like what?”

  “About a suicide note—anything like that?”

  “There was a note. Since there won’t be an autopsy or an inquest, the police don’t need it. We can pick it up at the police station, if we want.”

  Carl’s eyes grew heavy with sadness, and for the briefest moment Lindsay felt a surge of sympathy for him.

  “Have you seen it?” he asked. “Do you know what it says?”

  “No.”

  “I’d like to have it.”

  “That’s fine with me.”

  “Is Jeremy awake yet?”

  “He was still asleep when I left the room. My mother suggested that I drop her and Jeremy by the house later this morning. She wants to start cleaning the place up and packing Lorna’s things. Why don’t you come by around lunchtime?”

  “Sounds good,” said Carl agreeably. “Home is probably the best place for him.”

  And there it was, thought Lindsay: the first tentative shot before the opening salvo of the battle. Home is probably the best place for him, and home is where Daddy is, naturally. Home will become Washington, D.C., is that it? Fat chance.

  “I’m glad you brought that up, Carl. We need to talk about Jeremy’s future.” Lindsay folded her hands on the white tablecloth and fixed Carl with a steady, blue-eyed gaze. She leaned forward slightly, assuming a posture of stiff resolution. “I’m sure you’ll agree that he should stay close to Dr. Craslowe, since this man is largely responsible for his recovery. It’s unthinkable that Jeremy should start up with some other therapist at this stage of the game. That’s why—”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” put in Carl. “Craslowe’s been the only doctor who’s been able to get through to him. I don’t see any reason to switch horses in midstream.”

  Lindsay wilted a little and blinked incredulously. “But yesterday—on the phone—you said something about becoming a real father again. You talked about how tragic it was that Lorna had to die in order to bring you and your son together. I took all that to mean that you intended to take Jeremy back East with you.”

  Carl gazed out the rain-streaked window at the rolling mist. The wintery grayness of Greely’s Cove seemed a living part of him, like skin or hair, something he’d been born with.

  “That’s what I meant—then,” he answered. “But I’ve had some time to think, Lindsay. I’ve thought about what my life has been till now, about the things I’ve done—to myself and to others—and the things I’ve missed. I’ve thought a lot about Lorna and Jeremy, and I don’t mind saying that I’ve had some fairly heavy-duty regrets. It’s time to start putting things in order again.”

  What the hell is this? wondered Lindsay. A tactic?

  “So what’s the upshot?” she demanded, sounding harsher than she wanted.

  “The upshot is that I plan to move back here. I’ll take care of Jeremy like I should’ve done a long time ago. I’ll probably hang out a shingle and practice a little personal injury law—I’ve kept up my Washington-state bar dues, thank God. I’ll raise my kid and teach him how to sail, play ball, maybe even how to practice law someday. We’ll survive, might even prosper.”

  Lindsay stared at him, slack-jawed, for a full ten seconds.

  “Is this really what you want?” she asked.

  “It’s what I want. It’s what I need.”

  Lindsay’s anger took control of her, giving her voice the bright, sharp edge of a straight razor. “Now that your son has recovered to the point that he can behave in a socially acceptable way, you want him back, is that it? Now that he can be trusted not to defecate on the furniture? Or take his pants off in church?”

  Carl’s face hardened. “You haven’t changed at all, have you?”

  “I’m too old to change, Carl, and so are you. You couldn’t abide the thought of living with Jeremy before he started to get well. You couldn’t take his screaming or his messes or the sympathetic looks from your friends. All you wanted was to get away from him, even if it meant leaving Lorna, and that’s exactly what you did. You made a life for yourself somewhere else, somewhere far away, the kind of life you’ve always wanted.”

  “Know something, Lindsay? You have the diplomatic charm of a tarantula.” He pushed his uneaten cinnamon roll away and signaled for the check. The waitress didn’t see him at first, for she was talking in urgent whispers with the policeman who had just sat down at the counter.

  “What Jeremy needs is stability,” Lindsay went on. “He needs someone who’ll stay with him and love him; someone he can count on to be there when the sledding gets rough. You don’t meet the specifications, Carl. That someone is not you.”

  “Gosh, it’s been nice chatting with you,” said Carl, scooting back his chair, anticipating the arrival of the check. The waitress was on her way, scribbling on her pad as she walked. “Let’s do it again real soon.”

  “I’m not going to let you have him, Carl.”

  “Oh? And what makes you think you’ll have any say in the matter?”

  “Lorna was my sister. She would’ve wanted me to take Jeremy. That’s what I intend to do.”

  “Well,” answered Carl, dropping all pretense of civility, “I won’t presume to offer you any legal advice, because you’ve undoubtedly got a lawyer of your own. But I will tell you this: I’m Jeremy’s natural father, I have a good inc
ome, and I live an upstanding life. There isn’t a judge in this country who would deny me custody.”

