by Paul Moomaw
“We can discuss price if my uncle decides the place is for him,” I say, and the woman’s smile gets even broader. We ride the elevator to the tenth floor and get out. I can see that the doors are numbered for the floor, which means I was right in assuming Hurt’s place would be on the seventh. We go to a door marked ten nineteen and my guide opens it. The place is not bad. The door opens into a large sitting room. A large sliding glass door opens onto a balcony and offers a view of the bay. Beyond there is a dinette and a serviceable kitchen area, and doors that I assume lead to bedrooms and bath.
“This is a two-bedroom unit,” the woman says. She opens a door. “Just one bathroom.” She opens another door to reveal a small bedroom. The window there faces north, and I can see the ship channel bridge and, near that, the USS Lexington, a World War Two aircraft carrier that is permanently moored in Corpus Christi.
I glance at my watch and tell her I had not realized the time, and that I have a couple of other places to visit.
“Well, you look over all the other places you like,” she says. “Then you’ll be back. I’ll just bet on that.”
“I bet you’re right.”
I drive back to the motel and change into normal clothes. Taking the sandals off is especially a relief. In addition to being ugly as sin, the stiff straw has left an abrasion on my left foot.
* * *
The next morning I pull into the Trinity Towers parking lot at a quarter to eleven. The lot is crowded and there are at least a dozen people around me. They look mainly to be middle-aged, and I assume they have relatives inside. Most of them go through the main doors to the lobby, but two couples hit the residential entrance in stride with me. We smile at each other and wait for the elevator. When the door opens I let them enter first. I have learned that courtesy is less well remembered than rudeness, and I would like these people to forget they ever saw me. One of the men makes that less likely when he nods toward my briefcase and says, “Somebody changing their will?” I smile and shrug, and he lets it drop there.
One of the couples gets off on the third floor, and the other on the sixth, and then I have the elevator to myself for one floor. The door opens to an empty foyer on the seventh floor. I walk quickly to Hurt’s door and knock. There is no response. I knock again and then I hear a thumping and shuffling. Eventually the door opens and an old man stares at me. He is leaning on a cane and breathing hard with the effort of coming to the door. He looks only a little like the photographs I saw in the Caller-Times. Either they were taken a long time ago or he has deteriorated. His cheeks sag. He wears a polyester outfit, one piece. They used to call them leisure suits, and old men wore them. This old man still does. I can see that he was once a large man, but now the suit hangs loosely on him. His head juts forward from his shoulders as if he has had vertebrae fused. His eyes are sunken into his cheeks, but they still gleam with whatever energy has kept him going.
“You Speer?” he asks.
“I am.” I hold out my hand and he ignores it.
“Damn door was unlocked. Damn old door is always unlocked. You could have just walked in and saved me the trouble of getting up.” He turns and begins to walk back to a large recliner chair that faces a television set. He moves in a slow shuffle, but does not actually use the cane. He eases himself slowly into the chair and drops the cane to one side of it, then looks up at me. He points to the briefcase.
“What you got there?”
I step toward him and smile. “I have your future comfort and peace.”
“How much do I get?”
“Just what I told you on the telephone. Everything.”
Hurt has worn a frown since he opened the door, and his expression does not change except for his eyes. They gleam suddenly with naked greed.
“Show me where I sign.”
I nod and step to a table that stands next to the window. I put the briefcase down and open the latches. I pull out the file pocket and walk back to Hurt.
“You’ll want to go through these.” I hand him the pocket and move around behind his chair. As he leans forward and begins to fumble with the lace that holds the pocket closed I pull out a length of quarter-inch nylon that has both ends knotted into large loops. I slip my fingers through the loops, cross the cord into a larger loop, and drop it over his head. Then I pull it tight.
Hurt wheezes out one gasp and tries to grab the cord with his fingers but it has already dug deeply into his flabby neck. He kicks out with his feet and drums his heels on the floor. I pull tighter. I am in no hurry because he can make no sound that anyone would hear. His entire body shudders once, then sags, but his hands still slap weakly at his neck. Then he shudders again and his hands fall to his lap. His body goes still, but I can see a faint pulse under his ear. I maintain my pressure and begin to count slowly. Before I reach sixty I smell him die as his sphincters release. I loosen the cord from his neck, then carefully check for breathing or a pulse. There is none. His eyes are open and dead. I leave them that way.
I tuck the cord back into my jacket pocket, pick up the file pocket and replace it into the briefcase, and go to the door. I twist a small button in the doorknob to set the lock and then step through and close the door behind me. I check it quickly to make sure it is locked. It is. Then I walk to the elevator. As soon as I press the button the elevator door opens, and the elevator is empty. Another good sign. I cannot help but compare this job to the one in St. Louis. This time I set the schedule and made the decisions, and this time everything worked as it should. It really is true. When you want a job done right, do it yourself, from the very beginning.
I ride the elevator down, go out to the parking lot, and stop in my tracks as my heart begins to race and my vision blurs for a moment. A tow truck has backed up to my car. It is a big red truck with GALVAN’S SUPER TOWING in bright yellow letters on its side and red and blue lights flashing on the top of the cab. A man in coveralls is pulling a cable with a giant hook down toward my car’s bumper.
