A Farewell to Legs

by JEFFREY COHEN

  See? He really is an asshole.

  I went on to explain the whole sick, twisted tale, in the most journalistic of terms. Included were interviews with Stephanie and Legs, Cherie Braxton, Louise, Junior and Jason, Mason Abrams (although he was quoted as “police sources” only) and Madeline Crosby. I left out Estéban Suarez, because it occurred to me he’d think the whole piece was about him. I wrote well into the night, then emailed the whole piece to Lydia at Snapdragon and waited.

  The next morning, which was Sunday, I slept in for a change. When I woke up, after ten, the house was in full swing. Abby had made waffles for the kids, as she does every Sunday morning, and the dog had already been walked, after the rug in my office was cleaned up of Warren’s nocturnal activities. Leah was already at Melissa’s house and Ethan was deep into the latest episode of Butt Ugly Martians, a cartoon show aimed directly between his eyes.

  From behind, I embraced my wife, who was still at the stove, and she turned to kiss me, still happy that I wasn’t, in truth, dead. I looked at the stove, where she was making pancakes.

  “Are those for me?” I asked.

  Abby nodded. “I thought you might like a special breakfast after you worked so hard on this story.”

  “I am hopelessly in love with you,” I said.

  “Don’t be,” she answered. “Be hopefully in love with me.” I got myself a plate and she actually flipped two pancakes onto it for me. I got the syrup and what passes for butter in my house (some concoction made with yogurt, it doesn’t taste half bad) from the refrigerator, then sat down and took a bite.

  “Mmmmm,” I appreciated. “You make a mean pancake, my love.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll try to make a kinder one next time.”

  “Someday I must pay for you to take a course in receiving a compliment,” I suggested. “You know what I mean. These are terrific.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You have a secret ingredient, don’t you? There’s something in here even the International House of Pancakes hasn’t thought of yet, isn’t there?” “That, my friend, is none of your business.” Just to be funny, she said it “busy-ness.”

  I stopped in mid-forkful. That was it. The way the word “business” was pronounced—I knew I’d heard it before. I stood up and kissed Abby again.

  “What’s that all about?” she asked. “Sit down and eat before they get cold.”

  I did, because they were really good pancakes. “I have to go out right after breakfast,” I said. “Do we need anything?”

  “Milk,” she said.

  “Perfect,” I answered.

  A half hour later, I was walking through the front door of the Kwik ‘N EZ. I strode in, went directly to the refrigerated cases where the milk is kept, and sought out the no-growth-hormone one-percent. Knowing the way the Kwik ‘N EZ operates, I reached far back onto the shelf to get a newer gallon, and sure enough, came up with one whose expiration date was six days after the one at the front of the shelf.

  Feeling chipper, I also picked up a Nestle Crunch bar for Leah, a package of Oreos for Ethan, and a copy of Rolling Stone for myself. Abigail couldn’t possibly want anything they sold at the Kwik ‘N EZ, so I got her a pack of Devil Dogs.

  Mr. Rebinow was at the counter, but tried to pass me off to his associate, a younger man with blond highlights and a baseball cap bearing the logo of no team I’d ever encountered. I shook my head when he came over to take my order.

  “No,” I said. “Only Mr. Rebinow can help me.” The young man looked confused, and turned to Mr. Rebinow. There was no one else in the store. Rebinow shrugged, and walked over to the cash register.

  “Go check the stock on the Ring Dings,” he told the younger man. “I think we’re low.” The younger man seemed about to dispute that claim, but saw the look on his boss’ face, and decided to do exactly as he was told.

  “I see you’ve given up on the stink bombs,” I said, pointing to the spot on the counter where the offending items used to dwell.

  He decided to play indifferent. “Too many complaints from the parents,” he said. “My sales in milk and bread started suffering. It wasn’t worth it. Now, what do you want?”

  “It was you,” I said. “You were the one who was making the phone calls, and you were the one who threw the rock through my front window.”

  “You’re crazy.” But he was already sweating.

