The Way of All Fish

by Martha Grimes

  Joe shook his head. “Vet’s coming this evening. One of the pigs is sick. Tomorrow I can probably make it.”

  They said great, they’d fix up a meeting with Paul Giverney.

  As Karl was revving the engine, Joe butted his head through the driver’s window. “Do you think he’d sign my books? I’ve got all of them. Do you think he’d sign one or two?”

  “Man, I think he’d write you a book.”

  Joe smiled and thumped the hood of the car and watched it bounce down the gravel and dirt driveway.

  49

  The three of them walked into the Hess Literary Agency with their cannolis and champagne and greeted the receptionist. With a look of deep regret directed mostly at Joe Blythe, as if it wounded her to deny him anything, she said, “I’m sorry, but as you have no appointment—”

  “The thing is, Steffie,” said Joe, having taken in the brass plaque, “it’s a surprise.” He opened the white box and took out one of the little paper plates the bakery provided, placed a cannoli on the plate, and set it before her.

  “Oh, how delicious!”

  Joe handed her a plastic fork. “This is why we didn’t make an appointment,” he said. “So if Mr. Hess is free—”

  “He is, yes.” She looked at the pastry with a kind of longing, then rose. “I should let him—”

  Joe waved her down. “Surprise, remember?” He smiled again.

  Steffie looked as helpless as a kid who couldn’t tie her own shoelaces. “Oh, well . . . all right. Just go on in.”

  Joe said, “Since it’s a party, don’t be surprised if you hear some noise. But don’t worry about it.” He winked at her.

  She was oozing more than the cannoli.

  The three opened the door to Hess’s inner sanctum and marched in, shouting, “Surprise!”

  L. Bass Hess’s head jerked up from the contract he was scribbling on, his mouth agape.

  “Hiya, Bass,” said Candy, holding up the bottle of champagne.

  Joe set the cannoli box on the desk and then sat himself right next to it.

  Bass’s face turned an unhealthy pink. “Who are you?”

  “Joe Blythe.” He held out his hand.

  Hess looked at it as if it were a cobra. Rage and fear vied for first place in his expression. He tried standing up.

  “Oh, sit down, Bass,” said Karl. “We just want to have a little talk, a glass of champagne, a pastry.”

  Joe opened the box, picked up a pastry, a plate, and a fork, and slid it all across the desk. Hess went for the telephone. Joe trapped his hand before it got there. Hess yelled out, “Stephanie!”

  Candy and Karl laughed and cheered.

  Over their voices, Bass tried again: “Stephanie!”

  “Christ’s sake, Bass,” said Candy as he popped the cork out of the bottle. “Like Joe said, we just want to have a little chat. Got any glasses in here?” The champagne fizzed up and overflowed.

  “You two! You were the ones who stole my documents! How dare you march in here?” Again the hand reached for the phone and again missed it when Joe Blythe swept the phone off the desk.

  Candy rooted around on one of the shelves, found some plastic glasses, and started pouring. Joe went over to him and leaned against the shelves as Candy handed him a plastic glass of champagne. “Thanks.” Joe sipped it and set it on the shelf.

  Karl had taken one of the leather chairs and was lighting a cigarette; with the burning match in his fingers, he said, “We didn’t exactly steal them, did we? You handed them over. Did you ask us if we were Hale and Reeves? No. But never mind. The point is, you’ve been feeding information to Cindy Sella’s lawyers, which is hardly sporting.” He blew out the match.

  “That’s absurd. Their client is the defendant in a case where I am the plaintiff. I have every right to speak to them. We were discussing settlement.” Hess was satisfied enough with his response to offer them his dull blade of a smile. “In any case, you should take that up with her attorneys, not with me.” Thinking he’d scored a great point, he crossed his arms and turned the thin smile into a smirk.

  “We did.” Karl pulled out a folded paper from his inside pocket. He read: “ ‘Your information re: Sella will be used as I see fit.’ We got the file, Bass. It doesn’t look like your relationship with Wally Hale is all that ethical, does it?” Out of another pocket, Karl pulled the photos. “Cindy Sella and Cindy Sella,” he said, tapping one and then the other. “In company with a woman named Rosa Parchment, who’s been picked up a couple times for soliciting; and a small-time dealer, a guy named Benny Bennet.”