I pull myself together and walk quickly toward the truck.
“What’s this all about?” I say.
The man looks up from his task.
“This your car?” he asks.
“It’s mine. What are you doing?”
“What’s it look like? I’m taking it away.”
“You can’t do that,” I say, and realize how stupid the words are as soon as they fly out of my mouth.
He points to a sign. “They’re real strict about that.”
I curse myself for a fool. I allowed myself to be distracted by the crowded lot when I arrived, and I failed to notice the sign just to the right of my car that says DOCTOR PARKING ONLY.
“Sure hate to do this to you, especially ‘cause I can see it’s a rental,” the man says. “I hope you won’t be too late getting it back to the agency.”
“Look,” I say. “You haven’t even started yet. I didn’t see the sign. I’ll get the car out of here right now.”
He shakes his head. “Can’t do that. I already did the paper work.” He points to a clip board resting on the hood of his truck.
I am at a loss. I have never had to deal with anything like this before. I know I should wheedle, offer a bribe, do whatever is necessary; but it feels impossible, like knowing you need to vomit and trying not to. Finally I realize I have to force myself, debase myself if necessary. I cannot allow the car to be logged in at an impoundment lot.
“How about if I buy that piece of paper you were writing on?” I say. It is not very clever, but it is the best I can come up with.
“I could lose my job, man,” he says.
“Fifty dollars?”
He shakes his head. “I got kids,” he says; but he does not continue to hook my car up. I have to hope he is waiting for a better offer.
“A hundred and fifty?” I say, and reach for my wallet.
The man sighs and nods reluctantly. I give him three fifties. He looks them over, tucks them into his pocket, and reaches for the clip board. He remov
es the form he had filled out and hands it to me.
“It wouldn’t have cost you that much to get the car out of the lot,” he says.
“Sometimes time is more important than money.”
“You must be in a hell of a hurry.”
I just nod, then look from him to his truck. He nods back, goes to the truck and winches the cable in. In another minute he is in the truck and pulling away. I take a huge breath, let it out, and get into the car. As I back out of the parking slot I look up at the Trinity Towers, the irrational part of me is convinced that every window is filled with curious people who have been watching the whole thing.
* * *
Back at the motel I take off the suit and put on the clothes I wore to Corpus Christi. The management supplies laundry bags, and I put all the clothes I used for this job into one of them. I take the bag downstairs and put it into my car. Then I go back to my room, get my suitcase, and go to the front desk to check out.
I drive away, trying to calm myself down. No harm done, I think. Even if it occurs to anyone to connect the rental car to Hurt’s death, I have at least followed one of my prime rules. I flew under one name, leased the car under another, and registered at the motel with a third. Still, I will be careful to wipe down every part of the car that I may have touched, especially on the inside, even though I assume the rental agency will give it a thorough cleaning inside and out before it goes to another customer.
On my way into Corpus Christi, driving through a neighborhood known as Five Points, I noticed a Goodwill bin. I drive there now, get out of the car, and put the laundry bag full of clothes into the bin. The briefcase will stay with me. It may be useful again, and it is a fine piece of leather.
All the way back to San Antonio I have to work at quieting my mind. I cannot believe that I was so careless. I have always prided myself on attention to detail. That is one of my rules. I begin to dwell on St. Louis, and on Oregon. Things got screwed up both times. And then there is the card that Katherine found. It would be easy to blame circumstances, or the Mob, but now I have to wonder if it is just me. Maybe I am losing my touch. The doubt that assailed me temporarily on the train trip back from Maxfield’s farm attacks again in earnest. Perhaps it is time to close shop. To retire. Time to settle into my little place in the Yaak. A conviction settles into me, and I know that I can do that, leave the business behind, and live in the woods. As I form that thought, I feel a soft sense of release, and I smile. I luxuriate in the knowledge that just by giving myself permission to do that, even if I put the actual deed off indefinitely, I have crossed a threshold. The rest of the way to San Antonio a part of me is more in Montana than in Texas, sitting on the porch of my cabin, listening to the wind in the pine trees. Then, without warning, Katherine slips into the fantasy, sitting next to me, caressing my cheek; and this time I make no effort to push her out of my thoughts.
When I get to the airline desk at the airport I discover that there is a flight to Seattle within a couple of hours. It has seats, nothing on the aisle, but I am not in the mood to care. I buy my ticket, go through security, and stop at a news stand to find something to read. When they announce pre-boarding for first class I keep reading. It feels important to re-establish some of my old habits. I board at the last minute, turn down all offers of alcohol, and eventually manage to read myself to sleep.
At home there are two messages on my telephone. One is from Angwin, sounding angry, wanting to know what hell is going on with his sister. The other is from her.
“I bought a little boat,” she says. “Call me when you get home and I’ll tell you all about it.”
I ignore both messages. I probably will call Katherine in the morning, although she is part of my confusion about everything right now. As for her brother, maybe I will call him, maybe I will not.