  “No, I’m not. You said the same thing on the phone that you said that day in the store. Except in the store, you said, ‘that’s their bus-i-ness,’ three syllables, and on the phone you said, ‘it’s none of your bus-i-ness,’ the same way. I always remember things like that, and you’re the only person I know who pronounces the word like that.”

  Mr. Rebinow stared at me for close to a half minute. In his eyes, you could see him consider any number of possible responses, and discard them all. Again, he decided that nonchalance was the way to go.

  “So?” he asked. “You ruined my business for two days, and I broke a window. So what?”

  “What I did falls into the area of a prank, and what you did falls into the area of terroristic threats, destruction of property and, if I want to get nasty, attempted assault. Another five feet to the left, and you’d have beaned me with that rock.”

  “Oh, bullshit,” he said. “I waited for the lights to go out before I threw the rock.”

  I pulled the tape recorder out of my jacket pocket, and he turned a little green. He didn’t know I hadn’t turned it on.

  “Now I’ve got you on tape confessing to the act, Rebinow. So it’s time for us to start talking about how to solve this problem.”

  Mr. Rebinow’s eyes darted back and forth a few times from the cassette recorder to my eyes, to the counter, to the front door, to the window. He had no idea how to respond, and being too cool for his own good wasn’t working. So he started to cry.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just. . . I was so mad when the cops wouldn’t do anything to you, and I just wanted to scare you. And then, when I was going to stop, you started coming in here again, and I thought you knew I’d been doing it.”

  “We can work it out,” I said, inadvertently quoting the Beatles. “We can reach an agreement that satisfies everybody and we don’t have to involve the police at all.”

  “How?” he asked, eyes wide.

  “The first thing we’re going to do,” I said, “is get in touch with a sign painter.”

  EPILOGUE

  Lydia from Snapdragon called me Monday morning, and told me the editors all liked what I’d written, which was a relief. The next issue of the magazine had a picture of Legs on its cover, with a detachable toupee, and a line indicating the International Symbol for “no” through his face. The headline read: “Louis Gibson Isn’t Dead, But He Is An A**hole.” There’s nothing like the discretion of the American free press.

  Of course, all the daily papers and the broadcast media got the story first. I talked to Mason Abrams on Sunday, thanked him for his help, and filled him in on what I’d discovered. I duped a copy of the cassette with Legs and Stephanie’s confession, and FedEx’ed it to him on Monday, for Tuesday delivery.

  By Wednesday, Fax McCloskey’s daily bulletin was announcing the good news/bad news scenario Fax had to report: “We know who killed Louis Gibson—nobody. We know who killed Lester Gibson, but, um, they kind of got away.”

  Naturally, the press coverage was tremendous, but Fax had failed to mention that Snapdragon Magazine had broken the story, so nobody reported on it until Lydia started calling the major news outlets and telling them her reporter had done the reporting. My phone started ringing Wednesday night, and didn’t stop again until Saturday.

  Once things started to calm down, I attended a special ceremony at the convenience store. It had taken almost two weeks, but a new, red, blue and yellow sign proclaiming “Quick And Easy” was being hoisted above the front door. Mr. Rebinow, thrilled that he’d gotten off so cheap, beamed at me and offered me
a free cup of coffee, which I declined. I did, however, accept a free Diet Coke.

  Barry Dutton asked me once or twice about the window, but I told him we were better off forgetting about such things, since the damage had been repaired, and the threatening phone calls, amazingly enough, had stopped. Barry sounded a bit skeptical on the phone, but he had enough to worry about, and turned his mind to other matters, like how to keep Detective Westbrook in his office and away from the lunchtime buffet at All-You-Can-Eat.

  Confronted by her mother after the Board of Education meeting, Susan Mystroft was forced to admit her crimes publicly and face the music. Among the punishments discussed was a one-week suspension from school, but Anne Mignano quite logically noted that time off from school was what Susan had been aiming for to begin with, so that would be considered a reward, rather than a punishment.

