A Farewell to Legs

by JEFFREY COHEN

  “So, how have the boys been doing, Mr. Tucker?” Lester asked, all bonhomie and good feelings. You’d have thought that we hadn’t exchanged epithets the last time we met. Politics, it would seem, is a genetic condition.

  “They’ve been doing just fine, Lester,” I said. “Thanks for dropping in to check.” I flashed a look toward the door, but he wasn’t buying. He actually sat down, just to Jason’s left. Junior’s eyes never left Lester, but Jason was doing all he could not to look at the man.

  “Good to hear. We wouldn’t want to hold anything back from the press, now, would we?” Lester took a croissant from the basket that I would have sworn had only bagels and muffins (it was a sure bet he wouldn’t take a bagel) and bit off a corner. He appeared pleased, and nodded his head, as if the maitre d’ was in the room, agonizing over whether Lester’s croissant was adequate.

  “That’s a very refreshing attitude, Lester,” I said. “Now, if you don’t mind. . .”

  He waved a hand, minor royalty giving the commoners permission to continue their drab, dreary lives. “Not at all. Pretend I’m not even here.”

  “I’d prefer not pretending,” I told him.

  Jason’s eyes rotated in their sockets a bit, and Junior looked positively shocked. “How dare. . .” he began.

  “I don’t see how my presence would cause a disruption,” said Lester, cutting him off. He wasn’t looking at me—his eyes were admonishing Junior for his near-outburst.

  “Your presence has already caused a disruption,” I explained in a calm tone. “You’ve ruined the admittedly lousy rapport I’d established with the guys here, and now you’re making it impossible for me to continue with this interview. Was that your goal? Because both times you’ve been in the room, my interviews were cut quite short.”

  Lester didn’t so much stand as rise—it was a smooth motion that appeared to have less to do with legs, which have all sorts of bones and joints that can make for jerky motion, and more to do with the perfect, ethereal right of the privileged to their indignation.

  “You will leave this house immediately,” he hissed.

  “Since when is it your house?” I purred at him. “Get Stephanie to tell me to go.”

  Lester looked toward the door, considering, but this time, Junior cut him off.

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “This is still my house, and I’m asking you to leave, Mr. Tucker.”

  So I left. I drove the minivan back to the hotel, met my lovely wife and children, packed up everything we could legitimately call our own, and checked out. By the time we hit the Beltway, I had my cell phone in hand, and was pushing the button to call Mahoney.

  “Hello?

  “Mr. Mahoney.”

  “Mr. Tucker. How was Washington?”

  “I’m still there, but I’m on my way back. I have an assignment for you.”

  “Broken fan belt?”

  “No. I’m getting a handle on the Legs Gibson thing. But I’m going to need to consult with a panel of experts.”

  “Such as. . .”

  “A carpet expert, a medical expert, a political expert, an accountant, and someone who understands the workings of a major airport.”

  “Aha.”

  “Precisely. Set up an evening with The Guys.”

  Chapter

  Nine

  In case you were wondering, driving from Washington, D.C. to New Jersey with two pre-teenage children is no more enjoyable than traveling from New Jersey to Washington, D.C. with two pre-teenage children. Harry Potter had finished his tale by the time we left Maryland, which left the 15-minute tour of Delaware, and about a two-and-a-half hour stretch of our home state, to survive without the aid of an apprentice wizard. The scenery didn’t help, either. I believe it was Charles Kuralt who once said, “thanks to the Interstate Highway System, it’s now possible to travel from coast to coast without seeing anything.”

  Somehow, though, we managed to make it home in four pieces, and for once, I was actually glad for the extra room in the minivan, which had made it possible for Leah to spread out on the back-back seat while Ethan played Gameboy in the back seat, thus avoiding any serious bloodshed among the progeny. We pulled into our lovely crumbling driveway at about seven in the evening, just in time to unpack and make dinner for four before collapsing into a sniveling heap on any available sofa. Luckily, Abby did the cooking.

