“Absolutely,” I said.
“Where?”
“None of your business,” I said.
“She hire you to investigate her parents?”
“She did.”
“You know she’s been told to call off the investigation?”
“I do.”
The man with the tattoos was standing very close to me, looking dead-eyed at me.
“But she didn’t,” Mr. Shades said.
“No,” I said. “She didn’t.”
“She paying you a lot of money?”
“Not so much,” I said.
“Worth getting hurt for?”
“Who is going to hurt me?” I said.
Shades pointed with his chin.
“He is,” he said.
I suddenly stepped away from them into the middle of the road and took out my gun.
“Hey,” Shades said. “What’s with the piece?”
“Alone in the woods with two strange men?” I said. “What’s a girl to do?”
“I got no problem with guns,” Mr. Tattoos said.
“You might,” I said.
“You really got the balls to shoot us?” Shades said.
“Balls, no,” I said. “Shoot, yes.”
“So now what,” Shades said.
“I’ll tell you one thing what,” Tattoos said. “No twat is chasing me off.”
I pointed the gun straight at him, holding it in both hands. Behind him, Spike had come out from behind his boulder and was moving softly down the short slope. Spike was both agile and quiet for somebody his size.
“I believe that was an antifeminist remark,” I said. “Though dated.”
“Fuck you, lady,” Tattoos said.
“Lady is unacceptably incorrect,” I said. “It dehumanizes women.”
“Never mind the crap,” Shades said. “You want something?”
“I want to know who hired you to chase me away.”
Shades laughed.
“Whaddya gonna do, shoot us if we don’t tell?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Spike said from behind them.
Both men whirled around when he spoke. He was behind my car, leaning his thick forearms on the roof.
“Who the fuck are you?” Shades said.
Spike smiled.
“I am, by popular vote,” Spike said, “the world’s toughest queer.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Shades said.
Spike smiled.
“Turn around,” I said, “and put your hands on the roof of the car.”
“Like hell,” Shades said.
Spike walked around the car and took a left handful of Shades’s slick hair. Spike never seemed to be moving fast, exactly, but things happened very quickly. He slammed Shades’s head against the roof of the car. Shades grunted and sagged. Spike held him up with his left hand and patted him down. I kept the gun on Tattoos. Spike took a little .22 semiautomatic out of Shades’s side pocket.
“Cute,” Spike said.
He put the gun in his hip pocket and let go. Shades sagged but didn’t go down, steadying himself on the car. His forehead was already starting to swell. Spike looked at Tattoos.
“On the car?” Spike said.
“You’re pretty tough, got somebody holding a fucking gun on me.”
“And a twat, at that,” Spike said.
“Hey,” I said.
Spike jerked his head toward the car. Tattoos put his hands on the roof and Spike patted him down.
“No gun,” Spike said, and stepped back.
Tattoos wasn’t very smart. He’d seen Spike handle Mr. Shades. He must have noticed that Spike was much bigger than he was. Maybe he thought it was fat. Or maybe he had some outdated theories about sissy-boys. Whatever prompted him, he put his face into Spike’s and spoke.
“She didn’t have a piece on me . . .” Tattoos said.
“Sunny,” Spike said to me. “Put the gun away.”
I put it in my bag, though I cheated a little. I left the bag open and I rested my hand on the edge of it about an inch from the gun’s butt.
“You really a fag?” Tattoos said.
“Yep.”
“I never met a fag could fight.”
“What do the tattoos read,” Spike said. “Jail punk?”
Tattoos tried to knee Spike in the crotch. Spike turned his hip and the knee caught him harmlessly on it. Tattoos followed with a quick left hook that Spike brushed away with his forearm. He took a handful of Tattoos’s shirt in his left hand. Put his right into Tattoos’s crotch and swung him up in the air and brought him down hard, on his back, on the trunk of the car. He stepped away and Tattoos slid groggily off the trunk and onto the ground. He stayed there for a moment, then got to his feet unsteadily.
“Jesus Christ,” he said.
“So who hired you to scare off Sarah Markham,” I said.
Timing is everything.
27
The two men leaned somewhat wearily against the car. Spike stood in front of them and a little to the side, with his hands in his hip pockets. I had zipped up my purse, with my gun in it. Neither of them was dangerous anymore. Shades’s name was Lewis Karp. The other one was Sal Brunelli.
“Guy came to see me,” Lewis said.
“What was his name?”
“Didn’t say.”
I said, “Tell me about him.”
“Said he was a lawyer from New York.”
“New York City?”
“Yeah, I guess. Said he got my name from a guy in New York. Said he heard from this guy that I could organize something.”
“You know the guy he got your name from?”
“Didn’t say. I figure it’s probably a guy I did business with down there. Guy named Rosen. Ike Rosen.”
I had my notebook out and was writing down names.
“You talk to Ike,” Lewis said, “don’t say I told you.”
“Of course,” I said. “What kind of business are you in?”
“Lawyer.”
Spike snorted.
“I got a law degree,” Lewis said. “I do criminal law.”
