“Well, Mr. Bentham, I can’t tell you her whereabouts now, but I can say that she did work with the Arizona Bureau. Perhaps if you checked directory assistance you could find her.”
“Thank you so much!” Beaufort let a little quaver seep into his voice. “You’ve helped an old man to hope.” Beaufort hung up the phone. So the men weren’t kidding, his target was married to an actual FBI agent who apparently still had some balls.
Switching to his approved cell, he called Yanchak.
“Brigid Quinn? Never heard of her,” Yanchak said.
“Can you check around? You’ve got connections all over the place.”
He could almost feel Yanchak glowing with the compliment from two thousand miles away. Beaufort knew he knew how to play people.
“What do you want to know about her? What business do you have?”
Beaufort wouldn’t say. Not even Yanchak knew anything about him from before the time Beaufort started working for him. As the seconds ticked by without Beaufort saying anything, Yanchak said, “Is this anything I should be concerned about? Do I not want to get involved?”
“Nah, it’s just a curiosity question.”
“Right,” Yanchak said. He promised to check around and call back.
Beaufort found himself telling himself he wasn’t stupid. No, he was smart, smarter than that woman. He was going to know everything about her, while she knew nothing about him. Didn’t that make him smarter? Santangelo, that bastard, saying Beaufort was stupid that night at the monastery. The priest didn’t know a thing about Beaufort.
Beaufort timed his call to Carlo late in the afternoon when he thought Carlo might be there and before Gloria got home from work. He accepted an invitation for dinner the following night, while the moon was still dark. He knew how to be careful now that he knew who the Quinn woman was. He would take his bike to the house in case she started to get suspicious and wanted to run his license plate. He was smart, staying on top of every eventuality. And possibly overly cautious, but why take a chance?
Eighteen
You didn’t have to go to a florist for flowers the way you used to. So it was easy to bring Gloria a bouquet regularly. Not a balloon. He saw some with HAPPY RETIREMENT! which meant it wasn’t a kid thing anymore, but he couldn’t cotton to the idea of giving a balloon to an adult. Liquor was a different thing. You could get liquor in grocery stores in Arizona, so with the flowers he picked up a bottle of Grey Goose to restock her liquor cabinet, show he wasn’t a freeloader.
Every time Beaufort handed Gloria a bunch of chrysanthemums she’d start to cry. He had to wait until she was finished before they could get on with the evening, but he sort of liked it. She said she cried because she’d had two abusive husbands and Beaufort was so good to her.
He told her he was celebrating with the flowers and the vodka because he had gotten a part-time job working with horses at a local riding stable down the road at the edge of Catalina State Park.
It wasn’t true.
Gloria pretended the vodka was for her and kissed him on his nose.
He had to admit he actually liked this woman. She could be a real cut-up and make him laugh even if he didn’t always get the joke. Like tonight, her wearing a shirt with flamingos done in sequins, with dangling flamingo earrings to match. Rocking her head to make the flamingos dance, she strutted out of the bedroom. When she saw his doubtful expression, she started to giggle.
“Too understated?” she asked.
Beaufort didn’t quite understand the question or how to answer it, but took her into his arms and kissed the tip of her nose back and that seemed to do the trick. He was happy in a way he’d never been before.
Gloria hip-bumped him and went back to cooking dinner. Beaufort took the bottle of Pinot Grigio out of the fridge and read the label as he poured her a second glass and got one for himself. Ecco Domani, the label said. He was growing to actually like wine, and had noticed that even this had changed, that they didn’t offer Chablis in restaurants anymore.
Gloria had her back to him, sautéeing some cut-up peppers and onions on the stove, when she said, “I told Steph about you today.”
Within a heartbeat he was at her side. Leaning with his back against the counter next to the stove, swishing his wine in the glass the way he had seen people do on television. “Who is Steph?” he asked, trying to keep his tone easy.
