Picking up stiffs for Digger was the second of Jimmy’s jobs. He called himself a first-call driver, though few in town knew what he meant, and sometimes he used the ambulance and sometimes he used Digger’s white Chevy van: sliding the stiff into a black body bag and hitting the road. Or he might get a call to take a stiff up to the state medical examiner in Providence, or the medical examiner might call him to pick up a stiff and take it to Brewster. Mostly Seymour did the driving and Jimmy paid him from the money he got from Digger.
Jimmy did other work for Digger Brantley, such as being a pallbearer, driving a hearse, opening and closing doors for grieving widows, and helping Larry out at the Burn Palace. Jimmy did this not so much because he enjoyed it or because the pay was good, but for possible advancement. Digger was in his mid-forties and had no kids. But he and his wife, Jenny, were too lovey-dovey, as far as Jimmy was concerned. As he said to Seymour, “Old people fucking, it makes me queasy, like thinking of your folks fucking. Gray flesh, know what I mean?”
Jimmy had told Digger he was looking for a more serious job and had signed up to take a class in restorative art at a two-year college in Connecticut. Digger said if Jimmy passed the class he would take him on as an embalming intern. Jimmy was twenty-three years old and not getting any younger. He wanted to move up from transporting stiffs to packing them into the ground or even the fire, if that’s what was called for.
Right now, Jimmy was telling Seymour about a woman he had helped embalm two days before. “A heart attack at forty, how do you like that? Arteries so packed with shit that Digger had to use those little needles they pump the juice into dead babies with. Digger said it was like squirting toothpaste through a syringe. You run into all kinds of dead people at funeral homes.”
Seymour didn’t respond; then he said, “You hear those coyotes last night?” He pronounced coyotes as a two-syllable word.
“When was that?”
“Shit, man, they were running all around the rig when we were parked at the hospital, yapping and clicking their teeth. I didn’t know why until I heard about the stolen baby. That’s what they were after. They wanted to get that baby and sink their teeth in it. That’s what they like. Soft stuff.”
“The fuck you say. I didn’t hear any coyotes.” Seymour fired up the giggle weed every chance he got, so Jimmy figured he’d been stoned. Most days the rig reeked of it, and Jimmy had to keep the air conditioner blowing just to avoid a severe contact high. Jimmy never smoked himself. It made him paranoid.
“You were asleep. They were here right before the cops showed up. It wasn’t a loud yapping. It was more like whispering.”
“You were stoned.”
“No, man. I might’ve been stoned, but those coyotes are always around. Every time we pick up a stiff I hear them. I mean at night. They’re hanging around looking for meat.”
It was bullshit, as far as Jimmy was concerned. Seymour hardly ever noticed anything, but when he did it was always something weird. He’d say, “Hey, d’you see that crow with a cigar in its mouth?” Not that Jimmy hadn’t seen coyotes in town, but mostly he’d seen them near Burlingame or Great Swamp. Recently, he had rounded a corner late at night and there’d been a bunch in the road. They scattered when he’d hit the gas, but not right away. They had looked at him first with their eyes red in the headlights.
“At night in Iraq there were always dogs barking,” said Seymour. “You’d be on patrol and hear them going at it. You just knew they were feeding on the bodies. Or a bomb would go off and there’d be body parts scattered all over and these dogs would be barking. They’d hear a bomb and it was like hearing the dinner bell.”
• • •
After Ernest Hartmann finished his massage, he returned to the Brewster Brew. He was waiting for a phone call and he’d might as well be there as anyplace else. He bought the Globe, got another cup of coffee and a bagel, and settled down to wait. Now that baseball season was over the Globe wasn’t as interesting. There was some trade talk and some guys were getting surgery, but that was about it. Hartmann had played high school ball in Worcester. It made him feel closer to the guys in the big leagues.
“How was the massage?” asked Jean, as she set another pumpernickel-raisin bagel before him.
Hartmann tentatively turned back and forth in his chair. “Seems to have done the trick, or pretty much. I had my doubts at first.”
“How come?”
“The guy was a little flaky. He had this medallion of a snake with its tail in its mouth. Kind of a religious thing. He asked me where we’d be without the snake in the Garden of Eden. I couldn’t quite follow it, what with the poking and prodding, but he thought we’d be worse off.”
