“I see Alison. It’s tough on everyone.”
“You too.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Harry deserves a good life. Separation is hard for children. Alison thought he was too young to understand, but I could tell he was troubled by it. They feel stress, they feel anxiety. Just like us really.”
He nodded.
“Some people don’t deserve to be parents. Michael . . . he doesn’t deserve Harry,” she said.
“At least he has a mother.”
Henrietta nodded. At least he has a mother.
“You don’t talk about Chicago much,” Manny said. “Or about your sister.”
Furat tugged at the grass with her fingers.
“How come?”
“My sister got pregnant.”
“Oh.”
“I’m not ashamed,” she said. “My father is. She wasn’t married. The guy’s not Muslim.”
“Oh.”
“She’s great. My best friend.”
“You’ll be an aunt.”
“I’ll be an aunt.”
“Makes you sound old.”
She punched his arm.
“Will you go to the prom with me?”
She noticed him look down at her shoes, then up at the sky, anywhere but into her eyes.
“Wow,” she said.
He finally looked at her.
She saw the usual look of defiance in his eyes. But behind the defiance, a long way behind it, right at the back of the long line of other expressions he managed to convey with his large, brown eyes, she could see that he was nervous.
“Wow, what?”
“Wow, you managed a whole sentence without cursing. I’m going to tell Elena when I see her. Damn, I wish I had it on tape. She’ll never believe me.”
She stretched back on the grass and looked up at the sky. It was blue, brilliant blue with the lightest wisp of cloud. Away in the distance she saw a plane moving slowly, leaving a trail of its own white, wispy cloud behind it. She wondered where it was headed, if it was some exotic, sun-kissed destination. She liked to think so. But then there was every chance it was headed to Connecticut, or Detroit, or someplace equally gray.
“I’m being serious. You want to go or not? If you do, you need to let me know ’cause there’s a whole bunch of broads I have to disappoint, and they’ll need time to try and find a replacement for me. And that won’t be easy—powerful men are hard to come by.”
She laughed. She’d laughed a lot since she’d met Manny, but never more than when he’d first met her mother, who’d introduced herself as Mrs. Al-Basri. From then on Manny had called her “Al,” as if that were her first name. Furat had been surprised, and a little relieved, when her mother had found it amusing.
“So is it a yes or a no?”
“I’ll go with you on two conditions.”
“A spirited filly, I like it, laying down the law already.” He sat up, leaning on one elbow, looking down at her. “Name them?”
“One, you have to shave off the mustache. It looks awful, Manny, seriously . . . awful.”
He ran his forefinger and thumb along the lines of the arrow.
“Skinny will be devastated if I shave it off. You know, he grew his own back when I mentioned the gangster thing to him. Four days in he looked like Tom Selleck. It was a work of art, all thick and lustrous. It was a privilege to walk the streets with him. And what with his height, he looked a good five years older—beautiful, especially in our line of work. My baby face is a curse at the moment. I know one day it’ll come in handy, like when we’re fifty and you’re all dried up and shit, all dead skin and gray hairs, and I’ll still be getting carded when I buy a bottle of liquor. Still partying with college kids and banging nineteen year olds.”
“Yes or no? Will you shave it off? You can always take Abe to the prom if not—hold his hand and lead him to the dance floor.”
“Jesus, okay, okay. Yes. It’s a shame though, it really is.”
He looked off into the distance, very much in a state of mourning.
“What else?”
“The three-piece, and the hat.”
He looked at her, his eyes wide, slowly shaking his head.
“You have to wear a dinner suit, black tie, white shirt, no hat. Just for one night, for me. I’ve always dreamed of going to senior prom, but in my dream my date didn’t have to wear a bandage around his head. That, or you can head to the after-party with Abe, maybe even try and kiss him at the end of the night.”
She could see him thinking about kissing Abe.
He nodded.
She watched him glance down at his shoes and stifle a smile.
“Normal shoes too,” she said.
He sighed. “That’s the problem with women.”
“What?”
“They always try and beat the gangster out of you.”
11
Every Last Drop
“I need something stronger,” Jess said.
She wore sunglasses. She moved from foot to foot, occasionally drumming on the glass counter with her fingers.
“There’s nothing stronger without a prescription,” Hung said. “Have you spoken with your doctor, Jess? I’m sure he’d give you something, if you just explain to him.”
“I can’t.”
She ran a hand through her hair, every now and then glancing back over her shoulder.
“Have you tried Sominex?”
She waved him off brusquely. “It’s all shit. Fucking weak shit.”
He swallowed, not knowing what to say. He could see Lisa hiding in the back office. He didn’t blame her. The last time Jess had come in she’d reduced Lisa to tears when she’d refused to sell her the Zaleplon she’d asked for.
Jess took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes, then put them back on again.
He thought of suggesting some herbal supplements before quickly changing his mind as he watched her scanning the shelves.
“How about painkillers? What’s the strongest I can get?” Jess said, leaning over the counter.
Her top gaped low; he looked away.
“Can I ask what you need them for? Where’s the pain exactly?”