“I’ll bet you do,” Spike said.
“Is Ike a lawyer, too?” I said.
“Sure.”
“Address?”
“I don’t know. All I got is a phone number.”
“I want it,” I said.
“You aren’t going to tell Ike you got it from me?”
“No,” I said.
“It’s in my Palm Pilot,” he said.
“Where is it?” Spike said.
“My briefcase. In the car.”
“Stay put,” Spike said.
He went to the car and came back with the Palm Pilot. Lewis got the phone number, and I wrote it down. Standing near Lewis, Spike was rocking slightly back and forth, hands still in his hip pockets. No cars had passed us since we’d been there. The sun had moved a little west. Birds still chirped. Squirrels still darted haltingly about.
“Don’t make stuff up,” Spike said to Lewis.
I said, “He wouldn’t lie to us, Spike.”
“I’m not lying.”
Spike smiled at him and didn’t say anything.
“What did the gentleman want?” I said.
“He said could I put together a little something to scare off someone who was annoying his client.”
“Was he a lawyer?”
“I thought he was.”
“Takes one to know one,” Spike said pleasantly to Sal.
Sal didn’t look at him. Lewis looked at me.
“So let’s not make this twenty questions,” I said. “Tell me all about it and maybe you can get out of here without Spike stepping on your fa
ce.”
“Told me the girl’s name. Said he wanted her scared off. Wanted the investigation stopped.”
“He say what investigation?”
“No. He gave me the girl’s dorm address and told me to tell her that and rough her up.”
“Did you get paid?”
“Of course,” Lewis said.
“How?”
“Guy gave me five grand. Cash. I give half to Sal and we go do it.”
“So how’d you get to me?” I said.
“Got another visit. Same guy. Said you needed to get the same message. Gimme your license plate numbers, told me to find you.”
“What was I worth?”
“Same thing. Five.”
“You should have charged more,” I said. “How do I reach you?”
“I got an office in the South End,” he said. “Warren Street. I work out of my home.”
Spike took a business card from his pocket, and held it up. The card said Lewis Karp, Attorney at Law, with an address in Brighton.
“From your briefcase,” Spike said.
“Oh, shit,” Lewis said.
He looked at me.
“Well, hell, I mean, can you blame me not wanting Godzilla”—he nodded at Spike—“knowing where to find me.”
“You are dumb, even for a lawyer,” I said. “I have the registration number off your car. Do you think I wouldn’t have checked?”
Lewis shrugged.
“I dunno,” he said.
“We’re going to continue the investigation,” I said.
Lewis nodded.
“No one is going to bother Sarah Markham again,” I said.
“No.”
“If anyone does—you, Sal, the mystery lawyer, Britney Spears, anyone—it won’t matter. We will come looking for you.”
“I can’t control . . .” Lewis started.
“I don’t care. Spike doesn’t care. Do you, Spikey?”
“I want to visit with you again,” Spike said. “I like guys that will beat up a twenty-one-year-old girl without even knowing why.”
“If anything happens to her,” I said, “you are dead.”
Spike opened his coat wide enough so that they could see the big Army .45 he was wearing. Nobody said anything.
“Go,” I said.
The two men went to their car. Sal was walking uncomfortably. Spike and I watched them drive away.
“I’ll drive you to your car,” I said.
Spike looked at me as if he was about to say something serious.
“Spikey?” he said.
“I try to remain girlish,” I said.
Spike grinned. “Me too,” he said.
28
I wanted Spike to meet Sarah for future reference. So after I dropped him off at his car, he followed me back to my loft. I used my key to enter downstairs. But the loft door was bolted and I had to knock. There were quiet footsteps and then silence while Leonard checked us through the peephole.
“Who’s with you,” Leonard said from inside.
“My friend Spike, it’s okay.”
“What’s my name?” Leonard said.
“Leonard.”
The bolt slid back, and the door opened.
“Clever,” I said to Leonard. “If Spike were the enemy, I could have let you know by saying your name was Arthur or something.”
Leonard nodded.
“You all set now?” he said.
Rosie rushed down the length of the loft, and I crouched to say hello.
“Yes,” I said. “Thank you, Leonard.”
“Thank Tony,” Leonard said, and left.
Spike looked after him.
“What a fine-looking man,” Spike said.
Rosie did a couple spins and wagged her tail rapidly and made a little squeak. Sarah sat on the couch, smoking. She was staring at Spike.
“Fine,” Spike said.
I stood. Spike bent over and scooped up Rosie and gave her a series of rapid kisses on the nose.
“Everything okay, Sarah?” I said.
“Yeah. It’s okay. That guy Leonard doesn’t talk much.”
“Might be a good thing,” I said. “This is Spike.”
“He’s the one I’m supposed to call if you’re not here.”
“Who you gonna call?” Spike said, and put out his hand.
Sarah took it languidly.
“Girl,” Spike said, “you have a handshake like a noodle.”
Sarah shrugged.
“We found the men who beat you up,” I said.
“What happened?”
