by Chris Knopf
I pulled the automatic out of the bushes, found the release and dumped out the clip. I put the gun in the big inside pocket of my jean jacket and the clip in my pants pocket.
Then I went inside to call Joe Sullivan.
NINE
THE WEEKS AFTER leaving Abby and my job have always been a bit of a blur. Mainly because I was drinking a lot and disregarding common conventions like mealtime and Monday Night Football. I stayed in my room at the hotel, or drove my car, the company car I was supposed to return, around western Connecticut and up into the Berkshires and southern Vermont. Not because I wanted to visit those places, they were just where the roads I knew tended to go. I daydreamed a lot while I drove, and tried to remember moments in my past that weren’t freighted with impossibly painful associations.
I kept clear of thinking about the immediate past. I pretended I didn’t have one, as if I’d awakened from a five-year coma, slightly brain damaged. Not a hard act to sustain, given my condition at the time.
My hotel was off the Merritt Parkway not far from the house in Stamford. It was the kind frequented by middle and upper level executives passing through the economic distortion field of Fairfield County. Big comfortable double beds, disinterested employees and a vapid overpriced bar and restaurant filled with forced theme entertainment and lonely distracted guys trying to look comfortable in conformist casual clothes. A dozen or so TVs disturbed the utter silence and saved the tired blond woman working the bar from having to indulge people from other parts of the country in desultory conversation.
I’d left all my belongings at the house in Stamford so I had to go into town to provision. I’d never been to a store in the middle of a working day to buy a can of shaving cream. I felt impossibly alien walking down the crammed retail aisles surrounded by stay-at-home mothers and retired guys in Jeff caps and polyester stretch pants. The woman behind the checkout counter wore a red smock uniform and a distant, disorganized expression. I bought enough shaving cream to keep me out of places like that for at least as long as I thought I’d survive.
I bought a few pairs of jeans and some T-shirts, but held on to the suit, thinking I might need it some day. Abby had paid a lot of money for it at Brooks Brothers. It was a Christmas gift one year. I remember it fit perfectly and that she was disappointed when I didn’t fuss over the label. I wondered why just liking the suit for its fine intrinsic qualities wasn’t enough.
I used to watch television when there was a game on, but now avoided it completely. I lay on the bed in the quiet of the room and drank Jack Daniels until I fell asleep. I paid my bill a month in advance, so everyone left me alone.
Two weeks into that month a private investigator showed up with a letter from Barry Mildrew in Mason Thigpen’s office. It was my copy of the signed agreement. Also a letter outlining my severance package, if I agreed. I signed that, too, and sent it back with the PI after getting him to buy me a round of drinks. He was an ex-fighter and a night school student at Central Connecticut, so by definition my kind of thug. The salesmen at the hotel bar kept their distance. Survival instincts.
Abby’s lawyers sent their own guys a few days later. I entertained them in the same venue. These were more like paralegals than knuckle busters so we had less to talk about. But at least they knew to buy the drinks.
Their paperwork was a little more troubling, which resulted in my field trip to the Meadowlands with the interior of Abby’s house, but that came later, after I’d sobered up enough to actually make out the text.
My daughter was the last visitor to my hotel. She found me in the bar, at one of the heavy oak cocktail tables surrounded by an overabundance of padded rolling chairs. It was about four in the afternoon, so I was already ramping up nicely to the first real drunk of the day.
She wore faded blue jeans decorated with runic symbols drawn with indelible ink, a wool sweater and silver wire-rim glasses. Her dirty blond hair was pulled back with a cotton scarf rolled into a headband. She carried her jacket hugged tightly with both hands against her midsection, as if trying to contain her entrails. Her face was pale, her eyes braced.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
She sat in one of the chairs and rolled back from the table to give herself ample running room. I had to greet her again before she’d say anything.
“I can’t believe this.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Your choice.”
“I really can’t believe this.”
“You look great.”
“How can you say that?”
“It’s great to look at you.”
“You should see yourself. That wouldn’t be so great.”
“No argument there.”
“Mommy’s beside herself.”
“And behind herself. All the way.”
“Everything’s always a joke.”
“And not very funny, either. How’s school?”
“I can’t think about school right now.”
“Now’s the best time. Throw yourself into your work.”
“That’s your deal. Throw yourself in and never come out.”
“I’m out now.”
“Too late.”
“You forgot the ‘too little.’”
“The what?”
“Too little, too late. Those things usually go together.”
“With you too little’s assumed.”
“That’s my girl. Sharp as a dart.”
“When are you going to stop this?”
“Stop what?”
“What you’re doing. It’s crazy.”
“You got your tenses goofed up. I’m not doing anything. I’ve done something.”
“You and your word games. Mommy’s just as bad.”
“The heart of the relationship.”
“No relationship I can see. And certainly no heart.”
“Then why all the fuss?”
“You’re not supposed to give up.”
“Says who?”
“Says me. Your daughter, remember? ‘I’ll never let anything bad happen to you, honey’? What do you call this?”
