Céline turns to face them. “So how can I help you?” She’s taller than Manny but not as tall as Vikström. She doesn’t sit down, nor does she invite the detectives to sit down. The living room is attractive but uninspiring: beige carpet, beige couch, beige armchair, and an ocean scene with sailboats over the mantel. Soon the detectives will learn that every bit of furniture is rented, but at the moment they believe it represents Céline’s aesthetic choices, and they find them disappointing.
“I’m afraid we’ve bad news for you,” says Vikström. “Your husband was killed earlier today. He was shot. We’re terribly sorry.”
Céline’s impassive expression doesn’t change. Maybe her dark eyes open a little wider. She walks to a red leather purse on a coffee table. “At least I can now smoke in the house,” she says over her shoulder.
The remark strikes Vikström like a blow. He glances at Manny, who shrugs. Céline lights her cigarette with a silver lighter, inhales deeply, and then blows the smoke toward the ceiling. She wears bright red lipstick, which makes her wide mouth seem even wider.
“You’ll have to identify your husband’s body,” says Manny. To himself he calls her one tough cookie. The description opens a door in Manny’s head. Behind it waits his disappointment. Beautiful women disappoint him, insipid rooms disappoint him, and Céline’s answer disappoints him. He glances around for other things that disappoint and finds no shortage.
“He wasn’t my husband,” says Céline.
Manny and Vikström raise their eyebrows in unison. “Your partner, then,” says Vikström.
“He wasn’t my partner. He wasn’t anything. The whole business is a sham. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. But I’ll identify the body. My pleasure.”
Vikström ignores the possible pleasurable aspect of identifying Sal’s body. “What do you mean, ‘a sham’?”
“The house is rented, the furniture is rented, the dishes and silverware are rented. Sheets, blankets, rugs, lamps, TV, Internet, cars—it’s all rented. Even I’m rented, and also the kids and little dog. It’s a sham, like I said.”
“But you were living with him,” says Vikström.
“But he didn’t fuck me. He even offered me money, and I didn’t let him fuck me. He was disagreeable, and he slapped me once. I don’t allow that.”
“What’d he slap you for?” asks Manny.
“He caught me trying on his gold bracelet. He accused me of planning to steal it. It was too big for me anyway. I found him repellent.”
“Didn’t he have any good qualities?” Vikström feels mildly sorry for Nicoletti.
Céline smiled. It was her first change of expression. But it wasn’t a friendly smile. “He could make a good omelet.” She stubs out her cigarette in a green glass ashtray on a table by the couch. The filter is bright red from her lipstick.
“Jeez!” says Manny. He sits down on the couch. Fuck the invitation. He didn’t need an invitation to sit down.
Vikström sits down to the left of Manny, whose arm rests on the back of the couch. For the first time that day, Vikström sees that Manny is wearing a Swiss Army watch with a white face, red bezel, and a black rubber strap. Without needing to look closer, Vikström knows that the model name is Maverick II. He knows this because he wears exactly the same watch. He’s positive that Manny has purchased the watch to annoy him.
“So what’s this all about?” asks Manny gruffly.
Céline runs a hand through her black hair. Then she shrugs. “The FBI put us here because Danny has to appear in federal court in Detroit in about a month. They thought he was in danger, so they invented this whole charade: the happy American family. I guess they didn’t watch him closely enough.”
Manny and Vikström feel a sense of liberation. It will be the FBI’s job to find whoever shot Sal Nicoletti. Manny and Vikström will be no more than domestic help. If they weren’t policemen, they might giggle with pleasure.
“Why d’you call him Danny?” asks Vikström.
Céline remains standing. “Because that’s his name: Danny or Dante Barbarella. He had a job in a Detroit casino. The FBI changed it temporarily to Sal Nicoletti. Danny liked it. He thought it was classy.”
They ask if Danny had any friends or acquaintances in the New London area. No. Do they know their neighbors? No. Did he invite anyone over to the house? No. Then Céline raises a hand.
