Fifteen minutes of hard work in a toilet stall produced a record-breaking bowel movement and, more to the point, a Florida script subject to modification on the fly. By Denny’s reckoning, the foggy drive back to Montpelier could take up to two hours. A person could make a lot of mistakes in two hours.
He spotted the taxi curb as soon as he stepped out of the terminal and crossed over to it. A short siren whoop helped him find the unmarked car. Nick was grinning behind the wheel, a cell phone pressed to one ear. Lance, dependably stoic, stared straight ahead.
“No, no, no,” Nick said into the phone as Denny settled into the back seat. “We move Earl to first. He never blocked the plate to my satisfaction anyway. Homer—hell, he plants himself there. He’s a rock. He’s a damn Sphinx. Remember the Thrush Tavern game? Harris is still unconscious. . . . Wait, he just got in the car. I’ll put him on.”
Denny almost took the cell phone that Nick extended over the seat to him, but instead he leaned forward to speak into it, hoping the awkwardness would make for a short exchange. Nick accommodated him by adjusting his grip on the phone.
“And you are?” Denny said into the unknown.
“Hey, big guy.”
“Hey yourself.”
“This is too much.”
“You got that right.”
“So what’s up?”
“Not much. You?”
“Same ol’. Good to hear your voice.”
“Back at ya’.”
A silence fell. It felt richer in content than anything that had been said so far.
Denny said, “So when’s the first game?”
Nick laughed and repossessed the phone. “What’d I tell you? Ain’t he a gamer?”
Lance jerked to attention and pointed straight ahead through the windshield. “Check it out,” he said to Nick.
“Gotta go, buddy.” Nick flipped the phone shut. The man Lance had indicated stood beyond the line of taxis in the shuttle bus zone, a briefcase on the sidewalk at his side. His arms were folded across his broad chest and he rocked back and forth on his feet as he waited. “That guy?” Nick said.
“He’s got the body and the coat both.” Lance charged out of the car with such force that two cabbies huddling nearby, smoking cigarettes, startled and jumped aside. He bee-lined for the man, a burly fellow wearing a long dark overcoat like the one Denny owned—and had luckily packed in his checked suitcase. The coat must have figured in the description of him. Lance demanded and examined the man’s ID, and then his shoulders seemed to slump. The two men fell into a sort of chat, concluding with a handshake that suggested a happy conclusion—an impression immediately undone by the scowl on Lance’s face when he returned to the car.
Nick watched him climb in. “No good?”
“Fuck it.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Just go,” Lance said, pointing forward.
Nick shifted into gear. “Who was it?”
Lance hesitated. “The lieutenant governor.”
Nick peered at the man. “So it is.” He chuckled. “Not much of an entourage. The governor gets a trooper for a chauffeur. I guess the l.g. gets shit.”
“Let’s go,” said Lance.
Nick pulled away from the curb. He gave the lieutenant governor a little siren whoop as they passed, producing a smile and a wave from the big man. Denny waved, too. Lance stared straight ahead.
Denny celebrated his success so far—although “far” was a stretch since they had just left the curb—by opening the one-pound bag of M&M peanuts he had bought between his stop at the bathroom and his exit from the terminal. The rustle of the bag made Lance turn around to assess the scene. Nick glanced over in time to see Denny offer Lance a handful and to see his distinctly judgmental headshake.
“Lance isn’t exactly a foodie,” Nick said. “Give us a typical day’s menu, will you, Lance?”
Denny expected nothing, or at most a grunt, but Lance complied. “In the morning, tomato juice for long-range prostate prophylaxis, grapefruit, and tea. No lunch. I never understood lunch—who needs it? Dinner is some lean beef with onions, a few peas.”
Nick laughed. “A cornucopia!”
“If I have a salad, vinegar and oil only. Light on the oil.”
“Never a creamy dressing?” said Nick.
“That’s a salad sundae. Do you want a salad or do you want a sundae?”
“When you gonna have me over for dinner, Lance? But remind me to eat first.” Nick glanced over his shoulder and gave Denny an eyebrow dance. “Isn’t he a pistol?” He looked at Lance. “Tell Homer your Golden Rule.”