  You have to understand the freelance mentality. We are an exceptionally paranoid lot. We are convinced that, once we finish one assignment, we will never get another paying job for as long as we live. So immediately after the bags were lugged in the door, and while my wife bravely attacked the food supply in our refrigerator, and my children busied themselves with television, video games, and trying to kill each other, I checked my phone answering machine and my email.

  I had not checked my messages from the road, since Abby gives me a funny look when I do that during a vacation, and there were twelve messages from the four days we’d been gone. The first was from my agent, Margot Stakowski of the Stakowski Agency of Cleveland, Ohio.

  “Aaron!” As usual, she sounded shocked. “Didn’t I tell you there was no market for mysteries? Oh well. I’ll read it and call you back.”

  Margot sounded as enthusiastic as if I’d written a screenplay about athlete’s foot, but that’s Margot. Hey, if I were some big-name screenwriter like Charlie Kaufman, I wouldn’t be represented by someone in Cleveland.

  There were two messages from my mother, who apparently had forgotten I’d told her we were leaving on Thursday. She was considerably more frantic in the second message than the first. There was a message from Lydia Soriano at Snapdragon, not at all frantic but asking for a progress report. Leah’s gymnastics teacher called to ask where she was (I’d forgotten to call and cancel). Ethan’s friend Chris mumbled something about coming over to play Play Station. Melissa asked if Leah could come over and play. An editor at the Star-Ledger asked if I might be interested in a story about the latest in the commercial and industrial real estate market. A telemarketer asked if we wanted to refinance our mortgage. And Barry Dutton asked me to call him as soon as I got back.

  I was just about to do that when the last message kicked in. “This is Preston Burke,” the whiny little voice said. “I’m looking for Abigail Stein, but that was a man’s voice on the machine. Am I calling the right number? I’ll call back.”

  Thank goodness Abby didn’t hear that message, as she was in the kitchen turning whatever dross we had left over into something that would be magnificent to look at and delightful to taste, much like herself. I stared at the machine a moment, then dialed Barry Dutton’s home number.

  “Dutton.”

  “Barry, it’s Aaron Tucker. I just heard a message. . .”

  “Aaron. I wanted you to know, I heard on Friday that the charges against Preston Burke had been dropped.”

  My voice sounded like I’d been swallowing razor blades again. “I beg your pardon?” I rasped.

  “You heard me,” Dutton said. He actually sounded a bit amused, the swine. “You’re gonna love this one.”

  “I’d be willing to lay money I won’t.”

  “Let me see if I can’t make you feel better,” he said. “It turns out that Burke actually didn’t do it.”

  “Wait a second,” I said, and put him on hold. I beckoned to Abby in the kitchen. “Pick up on the wall phone,” I told her. “Preston Burke’s charges have been dropped.”

  “What?” She walked to the phone double-time and picked it up. I pushed the button on my desk phone.

  “Go ahead, Barry. Abby’s listening in.”

  “Okay, here’s the deal. I got a call from the Bergen County prosecutor on Friday. Turns out Burke really didn’t shoot his girlfriend at all, just like he’s been saying.”

  “That’s impossible,” Abby told him. “Six different witnesses all saw him do it.”

  “That’s the funny part,” Barry said. He waited, but neither of us was in a laughing mood.
“It turns out there’s this guy, Waldrick Malone.”

  “Waldrick?”

  “Shut up, Aaron. I’m talking. Yeah, Waldrick Malone. Same size as Burke, same general build, and—get this—same face. People who have seen them side-by-side swear they could be twins, but they’re not even distantly related.”

  “Oh, come on,” Abby said. “You’re telling me these two guys look so much alike that people standing in broad daylight could-n’t tell them apart? People who knew Preston Burke thought this Malone guy was him?”

  “I’m telling you, Abby. I saw both mug shots, and I would have sworn it was the same guy.”

  Abby sat in one of the kitchen chairs. “How could I have missed this?” she said. How could she have missed it? How could she have found it?

  “Hold it, Barry,” I said. “So this guy looks like Burke. Let’s say for the sake of argument he sounds like Burke, too. How did he happen to get mad enough at Burke’s girlfriend to shoot her?”

