“What do you mean?”
“My brother is a jerk, you know that. A materialistic, mean-spirited jerk. He’s not family to me, even though he’s my only brother.”
“That’s not good.”
“It’s the way it is.” Grady shrugged, his fingers still interlaced. “I don’t feel tied to him just because he’s my blood and shares my genes. Who’s your family? Family is who you feel close to, who you love, and who loves you in return. Gives to you. You aren’t stuck with the family you’re born with. At some point, you grow up and choose your family, Bennie. You make it.”
Bennie fell quiet, considering it briefly. The only sound in the room was the dog’s snoring. “I don’t buy it. I like that bright-line test. Either you’re blood or you ain’t.”
“I know you do, but it doesn’t work, does it? It gets you into trouble I needn’t detail.”
“Is that a fancy way of saying ‘I told you so’?” she asked, and Grady laughed, which reminded her of how much fun it was to make him laugh. But you had to talk first to do that, and be around each other. Could they be, again? “So who’s my family, under the new improved definition?”
“You tell me. It’s your family.”
Bennie thought a minute. “I guess Hattie, my mother, and you. Not Connolly? Not my father?”
“Neither, not in my definition.”
Bennie swallowed, hard. “At least he kept clippings about me and came to my mother’s funeral. And we know he didn’t leave her, she left him. We don’t know much about him to judge him so harshly.”
“Maybe you should find out.”
“Maybe I should.” Bennie set her coffee mug on the floor and stood up. “Can I borrow your car?”
Grady laughed in disbelief. “Now?”
“Can you think of a better time than now?” she asked, and Grady knew any response was futile.
95
It was dusk when Judge Harrison Guthrie set sail in his sixteen-footer, the Jurist Prudent. Other sailboats and motorboats were coming in as he set out. To a man, their skippers were burnt from a full day of sun. “Don’t stay out too long, buddy,” someone shouted to him, boozy, from a motorboat. The judge waved back dismissively. He didn’t know the man’s name. He hadn’t made any friends at the marina, or on the bay, for that matter. He liked his solitude when he sailed and the only friend he needed was his wife, Maudie.
The judge tacked the Jurist Prudent into the breeze, a mild gust puffing eastward across the bay. The mainsail luffed as he turned, then snapped as it filled with wind. His wrinkled hand gripped the heavy line with the strength of a much younger man. He’d left the city after the Connolly verdict, stopped home only to change into his clothes and kiss Maudie good-bye. One solid peck on the cheek, like a rubber stamp. He’d been tempted to kiss her on the mouth, but it had been so long since he’d done that she would have found it odd. Then he’d driven down for a quick sail, as was his habit on the weekend. Maudie didn’t suspect anything.
The judge looked at the sky, his hand on the tiller and the boat parting the water with ease. The western half of the sky, where the weather came from, was darkening quickly. Nimbus clouds gathered, a deepening gray tinged with soft black at the fringe. The judge could smell the water hanging in the air and feel its dampness on his cheek. A storm was coming, but he anticipated it with a kind of hope.
Maybe there would be lightning. The judge knew a fair amount about lightning, had even studied its history. In early times it was believed to be evil spirits, and villages had rung church bells to ward it off. Later, lightning was assumed to be fire; finally Ben Franklin proved otherwise. Its anatomy was remarkable, too. A ribbon of pure electric energy, three to four miles long, but only an inch in diameter.
The judge’s watery eyes searched the sky, growing darker. The storm clouds collected, milling together like old friends. The wind picked up, filling the sails and testing their thick cloth. Judge Guthrie wasn’t afraid. He would leave Maudie well provided for, and the children and grandchildren. He had done good work as a lawyer, filed papers to be proud of. Then he had become a judge, the capstone of his legal career. Any of the opinions, concurrences, or dissents that bore his name would stand forever. Making law for all time; making legal history. Judge Guthrie had always written with that in mind, deciding cases under the law, with fairness, decency, and justice. There had been only one exception.
The Connolly case. The judge had been indebted to Henry Burden and it would have been dishonorable to turn him down once the inevitable request had been made. The judge knew that the prosecutor, Dorsey Hilliard, owed a debt to Henry Burden as well, but at least the prosecutor had been acting in faith with his sworn duty as he fulfilled Burden’s bidding. The judge had not. For the first and only time, Harrison Guthrie had opposed the law.
The judge’s hand held fast to the tiller and didn’t waver, even as his thoughts darkened like the clouds. He had made rulings contrary to law, for the purpose of achieving the wrong result. He had violated his oath and he had disgraced the bench. Even if his misdeeds never came to light, Judge Guthrie knew what he had done. He had acted in combination with murderers, causing death and mayhem. He had profaned the name of justice and transgressed as surely as the robbers, murderers, and miscreants who stood before him day after day. Even Judge Guthrie conceded he should pay for what he had done. No one was above the law, and especially not a judge.
And so Harrison Guthrie judged himself, in the end, and sailed swiftly into the darkness.
96
Star connected with a right cross that split the skin under Mojo Harris’s eyebrow like a boiled hot dog. Yeah! Star thought. Sweat poured from his face and chest. He danced backward, light on his feet. It was late in the sixth and he was a round away from winning. The crowd knew it, too. The Blue Horizon rocked with shouting and cheering.
Harris staggered back and blood bubbled instantly to the cut. It gaped open, skin flaps flopping on each side. Star would have punched Harris again but the ref rushed between the fighters and steadied Harris’s bruised face while he squinted at the cut. “Can you see, Mojo?” the ref shouted over the crowd noise. “How many fingers I got?”
“Two!”
“Then box!” the ref said, and Star lunged forward, swinging. He didn’t want the fight stopped, nobody did. Star knew he’d fought the fight of his life. He’d beaten Harris on points so far, each round but the third.
Ring! went the bell ending the sixth, and Harris’s arms dropped. He was whipped, dead on his feet. Star glared at Harris before Harris hustled back to his corner. Star was tellin’ Harris he was licked. Tellin’ him that he, Star Harald, owned this ring now. That the next time Harris came out, Star would pound his eye ‘til it fuckin’ exploded.
“Star, come on back!” Star’s corner shouted. It was Browning callin’ him in. Star stayed in the ring, lettin’ Harris know. Servin’ notice, demandin’ respect. The crowd roared at the grandstanding and Star gulped it down like cold beer. His first professional fight, an eight-rounder, and he was about to win it. A TV camera focused on him and reporters took notes. Star felt the best he had ever felt in his life. Except Anthony wasn’t here to see it.
“Come on, Star!” Browning yelled. “Come on back! You only got a second, man!”
Star looked at the crowd, standin’ up for him. The men clappin’, hands over their heads, the women givin’ him the eye. Their faces, all excited, so close to the ring he could make them out. Everybody from the gym was there. Mr. Gaines, Danny Morales, and his foxy wife. Everybody but Anthony. It killed Star when he shoulda been the happiest. Where the fuck was that squirrel with the hair plugs? Star scanned the crowd and found the dude. He was in the back, his head wrapped in goddamn bandages. Makin’ sure Star kept up his end of the bargain. Harris in seven. Dude better have kept his end.
“Star! Come in, get your ass back here! Get your fuckin’ ass back here!”
Star turned and sauntered back to his corner, the crowd on its feet, going craz
y for him. They were seeing history and they knew it. Years from now they could say they were at Star Harald’s first professional fight. He wouldn’t be fighting at the Blue anymore, he’d be at the Convention Center or Bally’s. Bruce Willis would sit ringside and the TV cameras would be pay-per-view. Star’s purse would go from twenty grand to twenty million.
“You got him, man!” Browning shouted as Star sat down in his corner. “You opened him up! When you get back out there, stay upstairs. Circle to the right. Look for a right cross behind your left!”
Star tuned out Browning. His thoughts were on that bitch. She better be dead. He spit his mouthguard into a hand covered in a latex glove while another glove wiped sweat off his face and squirted water into his mouth. A third set of gloves smeared Vaseline on his eyebrows, but Star waved them off. Harris wasn’t going to be landing anything in the seventh. Star would knock him out in the seventh.
Ring! It was the round bell. Star got off the stool and jumped to get his blood moving. Loosen up. A gloved hand popped in his moutlhguard.
“You know what to do, Star!” Browning started up again. “Finish him off, man! He don’t want no more. Can’t take no more. Finish him the fuck off!”
Star charged out of his corner, gloves up, light on his feet. He went straight at Harris, who backed off, his left high, tryin’ to protect his eye. Star waited for his moment. Harris didn’t throw anything, just danced back like a pussy, gloves in front of his cut eye. Fresh red blood drippin’ like tears in a line down his cheek.
The crowd screamed for the knockout punch. They smelled the blood. They knew it was comin’. Star had to throw it. Harris blinked blood out of his eye and backed into the ropes. The cut was so bad the ref would call the fight any second. Star pushed Harris against the ropes, throwing left jabs. Had to get Harris lookin’ for the left, so he could throw the right into the cut. Star stayed patient. It drove the crowd crazy. The TV cameras rolled.
Suddenly Star found another way. He caught Harris with a left uppercut to the gut. Harris dropped his right arm, covering up. His left was still high, but he was open. The crowd screamed as Star followed with a left hook to the temple. Harris took one step back, then slumped forward to his knees. The ref waved Star to a neutral corner, but Star didn’t move. It was too sweet a sight. Mojo Harris kneeling unconscious in front of him.
The ref shoved Star to the corner and started his count. By the time he got to three, it was over. The ref waved the fight off, a knockout, as Star threw his fists into the air and roared.
After the fight, Star gave interview after interview, talkin’ to the newspapers, Ring magazine, and even a guy from Sports Illustrated. There were so many reporters, Star couldn’t even make it into the locker room. He stood outside, jawin’ into microphones with white boxes showing the stations. USA, ESPN, KYW. Browning yapped more than Star did, actin’ like Don King while other managers sucked up. They was comin’ to Star now, but the boxer didn’t want to see ’em. Only dude he wanted to see was that squirrel with the hair plugs.
“Star, yo!” said a voice behind him, and Star finished signing another autograph and turned around. It was the squirrel wearin’ head bandages that made him look like a dothead. In his hand was a black Adidas gym bag. Make sure it got done.
“Get your ass inside,” Star said. He opened the dressing room door, shoved the dude, and shouted at his people to clear out. He locked the door behind them and faced the dude alone. “You do that bitch?” Star demanded.
“Man, you were unreal! I never saw a fight like that! You could take anybody! You could be the champ!”
“I am the champ, motherfucker! Answer me. Tell me that bitch is dead.”
“She’s dead, man. She’s history, and you just made me and my boss a shitload.” The dude was smilin’ like an idiot, but Star wasn’t.
“How I know you did her? You bring the proof?”
“Sure. I got it, just like you said.” The dude reached into the gym bag and brought out a crumpled paper bag with a greasy stain on the bottom. “Here, look.”
Star leaned over and peeked into the bag. The sight turned his stomach. In the bag was a mess of blond hair matted with blood and stuck to a bloody scalp. The skin on the scalp was so white it coulda been a doll’s. The smell was disgusting, like fresh road kill. Star pushed it away. “Get that outta my face, asshole.”
“You said, show me.” The dude closed the bag fast and stuck it back in the gym bag. “You wanted proof.”
Then Star realized something. “How’m I supposed to know it’s Connolly’s, asshole? Could be somebody else’s hair, any bitch’s hair.”
“Shit, ’course it’s Connolly’s. Dyed blond and all, just like you said, Star. Look, man, even got the black roots.” The dude reached in the bag again, but Star reared back with disgust.
“Get that shit outta my sight!” Star waved at the bag and watched as the dude put the bag away. It had to be Connolly’s, didn’t it? Connolly was dead. The bitch was dead. They had held up their side of the bargain, and Star had done more than his part. He’d won by a TKO in the seventh. It made him feel good, where his heart ached.