Jess stared at him, her lip trembling. “Please.”
He reached out and took her hand. It felt thin in his, more bone than anything else.
“Talk to your doctor, Jess.”
She snatched her hand away, then turned and walked back out into the sun.
The town was called Echo Bay, although it sat miles from the nearest beach. The ocean could be glimpsed on a clear day, so calling it a coastal town had seemed a good idea to the developers.
The drive there had taken Jim a little over two hours. It was hot in the car so he got out and stood in the dust. He glanced around, arid plains on all sides. He wondered who’d want to build a house here, and who’d want to buy one.
He wasn’t sure why he had made the trip, could’ve probably got all he needed from a quick call. He was reaching, he knew that, but Jared had something to hide. Jared Martin. He worked in the Ford dealership on the edge of town. Jim hadn’t been to see him yet, hadn’t wanted to spook him. It was probably nothing much but Jared’s Social Security number belonged to a man named Frank Tremblay, who’d died a couple of years back. Jared was Canadian. Lots of people outstayed their visa. Jim wouldn’t bust him for it. Not if that was all it was.
He crossed the street, expected to see a tumbleweed float by. A light breeze whipped the dust around his shoes.
The construction site was quiet; ten guys maybe, most of them standing around. One of them pointed him in the direction of a small cabin. He strolled over to it, the sun fierce on the back of his neck.
He banged the door, heard a gruff voice beckon him in.
The man stood. He was short, round, messy. Droplets of sweat beaded on the thick hair that carpeted his forearms. He had little hair on his head, much more on his face.
Jim introduced himself, shook the man’s outstret
ched hand then fought the urge to wipe his own on his pants.
The man’s name was Clifton.
“Hot out there,” Jim said.
“Ain’t much better in here,” Clifton said, pointing to a fan that stood in the corner of the office. “Been broke for eighteen days.”
Clifton cleared his throat, hocking up something awful and then swallowing it back down again, whatever it was leaving some kind of residue on his dry lips. A residue he wiped onto the back of his arm.
“I wanted to ask you about Jared Martin.”
“Who?”
“Jared Martin.”
Clifton took a moment, then nodded. “I remember. Don’t get many that ain’t Mexican. What about him?”
“When did he work for you?”
Clifton rubbed his chin. “A year back, maybe more. Build’s taking too long—ten units should be finished by now. Fucking Mexicans out there. Lazy. Permit’s been delayed too.”
“How long for?”
“Who knows with the fuckers they got running the place. I submitted a year back.”
Jim shook his head. “I meant how long did Jared work for you for?”
“Months . . . a year. I don’t remember. They come and go.”
“You don’t keep records?”
He shrugged.
“Anything you can tell me about him?”
“I get a lot of guys passing through.”
Jim nodded and began to stand.
“You could try Arturo. I think Jared was sweet on his sister. You should see her, with the ass. I tell you . . . worth paying her a visit, if you know what I mean.”
Clifton winked, his eye so red and sticky that there was a very real danger the lid would glue down and he’d have to open it manually again.
“You should get your eye checked out. Looks infected,” Jim said.
Clifton shrugged. “I got another.”
“Which one’s Arturo?”
“The Mexican.”
Jim stepped back outside, the sound of Clifton’s laughter muting as he shut the door behind him.
He found Arturo by the cement mixer, leaning on it, smoking a cigarette and drinking a can of Coke. His skin was dark, his hands calloused. He took his hat off and wiped the sweat from his forehead. The other guys were watching, didn’t look away when Jim stared back at them.
“You a cop?”
Jim nodded.
“This about the car?”
Jim shook his head.
Arturo took another drag.
“I wanted to ask about Jared Martin. He used to work here.”
Arturo smiled, started to laugh then checked it.
“What?”
“Nothing. Nice guy. Quiet, worked hard. He had experience too. Knew what he was doing. Came from some other site. Not like the rest. You see them all watching? They think you’re here to bust them, ’cause they don’t have papers.”
“But you do?”
“I do. Been here twenty years. Got kids, a wife.”
“A sister.”
“Yeah. Jared took her out a few times. She liked him. Said he was different.”
“How?” Jim said, squinting into the sun.
Arturo shrugged, still smirking. “Good different. Nice. Treated her well.”
“And?”
“And nothing. He skipped town. Most people do. They like the name. Echo Bay— sounds beautiful. Then they see it.” He laughed.
Jim laughed too.
“Can I talk to your sister?”
“If you can find her. She took off with some guy.”
Jim nodded, thanked him and then walked back toward his car.
“He do something?” Arturo called out.
Jim turned, shook his head.
The Ferrari roared. Roger gripped the side of his seat tightly, his face ashen. He glanced at the man sitting beside him. The dealer. The vulture.
The vulture glanced back, smiling, seemingly oblivious to the speed they were traveling at.
“Once you get her past eighty she really starts to sing,” the vulture said, flooring the accelerator.
Roger emitted a strange noise, part squeal, part howl.
“Are you okay?” the vulture said.
“Yes, she’s really lovely,” Roger replied, his hair blowing into his eyes.