  It was decided, at Anne’s suggestion, that Susan be made to show up for school a half-hour earlier than everyone else, and stay for a half-hour detention every day for two weeks. This Solomon-like decision was praised far and wide, by everyone except Susan, who wasn’t the least bit pleased, and Faith Feldstein, who still didn’t believe a girl had thrown a stink bomb, so a conspiracy surely was afoot. She resigned from the Board of Education in protest, but virtually no one noticed. Oliver Stone was reportedly interested in the movie rights briefly, but moved on to something else.

  Punishment for Stephanie and Legs was not so easy to enforce. There were rumors they were domiciled in the Cayman Islands, but an investigation by the FBI turned up nothing. Later, whispers surfaced that Stephanie had gotten fed up with Legs and thrown him off a yacht in shark-infested waters, but those could-n’t be substantiated, either.

  Louise Gibson died three months later after a blood vessel burst in her nose. Medical science couldn’t explain it, but there were numerous explanations for the two million dollars found in seventeen different certificates of deposit in Louise’s name after she died. They were, eventually, confiscated by the Federal Government, which will probably use them to pay for bribes that will cover up the next scandal. The world’s not perfect, you know.

  Jason Gibson continued at the Pringley School, his tuition paid by a blind trust, until graduation. He was accepted at Harvard, but chose to go to Rutgers instead. There was definite potential in that boy.

  Louis Junior graduated from Georgetown and took a job working for People for American Values. Strangely, that organization folded its tents six months later, citing diminished donations, and as of this writing, Louis Gibson Jr. is looking for work in government or finance.

  Life at my house slowly settled back into a routine. Ethan continued to walk Warren first thing every morning, even when the weather turned colder. Leah never failed to take the dog out after school, and Abby always gave him a long walk after dinner. Our routine was unalterably adjusted to accommodate Warren.

  To cut down on the number of odiferous incidents that occurred during the night, I fell into the habit of giving him a walk just before bed. But Warren continued to favor my carpet over the curb, and the smell in my office became unbearable.

  So, on an unusually warm November afternoon, I was moving all my office furniture so I could pull up the rug. Preston Burke had offered to do the work, but he was busy repairing the water damage in the kitchen ceiling, and I didn’t want him to be distracted. So I took an afternoon off to get down to hardwood floors in my office.

  I was pulling up the rug in the corner just to the left of my desk, where the bookcase generally stands, and thinking that in retrospect, it all began with the lizard, when the phone rang. The caller ID provided no return number, but it did note that the call was coming from California, so I gave up the opportunity to pull up tackless installation strips for a moment or two, and answered it.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m trying to reach Aaron Tucker.”

  “You’ve succeeded.”

  “Aaron. This is Glenn Waterman of Beverly Hills Films. We read your script, The Minivan Rolls for Thee, and we really liked it.”

  “Who is this, really?”

  Waterman laughed. “That’s the kind of humor we found so wonderful in the script,” he said. “We’d like you to come out here for a few days so we can discuss it, with an eye toward an option.”

  “You’re paying for my airfare, car, and hotel?” I asked.

  “Yes,” chuckled Waterman. “We’re very excited about the script. We’ll happily pick up the tab.”

  My mind reeled. The kids get home at two-thirty every day. Ethan is starting wrestling practice on Monday night, and Leah has basketball on Thursdays, gymnastics on Tuesdays, and Junior Girl Scouts every other Sunday. Who the hell would cover for me during my absence? There was no way I could just up and leave. It wouldn’t do to pursue my long-shot career goal and mess up my family life in the pursuit.

  I told Waterman I’d get back to him (he probably thought I was holding out for money) and walked into the kitchen, where Abby was trying to stay out of Preston’s way while making chicken fajitas.

  “Who was that?” asked Abby. Burke came down off the ladder and wandered out the front door, probably to get something out of his truck.

  “A production company in L.A. They want me to go out there and discuss an option.”

  Abby, her face at once astounded and elated, turned to look at me, and gave me one of the hugs that keep one coming back for more. “Aaron!”