Lance stared straight ahead.
“Come on. Tell him.”
“I’m not a performing monkey.”
“Sure you are. Come on.” Nick kept throwing looks at Lance. “Okay, I’ll tell him. It’s—”
“‘Be like me,’” Lance said quickly. “That’s it.”
Nick looked in the mirror at Denny. “He’s a loaded weapon, ain’t he?”
Denny crunched on his M&M peanuts, happy to be on the fringe of the conversation.
“Laugh all you want,” said Lance, “but listen to this. I was looking at my mom’s high school yearbook last night—”
“Now we’re talkin’ fun,” Nick said. “Too much fun, really.”
“I saw almost no fat. Just two overweight kids in her graduating class. Almost everybody was just like me.”
“Utopia!”
“You look at a yearbook now,” Lance said, “and the kids barely fit on the page.” He half-turned. “How about you, Homer? Were you fat as a kid?”
“Hey,” Nick said. “Hey.”
“I suppose I was,” Denny said agreeably. “But I’ve never really thought of myself as fat.”
Lance hooked an elbow over his seat and scoped out Denny’s bulk. “Even now?”
Denny shrugged and juggled a pair of M&M peanuts in his hand like dice. “I’m comfortable. Why should I worry about it? It’s not like I have to outrun wild animals to survive. All I have to do is manage the drive-through at Burger King.” He popped the M&Ms into his mouth. He had actually spoken with more complacency than he felt. Lance brought it out in him—the urge to say the thing that would most irritate him. Maybe next he would lift up his shirt and invite Lance to squeeze his flesh.
Lance turned back around and faced forward. Nick had stopped at a red light, and he looked at Denny in the mirror. “What about all those diets, Homer?”
“Those were for Sarah.”
“Really? I thought she never minded your weight.”
Denny sighed heavily, meaningfully. “So she said.”
Nick gave him a final look in the mirror, then pulled forward as the light turned green. Denny had successfully steered them back into don’t-pry territory.
A few minutes later, Nick merged onto I-89. “So you gonna open up the shop now that you’re back?”
Denny saw himself as a cheerful merchant behind a store counter. He extended a bag to an elderly lady. It contained her purchase. But what was in it? “I’m not sure,” he said.
“Really?” Nick sounded surprised. “How come?”
Denny looked out the window. The fog pressed hard on the snow cover. “The winter commute’s a drag.”
Nick laughed.
“And it depends on Sarah,” Denny added, jumping back into the arms of that conversation stopper.
Nick nodded.
“Who’s Sarah?” Lance’s question, doubtless borne of sheer irritation at repeatedly hearing her name, went to Nick. Denny leaned forward.
“She’s a key player in the local music scene. Runs a big summer festival at Homer’s place. A dynamo. Not to mention that she’s Homer’s main squeeze—at least when someone else isn’t trying to put the moves on her.”
Lance grunted.
Denny’s loins stirred.
“Homer,” said Nick, “I’m not sure if this is something you want to talk about, but you sure dropped off the face of the e
arth. It was a hell of a shock. There’s prolly not a single person in town who knows why you went south.”
“Aunt Betsy knows.”
“Oh? Well, that’s one then.”
Denny waited for a few seconds. It was important that he seem reluctant to talk before revealing anything. That would give authenticity to other instances of reluctance up to and including complete silence. He needed to cultivate an air of mystery that never suggested obfuscation. “I had a tumor.”
“A tumor?”
“On my larynx. I’d heard good things about a surgeon in Palm Springs. He and his team did a lot of work all over my voice box. For a while the prospects weren’t so good. I needed a lot of time to myself.”
“Jesus. Is it better now? What’s the prognosis?”
“I expect a full recovery.”
“That’s great, man.” Nick seemed a little shaken, and Denny figured the news would shut him up for a while. Dynamo. Main squeeze. He had never had it as easy as this. It would be like having a mail-order bride. He would just slip between the sheets in Homer’s place. His goal on entering the car had been to survive. Clearly he had set the bar too low. He was on the verge of scoring!
“Palm Springs is in California,” Lance said stonily.
Denny lost only a moment to panic. “Is that what I said? I meant Palm Beach.”