  “That’s how the case came apart,” Barry said. “Turns out the girlfriend was sleeping with Malone first. She’s known him for a couple of years. They have one of those relationships where he gets mad at her every once in a while and gets abusive, she leaves, then comes back because she mistakenly thinks there’s no alternative. Then one night, she’s in this bar and she meets Preston Burke.”

  “And she thinks he’s Malone,” I suggested.

  “At first, but after a few minutes, it becomes obvious he’s not. So now Barbara figures, hey. Best of both worlds. She has a guy who’s a carbon copy of her boyfriend, but without the violent tendencies. Problem is, after they’ve been together a little while, Malone finds out about Preston Burke, too.”

  Abby shook her head. “He never came for Burke, though. He just went for the woman.”

  “Ain’t that always the way,” Barry said. “He’s going to punish her for wanting a better version of himself. And he’s going to set up Burke for the crime. So he goes around to the bar and a few other places for a day being Preston Burke. Letting everybody see him as Preston Burke. And the next morning, he collects Barbara outside Burke’s apartment. She can tell the difference after a second, but by then, it’s too late. He drags her into an alley after making enough noise to attract witnesses, and shoots her.”

  “Why didn’t she name Malone, and not Burke, in the complaint?” I asked.

  Abby knew why. “Fear,” she said. “She knew Burke would never hurt her, but if she put Malone in jeopardy, he’d kill her for real this time, right?”

  “You’re good at what you do, Abby,” said Barry.

  “Not good enough. I should have gotten this. No wonder Burke was so mad at me.”

  “You can’t be right all the time,” I told her. “Nobody could have seen this coming.”

  Barry’s voice sounded uncomfortable, like he was intruding on a private moment. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, Malone hears that Burke has been convicted, so he gets cocky, shows his face a couple of times too often when Burke is in jail, and the next thing you know, somebody’s calling the cops. The gun shows up in his apartment. They’ve got fingerprints, everything. He even confessed. I just wanted to let you know Burke is off the hook,” he said. “I don’t know if you still have to worry about any more rocks flying through your window, so I’ll keep the patrols coming by for a couple of days, okay?”

  “Thanks, Barry,” I said, and we hung up. Abby sat down in a kitchen chair and stared for a long while. I looked at her, walked over, and stroked her cheek. She took my hand and held it.

  “I hate screwing up someone’s life like that,” she said. “I was so sure.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up. You had all those witnesses. Apparently Burke looks just like this guy Malone. That happens once every millennium or so. And after all, Burke’s life wasn’t ruined. He spent a few nights in jail That’s it. You did what you thought was right, and you did try to defend him.”

  “It’s just. . . I thought. . . I could have. . .” She banged her fist lightly on the table.

  I knelt down to look into her eyes, but for the first time since Ronald Reagan was elected president, I couldn’t think of anything to say. Luckily, Ethan ambled in, assessed the situation, and knew exactly what to say.

  “Is dinner almost ready?”

  It took a moment, but Abby sputtered, and started to laugh. She reached an arm out for our son, and he let her hug him, although he certainly didn’t understand why.

  “What are we having?” he asked, figuring he could compound the good cheer.

  We stood there, me kneeling by my wife’s chair, her holding our son with one arm for a few moments. Then she got up and started making his dinner.

  I went to check my email.

  Chapter

  Ten

  That night, Abby and the kids spent an hour on my computer in the den/playroom, surfing pet adoption sites for available dogs that weren’t so big they’d need their own wing added onto our house. Given her state of mind about Preston Burke, it was hardly the time for me to tell my wife I thought a dog was a truly awful idea for our family. And she knew it. She didn’t know it was also a lousy time to mention that Burke had called our house while we were away, and I wasn’t about to tell her. By bedtime, they had at least twelve possible dog candidates, and I had acid reflux.

  Monday morning, I went to see Anne Mignano. I felt she deserved a progress report, despite the fact that I hadn’t made the least bit of progress.