“We spoke to them firmly,” I said. “And they agreed not to bother you again.”
“You spoke to them?”
“Yes,” I said.
“The tough guy? The one with the tattoos?”
“Yes. His name is Sal Brunelli.”
“What did he do?”
“He bounced,” Spike said.
“What?”
I smiled. “Spike picked him up and banged him on his car.”
“You picked him up?”
“I did,” Spike said. “Actually, I’ve picked up quite a few men in my life.”
I smiled. Sarah stared at Spike. It might have been awe.
“What would you have done?” Sarah said to me.
“Without Spike?”
“Yes. I mean, you’re a woman.”
“Hear me shout,” I said. “I had a gun.”
“Would you have shot them?”
“As needed,” I said.
Sarah was silent. Spike and Rosie had settled on the couch beside her. Rosie was on her back, and Spike was rubbing her stomach. Sarah watched this for a moment, and then looked back at me.
“How can you do this?” she said.
“This?” I said.
“Be a detective and face bad guys and stuff . . . and you need a man to protect you.”
“Good heavens,” Spike said to Rosie. “A feminist conundrum.”
There was coffee left. I poured some.
“It’s good to know your limitations,” I said. “I weigh one hundred twenty-six pounds. Sal Brunelli, tattoos and all, weighs . . . what, Spike? You picked him up?”
“A hundred ninety-two and a half,” Spike said.
“That’s a significant disparity,” I said to Sarah, “but a common one. Most men are bigger and stronger than I am. So I need an equalizer.”
I put my coffee down and got my purse and opened it and took out the short-barreled .38 I carried.
“This is one,” I said.
Sarah stared at the gun. I put the gun back and walked over to Spike and touched his shoulder.
“And this is another. One reason I sometimes prefer Spike is that his, ah, equalizing capacity can be modulated. The gun tends to be pretty black-and-white.”
“You brought Spike with you so you wouldn’t have to shoot them?”
“Think of it this way,” Spike said. “I wasn’t there to protect her from them. I was there to protect them from her.”
“Did you have a gun, too?”
“Yes,” Spike said. “Most people I meet are not bigger and stronger than I am. But they might have an equalizer, too.”
Sarah was drinking her coffee black and was lighting one cigarette from the butt of the other.
“Did they have guns?” she said.
“The lawyer-y guy, Lewis Karp—who was, by the way, a lawyer, nice call.”
“He had one.”
“Yes.” Spike reached into his coat pocket and held it up.
“It’s small,” she said.
“Big enough,” I said.
Sarah was silent for a time. Tears began to well.
“People
with guns,” she said. “I have people with guns in my life, and people beating me up, and all I’m trying to do is find out who I am.”
“I think you can go back to school,” I said. “I’ll drive you there, and I’ll talk with campus security. No one will bother you.”
“For how long?”
“Long enough for me to find out who you are.”
“You believe me? That those people aren’t my parents?”
“I believe that something is quite wrong in your family,” I said.
29
I called the number Karp had given me for Ike Rosen. Answering machine. I called Information. There were about seventy-five Isaac Rosens. I gave them the phone number and asked for an address. The number was unlisted. They couldn’t give me an address. I called my father.
“Can you get me the address,” I said, “if I give you the phone number?”
“Of course.”
“Wow,” I said, “even though you’re retired.”
“I’m retired, not dead,” my father said. “I’ll call you back.”
It took him five minutes. When the phone rang again, I picked it up and said, “Is this the great Phil Randall?”
“The man and the legend,” my father said. “Your man Ike Rosen lives and, I assume, works on West Ninety-second Street.”
He gave me the address.
“Same phone number?” I said.
“Yes. He’s listed as an attorney.”
“Any other phone numbers?”
“No.”
“Thanks, Daddy.”
“Captain Daddy,” my father said.
“Yes, sir.”
After I hung up, I called Rosen again. Same answering machine. I didn’t leave a message. I couldn’t think how to rephrase, “Did you arrange to have me beaten up?” Rosie was asleep on my bed, between two pillows, so all you could see were her back feet sticking out. It was almost five o’clock in the afternoon. I went and got a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator and brought it with a glass to the breakfast table. I poured some and had a sip. Everything was so quiet that I could hear my wind-up alarm clock ticking by my bed near the other end of the loft. Outside, it was raining, and I looked out my window for a time and drank my wine and watched it.
How did I know Daddy liked me best? Why wouldn’t he? His wife was a bossy nitwit. His older daughter was a snobby nitwit. He and I understood things. We knew what mattered and what didn’t. My marriage had failed. But only once. Elizabeth was on her third husband. And Daddy still loved her. And he loved my mother. In fact, the way he loved her made me think maybe love was irrational. Simply a force that happened to you, like gravity. She was so unworthy of his affection. Maybe he actually didn’t love me best. Maybe he just liked me best. And even if he did love me more than he loved my mother, what was wrong with that. I was more lovable. Why would that be such a burden. Granted, she had the advantage of sleeping with him. . . .
Melancholy Baby Page 8