  The waitress set the check down, and Carl glanced up at her face. She was a pleasant-looking woman of middle age with short black hair. Her face was contorting, her eyes filling with tears, her hands shaking.

  “Thank you,” the waitress managed to gasp. “P-please join us again.”

  Carl handed her a credit card and asked, “Are you all right? Is something wrong?”

  The policeman who had entered a few minutes earlier came to the table and took the waitress’s arm. “Come on, Edna, we’ll find someone else to take care of things here for a little while. Until you feel better.”

  “Excuse me, Officer,” said Lindsay. “What’s going on here?”

  The policeman had a baby face, a pair of mirrored aviator glasses that hung from a buttonhole of his shirt, and a nameplate that identified him as Hauck. “We’ve just had some bad news,” he said. “I hope you’ll excuse Edna. If you’ll wait a minute, I’ll get you another waitress.” He put an arm around Edna’s shoulders and guided her toward the door that led to the kitchen. “I should never have told you about it, not while you were on the job,” Hauck said.

  Edna broke down completely then. Heavy sobs racked her body. “I used to babysit for the Zoltens!” she blubbered through a torrent of tears. “Teri was such a wonderful child, so intelligent, so thoughtful!”

  Lindsay watched their backs as they moved away, then glanced at Carl, whose face had gone ashen, the color of the smoky mist beyond the window.

  Mitch Nistler woke to the crunch of gravel and the slosh of tires through water and knew instantly that a car had pulled into the muddy, unpaved drive at the front of his house. He forced open his aching, crusty eyes and grabbled for his glasses.

  Fuck a bald-headed duck, it must be Kronmiller! he hissed. His stomach churned as he remembered that he had not shown up for work at the mortuary last night, but instead had gotten drunk at Liquid Larry’s.

  Well, not exactly drunk. Just loose. Loose enough, in fact, to get thrown out of the place by Liquid himself. Loose enough to decide that his boss, old Matthew Kronmiller, could take his assistant embalmer’s job and shove it up his rosy ass, for all Mitch cared.

  Now it was morning and the sun had dawned, revealing the world in all its bleak clarity. Mitch’s body had burned off most of the alcohol he had poured into it the night before, which included ten beers at home after getting a taste of Liquid Larry’s size eleven. Now he had a throbbing head, aching joints, and a different attitude about his job.

  He needed that job, damn it, despite its less attractive aspects. The money, while not great, was decent—especially for an ex-con who had barely made it through high school. It was the closest thing to a future that he owned.

  He ransacked his closet in search of a clean shirt and a presentable pair of jeans, neither of which he found. He settled for stuff he’d worn earlier in the week but had not yet washed. They would have to do, despite the wrinkles, and he hurriedly pulled them on over his skinny body.

  He heard a car door slam and then another—more than one person, apparently, meaning that Kronmiller had not come to roust his ass to work after all. Kronmiller always came alone when there was rousting to be done. Mitch breathed a little easier, but not too easy. If he knew what was good for him, he would haul his butt over to the mortuary right now, and he would start cleaning up that suicide if the old batfucker hadn’t already done so. Mitch hoped that his visitors, whoever they were, would not stay long.

  He heard the scuff of shoes on the cement stoop, the ticks and snaps of someone pushing the doorbell button (the doorbell didn’t work), and finally, the thump of heavy knuckles on the splintered, rain-bleached door. Boom-boom boom-boom.

  Mitch stepped into a pair of tattered loafers and dashed out of his cluttered bedroom, stuffing his shirttails into his jeans. He whirled and lunged around the living room, snatching up empty Olympia beer cans and Big Mac wrappers, which he crammed into a black Hefty bag that usually lay next to his Salvation Army armchair.

  Boom-boom boom-boom.

  He pounded into the kitchen, tore open the back door, and flung the bag onto the rickety rear porch, where it landed atop a pile of half a dozen such bags, all bulging with beer cans and burger wrappers and wadded cigarette packs.

  Boom-boom boom-boom.

  “All right, I’m coming, I’m coming!” he yelled, and he heard a barking laugh that was somehow familiar. He attacked the scatter of porn mags that lay on the couch, on the carpet, beside his armchair—memorable publications with names like Cocktail and Honey Pit and Beaver, all with gynecologists’ views of young women in blazing color on the covers. He chucked the pile behind the couch.

  Boom-boom boom-boom.

  He fumbled with the safety chain and dead bolt and finally managed to jerk the door open. The face on the other side caused his stomach to flip-flop. It had exaggerated brows that knitted above a fleshy nose, a blockish jaw covered with stubble, and hazy eyes that could not quite hide a wild anger, even when the mouth was smiling, as it was now. The face belonged to Corley Strecker.

  Or, more accurately, to Corley the Cannibal Strecker, recent graduate of Washington State Prison in Walla Walla.