It must have worked, because she didn’t look alarmed. “One of the med techs at the office. She was happy for me.” Gloria stopped sautéeing and smiled at Beaufort. “She said a group of them were going out for drinks and a movie this Friday and did I want to bring you. I’d never been invited like that before. I think maybe it’s because I’m happier. That I’ve changed somehow, made people like me more.” Now she looked back at the pan. “I think it’s because of you.”
Beaufort went over the details of himself that he had given to Gloria, true and false. No harm done, really, but, “I have to tell you, I’m kind of a private person, not much for the group thing,” he said. “I’m not ready to go out with other people just now. And I’d appreciate you not talking too much about me either.”
Gloria didn’t look up this time, shyly or in any other way. She just kept stirring and stirring.
“Understood?” he asked.
“Sure, Jerry. I understand.”
So she wouldn’t take it too hard, he took the wooden spoon from her hand and put it down on the counter. She gripped the spoon as if she was afraid he was going to hit her with it, but then she let go. He drew her to him and folded his arms around her with his hands on her ass. “Maybe for a while I want you all to myself.”
That did it. She kissed him and looked happy again.
“And if you keep talking about me, they’ll keep asking, and that might make things uncomfortable between us.”
“Careful, it will burn,” she said, frowning, and turned back to the stove. “I got a couple of steaks, with A1 sauce the way you said you liked it. Do you want to fire up the grill?”
He had learned before now that that meant turning on the gas, and went out back to do it, thinking about things as he took the platter Gloria handed him and proceeded to cook the meat.
Thinking that all his life he had missed out on a woman bringing him steaks to grill and he wanted more of it.
Thinking that he hoped everything went well and he would have a lot more time with Gloria who wasn’t such a bad old gal.
Thinking people were of two kinds. One kind made him nervous. The other kind he could see was weaker than he was, and he could have his own way with things. He prided himself on being smart enough to tell which person was which. Gloria was the weak kind. He had lucked out finding her.
No, it wasn’t luck. It was brains. A mind as sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel. His time with junkies, his time in jail, he had learned how to find out who the weak ones were, the ones who could be separated from the rest of the herd.
He was smoking on the back porch after dinner when Gloria came out with the remains of her wine.
“I didn’t think you smoked,” she said.
Interesting how a woman could go from good old gal to annoyance in a moment. Beaufort didn’t like people trying to control him in any way. He’d had enough years of that in prison. “I just started,” he said, not bothering to apologize or explain.
Whether or not she could accept that, Gloria was distracted by something bigger. “Jerry, your hand.”
He looked at his hand when he raised the cigarette. The palm was raw. At first he didn’t know how it could have gotten that way, and then he realized he must have been rubbing it on the adobe wall of the house while he was thinking. Gloria kissed it, took him inside, put some antibiotic ointment on it, and placed a large square Band-Aid over the raw place.
“You’ve seemed tense,” she said, rubbing his back at the top.
“I’m not.”
“You’ve got stress knots.”
“Ouch. Stop it.”
“I
f you wanted, I could give you the number of someone I’ve used.”
“Are you saying I need a shrink?”
“No. He’s more of a life coach.”
That’s another new one, Beaufort thought. But he had become accustomed to not speaking out loud when he didn’t understand. If he let people keep talking it usually became clear what they meant.
Gloria finished her bandaging, led him from the bathroom, and patted a place next to her on the bed. He sat down, waiting. She was so cute when she tried to take charge.
“He taught me some meditation techniques you might use,” she said. “You put your fingers like this and tap each one with your thumb while you say, ‘Sah. Nah. Tah. Mah.’” She illustrated, and looked at him expectantly. Beaufort could not bring himself to do something so idiotic, and he sat there watching her, wondering what planet he was on.