  “Wait a second,” I said. “There’s no guarantee anything will happen, even if I go. I’d have to be out there for four days, at least. There’d be nobody here when the kids got home. You’d have to get them out in the morning, which means you’d get into your office late. There are after-school activities and schedules, and you know how Ethan is about changes in his routine. . .”

  My wife, paragon that she is, laughed at me. She put a finger to my lips and gave me a look that would cause Will and Grace to reconsider their respective lifestyles.

  “Come on,” she said. “I’ll help you pack.”

  We went upstairs.

  Three weeks later, she helped me pack.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Before anyone in my home town starts tuning up, yes, there was a stink bomb incident in one of our schools a couple of years ago, and yes, it did give me the idea. But as I recall it, nobody was especially upset, there was never any public uproar about it, the principal’s job was certainly never on the line, and to be completely and totally honest, I don’t know if the culprit(s) was/were ever caught, and if so, I definitely never found out who they might have been. So don’t read more into it than that.

  To those who went to high school with me: no, that’s not you in the book. You may think it’s you, but it’s not. Herein are composite characters from that time of my life, other times in my life and, for that matter, now, but no one person is based on one other person. Most of them—honestly—are entirely made up. Sorry to disappoint, but that’s why this book is in the “fiction” section of your bookstore.

  And for the last time committed to print: no, I’m not Aaron Tucker. For one thing, he’s about an inch and a half shorter than I am, and (I hope) better looking. And my wife is not Abby, my son is not Ethan, and my daughter is not Leah. Yes, I sometimes base characters on people I know, but this ain’t no documentary—the characters are designed to suit the story.

  Now to the important stuff: thanks to those who have written and emailed me (jeff@aarontucker.com) about For Whom the Minivan Rolls. I really do appreciate your kind words, even that one guy who suggested that when the movie is made, everybody should be played by Joseph Fiennes. I don’t think Joe would make a good Abigail, but there’s no accounting for taste.

  Thank you to Libby Hill, who bought 20 (!) copies of Minivan and spread them around the Midwest. And thanks to friends and family who came to the book launch party (thank you, Penny’s Restaurant!) and introduced me to the lovely world of signing books.

  Thanks, again, to Bruce Bortz, who perseveres
when all signs indicate he shouldn’t, and I’m glad.

  A special thank you to the DorothyL crowd, whose many wonderful members have taken me to their hearts and encouraged me. When I wrote Minivan, I had no idea there was such a thing as a “cozy,” so I’ve been well educated by the online mystery community. Special thanks to Meg Chittenden, Mindy Starns Clark (for showing me the ropes at every convention I’ve ever attended), and our intrepid moderator, Diane Kovacs.

  An enormous special thanks to my web design genius, Judy Kolva, without whom Aaron would be homeless on the Internet.

  And of course, my eternal gratitude to my family: Evie, Josh, and my incomparable wife Jessica. Without you, there is no point.

  —Jeffrey Cohen

  October, 2003

  Praise for Jeffrey Cohen and A Farewell to Legs

  “I declare Jeffrey Cohen ‘King of the Zingers.’ His Aaron Tucker character doesn’t know when to stop. . . and that’s the good news. Legs definitely has legs.”

  —TIM COCKEY, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF SUCH MYSTERIES AS MURDER IN THE HEARSE DEGREE

  “A warm welcome back to Aaron Tucker! With his second novel, Jeffrey Cohen delivers another intriguing plot, more laughs, and the characters readers of For Whom the Minivan Rolls will happily recall. Like Spenser, Elvis Cole, and Stephanie Plum, Aaron Tucker is evolving beyond being a character—he’s becoming a brand!”

  —MICHAEL LEVINE, RENOWNED HOLLYWOOD PUBLICIST AND BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  “A delightful, breezy mystery, staking a claim just as firmly in the world of realistic, human emotion as it does in the grand tradition of the classic whodunit. A fun ride, indeed.”

  —DREW Z. GREENBERG, WRITER, “SMALLVILLE,” “BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER”