And somehow, magically, this balance made him incredibly happy.
Gone were the burdens of his expectations, of the high place he saw for himself among the men who made things happen in the world. Gone was the daily humiliation as he scraped and bowed for her blessings. Gone was the incessant striving. They all belonged to Robert, and Robert had been roasted to death in the fire as surely as those poor dead bastards in the basement of the Byrne house. For the first time since he was an innocent young child in his father's meager home, he felt free of the shackles of possibility. He was no longer in the process of becoming, he simply was.
Bobby Spangler. Hunter. Fire starter. Murderer. A dangerous man and quite a nimble dancer, maintaining his balance on the cleaver's edge.
"What have you done?" she said over the phone. He was sitting in his apartment, on the easy chair, naked except for the phone covering his ear, singed and still stinking of smoke, feeling waves of burning heat flush his ravaged skin as her bitter voice surged through him. The Super 8 projector was whirling away behind him as a black-and-white female figure flickered on the makeshift screen set up behind the television. The figure was dressed only in glossy high heels, dark stockings, long white gloves. Her pale limbs writhed, her torso twisted and breasts heaved, her mouth opened with feigned passion.
"I put on a show," he said coolly. Like Clint Eastwood, like Cool Hand Luke. For the first time in their brutally unequal relationship, Bobby felt in control, and the feeling was as stimulating as a cattle prod.
"Don't be a garish fool," she spit out. "The fire was a terrible mistake, coming on the heels of what happened to Laszlo. It was such a clear sign to dig deeper that even one of those imbecile police detectives might have picked it up."
"I told you that was a possibility. But as always," he said, his voice turning singsong, "you ignored what I had to say and ordered me to go forward."
"Not with fireworks. What kind of cretin would use fireworks?"
"Once I started the fire, if they had managed to come out of the basement, there was going to be shooting. The fireworks gave me a cover."
"But it brought out the helicopters, you idiot. It made not only the local but the national news. Yet again you've shown your incompetence, your unworthiness. Spangler to the core."
He paused for a moment, recognized the line in the sand he had never before crossed, and then, with a certain swagger, and while gazing at the gyrations on the screen, he stepped over. "As are you," he said.
"What's that you say?"
"I'm just pointing out the obvious. Pointing out the single most important fact that has underlain all that has gone on between us over the years."
"What has gotten into you, Bobby? You sound different. Are you drunk?"
"No," he said. "It's just that some truths have been burned into my skin."
"You must be quite a sight, but you are still as ignorant as ever. I was always different."
"Not so different. I know about all the nasty little things you did in the desert before latching onto the Truscotts."
"I did what I had to do, dear."
"And with much enthusiasm," he said, as the figure on the screen shifted her position until she was facing away from him, on knees and elbows, turning her head and staring now over her shoulder and into his eyes.
"But I was always meant for better things," she said. "I once thought you were, too. Obviously, I was mistaken."
"Of course you were. That is your fate, to be mistaken about me." He glanced down at his lap. My God, it was as if he'd swallowed a bottle of those damn blue pills. Talking back to her was better than the movie. "Tell me you love me."
"Don't be a fool."
"Say it."
"You sound different, Bobby."
"I am different." He put his hand around himself, watched as the movie figure reached a white-gloved hand between her legs. As she licked her lips, he growled softly.
"You sound like the young boy I felt had so much promise," she said, her voice almost girlish.
"Say you love me."
"Maybe, yes. Maybe I do. As one loves a dog."
"I need to see you. There are issues we need to deal with."
"There is only one issue that concerns me." Pause, and then an intake of breath. "You said 'they.' What did you mean? Was there more than one at the house?"
"The boy had an accomplice."
"Who?"
"I don't know. Someone older. When can I see you? I have something for you."
"And you took care of them both?"
"Neither came out."
"Out of where? I don't understand."
"What is so confusing? Has your brain turned to mush in your senescence? They both went into the house. They both were in the basement when I burned the place down. Neither of them came out."
There was a moment of silence, but not in satisfied remembrance of two lives crushed by their common will, no. This silence was filled with the coldness of a bitter rebuke. Somehow the tide had turned; he could feel himself shrink as if he were being swallowed by the silence. The figure on the screen lowered her head and twisted her lips into a taunt.
"What's wrong?" he said.
"The most recent news reports stated that no bodies were found in the debris."
"That's impossible."
"The disappointment I feel in you at this moment is incalculable."
"They didn't come out."
"What is it like to be so wrong so often?" she said.
"I'll take care of it."
"See that you do. Find them. Find them both and kill them."
"And then what?"
"Destroy the evidence."
"I mean, what about me?"
"What about you?"
"It's time you pony up after all these years. It's time I get what I deserve."
"I like it when you whine. It reminds me of what you have become."
"You owe me."
"Oh, Bobby, Bobby, Bobby. What is one to say? I have allowed you to serve our joint ambitions at my behest. I have turned you into a malicious little pet. What more could you ever have hoped for?"
The figure on the screen rose from her elbows and, while still on her knees, turned to him, her arms outstretched, her lovely breasts shimmying. The sweet gray tongue, slipping out of her taunt of a mouth, beckoned.
"I'm going to kill them both," he said.
"See that you do."
"And then I'm coming for you."
CHAPTER 35
BEFORE WE DO ANYTHING," said Liam Byrne as they drove toward the city in his rental car the day after the fire, "we need to get you properly dressed."
"I'm dressed okay," said Kyle, unable to hide the irritation in his voice. After spending his whole life feeling deprived of a father, sitting in that car now, sitting beside his actual father at last, he should have felt the keen lift of elation. But instead he stared out the window, watching the scabrous landscape of New Jersey flit by, and felt nothing more than annoyance. Annoyance at having to spend all this time with an utter stranger who bore only a passing resemblance to the father he had desperately missed for so long. Annoyance that this stranger was full of crap and yet felt free to relay that crap to Kyle as if it were acknowledged truth. Annoyance that they were talking about his clothes.
"Did you look at yourself in the mirror?" said his father. "You look homeless."
"I am homeless."
"Ah, yes, I forgot. My successful son."
"Well, you know I had it tough growing up," said Kyle, still looking away. "My father died when I was twelve."
Liam Byrne gripped tightly to the steering wheel with both hands and leaned forward, an old man straining for a better view of the road. "You could use a haircut, too. And a shave. But it's the clothes we need to do something about first."
"What's wrong with my clothes?"
"Look at that T-shirt you're wearing. Besides the fact that it's really just a piece of underwear?"
"Yeah, besides that?"
; "It's ripped and stained and smells like smoke. And those things on your legs—"
"Shorts."
"Yes, well. Enough said about those."
"My stuff's a bit ragged from the fire, sure. I mean, last night we were both almost killed, remember? But truthfully, Dad, their condition is not much worse than after one of my normal nights out. I need some fresh underwear and socks, is all. We can go to my friend Kat's, where I have some stuff, or buy something new. We passed a Wal-Mart just a ways back there."
"You need more than new socks, boyo. You have a suit, don't you? I saw you wearing one at Laszlo's funeral. Was the suit you were wearing there borrowed from Goodwill, or does it belong to you?"
"It's mine."
"Excellent, then let's put it on. For what we need to do today, you'll want to be wearing a suit."
"What I have on is fine. It's what I wear."
"Here's a lesson for you, boyo. You dress today for how you want to be perceived tomorrow."
"That's what I'm doing."
"If you want respect, dress like you deserve it. No one gives advancement to a sloven. Don't you want to be somebody?"
"Sure, somebody who can still get away with dressing in a T-shirt and shorts."
"Where's your pride, boyo?"
"I buried it with my father."
Liam Byrne didn't respond, he just shifted in his seat and set his jaw. This was the first time in his life Kyle had talked back to his father, and Kyle didn't like it one bit.
"My style must be too hip for you to appreciate," said Kyle, injecting a forced lightness into his voice. "It's the latest in casual bohemian."
"It's like you don't care enough to care."
"Exactly. I should start a business with that motto: 'Clothes for the indiscriminating buyer who doesn't care enough to care.' "
"That's not a style, it's a sign of resignation."
"It's comfortable."
"And that's the towering height of achievement you aspire to?
Comfort?"
"Sure, why not?"
"Because comfort is for octogenarians in their nursing homes with bibs tied and diapers tight. The rest of us are here to seize what glory we can."
"Glory? Not very Zen of you, Dad. Glory's for saps."
"So you tell me now, as others leapfrog over your head."
"And what's it getting them?"
"It's getting them money and power, the corner office and the new Lexus. It's getting them laid, boyo."
"I don't have any trouble, there."
"Well, maybe not. You're a Byrne, after all. But with clothes like that, I'm sure it must be high-class stuff you're getting. Answer me this, boyo: Five years from now, where do you want to be?"
"On the couch, playing Xbox."
"That is the saddest thing I ever heard. It's all the dope you kids smoke. You smoke a boatload, I suppose."
"Not too much anymore."
"Waste your mornings with a pipe and a video game and your nights with cheap beer and wanton women."
"On good days, yeah."
"Ah, youth. I forgot how stupid it can be."
"Go to hell."
"Let me give you some advice about that marijuana. We had it in my day, too, we thought we discovered it. But stay off it, it's a curse. It kills your ambition, that stuff. It seems like nothing more than a pleasant diversion, and ten years later you're living in your mother's house and letting the mortgage lapse."
"What are you doing, Dad? Trying to jam fourteen years' worth of parental lectures into one miserable car ride?"
"Somebody needs to set you straight."
"That was my mom's job. You left it for her alone, remember? It's too late for you to get your licks in."
"You can't be blaming me for all that's gone wrong in your life, son."
"Watch me."
"What do you want from me, boyo?"
"Maybe to say you're sorry."
"I said it already."
"Funny, I didn't hear it."
"Okay, then. I'm sorry about the way it worked out."
"That's not quite it, is it?"
"Tell me what exactly it is you want to hear, and I'll spit it out like a parrot."
"Forget it."
"No, tell me."
"I said forget it."