Gloria didn’t appear to notice. “There’s breathing that goes with it, too,” she went on. “Breathe in on a count of three, then breathe out on a longer count of seven. Try it. Sah. Nah. Tah…”
Beaufort placed the backs of his hands on his thighs with the fingers up and slightly curled. He stopped short of saying the nonsense, but tried the breathing and the finger tapping. After a couple of rounds he couldn’t force himself to go on no matter how well-intentioned Gloria was. So this was the world, he thought, with its pathetic pretense that it was more civilized and in control of itself than the world he’d been part of for thirty years. He started laughing, and took her into his arms. “You don’t need a life coach anymore, babe,” he said. “I’ll take care of you, and you’re never going to be hurt again.”
* * *
He had one of his dreams that night, woke up to Gloria holding him, stroking his damp hair and cuddling him like a mother. The sight of her face was what told him it was only a nightmare, all the screams and bloodied flesh. He wished he could tell Gloria the joy he felt upon waking, because in the dream he had tremendous remorse about the killing. A monster wouldn’t feel bad like that about the killing, would he? Maybe not even have nightmares at all. Certainly not feel joy upon waking and realizing he hadn’t done it this time.
Beaufort stroked Gloria’s face the way she was stroking his while he thought if you really knew me you would not love me.
At that thought, as quickly as if his emotions were on a toggle switch, the joy plunged back into the despair of the dream. He could find Hickock’s confession, and the nightmares could stop. To do so, he could kill every person in his way, and loathe the necessary killing with all his heart. But the only thing he could never do, he could never stop being Jeremiah Beaufort with Jeremiah Beaufort’s past. He was stuck with all of himself.
Nineteen
I thought this was a good opportunity to see if our new friend was just lonely, or stalking lonely, or on the con in general, or targeting me in specific. So, dinner as well as stargazing.
“You just had me over for dinner because you knew I’d cook,” Gemma-Kate said.
“Untrue. I also had you over for dinner because I want you to give me your take on this guy who showed up in our backyard and sort of glommed on to us.”
“How long have you suffered from paranoia?”
“It’s not paranoia, it’s instinct.”
Standing over a pot on the stove, Gemma-Kate smirked as she tasted a pad thai noodle, considered, and added a splash more fish sauce. “Oh yes, I’m well aware of your instincts.” Gemma-Kate was referring to a time in the recent past when I’d been royally suckered, and then mistakenly blamed her for it.
“I learned my lesson, never let down my guard,” I said. “So shut up and cook.”
Gemma-Kate put down her spoon and looked in the cabinet next to the stove. “You forgot to get peanuts.”
“There’s a new jar in the pantry.” Not being a total lump in the kitchen, I went there myself, got out the jar, and handed it to her.
She said, “So what’s with this guy?”
“I’d rather you were left to form your own opinion,” I said.
“What about Uncle Carlo? What does he think?”
“He thinks everyone is destined for sainthood. Even you.”
“What’s his name?” Gemma-Kate asked.
“Jerry.”
“Jerry what?”
“He didn’t say.”
The doorbell rang with the Eine kleine Nachtmusik tune that was left over from Jane. Tonight the tune made her blink into my mind, her ghost walking through this living room, dusting a table (I had always pictured her using a feather duster while wearing an apron), focusing on a new recipe with an adorable smudge of flour on her cheek, giving Carlo a light kiss in a way that was hers alone. Then I remembered she read literary classics and wrote books, too. And then she blinked back out again. There are a thousand things that spur these memory flashes, not just Jane. I say this to show it’s not jealousy, or not always.
But back to the doorbell. Jerry had arrived.
Gemma-Kate wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and beat me to the front door, opening it as wide as the smile between her plump cheeks. Before letting the man in, she stuck out her hand and said, “Welcome! I’m Gemma-Kate. Gemma-Kate … Quinn.”
The pugs, too, had rushed the door as soon as it opened, and were doing their best to save us all from the intruder. The man shouted over them as he put out his hand, “Hello, Gemma-Kate. I’m Jerry.”
