by Robert Ward
Life as a bourgeois!
The very thing he, the last hipster, had rebelled against all his life. This was the life she wanted, Bob now knew. How long before she said, “Let’s move out of this shitty downtown ‘hood and get out there to the burbs with the rest of the bright people”?
But, of course, of course … he couldn’t have a child because he was a child. A child who had never seen it coming. The ultimate trap … not the death penalty, not the fallen beatnik activist, but the man in the gray flannel suit.
This was his fate.
The minivan, the ballet lessons, the fund-raising school car wash, the school picnics … oh God, the horror of it.
And he was trapped. Trapped … there was nothing at all he could do.
Unless … unless he made a run for it. Took the money out of the wall. And headed out. Book out of here at once.
Yes, he thought, what could she really do to him? She had killed Emile Bardan, not him. If they ever found the little shit’s body they would probably find her DNA on him, as well. So she couldn’t really turn him in. No, not with her child on the way.
That was it, Bob thought. Make nice, hang around for a few days, and then disappear. Yes, during the next few weeks he’d scour the Internet to find the perfect place to go. He’d heard that Quito, Ecuador, was great. Yes, maybe he’d chill in Quito for a while. Get himself a nice native girl … live in a hut … do the whole Hemingway thing. (Funny, he’d always thought Hemingway was an asshole, but now … now … he could dig it, he really could.)
This was his plan. He hadn’t gone through all this crap to end up a bourgeois jerkoff living in Baltimore County, watching his kids turn into little yuppies that blew his fortune on drugs and cars and trips that he should have taken.
No, no, no, fuck that. He’d given all he ever would.
Now he would escape … escape social-climbing, family-loving women, as well as society.
He was living for himself now. Like a real outlaw, like a real man!
In just a few months he would make his move. Good-bye, Jesse … good-bye, dead Dave … good-bye, Lodge … good-bye, poor folk … good-bye, patients … good-bye, 911, it’s a shame you have to take the fall for me, but that’s the way it goes … good-bye, good-bye to old Baltimore once and for all. He, Bob Wells, was finally and forever on his way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
They came two days later at 6:30 A.M. The two hated, dogged detectives. Garrett and Geiger. They leaned on the front door bell, and kept leaning on it, until a weary Bob and an exhausted Jesse staggered down the steps and let them in.
“What’s this all about?” Bob said.
“Sorry,” Geiger said. “We didn’t want to bother you.”
“Yeah,” Garrett said. “We know how a star like you needs his beauty sleep.”
“Just thought you’d be interested to know that we’re letting Barry Lansing go.”
Bob tried not to flinch at this news. But Jesse took a step away from him, as if he’d just been diagnosed with leprosy. Christ, he thought, what if the two detectives noticed that?
“Really?” he said. “How come?”
“Because,” Geiger said, “he didn’t kill Dave and Lou Anne.”
“You know that?”
“Yeah, we sure do,” Garrett said. “Just got the lab report. Clearly shows that the deceased were already dead for twenty-four hours before Barry boy arrived on the scene.”
“So maybe he killed them the day before,” Bob said, suddenly feeling ill. Why hadn’t he considered this?
“Yeah, we thought of that, too,” Geiger said. “But it seems the day before Barry has an alibi. He was with an AA group the whole day down Ocean City, Maryland, playing in the waves.”
“Yeah,” Garrett said. “Twenty people saw him. So he’s ruled out. You know what I think?”
“No,” Bob said. “But I bet you’re gonna tell me.”
“That’s right,” Geiger said. “We think you did it. We think Dave knew what you were really doing that night in the brewery and maybe tried to blackmail you. You lost your temper and killed him. Then you had to kill his wife, too … which meant you must have waited in the house until she got home.”
Bob felt himself swallow and noticed that his right hand twitched.
“You look a little nervous, Bob,” Geiger said. “You got a bad conscience?”
“No,” Bob said. “I’m just shocked that you guys are so anxious to get me that you would invent a scenario in which I killed my two best friends.”
“Yeah,” Garrett said. “We’re very clever that way. But be that as it may, we’d like to ask you what you were doing that day.”
“I was here,” Bob said. “I was getting ready for my wedding.”
“And you, Miss Reardon? Were you here, too?”
“No,” Jesse said. “I was out shopping most of the day.”
“I see. So you can’t verify Bob’s story.”
“Not really,” Jesse said. “But it’s ridiculous. Dave was a great journalist. If he said Bob was a hero in the brewery, then he was. He wouldn’t have made any of that up.”
“No?” Geiger said. “Well, maybe you didn’t know this, but the fearless journalist was sued three times over the years for writing fanciful versions of people’s lives.”
“I know all about that,” Bob said. “Those were exposés about the rich and powerful and Dave was sued by people who feared him because he told the truth.”
“Maybe,” Geiger said. “But he was lying about you, Bob. I want you to know we’re talking to all kinds of people about you, and your friendship with Bad Ray Wade. You shouldn’t plan to go anywhere for a while, pal.”
“I’ll go wherever I want,” Bob said.
“Okay, Bob,” Geiger said. “But even if you run, you aren’t going to get very far.”
