Fast Shuffle, page 11
O’Neill stood.
Phil got up to escort O’Neill to the door. Carol put out a restraining hand to stop him—and she made no effort of her own to be polite.
“Don’t bother, Carol,” O’Neill gave his shark’s grin again, “I’ll let myself out.”
When the door closed behind O’Neill, Carol said, “He makes me feel like washing.”
“You want a pal or a lawyer?” Phil asked.
“Poor Harry,” Carol said.
“You want to wait until Harry does something to get himself thrown into jail?” Phil asked.
“A mental hospital,” Carol said. “Jail. Is there that much difference?”
“Yes,” Phil said, “there is. A lot. And if we don’t get Harry help, he may be lucky to end up in jail. Harry keeps playing detective, someday he’s going to run up against someone who’s not playing. You rather visit him in a hospital or a morgue?”
CHAPTER 44
In the stacks of the library, Harry ran his finger along the spines of the college yearbooks. He really didn’t have to. He knew the book would be at the right end of the shelf, but he liked the feeling, like running a stick along a picket fence. Harry had never run a stick along a picket fence, but he had read about boys doing that in books when he was a kid and he had seen boys do it in movies and it struck him as an innocent and old-fashioned thing to do. He didn’t think about why he wanted to do something innocent and old-fashioned.
Harry came to the 2010 annual, which he took down from the shelf.
He flipped through the pages until he came to the T’s, where he found a photograph of Marian Turner, blond, pretty, similar to the woman who caught him in Marian Turner’s apartment.
But not her.
Harry ripped out the page.
CHAPTER 45
Harry parked up the street from Marian Turner’s apartment. Behind the steering wheel of his car, he was alternately sipping coffee from a paper container and eating an apple turnover, which flaked onto his shirt front, when the woman claiming to be Marian came out the front door.
Harry put down the coffee and pastry and snapped a Polaroid picture of her.
He was one of the few people in the city who still used a Polaroid. Polaroids were not used in classic hard-boiled detective novels, but it seemed more appropriate than a digital camera. And it was handy, though Harry had to search for film through mail-order firms.
The woman pretending to be Marian Turner got into a car and drove off.
Harry followed.
At the Forest Park branch of the post office—a yellow-brick building that had been constructed in the 1930s, a WPA-style eagle in bas relief over the door—the woman pretending to be Marian Turner parked and entered.
Harry parked and looked through the revolving glass doors.
She went up to the Postal Money Orders window and transacted some business.
Harry couldn’t tell what.
She went out through the revolving door, hurrying past Harry down the steps.
Harry went into the building. As he emerged from the revolving door, he looked behind him, as if calling out to the woman.
“Okay, sweetheart,” Harry said, “I’ll take care of it.”
The post office was nearly empty.
Harry approached the Postal Money Order window. He reached into his pocket, pulled out some slips of paper, and purposely tripped, spilling the paper, which he scrambled around retrieving.
At the window, Harry sorted through the dropped pieces of paper. The clerk waited.
“I had it right here,” Harry said. “Damn … Must have lost it when I tripped. I thought I picked up everything.”
“Look, chief,” the clerk said, “either tell me what you want or come back when you figure it out.”
“My wife … She was just at the window here.”
“The one bought the money order, yeah, yeah?”
From his wallet, Harry took out some bills.
“She’s worse than I am,” he said. “Made it out twenty dollars short. Could we just add that to the money order she got?”
“Got to make out a new one,” the clerk said.
“You sure?” Harry asked.
The clerk gave Harry a sour look.
Harry handed the clerk the bills.
“Same as the other,” Harry said.
The clerk sighed, got the copy of the previous money order he just made out, and started writing the new one.
Reading the old money order, he recited, “’Twenty dollars. Margaret Resnick. 16 Beechwood … ‘What is it—street, avenue? Your wife didn’t say.”
Guessing, Harry said, “Street.”
CHAPTER 46
Rossiter soaked in the tub, steaming water up to his chin—which, given his size, meant his legs had to be propped against the wall over the faucets. Where his thighs left the water, the difference in temperature made his legs feel cold. Even though the room was warm.
Everything’s relative, he thought without knowing he thought it.
The pine salts he’d poured into the tub as he ran the water made him think of Christmas, cheeks tingling from sleet, sledding in Forest Park down Dead Man’s Gulch, named sometime in the distant nineteenth century. How many generations thrilled to the name of the modest slope a hundred yards from the bandstand, leading to, in winter, a frozen rill?
“How’s Linda?” Maggie asked. “And that knucklehead boyfriend of hers?”
Rossiter shrugged. Water sloshed over the side of the tub onto the tessellated floor.
“You want to eat after your bath or after you sleep?” Maggie asked. “I hate this tour.”
She sat on the closed toilet seat, her elbows on her knees, knees together, feet pigeon-toed, hair falling forward, her blouse hanging loose in front.
“How long we been married, buttercup?” Maggie asked. “You’re looking down my top?”
“It’s the nipple-to-breast ratio that matters,” Rossiter said. “Not the size of the breasts.”
“So you’ve said,” Maggie said, leaning farther.
Rossiter flicked water down her cleavage.