  Bass Hess was shaking his head vigorously. “I have nothing to do with that. That’s all down to Hale and Reeves.”

  “Not according to Hale and Reeves. They say it’s down to you.”

  “That’s an unmitigated lie!” Bass brought his fist down on his desk.

  “Thing is,” Karl went on as if the man hadn’t spoken, “if any of us”—the brief sweep of his hand took in Candy, Joe, and Karl himself—“was to have our picture snapped every time we found ourselves in company with some miscreant, you string those together, you’d have a movie longer than Gone with the Wind. So these?”—Karl waved the two photos before he returned them to his pocket—“would be laughed out of court as evidence.”

  Gaining a measure of confidence, given Joe Blythe’s distance from him, Bass said, “Of course they would. I know enough law to know that. And to implicate me in this nonsense, you’d have to prove I had knowledge of those probably bogus pictures.” Thinking this a sufficient dodge, he smiled and sat back in his chair.

  No one saw a movement; no one saw the knife until it had zipped by L. Bass’s ear and buried its point in the wall behind his chair.

  “Wrong answer, Bass.”

  Horrified, L. Bass Hess jumped from his chair, fell over a pile of folders stacked on the floor, and lost the use of his voice except for a sibilant whisper. He wheezed, “You’re insane! Get out of here!”

  Joe gave him a bland look. “Right answer: You drop this whole complaint against Cindy Sella.”

  Hess stood, leaning against his desk, pressing his white handkerchief to his cheek. Seeming to gain courage when no one said anything, he said, “This is assault and I am going to prosecute.”

  Since he was standing, the second knife just missed making a part in his unruly red hair and landed in the wall above the first, where it quivered for a second or two.

  Hess shrieked first, then bellowed toward the closed door beyond which Steffi might or might not have been eating her cannoli. “Security! Stephanie!”

  “Still not the right answer, Bass,” said Joe.

  “You’re mad, completely mad.” He was ghostly pale, snatching up his jacket from the back of the chair, as if holding it in front of his chest would protect him.

  In three steps, Joe was at Hess’s desk, where he grabbed him by the collar and threw him back in his chair. “You’re just wasting time.”

  Hess wiped the sweat from his brow. “All right. All right. I’ll drop the case.”

  Joe smiled, moved to the wall behind the desk, and retrieved the knives. They went into a pocketed roll; the roll went into Joe’s inside pocket.

  Candy and Karl rose, leaving their glasses on the table.

  “We’d say, you being a man of your word, you’ll follow through. Except you’re not,” said Karl. “So let’s just leave it that if you don’t drop this complaint against Cindy, we’ll be back.”

  Joe grinned at this, went to the table, and picked up the champagne and an empty glass.

  They closed the door on Bass leaning against his desk and mouthing something the shut door muffled.

  “Steffie,” said Joe, pouring champagne into the glass. “Swell party.” He handed her the glass.

  She managed an honest-to-God giggle and took the glass. “It sounded awfully happy.”

  “It was.” Joe winked again.

  This time Steffie winked back.

  The three of them left as t
hey had come.

  50

  I’m calling the police,” said Bass Hess, the stemmed water glass trembling in his hand. He had called Paul Giverney almost as soon as his visitors had left. “This is insufferable harassment. Knives, Paul. He was throwing knives!” He forked up a bite of cod.

  Damn! And I missed it! Paul kept his expression concerned and continued stirring his coffee. They were having a very late lunch at Gramercy Tavern, Bass eating broiled fish and white wax beans thin as needles, with a few tiny potatoes rolling around. He had eschewed the warm bread and olive oil, which Paul was eating hand over fist, along with his asparagus risotto. Paul had suggested lunch, seeing how panicky the man was. Which was just how Paul wanted him.

  “Hold on, Bass. You’ve been through a lot lately. Now, you’re sure they weren’t just kidding around?” Knife throwing, by God! This was Joe Blythe’s specialty. How he wished he’d seen it! But he couldn’t have been present if he meant to continue as Hess’s client and confidant.