Chapter 41
In the morning I manage to put off deciding about telephone calls by going for a run. It is Saturday and so I include the Post Office on my route. My box contains the usual small amount of junk mail. There is also a plain envelope addressed to “Resident” with a New Jersey postmark. I know where that comes from but I decide opening it can wait. The other stuff goes into the trash can, which is almost full. It usually is, and I wonder how much time and money the Postal Service spends shipping junk mail around the country and then emptying thousands of containers like this one into landfills.
I am almost back to my own front door when someone yells, “Hey!” I turn around and there is Edward Angwin.
The sight of him freezes me to the pavement.
“How the . . .” I begin to say, and then clamp my mouth shut. “How the fuck did you find out where I live?” is what I wanted to say. I realize that despite my wishful thinking Angwin did recognize me that day at Gasworks Park; but there is no point in letting him see that I am surprised. The edge goes to him who bluffs best. I compose myself, although my heart is racing and my stomach is doing a tango.
“Good morning, Mr. Angwin.”
He strides toward me. His mouth wears that smile that is more of a smirk, but his eyes are killer angry.
“Surprised?” he says.
“You seem to have done some detective work.”
“My detective did some detective work.” He is holding a manila envelope and he thrusts it toward me. “You need to look at these,” he says. “Then you need to tell me just what the fuck is going on. Right now.”
“Right now I am going to go inside, shower, and have breakfast.”
“Fine. You can give me some coffee while you clean up.”
I shake my head. “No. You are going to go away now. Maybe after I’ve seen whatever this is I’ll call you.”
“No way,” he says, and starts toward my door. I step in front of him and we stand facing each other, but only for a moment. I am bigger that he is, and clearly stronger, and he knows how I make my living. His face melts around the edges.
“Today,” he says.
I shrug and turn away from him. He stands there as I walk to my door. I can hear his breathing. As I open the door he says, “Don’t expect any more payments.”
I step inside, not bothering to look back at him. This is the way a torero shows that he has dominated a bull after a few close passes with the cape. He turns his back on the bull and struts slowly away while the beast stands there, panting and confused, and paralyzed by its anger. I have dominated Angwin. He expected me to be startled, perhaps even afraid. Now he does not know what to think. I close the door, stop, and take a deep breath. I let it rush back out noisily, and the shock of having my address discovered flows through me. I can feel myself begin to tremble and I rise onto the balls of my feet, raise my arms, and stretch my body as far as I can make it go. I take another breath and as I let it out I can feel myself calming down. The crisis is over.
But the problem remains. No one who has any inkling of my work has ever known my real name or where I live. Correction. No one but Katherine. Now Angwin knows, and that could also mean that he knows who I am. Some records cannot be hidden, and property deeds and taxes are among them.
I open the manila envelope and shake it over the coffee table. Half a dozen photographs fall out. All of them are of Katherine and me, at the zoo, at Discovery Park, at her place—she has her arms around me in that one—and right here in front of my house.
“Shit,” I say, remember the man with the camera. I was not being paranoid after all. My immediate assumption is that Angwin set him on Katherine for some reason, and I became collateral damage. I cannot think of a reason he would have to be targeting me specifically. Even if he were, how could he tell anyone where to look for me? I tell myself again that Katherine was the target, but it does not matter. Now I am the target, and Angwin is no longer an irritation. He is a danger.
I go through the photographs again. I have an urge to rip them into small pieces and flush them down the toilet, but losing control will not help anything. Instead I stack them together neatly and put them back into the envelop
e, then place the envelope onto the coffee table.
I understand that the anger I feel is not at Angwin but at myself, so I push it down and out of sight. It could serve as energy if I knew what I needed to do, but this problem has come on me out of nowhere, and right now the solution is out of my mind’s reach.
No. The problem did not come out of nowhere. It was lurking in the wings like the villain in a bad melodrama from the day I met Angwin. I made a decision then to break one of my own rules, the one that says never take on a job in my home town. At the very least I should have been thinking from the beginning what problems that might cause. By now I should have a basketful of contingency plans. But because I broke the first rule, I have by default broken another—always have an exit strategy. In the meantime, Angwin is not going to just disappear. I do not have the answer now, but one will come. I have to trust that the creative part of me that works out of my awareness will know what to do, as it always has.
The envelope I picked up at the Post Office lies on the coffee table next to Angwin’s photographs. It is just one more demand that I do not want to deal with right now. I leave it there. The Mob can wait. A large mirror hangs on the wall directly across from my big front window. I look at my reflection in it. My distress shows clearly, and I realize that I am even more upset that I know.
“I am disappointed in you,” I say to myself. “Very disappointed.”
I go to the stereo player and slip in the CD of Vladimir Feltsman playing the Bach Goldberg Variations. I settle into the big chair by the window and let my eyes gaze out, not looking at anything in particular, as the piano notes fill the room and me. Then I begin to breath slowly, in and out, counting to five on each inhalation and exhalation. Gradually, as part of my brain occupies itself with numbers and another part with Bach, the Angwin thing drifts out of my consciousness and into some inner recess of my mind, and I am thinking of nothing at all.