“They seem like nice people. They come in here often, though they’re not big coffee drinkers. I had to order chai.”
“What’s that, a kind of tea?”
“A kind of sweet tea. It has spices.”
Hartmann made a face. “Most people are nice people until you scratch the surface, then you find only some of them are nice people.”
A young couple came in and Jean went to take their order, though she’d have preferred to talk about snakes with the man in the Hawaiian shirt. That’s how she recalled him to herself: the man in the Hawaiian shirt. Snakes were a big subject with clients that morning. She thought of her customers as clients—her coffee clients. In fact, she had been worried that snakes being loose would scare them off until a policeman told her there’d been only one. As for where we’d be if it weren’t for the snake in the Garden of Eden, she knew where her husband, Frankie, would be. He’d be licking his balls.
Jean was busier than usual till lunchtime. It was that baby that did it. People wanted to talk about it. They wanted to go to a public place and exchange their views. Like it seemed a sure thing the head of the hospital would be canned. Other people also. The story had been on TV, even in Boston. A girlfriend in Dorchester called to ask how she liked being at the center of the universe. “You’re really on the hot seat down there,” her friend had said, and Jean had said it wasn’t so bad.
But why steal a baby? Maybe some poor mother who’d had a miscarriage and lost her baby got her wires crossed and decided to steal one. Adoption wasn’t so easy, what with the abortion clinics. The young sluts got knocked up and had the baby scraped out. Then the pieces were sent to a laboratory for research. She’d read about it in a magazine. And somebody said there was a good market for stolen babies, especially white ones and especially boys with blue eyes. Though, if truth be told, any kid of Peggy’s wasn’t going to be college material. Even high school might be too much. One man said some people even eat babies, because they’re soft and plump. Jean had been totally disgusted, and when she spilled the man’s chai and a few drops ran into his lap it hadn’t been an accident. He’d known it, too, because he’d given her a look. But she’d looked right back. Oh, there seemed to be lots of things you could do with stolen babies, and none of it was nice.
After that, Jean stopped talking to strangers about the stolen baby, because if a person had something nasty to say they took real pleasure in saying it.
It was five minutes to twelve when the man in the Hawaiian shirt got a phone call. Jean was exact about the time because she’d just looked at her watch. Ginger Phelps showed up and stayed an hour so Jean could rush home for a bite to eat and to feed the cats. So Jean had looked at her watch to see how soon she was coming. Ginger worked half-time at the library down the street but didn’t need to be there till one o’clock.
The man’s cell phone rang and he took the call. Jean was curious about him because he wasn’t from around here and she thought he might be a reporter doing a story on the snake and stolen baby, which is why he pretended not to know anything about it. If he wrote a story for a big paper like the Globe, she hoped he’d say something nice about the Brewster Brew.
Mostly the man in the Hawaiian shirt just said, “Yeah-okay,” but then he said, and Jean was positive about this, “Why all t
he way out there?” Then he went back to saying, “Yeah-okay,” and then he said, “Why does it have to be so late?” Then there was more “Yeah-okay,” and then he said, “You should’ve told me that before. I’ll be stuck here all afternoon.” He glanced at Jean and rolled his eyes. After that he lowered his voice and said something Jean couldn’t hear. Then he hung up and Jean watched his face. First he looked worried, then he looked uncertain, and then he chewed his lower lip. When he saw Jean was still watching he said, “The wife,” which she knew was a lie. Then he took his paper and left. That was the last she saw of him.
• • •
Bobby Anderson had large square fingernails, very pale and almost lemony. He studied them speculatively as he counted to five. Across the desk in an interview room sat Carl Krause, with his hands cuffed behind him. Bobby was trying to keep himself from slapping Carl upside the head, and he was already in a little trouble about something like that.
Bobby was pissed that Carl had scared him with the shotgun. Of course, once Carl hadn’t fired, Bobby could argue with him—yell at him, was more like it. Like did Carl know the mountain of shit he’d be in if he shot a state trooper and a police chief, even an acting police chief? To say nothing of Hercel, who’d probably be hurt as well. Every cop in New England would come down on him like ten freight trains. They’d flay him alive. And if he resisted? They wouldn’t shoot to kill. These guys were top marksmen. They’d nibble him like a mouse nibbles a piece of cheese until there wouldn’t be enough left of Carl to pack into a wet sock. Bobby said all this at the top of his lungs as Carl reconsidered. And as Bobby was shouting, he’d edged his way forward until, when Carl had lowered his head to partake of a thoughtful moment, Bobby grabbed the shotgun and whapped him upside the head with it.