He wondered how the vulture could have deduced that the beast they sat in was female.
“I’ll pull over in a second and you can take over.”
“No, no. I’m quite alright here, thank you. You know how to handle her better than I do. She might not like the feel of my hand.”
Jesus. He sounded like a pervert now.
“Roger, you can’t buy her without driving her,” the vulture said, as he brought the car to a stop and jumped out.
Roger spent an age ensuring that the mirrors were correctly aligned and his seat in the correct position. When he could delay no longer, he gently pressed the accelerator and the car promptly stalled.
“It’s in full auto mode. I didn’t even know that it could be stalled in full auto mode,” the vulture said, as he looked at Roger with what Roger liked to believe was awe, but conceded might well have been pity.
“She wouldn’t be the first girl that’s recoiled under my touch.”
Again, the pervert.
Twenty minutes later, as they passed through a bustling Main Street, the Ferrari drew many a lingering glance, though that might have been because Roger was driving it so slowly.
He ducked low when he saw Henrietta in the window of the Tearoom.
And then he saw that she wasn’t alone.
She was with Richard: real man Richard. They were laughing and she touched his hand as they laughed. He was drinking a cup of something, most probably coffee, most probably black. It wouldn’t be tea, not for a real man like him.
It wasn’t that he was flirting with Henrietta that particularly bothered Roger. It wasn’t the way she touched his hand, or the way she threw her head back and laughed at something he said. It was more the feeling he got when Richard glanced over at him, then turned back to Henrietta, not even offering a wave, a smile, an acknowledgment that he was there. He did that often during the building work—ignored him and went straight to Hen if they needed something. Real man Richard, always looking down on him. It was then that he noticed Eddie, one of Richard’s men, standing outside, smoking a cigarette. Eddie looked up. Roger smiled. Eddie also looked away.
Roger felt the anger building in his stomach, boiling over and spilling its way down his legs. He wouldn’t be ignored any longer. As he came to pass the Tearoom he floored the accelerator, heard the engine roar, and plowed straight into the back of a duck-egg blue, Ford Escape.
“Motherfucking cocksucker. You got this Ferrari and you can’t drive for shit,” Manny said.
As Roger sighed and offered to pay cash for the damage, to try and keep the fallout to a minimum, he regarded the smartly dressed young man in front of him. From his polished shoes to his rather tight looking fedora, he looked far out of place on Main Street.
“Jesus Christ. It’s not enough that you fucked up my car, now you’re checking me out too.”
“God, no, I’m married,” Roger said, as he turned to the Tearoom and, aside from the stares of passersby, noticed that his wife and real man Richard had disappeared. “I just thought that you looked good. A little like a gangster, but in a good way.”
Manny could scarcely suppress his smile. “It’s not so bad. Maybe we’ll have to get the whole car resprayed.”
Jim sat on the small deck and watched the sun dip low in a cloudless sky. The temperature didn’t drop much at night. He drained the last of his beer then stared into the empty bottle. There was a small drop left inside, painting a clear track on the glass. There always was, no matter how long he left it upturned for.
He tipped it up again, watching as the droplet ran to the top and stopped still. He blew into it, trying to coax it out.
Jess had been waiting for h
im when he got back to the station. She’d wanted to know where he’d been. He hadn’t told her. There was nothing to tell. She was wearing a skirt. He’d noticed the bruising on her thigh. Fucked-up Jess with her fucked-up life.
He thought of Harry. He picked up the case file and opened it again. He took it home every night, ate with it on the table, slept with it on the bed.
It was quiet. He looked around, wanted to see a bird or something, anything.
He tried to escape, but never could. No matter what he was doing, who he was talking to, his mind never strayed far from Harry and Jess. A kid had been taken, in his town. And he couldn’t find him. A three-year-old kid, with blond hair and big blue eyes. Three was a tough age. He wasn’t a baby who would have been oblivious to what was going on. At three he’d have known. He’d be scared, and worried.
Jim clung to the tip, the sighting at Aurora Springs. It meant something. It helped him get to sleep at night. Harry was still alive. He believed that, he needed to. But time was passing. Weeks had turned into months in the blink of an eye.
He wondered how Jess ever got to sleep. The drink, that’s how. And who could blame her? Why shouldn’t she drink? She had a better excuse than most. She could drink. She could pop pills, or fuck every man in a 100-mile radius if that made her feel something, or feel nothing. She could do it because there was nothing worse, there could be nothing worse than having your child taken away. It was worse than when kids got sick, poor kids that got struck down with cancer or some other disease that adults couldn’t even get a handle on—it was worse because there was someone to blame for Harry, someone other than God.
Someone knew something.
Someone had done it to Jess, to Harry. They’d said “Fuck the consequences, I want him, so I’m taking him. And when you can’t find me, when you can’t find me so that you can blame me, you can look in the mirror and point the finger at yourself. Because you should know by now that the world is a fucked-up place so you have to always be watching. Because I’m always watching.”
Tall Oaks: A gripping missing child thriller with a devastating twist Page 9