“That’s right,” Garrett said. “It’s kind of funny, Bob. A few months ago if you’d taken off, we’d have had a hard time finding you. But now that you’re famous, everybody knows your face. There’s nowhere a guy like you can go where they won’t know you. But just in case you want to run off to, say … South America or some other foreign country … we’ve had your photos sent there, ahead of time.”
“You can’t do that,” Bob said. “That’s a breach of my civil liberties.”
“Yeah, well, take it up with your lawyer, Bobby. You can sue us if you want. But you ain’t getting away, pal. You’re a murder suspect, and you’re his accomplice, Miss Reardon.”
“Me?” Jesse said. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, it’s only reasonable to assume that if Bob here committed a double murder you’d know all about it. And if you keep what you know to yourself that makes you his accomplice.”
“That’s how it works,” Geiger said. “Well, we gotta get going, Dr. Bobby. So many people to interview and so little time.”
“Yeah,” Garrett said. “Sorry to wake you two up. But we just thought you’d want to know where the investigation stood.”
“Yeah,” Bob said, through clenched teeth. “Thanks for coming by, detectives. It’s always a treat.”
The two detectives smiled at him as they walked out the door.
Bob peered through the curtains as they pulled away. He dreaded the scene that he was sure would follow. Recriminations, fury, panic … God, there was no end to it. He turned back to the living room, steeling himself for Jesse’s torrent of abuse, but was surprised to find she wasn’t there.
“Jesse?” he called. “Where are you?”
No answer.
Then he heard her moving around upstairs. The toilet flushed and a minute later he heard the shower.
Christ, he thought, what did that mean? Waiting for her to blow her stack was almost worse than the actual thing.
Suddenly he felt tired, so very tired. He couldn’t handle fighting them much longer. He had to clear out of here, the sooner the better.
But not just now.
Bob sat down on the c
ouch, and as soon as he put his head back he was fast asleep.
When he awoke he felt a chill pass through him. And suddenly he wanted to see his money. But where was Jesse?
He called her name. No answer. Maybe she’d gone out to think things over. Jesus, he had to deal with this once and for all. That was the hardest part of the criminal life. It was merciless. As an intellectual he had always railed against security, but now … now just a little wouldn’t be so bad. Like knowing you were going to live the whole day without a bullet in your back or a knife in your neck. That would be kind of … well, refreshing.
Bob pried himself off the couch and headed through the kitchen, then quickly descended the old rickety stairs to the basement.
What bullshitters the cops were. Pictures sent in advance to South American countries. That was an obvious lie. They were just trying to scare him into confessing, but he would never do that. The pigs wouldn’t get to him. No way. He’d been a street-fighting man, after all … he’d stood up to the cops before. He’d always been on the side of the little guy, the people, and now the people were him.
He went to the back of the cellar and heard the shower still running.
Good. Good. Just wanted to check. Think over his options.
He walked over to the loose board and pulled it out with his fingernails. His left forefinger nail ripped from the skin and began to bleed, and Bob cursed the police again. Look what the sons of bitches had done to him. He’d fought them all his life. But there was no escape from their relentless persecution, none.
He reached deep inside the wall hole to get the briefcase with the money and the mask. Felt down into the blackness … his hand grasping around … grasping once, then again.
There was nothing there. Nothing at all …
The money and the mask were gone.
“Son of a bitch,” Bob said.
Then he heard someone breathing behind him. He turned and looked at Jesse. She stood there in front of him. In one hand was the briefcase, and in the other a gun.
“Sorry, Bob,” she said. “I took the money and that other thing while you were sleeping. I’m still planning to give the mask to some museum.”
“What are you doing, Jess? You’re crazy.”
“Could be,” she said, laughing. “But you killed Dave and Lou Anne. You have … what is it you shrinks call it … bad impulse control. I think a lot of people in your generation had that problem. It’s funny, Bob, if you have a problem controlling your impulses when you’re young—you know, like driving too fast, drinking, doing dope, and screwing around—people think you’re way cool. But have the exact same problems when you get a little older and they call you a psychopath. Seems hypocritical to me.”
Bob blinked. He had never heard Jesse talk this way.
“I didn’t realize you were so up on psychological theory, Jess,” Bob said.
“Well, if you spend time in mental hospitals you get quite an education,” Jesse said. “And I’ve been to two of them. Did I forget to mention that?”
“Two?” Bob said.
She smiled from the corner of her mouth and made a funny little sound, more a bark than a laugh.
“Yes,” she said. “I keep getting my heart broken, you know, Bobby? I keep falling in love with assholes. Singers and bikers and the lot. But this time, I really thought I’d hit the jackpot. A sensitive guy, a smart guy. When we talked in the park the other day I was still ready to give it another shot. What’s that called, Bobby, denial? Yeah, that was it. I was in denial regarding you and Dave. But come on, Bobby … even a stone romantic like me can’t swing with this one. How did it happen, Bob? Did the cops have it right?”
Bob bit his lower lip and nodded his head.