"Okay, sure. If that's what you want. We're not here to quarrel, we're here to work together, like a real father and son, to bring some justice to the world."
"Whatever."
"Good. Now, about that suit."
Kyle was dropped off in front of Kat's apartment building. He took out a key ring from his pocket, looked it over. A key to his old house, now useless. A key to his car, just as useless at the moment. A key to Bubba's that he forgot to give back when he was fired. His key ring was an eloquent declaration of the pathetic state of his life. The only key that worked was to someone else's apartment.
Inside, scrawled on a sheet of paper was a message from Kat: CALL ME!!!
He did.
"Kyle, what the hell is happening?" she said. "I thought you were dead. Did you hear about your house?"
"I was there."
"Shut up. It was all over the news. And what was with the fireworks?"
"I have no idea."
"But you got out and you're okay?"
"Apparently."
"I swear I thought you were dead."
"It's not for lack of someone trying," said Kyle.
"I've been calling your cell all morning."
"I sort of left it in my car, which I sort of left at the house."
"That's a shame, right there, because that was a nice phone."
"I need to get my car back."
"Bad news, I'm afraid. Your car was totaled in the fire."
"Now you shut up."
"I saw a picture on the news, and that car was gone. It looked like the junkers you see parked on the street in Kensington, the paint all burned off, the rear end exploded."
"Kat. My car. The last thing I owned in this world was my car."
"It was insured, though, right?"
"It was. For a time. I think. Last year at least."
"Kyle, sweetie. Are you okay?"
"No, I'm not okay. I'm in the middle of something you would not believe if I told you."
"Try me."
"It's so crazy I can't even talk about it. But I'll tell you this: I'm learning a hell of a lot about my father."
"Your father?"
"Yeah, and you want to know something? The more I learn, the less I like. Best thing he ever did was disappear from my life. So why all the exclamation marks on your note?"
"Because I wanted to know if you were alive. And because some cop from Havertown has been calling. Someone named Demerit. He says he needs to talk to you about the fire. And about the fireworks. Do you want his number?"
"No."
"As your lawyer, I advise that it's better for you to get in touch with him than have him find you."
"Yeah, well, he's like ninth on my list. Listen, I need you to do me a favor."
"Okay."
"Remember that good-looking cop who was interrogating me at the Roundhouse?"
"Oh, yeah, with the lips and the hips."
"Her name's Ramirez. You've got to find her and give her something, all right?" Kyle pulled out the card O'Malley had handed him and read the phone number to Kat. "It belongs to a guy who called himself O'Malley, Thomas O'Malley, but the name is fake. Anyway, I'd bet he knows something about Laszlo Toth's murder and maybe about the fire, too. See if she can use the number to find the bastard."
"Okay. Anything else I can do?"
"Not right now. But I have a story to tell you, Kat, that will set your hair on fire."
The phone back in its cradle, he stood at the open door of the closet in Kat's spare bedroom, facing the single piece of clothing hanging on the pole. His father was insisting he wear a suit, but his father had turned out to be a blowhard, and Kyle, as a matter of principle, ignored the lowing of blowhards. Th
en again, maybe the old guy was right. Kyle remembered the way the secretary in his father's old office had looked at him when he came in with his shorts and T-shirt, like he was beneath even dealing with in such a place. Maybe, in this adventure, he should dress more the part of the hard-boiled detective out to solve a crime. Except he didn't want his father to have the satisfaction of successfully telling him how to dress. Then again, after all these years, maybe he ought to throw the old man a bone.
Damn, he thought, this is harder than adolescence.
Ten minutes later, showered and shaved, with his black shoes on, his gray suit buttoned, and a pair of shades covering his eyes, Kyle climbed down the stairs from Kat's apartment, slipped through the vestibule, and slowly opened the door to the outside. He looked left, nothing. He looked right, nothing. He straightened his thin black tie as he stepped out onto the sidewalk, scanning the street for his father.
"Hey."
He turned toward the voice, saw a huge figure in a purple velvet sweat suit stepping out of a recessed doorway and heading right for him. Kyle turned to tear away in the opposite direction when another figure stepped out of a second doorway. He recognized one of the lugs who'd been sitting outside Tiny Tony's place in the instant before the lug slammed him hard in the chest, spinning him around so that Vern could grab hold of him by the lapels with both hands.
"Look who it is," said Vern as he pulled Kyle close enough for Kyle to smell the espresso on his breath. "Just the Joe we was waiting on."
"Convenient, isn't it?" said the lug from behind. "The way he came right to where we was waiting."
"Mr. Sorrentino sent us over to ask about that file," said Vern. "You know, the one you said you'd find for him to make up for what your son-of-a-bitch father stole."
"I never said that I—" Before he could finish, the lug slammed a forearm into Kyle's back, denting his kidneys. Kyle's knees buckled even as he was held aloft by Vern's huge, gnarled hands.
"We don't want no story," said Vern. "Some guys, they think we're in Hollywood, all the stories they try to give. But we ain't in Hollywood, we ain't no producers, we're only a couple of leg breakers in Philadelphia, and we don't want no story. All we want is an answer. You got it yet?"
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