“You turned out great. You’re beautiful, intelligent, artistic. You’re self-reliant and resourceful. You’re actually a nice person, most of the time, which is a real blow against genetic determinism.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“No I’m not. You’re all grown up. You’re who you are. Go be it.”
“Like, this is none of my business?”
“It’s completely your business, it’s just not your life.”
“You won’t admit you’re wrong.”
“Is that all this is? Okay, I’m wrong. I admit it.”
“Then come home.”
“First off, sweetie, it’s not your home anymore. You live in Rhode Island. Secondly, it’s not mine, either, it’s your mother’s.” I held up my empty glass. “Can I get you anything? Drink?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’m buying.”
“With what? You quit your job.”
“They give you a drinking stipend. It’s part of the severance.”
I waived to the woman at the bar. She caught me out of the corner of her eye and nodded.
“Mommy said you’re in wicked bad trouble, but she wouldn’t tell me what, or why.”
“Not really in trouble, but the night’s still young.”
“Did you hurt anybody?”
“Nobody that matters.”
“Everyone matters.”
“No. You matter. The rest is up for grabs.”
“If I really mattered, we’d be having a different conversation.”
“I never fell for that ‘if you really loved me’ stuff.”
“Too much of a hard-ass.”
“Too realistic.”
“Hard-assed engineer.”
“Worst kind.”
“Think scaring people is some kind of triumph.”
“Only your boyfriends.”
“You don’t scare
me.”
“Then I did something right.”
“You should scare me, but you don’t.”
“Because you’ve got nothing to fear. You could tear my throat out with your bare hands and I’d kiss your wrists while you did it.”
She clutched her jacket even tighter to her chest.
“I don’t get it.”
“You’re not supposed to. Later on, you will. Maybe.”
A pallid young waitress dropped another Jack Daniels on the table and looked at my daughter to get her order.
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
The waitress kept her face in neutral and walked off.
“So this is it,” she said to me. “You’re going to sit here for the rest of your life and drink that shit.”
“I’m very proud of you.”
“Stop doing that.”
“I am. Sometimes I can’t believe it. What a gift.”
“No help from you.”
“Exactly.”
She seemed to be a little lost for words, an unaccustomed state of affairs. I used the silence to drain off a little of the Jack.
“So this is it,” she said, finally.
“It’s great to see you. Even when you’re mad at me.”
She stood straight up out of her chair.
“Then take it all in. It’s the last time.”
“Aw, geez.”
She pointed her finger at me.
“I know what you’re doing. I know exactly what you’re doing. But I won’t be a witness to it. I’ll just wait for the official notice. Bye, Daddy. Thanks for whatever.”
And she turned on her heel and walked away with her head up, briskly, but self-assured, like she was about to catch a train the conductor was holding for her at the platform. I told her I’d always love her, no matter what, but she was way out of earshot by then and wouldn’t have heard me anyway.
After that I lost track of time, about two weeks’ worth. I know things started with a trip down to a neighborhood in Stamford where I met up with a bunch of kids I knew from the gym. They had a good time touring me around the local action and unsettling their families by feeding me and letting me sleep on their sofas. My color got us into a lot of fights, which broke up the monotony of stuffy apartments and ratty neighborhood hangouts. On one of the nights I left my car, the company car, next to a curb with the engine running. According to the Stamford prosecutor it never turned up again, though I doubt anyone actually looked for it. A few other things happened that I only dimly remember, but it was all pretty thoroughly detailed in the charges they filed against me.
True to her word, my daughter never talked to me again. I knew she wouldn’t. She always had a stubborn streak and never would let go once she got a good grip on something.
Joe Sullivan was big enough to take up half the couch in my living room, leaving just enough room for Eddie to scrunch up next to his butt. Sullivan made up for it by rubbing him behind the ears, a treatment Eddie found tirelessly engaging.
By now the ambulance had hauled Buddy off to Southampton Hospital and all of Sullivan’s colleagues had drifted away. Ross Semple had threatened to make a personal appearance, but Sullivan had gently discouraged him.
“He still wants you to show up tomorrow for a little chat,” Sullivan told me.
“Not a problem.”
“Not yet.”
Sullivan was still officially on duty, so I felt a little bad about drinking in front of him, though not bad enough to stop. He took it in stride.
He waited till I’d dropped down on the floor with my back against the fireplace before asking me again if I’d left anything out of my statement.
“I was getting my mail when he cold-cocked me, only this time it didn’t land straight on and I was able to get away. He chased me up to the house where I got my little bat, which I used to successfully fight him off.”
“I’ll say.”
“You writing all this down?”
“Already did. No witnesses?”
“I don’t know. You can ask around.”
“Nothing to add?”
“Only, I guess, I know who he is.”
Sullivan arched his eyebrows and let his hands fall into his lap, a gesture I’d seen my mother use on more than one occasion. Usually under similar circumstances.
“Memory coming back? All of a sudden?”