“You didn’t have to hit him so hard,” acting chief Bonaldo had said.
“The fuck I didn’t.” Bobby glanced at the boy and realized that Hercel agreed, which said a lot about Hercel’s relationship with his stepfather.
That was less than an hour ago, and now Carl was sitting on the other side of the desk. His stained T-shirt was torn and there was a red bruise on his cheek. For a relatively young man—his late thirties—Carl’s face was severely lined, but they weren’t age lines so much as creases that looked darker because he was unshaven, like a person might get from sleeping on his pillow wrong. Except in Carl’s case they were permanent. And he had a cold look about him. He looked like he wanted that moment when he’d decided not to kill Bobby and acting chief Bonaldo back again, because now, given the chance, he’d waste them.
The trouble was Bobby didn’t see how he could keep Carl locked up except for twenty-four hours. Sure, he’d threatened to blow their heads off, but a lawyer could argue that Carl had lowered his weapon once he learned the two men were peace officers. If he booked Carl, it would never go to court. Bobby would just be wasting people’s time. On the other hand, Carl had wanted to kill him. Bobby had had plenty of angry men, even angry women, stare at him with murder in their eyes. But Carl was different. He stared at Bobby with a smile, and Bobby knew that he believed a time would come when he’d get even.
“Why do you make your son call you Mr. Krause?”
“He’s not my son; he’s my stepson.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“It’s a matter of respect.”
“D’you beat him?”
“You better ask him about that.”
“He’s afraid of you.” Then it occurred to Bobby that Hercel wasn’t afraid for himself but for someone else, maybe his mother or sister; or maybe he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to visit his father in Oklahoma.
“No boy likes to be corrected.”
Carl talked to Bobby like he was ignorant, and Bobby didn’t like that. “Somebody broke into your basement last night and stole that snake. I don’t know what time it was. Presumably after Hercel had gone to sleep.”
“I was up on the second floor. I didn’t hear anything.”
“Who knew the snake was in the basement?”
“Half the neighborhood. It was escaping all the time.”
“Do you know Peggy Summers?”
“Not to speak to, but I know who she is. She’s a slut.”
“Why d’you say that?”
“People talk.”
“Do they say who’s father of her baby?”
“If they do, I haven’t heard it.”
“What about Alice Alessio?”
“Doesn’t ring any bells.”
“Nurse Spandex?”
“Her neither. Is that a real name, or are you trying to trick me?”
“I wouldn’t trick you, Carl.”
Bobby knew that Carl had worked for a plumber in town but had been fired. He’d also worked for a construction company and had been fired from that as well. The plumber said Carl had an attitude problem. The construction company said Carl had hit another man. And Bobby could imagine more problems before that, a whole lifetime of problems. He’d looked to see if Carl had a record, but there had only been some speeding tickets. Bobby also heard Carl could be charming, but if true then Bobby hadn’t seen it. Now Carl worked on his own as a skilled handyman, mostly on houses down at the beach during the off-season, but also for some businesses in town. He didn’t drink; given his temper, it was just as well.
Carl repositioned himself in his chair. The handcuffs probably hurt—Bobby had put them on tight—but he didn’t complain. “You going to lock me up or let me go?”
Bobby figured Carl already knew the answer. He didn’t like Carl’s little smile, his smugness, like he knew a secret that Bobby could never guess. As sometimes happened, he wondered if Carl would act the same way if Bobby weren’t a black man. It wasn’t something he actually thought, but it wandered through his brain. He hated having it there.
“So tell me, Carl, where’d you go last night?”
“I didn’t go anywhere; I was home the whole time.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Ask my wife.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Year ’n a half, about. What’s that have to do with anything?”
“You’re practically newlyweds. That’s surprising, seeing your wife made you sleep upstairs.”
“Who told you that?”
