Some small part of him fought against this. It seemed wrong. It all seemed wrong. Better to just go to Trimalchio and admit what he did, get booted, go back to Yonkers, go to a regular school without all these rich kids, and work hard.
But all he could see was his brother. Stephen. The words forming in his mind. How you gonna make your big bro proud?
“What the hell is it all about?” Jim asked, calming only slightly.
“I can’t tell you anything else. I’d be in trouble for telling you what I just told you. But I trust you. We’re friends, right?”
“Who’s in the Corpses?”
“I can’t tell you. I don’t even know everybody.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“Look, we’re told where and when. We get there, it’s dark. I mean, I’ve seen a couple guys. But not all seven of them.”
“Seven?”
“Yeah. There can only be seven. There are six right now. You’ll complete the group.”
“How did—were you part of finding out about my mom? Did you go—go through her things?”
“No. And that’s enough. Friends or not, if you ask me anything else, so help me God, Hook, I will tell them to back off and you will be thrown out on your ass in an Honor Trial.”
“All right. I need your help then.”
“Okay.”
“I need to get to the city. I need to find out about the woman. Ivy Martin.”
“Part of the rules, Hook: I can’t help you. Not one bit. This is your test, not mine.”
“I don’t have even a way to get down there.”
“Sorry.”
“Thanks,” Jim spat. “Some friend you are.”
“You want to know what kind of friend I am, Jim? I’ll tell you. I’m the kind that did not want you to get kicked out on your ass for some stupid interpretation of this honor code because Kelleher has it out for you—which he does—or because assholes like Hugh Carrington, who cheats half the time himself, noticed that you looked at my paper a couple of times. But the biggest problem here, Hook, is that you did look at my paper. Didn’t you? You did. You broke the code. And you can either fall for it or you can get around it. Don’t be stupid. Not now. Seriously, man. I’ve known you long enough to know what you want more than anything, and it ain’t getting kicked out of here on your ass and going back to Yonkers.” He emphasized Yonkers like it was another word for shit. “Nothin’ wrong with Yonkers.”
“Whatever.”
“Go to hell,” Jim said, flipping the bird as he stomped off.
Trey Fricker called after him, “And don’t go blabbing this to anyone, Hook, I mean it. You talk about this—we even suspect you talk—and it’s over for you!”
“All right. I’ve thought about it,” Jim said. It was after supper, and he’d caught up with Fricker out on the track. Trey Fricker had on his gym shorts and a T-shirt, and Jim wore his sweats. They jogged side by side for a while in silence.
“It’s serious shit,” Fricker said as he ran. “Don’t let us down.”
“What about that finger?”
“Don’t ask me anything.” Fricker pumped his arms up and down with his breathing. “I told you not to. Don’t break the rules here.”
“All right,” Jim huffed, having to run a little faster to keep up. “All right.”
They jogged another lap, Fricker getting several feet ahead. Then, coming around the curve of the track, Jim caught up again.
“I just need to find out about this Blue Glass place and Ivy Martin, right?”
Fricker said nothing.
“And something she’s got.”
“Stolen. Your brother stole it. She has it. Get it.” Fricker took off at a sprint, and Jim slowed to a walk.
Darkness surrounded the track, which was lit bright as day.
Afterward, they both sat in the bleachers while Fricker lit up a cig. They didn’t say anything, and Jim wasn’t feeling anything other than sleepy.
He was going to give in.
The questions in his head were too much.
He wanted to know who the hell Ivy Martin was, and if she was his father’s whore, why his father and Stephen had both gone down to New York City that night, and why they both ended up dead.
tang that coughed black smoke as it came up the road. He stepped out of the hedge as soon as he saw it, and waved. Jenny was driving, her face red from the wind, and her smile infectious. Lark sat next to her.
Lark opened her door and Jim managed to scootch in back.
“We gotta get gas,” Jenny said. “Who’s chipping in?
Jim was reluctant to say anything. He passed a five-dollar bill up front.
“Oh, save that, Jim,” Lark said, and reached into her purse and brought out a twenty. “Here ya go.”
“I can pay five bucks,” Jim insisted, passing the bill up to the front seat.
Lark leaned back. “No kiss?”
He leaned forward and they shared a brief kiss.
“Hubba hubba,” Jenny said. “Okay, where’s the friggin’ Shell station in this town?”
“There’s a Mobil two blocks up, just before the highway,” Jim said.
“I’m using Daddy’s Shell card.”
“Then why are we paying? Jenny, you sneak,” Lark said.
“Pocket change for me. Now, Jim, what’s so bleeding important that your main squeeze and me had to get up here so fast?” Jenny took the curve onto Main Street like she was driving for the Indy 500; black smoke came out of the back of the Mustang.
“It’s kind of private,” Jim replied.
“Woo.” Jenny glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “Okay.”
Lark brought her hand around to his knee. He took her hand in his.
“And where’s this bitch?” Jenny said, giggling.
“Jenny!” Lark laughed, and then said, “The puppy, Jim. We figured we’d swing by and pick it up.”
Within twenty minutes, they were on the road out of town, gassed up, and Jim held the yellow lab puppy in his lap. Its right paw was swathed in a stinky bandage. It looked up at Jim like it was looking for its mother’s nipple. “I think it’s farting. Phew. What if it pees?”
“Puppy pee doesn’t count,” Jenny said, laughing so hard she started snorting. “If it starts whining, I’ll pull over and we’ll let her do her business. So, we go all the way down to the Westside Highway, right? And then what?”
“I need to find a place called the Blue Glass something. It’s a bar or something I think.”
Jenny quickly glanced at Lark, and Lark did a double take. They both guffawed at the same time.
“It’s a coffeehouse, Jim.”
“Yeah, we used to go there—back when someone we all know was seeing someone else we all used to know,” Jenny added. She glanced at Jim in the mirror and pumped her eyebrows like Groucho Marx. “Well, I’m up for a good caffeine buzz tonight.”
“Oh. I thought it would be something . . .” Jim began. “Some kind of bad place.”
“Bad coffee sometimes!” Jenny practically belched a laugh.
“Pass me the puppy,” Lark said. “I want to cuddle her.”
He passed the whimpering dog to the front seat, where it took up half of Lark’s lap.
“This is the cutest puppy I’ve ever seen.” Lark brought the ball of fur and drool up to her face and kissed it all over its ears and neck; the puppy, in turn, began licking her nose.
“Griselda,” Jenny said.
“Griselda?”
“The name. Or Marti. That’s a good name for a bitch.”
“I don’t think we should name it if we have to
give it up,” Jim said.
“Why not keep it?” Jenny said, rolling her window down and letting the nearly icy air brush through the car briefly before sending the
window back up. “You could take it home this weekend.”
“I don’t want to go home this weekend,” Lark said.
“Well, Jim, what about you? You could ta
ke it home. Does your dad want a dog?”
“Jen.”
“My father’s dead,” Jim said, glancing out the window at the dark interrupted by brief lights off the road, through the windswept trees.
“Oops. Sorry. Me and my big mouth.” Jenny gave Lark a look that must’ve meant You never tell me anything.
“My mom’s allergic to most animals, anyway,” Jim said, an afterthought.
Silence ruled the car then, until Jenny reached across and popped open the glove compartment. “Pass me that CD, the one on top,” she motioned to Lark.
Lark opened the CD case, and handed the disc to Jenny. Seconds later, Alanis Morissette was singing, and the volume was pumped up, and the puppy began barking.
Jenny was a bit of a freak for speed, and it surprised Jim how quickly they were on the Westside Highway almost into the city, doing a lot of offensive driving past and between the slower-moving vehicles. He checked his seat belt two or three times to make sure it would hold, and every now and then he saw some angry motorist near them give Jenny the finger as she maneuvered the Mustang between lanes.
Rain began drizzling; the windshield wipers screeched at first as they started their metronome beat; the CD had finished playing; and Lark said, suddenly, “Jen, next light, next light— take it. We can take it to Ninth and then turn back to get there.”
As Jenny brought the car to a screeching halt at the light, she said, “Tell me again, Jim. Who are ya looking for at the Blue Glass?”
“My dad’s whore,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Blue Glass was crushed between two large shops—one a costume shop, its windows packed with masks of goblins and witches for Halloween; the other, a sex shop, with whips and whipped cream and porn magazines in its display.
The coffee house had a narrow doorway; above it, a large round blue glass globe in a net. When Jim, carrying the pup, whom they were now calling Alanis, stepped inside, the smell of incense mixed with tobacco was overpowering, and even the dog coughed at first. They walked down the steps to the sunken room; several round tables were spread across a narrow room that seemed to stretch deep into the building that housed it. Along the back wall, a bar where the coffee and pastries were served; and a stage so small it was barely more than another table.
Sitting on the table, a magician doing some kind of card trick for a small group of less-than-interesteds who were downing espresso and iced coffees like there was not caffeine enough in the world to satisfy them.
Jim had just about enough cash to cover this. “Two cappuccinos.”
“Coming right up.”
“This the only Blue Glass in the city?”
The man behind the counter nodded. “Far as we can tell.”
Jim didn’t hesitate. “I’m looking for someone named Ivy. Ivy Martin.”
The man nodded. “Sure. She’s upstairs.”
“Upstairs?”
“I only manage here. Miss Martin owns the place. Does she know you?” The man reached for the phone beneath the counter, bringing it up. “I’ll ring her up if you like.”
“I think . . . she and my dad were friends. The name’s Hook.”
“Hook,” the man said and then dialed a number and whispered into the phone. Then he handed Jim a key.
Jim brought the large cups brimming with white foam to the table. Lark was still cooing over the puppy.
“I don’t get it,” Jenny said, grabbing her cup as if it contained holy water. She took a big sip and ended up with a white mustache on her upper lip. “What’s the big mystery we’re too stupid to be told about?”
“It’s nothing,” Jim said. “Honest. I just need to check something out. The woman who owns this place knew my dad.”
“Yeah, his whore. Right. So, what, you’re going to confront her or something?” Jenny asked.
“I guess I just need to know for sure,” Jim said.