She reared back and said, “Prick.”
But laughed.
“Where’s Chloe?” Rossiter asked.
“At piano,” Maggie said. “Looking for a nooner? We have time. She won’t be home till late.”
Maggie studied her husband.
“You in the mood?” she asked.
“In the mood to be in the mood,” he said.
Maggie nodded.
“Your periscope’s down,” she said. “And here I figured you were on a rekki.”
“Reconnaissance,” Rossiter said, “is the easy part.”
“But no torpedoes loaded?” Maggie said.
Rossiter slid down until his hips were out of the water by the faucets and his head was submerged.
“We got to get a bigger tub,” Maggie said out loud to herself. When Rossiter breached, water pouring from his head like dreadlocks, Maggie repeated, “We got to get a bigger tub.”
“Chloe seem okay to you?” Rossiter asked, rubbing both eyes, blinking. “No outbursts? Bad temper?”
“Are you serious?” Maggie asked. “She’s thirteen. Army wants to kick ass, they should send thirteen-year-old girls to Iraq, Afghanistan, wherever. Scare the holy shit out of the enemy.”
“She’s keeping up at school?” Rossiter asked. “Getting enough sleep?”
“Doing drugs, you mean?” Maggie asked.
“You notice anything?” Rossiter asked.
“She’s high on life, your daughter,” Maggie said. “Like her father.”
“Do you think we could tell?” Rossiter asked. “Her world … What do we know? Your world … What do I know? You may see things different from me. I’d never know your red isn’t my red.”
“You’re not worried about Chloe,” Maggie said. “You’re worried about Harry.”
At last, Rossiter, water just below his chin, said, “He’s got his cock in a meat grinder, and someone’s going to turn on the switch.” Rossiter flicked his eyes sideways at her for a second. “And I can’t protect him anymore.”
Maggie still waited.
“You know that guy who survived Hiroshima and escaped to Nagasaki just in time to be A-bombed twice? I feel like him. Sometimes,” Rossiter said, “you have to squint at the world to see it plain.”
CHAPTER 47
Harry stopped his car at a crossroad in the outskirts of Springdale. He held a city map up to catch the fading light. The creases created shadows on the map. Harry popped open the glove compartment and fished out a yellow plastic camp flashlight, which he shined first onto the map, then onto a street sign that said Beechwood Avenue.
“Sue me,” Harry said. “I was wrong.”
* * *
In the glare of the Indian Orchard Mall, Friday stopped at a store window, displaying erotic lingerie.
She entered the store.
* * *
Beechwood Avenue was in a rural area. Few houses, far apart. Harry’s headlights picked out a mailbox: Number 16. A ramshackle trailer, half hidden in the weeds. Through the filthy, cracked windows, Harry saw lights. And from inside the trailer, he heard a woman singing “Blue Skies.”
Harry got out of his car, walked to the door.
Across a quarter-acre of brush, half hidden behind the neighboring trailer, a strip of yellow bug-light across his feral eyes, crouched a half-naked boy, dirty white jockey shorts, so skinny even in shadow his rib cage looked like a vulture-picked carcass.
“A wild child,” Harry decided, “like Mowgli. Wonder where Akela is? The wolf pack? Baloo? Bagheera? Kaa?”
Harry knocked on Number 16.
The door opened, revealing a woman—sixty-six, maybe, a beautiful face despite, maybe because of, the wrinkles. Her eyes were violet. Her mouth was full and sexy.
She was wearing a garish, multicolored Mexican skirt, a Celtics T-shirt, and a man’s torn wool overcoat. She looked—and smelled—as if she hasn’t bathed in months. And she was clearly drunk.
Harry asked, “Margaret Resnick?”
* * *
Inside Victoria’s Secret, Friday went from rack to rack, picking out an outfit—a lacy red bustier, silk stockings, black spike heels.
* * *
Margaret Resnick sat in her trailer at the built-in table, pouring herself a shot of peppermint schnapps. Harry held up the Polaroid photograph.
“You think I don’t know my own daughter?” Margaret asked.
“She says her name’s Marian Turner,” Harry said.
“You been busted as many times as she has,” Margaret said, “you collect a lot of names.” She sighed. Under her T-shirt, her bosom heaved. Absently, she straightened the cloth. “Brenda developed early. Eleven years old, she looked like a woman. Charged the boys a dollar a feel. By junior high, she was working the streets. Dropped out of high school when she got into an escort service. Two years later she was running the place.”
“She ever mention a Marian Turner?” Harry asked.
“My daughter sends money every month,” Margaret said, “but she doesn’t come here. She’s too classy. An ex-hooker. Too classy, huh.”
She poured and drank another shot of schnapps. And stared into the empty glass.
“I heard you singing,” Harry said.
Margaret gave him a suspicious look.
“You have a lovely voice,” Harry said.
Margaret still looked at him, suspiciously.
Harry sang, “Blue skies smiling at me / Nothing but blue skies do I see … I love that song.”
“That and “There’s a Small Hotel.”
“The first time my brother-in-law heard the song, he thought it was ‘There’s A Small Cartel.’”