Nick looked at Denny in the mirror. “You know Edgar’s number, Homer?”
“No.” Edgar?
“I want to tell him we’re coming. He’s been keeping an eye on your place since the break-in, right?”
“Right.” Break-in? Break-in?
“Lance, look it up, will you? Edgar Grund. Horn of the Moon Road. You remember him.”
Lance began to fiddle with a computer attached to the dashboard.
Nick looked in the mirror again. “I was thinking of taking you to Betsy’s, but since your place is empty, we might as well drop you off there. Right?”
“Sounds good. Edgar can scoot over and turn the thermostat up.”
“Well, I’m not sure how much scooting his wheelchair can do in the snow, but Rose can take care of it. Did Edgar tell you we worked that case? Chip was pretty freaked. He stumbled onto the burglar downstairs, you know.”
“Yeah,” said Denny. “It freaked me out and I was a thousand miles away.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll nail him. Lance’ll track him down.” Nick looked at his partner, who had lost himself in the computer screen. He looked in the mirror at Denny. “You know, Homer, this surgery—I wasn’t gonna say anything, but your voice sounds a little different to me. Is that a side effect or something?”
“Yes, that can happen. But the doctor assured me it wouldn’t in my case.”
“Oh? Maybe I’m wrong.”
Denny leaned forward, to all appearances the picture of agitation. “How does it seem different to you?”
“Maybe it doesn’t. I don’t know.”
“But you noticed something.”
“I could be wrong. I haven’t talked to you in a long time, I guess.”
Denny slowly leaned back and pretended to brood. He was on such a roll that he felt confident toying with elements of his biography that he himself had planted. My voice different? Impossible! Also, fragments of the 1000-piece puzzle of Homer’s life were coming together nicely. “Chip,” who “freaked,” was evidently Homer’s tenant—Betsy had mentioned that Homer had rented his house—but the tenant was now gone, probably because of the “break-in,” which Denny would have to learn more about, maybe from neighbors “Edgar” and “Rose.” But damn that wheelchair.
And there was another problem. If Edgar and Rose had been keeping an eye on the place, they were probably in touch with the real Homer, who might very well contact them from Florida even as the fake Homer installed himself next door. Denny would have to head that off somehow. And it should have occurred to him that Nick had considered taking him to Betsy’s. Denny needed to steer clear of her. As soon as she heard his voice, he would be unmasked as Denny the Marge-throwing hot-tubber, not Homer the troubled nephew.
It was bumper cars, that’s what it was. Sure, sometimes he got stuck, but then he would bump free and build up speed until he was in position for a good blast. And the electricity of it! For the first time in his life, he felt challenged to a degree that matched his brainpower. He needed precisely something like this. He had needed it all along without knowing it. Ordinary life wasn’t enough for him. He needed life plus something else.
Lance took a cell phone from a compartment on the dash, punched a phone number into it, and handed it to Nick, who gave him a loving smile and said in a cartoonish voice, “What a good little partner you are.” On the phone, he evidently got a machine. “Hey, Edgar, Rose. Nick here. I’ve got Homer in the car with me. Yup, he’s back, and I’m gonna drop him off at his place. I just wanted to let you know so Rose don’t come after us with her twelve-gauge.” He flipped the phone shut and looked in the mirror. “Want some tunes, Homer?”
“You bet.”
“Stan’s still at WDEV. I think he’s on right now.” Nick punched a radio button. Willie Nelson was singing “Blue Skies.” “That’s Stan, all right. Ironic programming. You get it, Lance? ‘Blue Skies’ in this soup. You catch the irony?”
Lance, working on the computer keyboard, ignored him.
“What the hell you doing? Downloading porn? Hey, Homer, I should call Stan at the station. He can announce that you’re back. What do you think?”
“I’d like to low-key it, Nick.”
“Oh.” Nick reined himself in. “Gotcha.” He looked at the computer screen, which was jumping with displays in response to Lance’s keystrokes. “What’s up?”
“I’m looking for the State Police Report from yesterday. I want to stop at the scene.”
“Really? Kind of nasty outside.”