  Bass looked scandalized, deeply insulted. “Kidding? Kidding around  ? That knife nearly took my ear off. Who is this maniac? This degenerate? To say nothing of those two hoods who stole my legal documents. Accusing me of collaborating with Cindy Sella’s attorneys. The only way I could get them out of my office was to promise I’d retract the complaint.”

  The waiter paused by the table and refilled the wineglasses with chardonnay. Bass had made it clear that he did not drink at lunchtime, that he had to keep his mind clear for the afternoon’s work. He had made an exception today.

  “Will you, then? Drop the whole business?”

  “Why should I?” he said, querulous as a five-year-old.

  Paul leaned across his folded arms. “Because they’ll kill you.”

  Bass jumped in his chair. The skin beneath his eyes turned to patches of pure white. “You said you thought they were just kidding.”

  “I don’t know. This guy with the knives, he sounds pretty damned convincing.”

  Picking up his glass of wine, Bass fake-smiled. “At least we agree on that!”

  Paul reflected, or gave the appearance of so doing, as his fingers played around the edge of his book. Thomas Mann had become his constant companion, or at least that was the impression Paul wanted to make. “Maybe you should get out of New York for a while. Go home.”

  “To Connecticut?” He frowned.

  “No. I mean Sewickley, PA. That’s where you’re from, isn’t it?”

  “Sewickley?” He made it sound as if Sewickley were a supernova a billion light-years from Pennsylvania. “I haven’t been back there in years. The old house is rented.”

  “You should get out of Manhattan, Bass. God knows you need to get away from these lunatics.”

  “What about the file they said they had?”

  Paul shrugged. “Not your problem. It’s the lawyers’ problem. They could be disbarred. But why in God’s name did you get involved with Cindy Sella’s legal team?”

  “Information. I had to know what she was up to, what she was planning. Moreover, I wanted to know if she’d settle. I fully expected her to settle! Immediately!”

  It was hard for Paul not to reach across the table and grab the man’s tie and smash his head into his fish and beans.

  Hess whined on. “That woman owes me. I saved her career.”

  Paul unfisted his hand. Instead of choking him with his tie, Paul gave Hess’s arm a reassuring pat. “You know what I think? I don’t think it’s Cindy Sella you’re fighting; I think you’re fighting yourself.” Psychobabble like that always made Paul want to retch.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Look, I’m not a psychologist.” He’d been told often enough by Molly and heard it echoed by Hannah. “But I think this Cindy business is a projection of your own—of some deep-rooted issue.” He was surprised Hess was attending to this crap. “Just consider the things that’ve happened: that you were literally—” Saved by an alligator. No, he couldn’t say it, so he went to event number two: “You literally saw a burning bush, Bass” (and couldn’t that alliteration have been avoided?) “then, in the junkyard, you saw that ghostly figure. Either of those would be traumatic, but both, both . . .” Paul stopped, shook his head, drummed his fingers lightly on The Magic Mountain.

  “You forgot the alligator.”

  Paul grabbed his wineglass and poured chardonnay down his throat. Which made him cough rather violently. Was he the one who had written this crazy scenario? Was he, indeed, the one who wanted to go to Pittsburgh?

  His idea, the denouement of his plan had not aged quite enough. To give it five seconds to mature, Paul looked down at the Thomas Mann book, thick as a stack of pancakes, picked it up, and put it down on the table. He riffled the pages for a few seconds.

  Bass said, “You’re reading The Magic Mountain.”

  “This? Yes, for the sixth or seventh time.” He hadn’t read it for the first time, only a part at the beginning, but he knew there was a notional sanctuary, made concrete, manifested in the hospital for people dying of tuberculosis. “It’s the most convincing account of people suffering from spiritual crisis I’ve ever read.”

  “It is?”

  “You see, the hospital is itself a retreat, isn’t it?”

  Bass appeared to be hanging on every word. Which was better than Paul was doing, maybe because he was trying to flesh out his idea, but the flesh wouldn’t stick to the bones. “The hospital seems to be the mountain itself.” Huh. Huh. “Let me tell you.” Paul leaned across the table as if in confidence. “I often think of a retreat for myself.”

  “You? I can’t think of anyone less likely to go to a retreat.”