  “WHOOOOAH, Marvelous Mitch! How in the fuck are ya, boy?” Corley the Cannibal—a mountainous man who chewed bubble gum with loud, pistonlike strokes that caused the muscles in his face to roll and ripple—flung his beefy arms out wide.

  Somehow Mitch got his unhinged jaw under control. “Fuck a bald-headed duck!” he breathed, wanting badly to disbelieve his own bulging eyes, wanting even worse to escape the bear hug, and failing on both counts. Cannibal swung him around as though he were a loose-limbed toddler, laughing the barking laugh. Mitch staggered crazily against the doorjamb when Cannibal finally set him down, feeling dizzy and nauseous from the stench of bubble gum mixed with Cannibal’s gamy breath.

  “Marvelous Mitch, I want you to meet my lady,” said the big man, reaching for the arm of the woman who waited a few steps behind him. “Marvelous Mitch Nistler, meet Stella DeCurtis. Stella, this is my best bud from the old days in Walla Walla, none other than Sir Marvelous Mitch Nistler.”

  The woman stepped forward. She, like Mitch himself, was painfully thin and as tall. She had white New Wave hair that must have been bleached. Despite her apparently high mileage, she looked not yet thirty. From a knot on the top of her head the hair spewed upward and then down in all directions, like a geyser of brittle ice. Her dark eyes glared from sockets heavily shadowed in electric blue, and though the hollows beneath her jutting cheekbones were powdered in rouge, the rest of her taut face was without color. Her skin-tight pants of black leather and coarsely woven poncho of greens and blues looked expensive.

  “So you’re the little slave boy I’ve heard so much about,” said Stella DeCurtis, not bothering to offer a pale hand but stepping uninvited through the door. “From what I hear, you’re lucky you had a master like Cannibal over in Walla Walla. Otherwise, you might not have lived through it.” She flopped down into Mitch’s Salvation Army armchair and busied herself in preparing a toot of cocaine.

  Cannibal sprawled onto the threadbare sofa and lit a cigarette. “Well, don’t just stand there, Mitchie-Witchie, close the door and be sociable. Least you can do is offer us a drink or something.” He laughed the angry laugh again.

  Mitch did as he was told, fetching his last two Olys from his rusty little fridge in the kitchen and turning them over to his “guests.” He felt just like the little slave boy he had once been.

  An old feeling wormed up from his guts and threatened to choke him, a feeling he had not endured since Walla Walla, a noxious mixture of self-disgust and mortal fear, of having lost himself in a hell of sound and smell. It all came back: the perpetual din of clanking cell doors, hectoring shouts, out-of-tune guitars and blaring radios; the pukish smells of sweat and urine and antiseptic and mushy prison food heaped on wet metal trays
.

  “So, did you get off on being Cannibal’s slave?” asked Stella in her dry voice, after taking her hits. “What’s it like being a slave, anyway?”

  Mitch balled his fists to keep his hands from shaking and nearly succeeded. “That was a long time ago,” he managed.

  “Oh hell, Mitch, it only seems like a long time ago,” said Cannibal, chewing his bubble gum violently. “You’ve only been out—what? Five years?”

  “Almost seven.”

  Strecker launched a short review of Mitch’s history for Stella’s benefit. “Mitchie Witchie here only had two choices when he got to D Block: be a slave or be a chick. You see, honey, ol’ Mitch was only about twenty-two or twenty-three back then, and he looked just like a kid, all scrawny and smooth. He’d gotten himself caught sellin’ crank and pot to high-school kids—for about the third time, as I recall—and the judge dropped a tenner on him; made him serve a quarter of that. He’d never been to the joint before, and he’d never heard about the wolves. Ain’t that right, Mitch?”

  Talk of the wolves made Mitch’s skin cold and crawly.

  “The minute he shows up, the wolves start fightin’ over him, right?” continued Cannibal. “Christ, they damn near tore each other to pieces. Young, smooth meat like old Mitch isn’t exactly common in the joint, you see, and every fuckin’ wolf in the place meant to make ol’ Mitch his chick. Well, ol’ Mitch got lucky, ’cause D Block was mine. I was the goddamn block boss, the secretary-general of the place, and I was in the market for a slave. I needed somebody to bring me my food, stand lookout when I was in the shower, make up my bunk, little shit like that. To make a long story short, I stepped in and coldcocked the big mean wolf who meant to make Mitch his chick. In other words, I saved ol’ Marvelous Mitch from a fate worse than death. Ain’t that so, little man?” Cannibal grinned obscenely without missing a beat in the torture of his bubble gum, revealing the teeth that had earned him his moniker. During his first prison term for burglary (before he moved up to armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon), he had gotten into a fight with the block boss and bitten two fingers off the older man’s hand. The block boss had mistakenly concluded that Corley Strecker’s bark was worse than his bite. From then on Strecker used his chompers when he fought, as well as his fists and feet, sometimes tearing whole mouthfuls of flesh from an opponent’s arm or leg. Hence the nickname.