Nice try, I thought. But then Gemma-Kate, with her usual lack of aplomb, shouted back, “What’s your last name?”
Jerry paused, looking far from plussed, and then said, “Nolan.”
Meanwhile I was trying to hook my fingers around the pugs’ collars and failing. They twisted around and I let go when I felt my circulation being shut off.
The man who called himself Jerry Nolan took a small plastic bag out of his golf jacket pocket and extracted two pieces of cheese for the pugs. Al and Peg fell to silent gobbling and then remembered the reason they liked him.
“Ah, you remembered,” I said. I looked out at the driveway for his car. “You rode a bike.”
He nodded. “I live close, and it’s a nice evening,” he said.
“It will be dark when you leave,” I said.
“The bike has lights,” he said.
I took his jacket, ushered him into the living room, and offered a glass of wine or a cocktail. He said he didn’t drink. I wished he did, because the way he grinned at nothing was making me nervous. I got myself another Chardonnay.
After some stilted exchanges about the desert life and his job at the local riding stables, we sat down to dinner, Carlo and I at either end, with Gemma-Kate facing him across the table. He ate like a gentleman and managed table conversation, which I tried to steer from general to personal as the meal went on.
How unseasonable the temperatures were all over the country. Predictions of an early cold snap after an Indian summer.
How we were in the dry part of the year and couldn’t expect any rains until late December.
When the rattlesnakes went into hibernation, September or October?
When we had all moved to Tucson, and what brought us here.
Then I asked Jerry where he had come from, and he said Mississippi. Maybe he saw me react, and changed his story. Originally, he said, before Florida. Wouldn’t say where in Mississippi, but instead segued into being baptized as a Catholic. Drifted away from the church, he said.
“Brigid and I go to an Episcopal church,” Carlo said. “You should come sometime. There are lots of Catholics there.”
“How can you tell?” Jerry asked.
“They always want you to know,” Carlo said. “Where were you baptized?”
I happened to glance at Jerry, and he had the look of someone who had just been dealt a straight flush. I watched him.
“At St. Anthony’s,” Jerry said.
“I used to be an altar boy at a St. Anthony’s,” Carlo said. “In Kansas City.”
“That’s the one,” Jerry said. “
Small world.”
Between Mississippi, Kansas, Florida, and now Arizona, Jerry had gotten around in that small world, I thought.
“I should say so,” Carlo said. “You and I are around the same age, I bet. We might have both been baptized by Father Victor Santangelo. Vic was very important in my life.”
I saw Jerry lick his lips and swallow. Rather than take the next question and ask how Santangelo was important in Carlo’s life, he turned the conversation to when Carlo had become interested in astronomy.
Carlo said it was a recent hobby.
“He’s very passionate about it, though,” I added. “My anniversary gift to him is an overnight up on Kitt Peak. Have you heard about their programs?”
“Not yet,” Jerry said.
I explained, several huge telescopes, six thousand feet elevation, an expert on hand. Sleeping quarters and sandwiches. Carlo filled in some of the details I didn’t know while tilting the wine bottle in my direction. I moved my index finger up in our subtle sign that said I was done.
“When do you plan to go to this place?” Jerry asked Carlo.
Carlo told him. With some questioning, with too many questions? Carlo told him the date and how long it would take to drive there. Gemma-Kate caught my eye from across the table.
Jerry changed the conversation to what Carlo did for a living.
Carlo reminded Jerry that he had been first a Jesuit priest, and then a philosophy professor at the university.
Jerry said that sounded hard, philosophy, and Carlo didn’t mention that Jerry had already said this the first time they talked, but joked that yes, it was a tough racket.
That was another opening.
“So what do you do, Jerry?” I asked, pretending I didn’t already know, and toying with a noodle on my plate to indicate I didn’t much care.
“I’m retired,” he said. We waited. And then he finally gave up some information. “But I had an interesting career. I was a jockey.”
We Were Killers Once Page 10