“Yeah,” he said. “They had it right. Dave and Lou Anne found out what I’d done. He wanted money, a lot of it. He was a blackmailer, Jess. Maybe I should feel bad about it, but I don’t. I couldn’t let him bleed us like that. And you know Lou Anne would never shut up.”
“I see,” Jesse said. “And how long would it be before you decided I was in your way, too, Bobby? Me and the baby.”
“Never,” Bob said. “Who do you think I am?”
“Well,” Jesse said, “that’s a good question. I’d say looking at it in one way you’re a good man who got spooked by being old and poor and went on the wrong path. But looking at it from another way you were this guy all along … this thief and hustler, and now murderer, Bob. This guy was the real you just waiting to get out.”
“That’s wrong,” Bob said, edging toward her a little. “You know I’m not like that.”
“I don’t know,” Jesse said. “Maybe there’s a third way to look at you, Bobby. Like a broken-down car, sort of.”
“Huh?”
“Well, my uncle Clyde had himself an old Chevy back in Beckley. It was a good ride for a long time, then one day it got stuck in one gear. Reverse. Couldn’t get that clutch to kick in any other gear. Only went backward. That’s you, Bob. You got stuck in your youth, baby. In visions of purity and innocence and some kind of ultimate justice. Other people grew up and went on, but you stayed in the past. Everything you see and do is in reverse, Bob. You judge everything from the viewpoint of about 1968. From there you can justify anything you want to do.”
Bob shuffled a little closer to her. The bitch, talking to him like this, to him, Bob Wells, who had given up everything for the poor, the needy, the tired, the hungry, a man who had sacrificed because he loved humanity, had a vision, a real vision of equality and racial harmony and love and peace and compassion … he, Bob Wells, how dare she …
“You know,” Jesse said, “my mama used to act the same way you did. Only she wasn’t no liberal. She was a churchgoing woman, and she believed God was on her side, and she could justify jest about anything with Him hanging on to her. She and my uncle Clyde once killed a black man in the neighborhood and I overheard ‘em talking all about it, how that nigger threatened them, how they was good, kind people but that nigger’s mere presence was enough of a threat to justify him disappearing into the Gauley River. That’s you, Bob. You talk better and have read more books, but you’re a fanatic. Ain’t no difference between you and my mama or for that matter some Muslim terrorist. All of you are sure you are pure. Well, I say if there ever was a revolution in this country, the first thing we oughta do is shoot the pure, ‘cause they are the worst of the worst, and we’d all be better off without ‘em.”
Bob felt a great pressure building in his temple. What was she saying? Him, a fanatic? No, no, no, he’d spent his whole life defending the poor against the fanatics, the rich, the evil, the powerful … he was the only one, the last one of his generation with real morals.
“You don’t understand anything about me at all,” Bob said, raising his voice. “You ignorant redneck. You don’t understand. I didn’t play the situational ethics game. I stood up for my beliefs all my life. I was practically a saint. But that wasn’t enough. They wanted me to die, see? They needed me to die, to justify their own selling out. And I wouldn’t let ‘em do that to me. That was why I had to take matters in my own hands. That was why I had to steal and kill. They wanted me to die in the gutter, so they could shake their heads and say, ‘He never grew up. He never learned how to be an adult,’ as if there was only one way. Being like Rudy Runyon, a phony phone voice on the radio dispensing bullshit advice about feelings, conning people into thinking they felt better for ten minutes while emptying their pockets into your back account. I wouldn’t settle. Never.”
He took another step toward her and Jesse moved back.
“You can’t have it both ways, Bobby,” Jesse said. “Saints don’t look for a big payoff. Not to mention they don’t kill their friends and let another man swing for it. You’re no saint, Bob. You’re an egomaniac, and if you take one more step toward me you’re gonna be a dead one.”
“You cunt. Talking to me that way?” Bob said. “Threatening my life?”
He took another step towar
d her. Now he was nearly within reaching distance.
“I’m leaving now,” Jesse said, backpedaling. “There’s a hundred thousand dollars on the dining room table, Bob. That should see you through for a year or maybe even two of drinking yourself to death. Forget about looking for me. Because if you find me, it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”
“Bullshit,” Bob said. “You don’t have it in you.”
He took another step toward her, his hands reaching so close that he could nearly touch the gun barrel.
“I knew it,” he said. “Now let’s get serious.”
“No problem,” Jesse said, then shot him once in the stomach. As the blood seeped out of him, Bob looked at the bullet hole in disbelief. Then he sank to his knees.
“You did it,” he said. “You shot me.”
“‘Bye, Bobby,” she said. “Thanks for the education.” She quickly turned and ran from the room.
Bob waited for some indescribable pain, but instead felt as though air was whistling through his innards. He pulled himself up by leaning on his chaise longue and, after retrieving his gun, he limped to the front porch just in time to see Jesse’s car driving two blocks down Aliceanna Street.
He staggered to the curb and opened his own car door. Fell heavily into his seat, his mind a whirl of pain and Jesse’s voice delivering her catastrophic insults. At that second he wanted to choke the life out of her, more for what she had said than for the fact that she had stolen his money and shot him.
The indignity of it. He had been on the Today show and in The New York Times.
And she was a mere hillbilly girl who he had allowed into his life.