Lance turned on him. “You solve a crime by looking at everything. Everything.” He spoke with gritted, exposed teeth.
Nick seemed a little taken aback. He called out to Denny, “He’s a caution!” But this time the tone was weaker, the playfulness a little desperate, as if Lance had exposed him as a slacker. He drove in silence for a while, then said, “The fog must be from all the snow melt.”
“That’s a common misconception,” Lance said.
Nick muttered something.
“There.” Lance pointed at the computer screen. “I’ve got it. Just this side of the Middlesex exit, where the ledge sticks up in the median.”
“Right,” said Nick.
Denny, deep in enjoyment of his M&Ms, Willie Nelson, and conjured images of Sarah, was only half-listening. It wasn’t until some time later, when the car slowed to a stop on the left shoulder near a tall axe head of rock, that he realized it was his accident scene that Lance had referred to. Lance asked Nick to pop the trunk and got out of the car. Nick told Denny they would be just a minute.
“I think I’ll stretch my legs,” said Denny. He joined Nick behind the car at the open trunk, where Nick pulled on a pair of winter boots. Lance was already sliding down the hill. A shaft of sunlight shot through a sudden break in the fog.
“Hey.” Nick looked up. “Blue skies after all.”
“What happened here?” Denny asked.
“A guy ran off the road from the other side—the same guy we were looking for at the airport.” Nick slammed the trunk lid. “Do you know Marge Plongeur? Works in the Department of Education?”
“I’m not sure,” said Denny.
“They hooked up last night at the Ethan Allen, and she’s disappeared. It’s not clear what happened between them. And we’re sure not gonna find out here.” Nick headed down the hill, then looked back when he realized Denny was following. “Your shoes are gonna get wet.”
“I’ll step in your tracks. So this guy you’re looking for, do you think he did something to Marge?”
“Dunno.”
“Did you talk to Aunt Betsy about him?”
Nick laug
hed softly. “Yeah.” He said no more and hurried on down the hill. Denny followed, wondering about the laugh.
Lance stood at the indentation where Denny’s car had come to a stop at the base of the rock. An oil stain darkened the snow at his feet. Lance looked up to the westbound highway, then back to the ground in front of him, then back up, as if imagining Denny’s slide. He frowned and walked to a low rock in the middle of the slide path and studied the terrain from there. He came back to Nick and Denny. He pointed both index fingers up at the road shoulder.
“Creep skids off the road, going like gangbusters. He slides.” Lance’s two fingers tracked the slide. “He’s going sideways, and he hits that low bit of ledge broadside. This rolls him twice, maybe three times.” He stared hard at the ground. “You’ve got to imagine it. Imagination will take you to the truth.”
Nick, just out of Lance’s view, signaled Denny with a slow, mid-air stroke of bored masturbation.
“You know what I like, Nick?” said Lance, suddenly turning on him. “I like it when the bad guy dies. It’s so clean then. It’s all over. No depositions. No trial. No sentencing. No appeal. No parole. No repeat of the offense. Aren’t you always glad when they turn up dead?”
Nick made a face. He wasn’t going to answer that one.
Lance gestured to the highway and swept an arm down the hill. “He came close to dying. Imagine what it did to him—what kind of state it put him in.” Lance made short punches of his fist as he talked. “He’s all charged up. He’s got a second life. He climbs out of the grave and thinks he’s special now. He’s ready to take on the world.” Lance laughed—a single, sharp bark. “How else could a creep like that think he would have a chance with Marge? She’s not a bad-lookin’ gal, judging from her picture, and from all reports he’s a pig. With his new power, he gets Marge into his room. But then the magic wears off. Maybe she tells him he’s not so special after all. Then . . .”
“Then we don’t know about,” said Nick.
“I do.” Lance shot a spurt of air through his nose. “I know this guy through and through. He’s the kind of creep that makes you squirm. Walt up in Plainfield—he likes everybody, the original Mr. Nice Guy—he told me the creep made him queasy all the way from here to the Ethan Allen. His dad, too. It was a physical thing, like he gave off a chemical or something. I’ve had experience with people like that. He’s what’s known as a ‘repellent personality.’”
From Away Page 5