“Use me for my wheels, will you?” Jen said, half joking.
“I’m sorry,” Jim said.
“Go do what you need to do, Jim,” Lark said. “We’ll wait here.”
Jim had to go around the back of the building, down a narrow alleyway, to get to the door. He used the key the guy at the counter had given him, unlocked the door, and saw a long rickety staircase up.
Trash lined the stairs; the banister was wobbly; each time he took a step he heard a massive creak and was sure that at any moment, he would plunge through the cheap, ancient wood. But he made it up to the single apartment on the landing.
He pressed the buzzer. Waited. Pressed it again.
The door opened slightly.
“You’re his brother?” the woman said. “Of course you are. You look just like him. It’s like . . . it’s like seeing him again.” A smile lit up her face, and she opened the door wider to let him in.
The inside of the apartment was nothing like the stairs up to it. It was a huge loft space with a spiral staircase up to a small room above, and what looked like a full kitchen in another room. The furnishings were old and quite beautiful; some kind of Japanese lantern hung in the middle of the room, a great white light; and the room itself seemed to emanate warmth and coziness. Jim glanced around at the overstuffed chairs and the great peacock pattern wall hanging, and the windows that looked out over all the buildings until the Hudson River came into view.
It was not quite the whorehouse he had expected.
And she was not what he had expected, either.
Ivy Martin was in her mid-twenties, and looked sleek and refined. Her golden hair was pulled back away from a face that could have adorned a Calvin Klein ad—she was a thoroughbred of a woman, bringing with it all the notions of horses and beauty and money. She was not some whore, he could tell that right off—or if she was, she was one of the most successful whores in all of Christendom, as Fricker would say.
“We finally meet,” she said, extending her hand; she had a firm handshake. Something in her manner seemed overeager; her eyes sparkled as if she had just discovered something new and exciting. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee? A Coke?”
“Sure. Coke. Thanks.”
“Have a seat,” she said, and finally he detected some degree of nervousness in her voice. She had a funny gait as she walked—as if she were disguising a slight limp. She was one of the most sophisticated and beautiful women he had ever seen. She almost reminded him of that picture in a book he’d seen the other day. Isis Something. Isis with her calamitous beauty. Ivy had that, too. She was calamitous in her beauty.
He sat down on a large sofa that seemed decadent with its enormous cushions and large back—it farted when he sat down on it, and he made the noise twice more to reassure himself that it was the sofa and not him. She came back in with two glasses of soda, and set them down on the coffee table in front of him. Then she took the spindly chair across from him.
“I assume you’ve come about your brother.”
“I guess. I guess I’m not sure why I came.”
“Well, I always heard about you. Are you all right? You look a little pale.”
“I’m always pale,” Jim said, and then she laughed slightly. It was an adorable laugh.
Christ, what was he going to say to her? He glanced around the walls—paintings of what he imagined were European gardens and lakes hung haphazardly as if she had just liked one or the other of them, and put them up as she bought them. Three doors near the kitchen— other rooms. And of course he knew: She wasn’t anyone’s whore. She wasn’t anything to stick a label on.
She was Ivy Martin, and the Corpses didn’t know everything. They didn’t really know what had gone on here with this woman and his father and his brother. They knew a little bit, and they made the rest up.
They were liars.
Why was he here at all?
He couldn’t fathom it. “So, you know they’re dead?”
The smile faded from Ivy Martin’s face. “Of course I do.” And then she added, an afterthought, “I was with th
em that night.”
Jim held his breath for a few moments. He felt the room spinning.
“I want to know everything,” he said.
And she told him.
“Your brother and I met at a party at Vassar. He was pretending to be a freshman at Harvard, and I was just pretending to be happy at a party which was less than fun. I was a senior then. We drove out of Poughkeepsie and spent the whole night talking and laughing, and then I knew that I was in love so that—even though he had to confess he was a senior in high school—it didn’t really bother me, and we began seeing each other,” she said, taking a sip of her soda, leaning back against the creaking chair. “It was only when he proposed that your father got involved.”
“You and Stephen?”
“What did you think?”
“I guess what I think doesn’t matter.”
“Well, it was a whirlwind, but love can go that way, and maybe it was going to be the dumbest decision either of us had ever made. We set a date, he got me a beautiful ring, and then your father was having none of it. Your father tried to buy me off, which was pretty disgusting. I have always worked my way through things and have never let anyone buy me. All right, you may think I have lots of money—I went to an expensive school, I have this nice place, and yes, I’m successful at what I do, successful enough to have bought the little coffeehouse downstairs—but I work long hours and apply everything I have to my work, so it’s not like I’ve been handed things. I only bought the Blue Glass because of Stephen. It was our favorite place.”
“I don’t understand. You and Stephen?”
“We dated for a year, but we just couldn’t wait. Something was going on between Stephen and your—well, it’s old history. It’s not important. Your father was, I’m sure, a good man. He just didn’t want his son to marry this soon and throw away the future. He was probably right, but there was something special about Stephen. Something—as if he—”
Harrow: Three Novels (Nightmare House, Mischief, The Infinite) Page 28