“A man drove him home from downtown on the day of the accident, but he didn’t come into the house. And he came back yesterday looking for Danny, but Danny wasn’t here. He said his name was Connor. He drove a blue Mini-Cooper.”
“What’d he look like?” asked Manny.
So Céline described Connor Raposo: handsome, mid-twenties, dark hair, dark eyes, straight nose, narrow face, tall and thin. “And he had a tan,” Céline adds.
Who is this fucking guy with the tan? thinks Manny. “Anything else?”
“Danny said he asked too many questions. And he kept looking at me. He liked what he saw.” She says this without expression.
Céline stands above the two detectives with her hands on her hips. Her black T-shirt seems too small for her. Maybe it shrank in the wash. With her black shorts and T-shirt, Manny thinks she looks like a sexy ninja.
“I bet,” said Vikström. “Was he rude or anything?”
“He was fine—just a polite guy working up an infatuation.”
Manny and Vikström are quiet as they think about that. Strumpet, thinks Manny. Still gorgeous, thinks Vikström.
“He ever get any phone calls?” asks Manny.
“Not really. Well, he got one Monday night. I answered Sal’s cell phone. I thought he was going to slap me for that as well. He didn’t like anyone calling him. The man said his name was Leon. When Sal took the phone, I could hear this guy yelling at him, but I didn’t hear any specific words.”
“Did Sal say anything?” asks Vikström.
“He kept saying it was an accident, that it wasn’t supposed to happen. I didn’t know what he was talking about.”
But Manny and Vikström knew what Leon was talking about, and the next day Leon was dead.
“What about his office?” asks Manny. “He say anything about people in the offices next to his?”
Céline thinks for a moment. “He mentioned the man in the front office. He called him Marco.”
“What did he say about him?”
“Same thing he said about everybody. He called him a jerk.”
“He’s the guy who was killed on Monday. Did he mention that?” asks Vikström.
Again Céline’s eyes widen slightly. “He didn’t say anything about it. I heard it on television.”
“Sal wear much jewelry?” asks Manny. “Someone saw a homeless guy come tearing out of the building and drop a gold chain on the sidewalk.”
“Was Sal wearing any when you found him?” asks Céline.
“Nothing at all. Even his wallet was missing,” says Vikström. “That’s why we thought the homeless guy might have taken more than a single chain.”
Céline lights another cigarette. “Sal wore some, but nothing too flashy. A couple of chains, a couple of rings, perhaps the gold bracelet I mentioned.”
“Someone said he wore a Rolex,” says Vikström.
Céline laughs her humorless laugh. “Yes, he got it cheap. He liked to brag about how cheap. It was made in China.”
“Is there other stuff still in the house?” asked Manny.
“Not much. Maybe some cuff links. He usually wore what he had. Maybe there’s another chain, I don’t know.”
Vikström isn’t sure she’s telling the truth. “And that was it?”
“As I say, he didn’t want to call attention to himself.”
Manny decides to change the subject. “Why’d you agree to come out from Detroit?”
“The money was good. I needed the money.”
“What’s that make you?” asks Manny. “Living out here with a guy for money.”
“Practical,” says Cél
ine with a straight face.
Manny and Vikström consider this. Both have conflicting ideas about the word “practical.” Manny thinks, Gold digger. Vikström thinks, Provident.
“Anything else before we go downtown for the ID?” asks Vikström.
“There’s something I’d like you to take with you. I don’t want it in the house.” Céline leaves the room.
“For Pete’s sake,” says Vikström. “You practically called her a whore.”
“So what? She didn’t blink. I bet she’s turned tricks for cash in her time.”
“Watchit!” shouts Vikström.
Manny and Vikström leap upward from the couch with their hands on their weapons. They move surprisingly quickly for middle-aged men.
“Fuck me!” says Manny. “She’s going to kill us!”
Céline has reentered the living room carrying a pump-action shotgun loosely in her left hand.
Vikström shouts, “Drop that immediately!”
Manny has drawn his Glock 22 and hopes he won’t shoot himself in the leg.
Céline slowly puts the shotgun down on the rug and steps away. “Danny had that. I don’t want it in the house.”