“When I was younger,” Margaret said, “a lot younger, I sang in clubs. I was pretty good. Then…” She shrugged. “Rock and roll. No one wanted to hear ‘Blue Skies.’”
“Would you sing it?” Harry asked.
Margaret studied Harry, decided he was not teasing her, and started to sing. She tilted her face to one side. Closed her eyes. Her shoulders relaxed. She glowed.
* * *
In the Victoria’s Secret dressing room, Friday tried on the sexy outfit she had picked out. She vamped in front of the mirror.
CHAPTER 48
Inside Harry’s office building, the elevator doors opened on his floor. Harry stepped out and saw light under his door. He eased his key into the lock, carefully turned the door knob, and burst into the room, his outer office, Friday’s office—where he saw, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, Friday wearing the outfit she bought at Victoria’s Secret: lace bustier, stockings, spike heels.
“Working late?” Harry asked.
He tossed his hat onto the coatrack and showed Friday the picture of Marian Turner from the yearbook and the photograph of Brenda Resnick.
“Marian Turner—Cotton’s Marian Turner—is Brenda Resnick,” Harry said. “I followed her, took a picture, got to her mother.…”
Friday didn’t look at the pictures.
“Harry?”
Harry turned around.
“Look at me,” Friday said.
Harry looked at her.
“You got a haircut?”
Harry picked up the telephone and dialed a number.
It was an old black rotary table phone.
“Rossiter?” Harry said into the phone. “It’s Harry—”
Harry’s expression changed.
Slowly, he put the phone handset back in its cradle.
“He hung up on me,” Harry said.
“I can understand the impulse!” Friday said.
Friday pulled on her dress. So angry that she messed her hair and smeared her makeup—and didn’t even adjust the dress, which hung on her awry.
“What happened?” Harry asked. “You have to dry out your dress? You spill something?”
Harry gazed at Friday, who, still angry, kicked off her spike heels and puts on flats.
“You are so beautiful,” Harry said.
“What?”
Harry took Friday, now fully dressed and a mess, in his arms.
“Sometimes,” he said, “it’s like I’m seeing you for the first time.”
Harry kissed Friday, who came out of the embrace almost awestruck at Harry’s eccentricity. He’s the only man who would be more turned on by her ordinary outfit than by her sexy lingerie—who, in fact, would not even notice the lingerie.
“Harry,” she said, “you’re amazing.”
“I know,” Harry said.
Again, they kissed.
“The detective,” Harry said, “usually falls for the client.”
“You don’t have a client,” Friday said.
They kissed.
“He never notices his assistant,” Harry said.
“Until she takes off her glasses,” Friday said.
“You don’t wear glasses,” Harry said.
“That saves time,” Friday said.
CHAPTER 49
Friday sat on the edge of her desk, fixing her hair. Harry was tying his tie.
“After the detective notices his assistant,” Friday asked, “what happens then? Happily ever after?”
“First,” Harry said, “the detective solves the mystery.”
“And if there is no mystery?”
“There’s always a mystery.”
Harry kissed Friday and headed out of the office.
“Where are you going?” Friday asked.
“Got to see a man about a hearse,” Harry said.
The door closed. Then, after a moment, reopened. Harry reached in, grabbed his hat from the clothes tree, fit it on his head, pulling it low over his right eye, and closed the door behind him.
Friday hesitated. Then, she grabbed her hat and coat, turned off the light, and hurried out of the office.
CHAPTER 50
Harry came out of his building into Court Square and headed up the street. People he passed greeted him: Hey, Harry … How you doin’? What’s new?
Keeping out of sight, Friday followed.
Men and women were leaving the bank building after work. Bucking the tide, Harry entered. Waiting at the elevator bank, Harry whistled a bit of Gershwin’s “Treat Me Rough.” When he got to the bridge, he improvised a little tap: a time step—
A passing car momentarily blocked Harry. Friday leaned to the right to keep him in view.
—a shuffle. Flap, flap, flap. Ball charge. Step kick left. Step kick right. A traveling Irish with a ball change. Big finish.
The elevator door slid open.
Harry stepped onto the elevator.
Friday entered the lobby and pressed the elevator button.
On the eleventh floor, Cotton’s door was ajar. Inside the office, a dim light glowed. Harry eased the door open and slipped in.
As before, the outer office was dark. The door to the private office was open.
Inside the room, the desk light was on. Against the far wall was the shadow of someone holding what looked like a sap raised over his head.
“Drop it!” Harry shouted as he burst in—on a janitor who dropped his pint bottle of rye—the man and the sap in the shadow.
“Just wetting the whistle, chief,” the janitor said.
Friday entered.
“What the hell are you doing?” she said.
CHAPTER 51
Outside the bank building, Harry and Friday stood on the sidewalk.
“Are you out of your mind?” Friday asked. “What am I saying? Of course you are.”
“Pillette got here before us,” Harry said. Confidently.
“He probably did,” Friday said. “For all we know so did Cotton’s electrician, plumber, and landscaper.… Harry, you’re out of control.”
“Don’t worry, Friday,” Harry said, chucking her on the chin with a knuckle.
“That’s all I do,” Friday said. “What are you looking for?”