Finally there was an end to it. Star had gotten justice, for Anthony.
And he was on his way to the top.
97
Bennie didn’t reach the cottage until dark. If she hadn’t been there before, she never would have found the place. She pulled Grady’s old Saab up to the fork in the road and took the unpaved driveway to the cottage, where she found herself in luck. A light was on inside the house, shining gold through the trees. Winslow was home. Bennie would get to see him. Meet him. Her father.
She cut the Saab’s headlights, leaving on the low beams as she drove closer. Rocks and gravel crunched under the car’s tires. A rusty red pickup stood out in front of the cottage, and Bennie parked next to it. She cut the ignition, got out of the Saab, and walked slowly up to the house. On the way she found herself patting her hair and smoothing down her suit skirt. Might as well look nice.
Bennie stood in front of the screen door, summoning her nerve. From beyond the lighted screen came the unmistakable sound of a man humming. Bennie felt oddly delighted. Her father was humming. What was the tune? She inclined her head toward the screen, and a brown moth fluttered away on dusty wings. She didn’t recognize the song, then the humming stopped abruptly.
“Ay? Somebody there?” asked a voice. Elderly, uncertain, even frightened. It touched her unexpectedly.
“It’s me. Bennie Rosato.”
“Wha?” There was the sound of a dry cough, then footsteps shuffling softly. In the next minute a long figure filled the dark door and opened it wide.
“Hello,” Bennie said, backing the form into the dim room until the lamplight illuminated Winslow’s face. His mouth was full, and his face was lean, lightly tanned, with feathery crow’s-feet. His eyes were large, round, and as sharply blue as Bennie’s. They struck her at once as so familiar, even behind their drugstore eyeglasses, that she impulsively threw open her arms and gave him a hug.
“No!” he shouted, throwing off her arms and recoiling suddenly, knocking an astonished Bennie almost off-balance.
“I’m sorry,” she said, flustered. She wasn’t even sure what had happened, his response had been so immediate, so violent. Bennie’s face flushed with embarrassment and a sort of shame. She didn’t even know why she had hugged him in the first place. “I didn’t mean … I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.” Winslow patted his chest, over a buttoned-up blue workshirt, as if he’d just received a shock.
“I was only—”
“Quite all right.” His wrinkled hand fluttered against his shirt, then moved to right his glasses, though they weren’t crooked. “It’s all right. It’s fine. My. Well.” Winslow coughed again and focused on Bennie. “So, we meet,” he said without ceremony, and Bennie nodded.
“Yes. We do.” She was trying to recover from her faux pas. “Starting off on the right foot,” she said, laugh
ing uncomfortably.
“I thought you might come, when it was over. I didn’t know you’d get here before I left. I was hoping you wouldn’t.” Winslow turned slightly, and Bennie looked down. On the floor stood an ancient tan suitcase, its leather dry and cracked, with a stand-up handle, and next to the suitcase sat a large cardboard box of books. She couldn’t help but notice his scrapbooks weren’t going with him. She had so many questions, she didn’t know where to start.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“South.” Winslow eased his glasses up his long nose with an index finger, its nail dirty.
“Is that all you’re taking?” She was thinking of the clippings, and the note from her mother. Had he even noticed it was gone?
“I must keep packing, if you don’t mind. My books.” He walked to the bookshelf and ran his fingertips over the books’ spines. He stopped when he got to one, tapped it thoughtfully, and slid it off the shelf. Then he went to the box and eased the book into it, spine up. “I must take as many of my books with me as possible.”
“Is this a vacation or what?”
“No, I just came off one of those, though it wasn’t much of a respite, was it?” Winslow smiled tightly, though his voice remained curiously humorless. “You won the case.”
“Yes, I did. How did you know that?”
“I was there.”
“Where?” Bennie blinked, amazed. “I didn’t see you.”
Winslow returned to the bookshelf, the second shelf this time, and after a brief examination, selected a volume and walked back to the cardboard box with it. “That’s why I put Alice onto you,” he said, without looking up from his task. “I knew you’d win.”
Mistaken Identity Page 44