There was a tightening around Carl’s eyes. He was furious, but he wouldn’t show it; he wouldn’t show anything. Bobby didn’t answer the question, and Carl didn’t ask again. He knew perfectly well who had told him. This worried Bobby. He liked Hercel and didn’t want him hurt. For that matter, even if he’d disliked the boy, he wouldn’t want him hurt.
“Where’re you from originally, Carl?”
“What business is it of yours?”
“Just tell me.”
“Oswego, north of Syracuse.”
“I know Oswego,” said Bobby. “Why’d you leave?”
“I got the itch.”
“You got family there?”
“Nope.”
“Your parents alive?”
“Nope. You going to write my biography or something?”
Bobby mildly hoped Carl might explode so he could yell like he’d yelled in the basement. But Carl wasn’t playing. He was keeping the door shut on himself. Still, Bobby meant to contact the authorities in Oswego. He would be surprised if someone like Carl had gotten this far in life without leaving serious traces behind, like serious violence.
“Okay, Carl, I’ll let you go. You want a ride back to your house?”
“I’ll walk.”
“I’d be glad to take you.”
“I said I’ll walk.”
Bobby went behind him to unlock the handcuffs. As he freed him, there was a second when he thought Carl might grab him. Bobby stepped back a foot, but then stopped. Jesus, I’m getting paranoid. But he couldn’t convince himself that he had been wrong.
Carl got to his feet and rubbed his wrists. He still had his smile, but it was larger.
Bobby’s desire to hit the man made him almost laugh. Here he had tried to get Carl to lose his temper and he was nearly losing his own.
“Okay, Carl, but I’m not convinced I should let you go. I’ll be keeping my eye on you, so don’t do anything foolish.” Bobby wanted to warn Carl not to take anything out on his stepkids and not to take anything out on his wife. But there had been no complaints about child abuse, no domestic disturbance calls, so Bobby didn’t mention it. In any case, Carl was almost out the door by the time Bobby finished his sentence.
• • •
Acting chief Bonaldo had a son—actually he had five children, two girls and three boys—but it’s the youngest who concerns us here. He was ten years old and named after his great-grandfather, who had come to Brewster from the village of Bonaldo in northeastern Italy: sun-baked, pancake-flat agricultural land just south of the Dolomites. The great-grandfather’s name was Baldassare Bonaldo, and this was the name that Fred wanted to honor. But because he had the sense not to burden a baby with a name like Baldassare, he was baptized with his great-grandfather’s nickname: Baldo. Baldo Bonaldo.
Baldo resembled his father, rotund and plodding, with a similar red-faced, swollen look, though he was more than a foot shorter, didn’t wear glasses, and had all his hair. He loved his father and at times he was proud that he appeared as a smaller version of the acting chief, but at other times he saw it as an unpleasant destiny. If Baldo ever wanted to know what he would look like at forty-five, the answer was right in front of him, waving his hands in time to his arguments, complaints, and desires. The father was a gesticulator; the son was a gesticulator.
Baldo was an intelligent kid but shy and uncomfortable with his shape. His two older brothers were athletic and fit, but Fred Bonaldo had never been athletic and fit, and Baldo knew he was destined to follow that path—a lifetime of dieting and bingeing. But he wasn’t gloomy; he had inherited his mother’s sense of humor. Unluckily, his liveliness led to a love of practical jokes, and these led to trouble. He liked to save his money and order from catalogs, although he might regret the consequences. The detonations from the remote-controlled fart machine had seriously angered members of his fifth-grade class, and the fart spray had been worse, while the farting doorbell had led his father to chase him down the street. These setbacks failed to slow him. There was the pull-my-finger Santa and the green plastic monster that leapt out when you raised the toilet seat. The talking dog collar, the giant radio-controlled ant, the animated striking snake, and the 3-D striped bass that appeared to be smashing through your windshield—this, for Baldo, was what life was all about, and it gained for him a certain caution on the part of others. A little itch powder down the pants of the fifth-grade bully Butchy Dunn had made Butchy furious, but the innocent-looking red lollipop that caused him to fart uncontrollably inspired real fear. The difficulty, as with most shy people, was Baldo wanted to be liked, but given his passion for practical jokes he was a difficult kid to hang out with. It took courage.
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