“Where’d it come from?” asks Manny. He can see it’s a Winchester 1200 with a twenty-inch barrel. He used to have one at home but sold it when he was building his karaoke box.
“Danny brought it from Detroit in case someone came looking for him.”
The detectives have a sudden image of the rose sticking out of Sal’s forehead. Vikström takes a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and picks up the shotgun. He sniffs the barrel. “It’s been fired not long ago.”
“Poppaloppa,” says Manny. “That Rhode Island statie is going to be as happy as a pig in shit. What was his name? Rocky, Rocky something.”
“Woody Potter.”
“You sure it wasn’t Rocky?”
“Positive.”
“Rocky, Woody, what’s the difference? We solved his case for him.”
Vikström doesn’t want to agree, but he sees no reason not to. He turns to Céline. “I guess we don’t know your last name.”
“Gaurige.”
“Is it Greek?” asks Manny.
“Greek enough.”
Neither finds this a satisfactory answer.
“Okay,” says Manny. “Grab your coat. We’re outta here.”
—
It may be easily understood that when Connor Raposo fled Sal’s office after seeing his corpse with a red plastic rose emerging from its forehead, he was not at his best. Shock, panic, and fear wrestled for emotional domination, while guilt, regret, and shame—the smaller fellows—jumped up and down to be noticed. If Connor were a Navy SEAL, he could laugh it off, but the closest he has ever come to a military connection was fifteen years ago when he was a Cub Scout. Once on the sidewalk, he knows that if he runs, he’ll attract attention, but his hurried walk is on the cusp of a gallop.
The Mini-Cooper is parked twenty yards up Bank Street just across from the Exchange, where Connor had lunch and talked to Fat Bob, not knowing he was Fat Bob. On his way to his car, he passes several mildly startled people to whom he gives a rictus grin and gasps, “I’m late, I’m late.”
Connor drives quickly to the granite-and-brick post office four blocks away, pulls in to a parking slot, cuts the engine, and rests his forehead on the steering wheel. Having a dozen thoughts clamoring for your attention is like having a dozen big people trying to crowd into an already crowded elevator—that’s how it seems to Connor. He wonders if he can think himself into oblivion, but his temporary parking space is only good for fifteen minutes. Still, he attempts to regulate his breathing.
We’ve already said that Connor has had no experience with the rough side of life: guns, gangsters, and brutal behavior. This, for him, is TV stuff. It’s beyond the pale, meaning on the other side of the fence. But what is this fence? Most likely it means beyond the middle range of event that Didi often talks about. In Didi’s expansion of the middle range, Sal’s murder fits as nicely as a pebble in a pig’s snout.
But Connor isn’t interested in nihilistic philosophies. In the past few days, many appalling images have shouldered their way into his brain. And how can he make sense of them when their sensational aspects disrupt what he calls his rational thinking?
Yet when a brief gap occurs in his confusion, like a bit of blue sky among a mass of clouds, all he can think is, I’ve caused this! He’s sure Sal is dead because of what he told Vasco. And Vasco then sold the information. How simple. Connor had been unable to keep his mouth shut because he wanted to impress his fucking brother! As he thinks this, he slowly bumps his head against the steering wheel, but not hard enough to be painful. It’s not pain he wants; it’s new thoughts. This is Connor’s education into the dark side, and future lessons will inform him that Sal’s apparent two children are rentals and his wife Céline is not his wife but a high-priced escort. That’s the trouble with education: it keeps bullying us with further unwanted information. No wonder political conservatives want to close the schools. Their wish is for a pre-Snake world, to return to those happy days of scratching one’s balls. Good fucking luck, as the late Sal might say.
But Connor can’t just sit in the Mini-Cooper bumping his head on the steering wheel. He has to retrieve the envelopes stuffed with checks from the FBNA, Inc. mailbox and get back to the Winnebago. It’s a pity those times when we’re called upon to think most clearly are also the times most rife with commotion. Because Connor is afraid to go into the post office and get the mail: he’s afraid it’s being watched. Other people, too, are entering and leaving the post office, and Connor could slip among them as inconspicuously as a single crow among a murder of crows, but he’s sure that the moment he opens the door, a heavy hand will land on his shoulder. So now he’ll spend further minutes with his head on the steering wheel as he tries to separate his tangle of thoughts and emotions, which is like peeling soft tar from a sidewalk with your fingernails.