  Ramona, the school secretary, looked a little surprised when I appeared in the office, and asked if there was trouble with Ethan. I told her no, I was here to see Mrs. Mignano on an unrelated matter, and Ramona’s eyes narrowed. There’s nothing Ramona hates worse than gossip when she’s not in on it.

  She didn’t have time to grill me further, however, because Anne appeared in her doorway and waved me in. She didn’t look happy, and what I was going to tell her wasn’t going to lighten her mood any.

  I sat down in the visitor’s chair and looked unhappy. Anne sat in her desk chair, and didn’t look any cheerier. We sat and assessed each other for a few moments.

  “You don’t look like you’re here with good news,” she started.

  “I’m afraid not. Anne, I’m sorry.”

  She stood up and checked again to make sure the door was closed, which she knew it was. Anne started to pace, which is something like saying that Jennifer Lopez is the shy, retiring type. The words don’t go together.

  “It’s not your fault, Aaron. There’s no way a simple prank should cause this much pressure, anyway. I’m sure I’m just being overdramatic.”

  Hearing the word “pressure” from Anne Mignano was a startling experience, like a punch to the gut when you weren’t prepared for it. Anne usually handles pressure the way most of us handle breathing. I wasn’t sure how to respond.

  “I just don’t have any leads to go on,” I said. “Nobody saw what happened, or if they did, they aren’t going to rat out a friend. You investigated it yourself each time, and now weeks have gone by and the trail is cold. I’m just. . . I wish I had something else to tell you. Anything else.”

  The fact that I hadn’t actually interviewed anyone, because I couldn’t think of anyone to interview, didn’t seem like the kind of information I especially wanted to share at this moment. Anne kept walking back and forth behind her desk, playing with a rubber band in her hand. For someone as perfectly controlled as she usually is, this was the equivalent of tearing her clothes off and running naked through the hallways. I was actually frightened.

  “It’s not your failure, Aaron. It’s mine. I appreciate your trying.”

  So I was defeated, then. I’d let a friend down, and it was going to cost her, if not her job, then something equally precious to her—her dignity. It wasn’t exactly my finest moment.

  “How much time do you have left?” I asked.

  “A day or two, but no more than that,” Anne replied. “The board meets on Thursday, and they’ll expect a rep
ort by then. I don’t really think they’ll terminate me, but they will give me a slap on the wrist in private, and everyone will know about it before I leave the room. Besides, you know, my contract is up next year, and in this town, the people will remember something like this.”

  She flopped down in her chair. I was starting to wonder if maybe there were someone who looked exactly like Anne Mignano, and was impersonating her now, because this woman’s behavior was completely opposite that of the principal I knew.

  Come on, it had worked for Waldrick Malone. For a while.

  “Well, don’t do anything until that meeting,” I told her. “I have two days. I’ll come up with something.”

  “Aaron. . .”

  But I was already on my feet and at her door. I nodded to Ramona on the way out, and now she was really steamed about not knowing what I was up to.

  Halfway out the door, though, it occurred to me that there was someone who might have some insight into the stink bomb incident, and I might as well seek him out while I was here.

  Reese McElvoy, the Buzbee School janitor (pardon me, custodian), took any physical assault on what he referred to as “his” school building personally. Reese had been employed as a certified public accountant for a chain of tax-preparation storefronts before the whole adding-and-subtracting thing got to be too much for him, and he ditched it to work among children. He’d never had any of his own, and didn’t have to pay for anyone’s college tuition, so Reese and his wife could afford to live on what he made in a civil service job as a janitor (pardon me, custodian).

  Oh. Did I mention his wife is CEO of a small brokerage house?

  I caught up with Reese near the gymnasium, which he watches like a hawk to make sure no one scuffs the floor, which is always freshly waxed. He was watching a class going on inside, during which some fifth graders were playing Dodge Ball, and looking concerned. Nothing scuffs a floor like Dodge Ball.

  “Hey, Reese,” I said, and he turned his head for a millisecond to see who was speaking. “How you doing?”