  Me, neither, thought Paul. The only retreat he needed was his rent-controlled apartment in the East Village. “I’m no stranger to spiritual crisis.” Yes, he was. A total stranger. He wouldn’t know a spiritual crisis if it fell on him like a safe dropped from a window. How in the hell could a person be a serious writer without a bunch of spiritual crises? “You know, I believe I’ll be going to Pittsburgh myself.”

  “Pittsburgh?”

  The place outside of Sewickley, idiot. “I’m from Pittsburgh; I was born there.” The plan was growing legs. “You know, I have a friend near Sewickley I haven’t seen since school. I can’t imagine it, but he’s in charge of a monastery.” Paul suspected it was more a hotel than a religious retreat. Knowing Johnny.

  Bass took a sip of wine. “A monastery? He’s an abbot? Good heavens.” He cut a tiny new potato in half. It was the only starchy part of his meal. “It must be quite a peaceful existence, quite a relief from the rat race.” He ruminated.

  Paul hadn’t heard that expression in years, but he kept his silence and let Hess ruminate as long as he wanted. He dipped more bread in oil and looked at Bass’s lunch. All white, as was Bass himself. Paul thought of Bunny Fogg, the Woman in White . . . He didn’t think she’d been close enough for Bass to recognize her if he saw her again. He might well have seen Bunny in the offices at Mackenzie-Haack. Hess was still too ambivalent about his condition. Paul afforded the man a bit of grudging admiration. If someone had been throwing knives at him, he’d sure as hell be on a plane to Pittsburgh. Pittsburgh? Hell, he’d be on Mars with Curiosity.

  Paul forked up his risotto for a while as Bass cut his sole into bits. He was trying to recall the name of the woman Karl and Candy so admired. One swell actress she must be.

  Lena, that was it. Lena bint Musah. Then there were Monty, Molloy, Graeme, and Bub.

  L. Bass Hess needed another step to the edge of the cliff before he dove over it.

  51

  Pittsburgh?” said Molly. “Why? You usually don’t want to go to Pittsburgh. It makes you sad.”

  “I know. But I have to do some research.”

  “Why?” said Hannah, who was more and more in the habit of reasking her mother’s questions.

  “Because I always have to do research. There’s a character in my book who lives in Shadyside
.”

  Molly shrugged. “Okay.” Then she turned back. “Will your hit men want something to eat?”

  “If you’re talking about Candy and Karl, I doubt it. We’re going to the Clownfish later tonight. Do we have any beer?”

  “Yes. But we don’t have anything to eat.”

  “Then I guess we’ll just eat beer.”

  Molly leaned against the doorframe as if it were the most comfortable place in the room and said, “I guess I could go to Dean and Deluca.”

  Paul smiled at his computer. Molly just needed an excuse to go there. “That would be really nice. A sandwich, maybe. I don’t want anything.”

  “All right. Hannah can go with me.” She walked out.

  “What are hit men? Is that Candy and Karl?”

  “You shouldn’t call grown-ups by their first names,” he said, ignoring the harder question.

  “They told me to.” Hannah remained there, a page of her manuscript pressed to her chest. “Do you have to go to Pittsburgh?”

  “I’ll only be gone a day.” He turned back, saying in a comforting voice, “You’ll hardly know I’m gone.”

  “I know I’ll hardly know. But can I use your computer?”

  “No.”

  Hannah stalked away, and Paul spun around in his chair to the computer and the Google search box.

  “Pittsburgh?” This time it wasn’t Molly registering surprise, it was Karl.

  In Paul’s office, they were eating their Dean and Deluca sandwiches, which Molly had kindly purchased for them.

  “Tomorrow. I booked a room at the Renaissance.” He had wanted to go to the Hilton, but it was different now; it had been bought up and the name changed. “It’s central.”

  “Central to what? Since you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing,” said Karl.

  “I do, too.” Paul did not like the note of whine in his voice as he pulled a file card from his desk. “Right here I’ve got the names of three psychics.”

  “Psychics? How come?” Candy picked up his bottle of beer, drank some.

  “Can’t you remember anything for twenty-four hours, guys? S-É-A-N-C-E. Bass Hess has been trying to get in touch with his dad. He’s been doing the séance thing for years.”