No telling how long he might sit like this, but after another minute comes a gentle tap on his window, which shoots boiling adrenaline straight out of Connor’s ears, metaphorically speaking. Turning his head, he sees a pretty young woman standing in the street wearing a concerned expression. Connor, in his present paranoia, thinks she must be an undercover cop, but then clarity of mind reasserts itself and he lowers his window, although slowly.
“Are you all right?” The young woman has a gentle voice, and her blue eyes brim with sympathy through wire-framed glasses.
We should say that we don’t believe in angels, nor are we acquainted with this woman. We can only say that she performs an angel-like task.
Connor raises his head. “Just a little tired,” he says.
But the woman doesn’t believe him. After all, he’s a dreadful liar. “Do you need a doctor? Or perhaps a drink of water?” The sun is behind her, and her short, spiky blond hair radiates color. She takes a bottle of water from her backpack—these days all young women carry bottles of water—and offers it to Connor.
He is still dazed, but he sufficiently knits himself together to reach for it. Taking the bottle, he brushes her fingers with his own. He unscrews the top and drinks. We wish we could say it’s a magic elixir, but it’s only water. Connor takes another drink and tries to hand the bottle back to her.
“Keep it,” she says. “I have more.”
“You’re wonderful,” says Connor.
Maybe she blushes. With the light behind her, it’s difficult to tell.
“Are you okay? Did you have an attack? Why were you banging your head against the steering wheel?”
Connor wants to say he’d been struck a near-fatal blow by the world’s ugly complexity, but instead he says, “I guess I’ve no good reason for that. But I’m fine now. Thank you for the water.”
She smiles. “Then I’ll be on my way.”
—
Connor’s knot of contorted emotions doesn’t disentangle i
tself on his drive back to the Winnebago, but the strands loosen to the extent that they can join together without squabbling. The Latin term morsus conscientiae doesn’t begin to describe his feelings, but he can only beat himself on the head for so long. What can he do to make it up to Sal? Nothing. Perhaps he could take care of Sal’s wife and kids for the rest of his days, but he sees under this good idea a bad idea struggling to get out. The only one Connor wants to take care of is Sal’s wife, Céline. And with this understanding, Connor’s guilty feelings return, while beyond these feelings he sees Céline, a beautiful woman standing on a farther shore. If Connor were a drinker, he’d drink himself into oblivion. If he were a flagellant, he’d beat himself silly. But he’s a relatively normal man with an average number of strengths and weaknesses. We, of course, like him, but we’re prejudiced.
He parks behind the Winnebago, gathers the many envelopes taken from the mailbox, and gets out. The gray Ford Focus rental is gone. The sky is partly cloudy, and a stiff breeze blows clouds to the east. The ocean is choppy with whitecaps. A few gulls ride the thermals. Connor wants to wrap himself in a blanket and lie on the beach until the tide drags him away, but he knows that’s impossible.
Walking to the door of the Winnebago, he finds Vaughn sprawled on the ground, fussing with the shells of eight horseshoe crabs arranged in a circle on the dead grass. “What’s up?” says Connor.
Vaughn doesn’t look at him. “I’m arranging crushed Asians.”
Connor doesn’t stop to talk, but he’s glad to be back in the world of ordinary madness. Inside, Eartha plays solitaire on the dinette table. She’s topless and wears only a pair of shorts. When she looks at him, her breasts swing in a gentle arc. Connor is positive he hears a faint whoosh as they pass through the air.
“Want to play gin rummy?” she asks.
“You’ll have to put on a bathrobe.” Connor stacks the envelopes on the kitchen counter. “Vaughn’s outside crushing Asians.”
Is Fat Bob Dead Yet? Page 17