“I didn’t see him at the Playhouse. Just his boots. But I saw him before that, down at the ocean. I was running on the beach. When I got back to the lot this guy was nosing around my car. I was probably a little less than polite about it. A few words. I ended up backin’ into his Beemer. Gave it a little bump with the Grand Prix. You know, meatball like that, easily offended.”
“Easier when it’s you.”
“Come on, Joe, I’m not interested in any more of that shit. Honest to God,” I said, like I really meant it, because I really did. “Though I guess I provoked him somehow. Anyway, he’d’ve killed me if he could. I know that.”
Sullivan flipped ahead in his casebook.
“You wouldn’t be the first.”
“What do you mean?”
“Buddy Florin. From upstate. Ten years for manslaughter. Two other charges, later dropped. Freelancer from out of the City. He’s a punk. Old-fashioned kind. That tell you anything?”
“Bad luck.”
“Nothing else, huh? No other bells going off? Nothing else you want to tell me about?”
I thought about it for a minute.
“I’m glad I fucked him up,” I admitted.
“Oh, you fucked him up, all right.”
“Better me than Eddie. If I’d’ve let him out, there’s no telling.”
Eddie picked his head up at the mention of his name. The fur on the left side of his face was pushed up from sleeping on it, imparting a look of lunatic disequilibrium. Sullivan looked down at him and brushed the hair back into place.
“Yeah. I’m nervous just sittin’ here.”
“You sure you can’t have a beer or something?”
“I can have a beer. Actually, it’s encouraged. Fraternizing with the public.”
I got it for him and we spent the next hour or so talking about the Knicks, a subject I felt more comfortable discussing, whether with honest Irish cops or earnest gay tycoons.
For some stupid reason I walked Eddie on a leash before we went to bed. It was either the smell of evil out on my lawn or the adrenaline still itching at my nerves. Whatever it was, it kept me awake, so even after Eddie was zonked out on the bed I was up pacing around. On an impulse I got Buddy’s gun out of my sock drawer where I’d stashed it before Sullivan showed up. It was a Glock 23, .40 caliber. Fashionable gun for an old-fashioned punk. Probably liked the look of it. Matte black, polymer and steel. Lots of kick.
Too wired to sleep, and nothing else to do, I took the gun down to my father’s workbench so I could look at its innards. Typical hard-assed engineer. Always curious about instruments of death.
Eddie stuck me in the ribs with his back feet when he jumped off the bed, barking like mad. It was daylight, but I hadn’t been sleeping very long, so it took a little while to get my bearings. I could hear the sound of someone banging on the front door even through all the frantic yelping.
“Goddammit, Eddie.”
I pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and answered the door.
“Hi, Jackie.”
“That has got to be the stupidest car on the whole planet.”
“The standard shift throws a lot of people.”
“Did I wake you? I hope so. What happened to your hand?”
Eddie had regained control of himself and was out on the lawn, buzzing around with his nose an inch off the grass.
“Coffee?” I asked her.
“No. Pickup truck.”
My automatic coffee pot had done its duty a half-hour earlier and the results were wafting around the house.
“Come on, it’s already brewed.”
“You got
a lot of nerve.”
“You don’t want to know what happened?”
“Jesus Christ.”
After I had her hands filled with my biggest ceramic mug I was able to talk her into waiting for me out on the porch while I took a shower. She was still thoroughly pissed, but her curiosity, as always, held her on the line. I told Eddie to keep her company.
“Just don’t give him any dope. He’s loopy enough as it is.”
I poured myself a cup and took it with me to the outdoor shower, which I used until the pipes threatened to freeze, usually after the first of the year. Even in the early morning light, the day was clear and full of color, the sky the deepest blue.
I squandered gallons of hot water, creating clouds of steam that billowed from the shower and upset the local climatic balance. The floor of the shower was filled with red, yellow and orange leaves from the oaks and maples overhead. I cleared the drain with my feet and watched the water swirl away in a tiny vortex. I turned the hot water up another notch to massage my shoulders and the back of my neck. I took a sip of the coffee. I tried to picture Regina seducing Carl Bollard, but it wouldn’t work. I wondered what she looked like as a young woman, and that was easier. Tall and straight-shouldered, firm handshake and wary eyes. A hard outer shell that was tough to crack, but once you did, it was all soft and tractable inside. Hopeful, but afraid of hurt. In need, despite her better judgment.
And always braced for the worst kind of disappointment.
I was able to stay clear of Jackie’s questions until I was in my clothes. I could feel the frustration penetrate the wall between my bedroom and the screened-in porch. She was pacing when I got there.
“I owe you big time,” I told her, before she had a chance to speak. “I know that.”
She was wearing a short wool coat in a giant red-and-black plaid. Her thick strawberry hair was tied up in a ponytail that spewed like a fountain almost from the top of her head. On her feet were a pair of beat-to-hell cowboy boots. Ready to start kicking.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to apologize,” she said.