Resurgence

by M. M. Mayle

  “Good, let the little shit suffer. I’m of a mind to let him wait a day or two before the other shoe drops.”

  “Whatever you say, dear. I’m rather glad to be out of it, if you want the truth. The child spooks me at times, he can be so . . . so calculating.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? That he’s like his mother?”

  “I wasn’t thinking that precisely, but this was no impulsive caper he pulled today. It was well thought out. Premeditated, it was. He set up a diversion that kept me occupied whilst they slipped away.”

  A groan escapes him. “What else did he do?”

  “Crammed the toilet in the nursery loo full of Simon’s little stuffed toys and flushed. It’s a tossup who screeched loudest when this was discovered, Simon or the upstairs maid who called for me to come on the run when water seeped out into the central hall and soaked a length of carpet.”

  “Jesus . . . Jesus . . . Jesus,” Colin recites Nate’s standard blasphemy that suits the occasion, if not his mother, who warns again that cursing is pointless and goes on to remind that the incident is not without precedent.

  “I’m dead certain Anthony wanted it to appear that Simon had again bathed his menagerie the way he did a few months ago in one of the bidets. However, Simon was nowhere near the scene when the prank took place. He was with Gemma in the kitchen garden.”

  “Fuckwitted on Anthony’s part, I have to say.”

  “I agree, and if we simply must resort to crude expressions, that’s what you’ll be if you treat this as nothing more than a prank.”

  The admonition has extra sting for being true. Colin pinches the bridge of his nose and heaves a sigh, “Are we done here, then? Is there anathing more I should know?”

  She says not. Then, as an apparent afterthought, she advises him not to call Laurel by any of the pet names used for Aurora. This makes his leave-taking urgent and allows him to ignore, for now, what all is owed her. The best he can do at the moment is peck her on the cheek and put some promise into the squeeze he gives her shoulder as he hurries out of the room.

  On the second floor, he steps round a sodden area of carpet and bypasses the boys’ bedroom suite in favor of his own. He’ll wait there till Laurel’s finished the bathing chore, then discuss with her how to handle Anthony before actually confronting Anthony.

  He finds the door ajar and bath time evidently over because he hears Laurel talking to someone in a low voice. He cracks the door open a little wider and is surprised to see that she’s wearing the madly enticing frock she wore to the party for Rayce, with her hair caught up in a haughty swirl. The full Madame X effect, it is. Then, he’s even more surprised to see that it’s Anthony she’s talking to, and grasp from what’s being said that the boy must have confessed to her.

  Laurel is seated on the couch in front of the oriel window with Anthony opposite, perched on the deep sill of the window itself. Neither seems aware of his presence, so he hangs back and plays the eavesdropper.

  “. . . but you need to recognize that you have a responsibility to your father, just as he has to you,” Laurel is saying. “Now that you’re old enough to choose between right and wrong, it’s your duty to keep yourself away from harm to the extent you’re able. Just think about it, Anthony. Your father wouldn’t deliberately place himself in harm’s way knowing how much you’d suffer if he were lost to you. During this past week you’ve seen how sad he was because something happened to his friend, Rayce, and I hate to think how incredibly sad he’d be if something happened to you . . . something that could be prevented. Do you understand what I’m telling you?

  “I guess.”

  “C’mon, Anthony, you can do better than that. You either do understand me or you don’t. What’s it going to be?”

  “I understand.”

  “Thank you. And thank you for telling me what you did today. You were very brave to come to me, even though I can’t help you beyond explaining why your bad behavior has to be taken so seriously.”

  Anthony picks at the edges of his pajama sleeves and jiggles one bare foot into motion, “‘Something happened’ means dead, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “And Rayce took a chance that got him dead.”

  “We don’t know that for sure. We prefer to believe his death was an accident.”

  “Like my mum’s. Like when my dad was almost dead from the deer jumping in the road.”

  “That’s right.”

  “How do I know another deer won’t jump in the road?”

  “You don’t, you just have to hope one doesn’t and be in a constant state of readiness in case one does. On the other hand, don’t go looking for deer to jump in the road—inviting deer to jump in the road by taking foolish chances such as—”

  “Such as playing in places where I could get hurt or going places where someone could snatch me away because my dad’s a filthy rich rock star.”

  Laurel spots him in the doorway when she turns away from Anthony to conceal her obvious mixed emotions. “Yes, that’s exactly right, darling, and here’s the rock star now, looking as though he’s already been told what you did.”

  Colin steps into the room, approaches the boy, who cringes into the depths of the windowsill in a fit of pure drama.

  “He’s afraid—if he’s truly afraid of anything—that he’s ruined his chances to go on tour with you—with us.” Laurel interprets the scene.

  “And he tried engaging you to defend him?” Colin says, looming over Anthony. “Is that what you were hoping, that she’d come to your rescue?”

  Anthony’s chin comes up a little: “I guess.”

  “You what?”

  “I thought because she wants me to like her that she’d—”

  “You thought wrong!” Colin explodes in the face of the boy’s conniving. “She’s not the sort to dole out special treatment, and she has no need to worm her way into your good graces. You’ll like her soon enough—soon as you see that you’re runnin’ out of options, that there aren’t that many of us left that’ll put up with your shit. Your own grandmother just got through saying she’s had quite enough of your calculating ways. I rather doubt she’ll miss you at all when she moves to a place of her own.”

  “You’re not supposed to say ‘shit’ when you talk to me,” Anthony says into the neck of his pajamas.

  Colin pries him off the sill and slings him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes—which is about all he’s worth right now. To Laurel and her worried expression he explains that Anthony won’t be flung over a parapet, he’ll only be taken to his room.

  The child is thoroughly cowed when they reach his room, where Colin drops him on the bed. Gone wide-eyed with apprehension, Anthony remains motionless, not even plucking at his sleeves, his usual habit when under strain.

  Asking Anthony why he misbehaved and what in bloody hell was worth risking certain punishment, is as pointless as asking Simon what time it is. And nothing he can add in the way of reprimand will surpass what Laurel was overheard saying—masterfully painting guilt onto the lad with a feather-touch, she was—so he’s rather redundant now for instructing Anthony to think about the people he disappointed today.

  “I want you to think about how you’ll make it up to them, especially your grandmother who’s ready to wash her hands of you. Will you do that?”

  “I guess.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “That’s better.” Colin helps him squirm under the covers. “Goodnight, then.” He gives Anthony a peck on the forehead and is halfway to the door when the lad finds his voice again.

  “Is that all?”

  “For now it is.”

  As threatened earlier, Anthony’s left to stew in his own juices, unsure what additional punishment might be waiting.

  “You didn’t say ‘I love you,’” Anthony calls out just as Colin reaches the doorway.

  “I didn’t forget. I didn’t think you needed reminding. You know damn
well I wouldn’t bother myself to be on your case morning, noon, and night if I didn’t love you.”

  He switches off the light and closes the door with a finality he doesn’t quite feel.

  Simon’s gone to the world when he stops to check on him, so the emergency nonsense rhyme invented on the run will save for another night. Returned to his own bedroom, he sees that Laurel has produced wine and glasses in his absence, and resumed her seat on the couch.

  “I thought perhaps we could have a do-over,” she says. “I thought we could start where we left off at the party the night when—”

  “I know where to start.” He eyes the slight droop of a delicate shoulder strap, the hollow at the base of her throat, the shallow plunge of her cleavage that only hints at the fullness below. Distracted for a tick by marginal evidence of something once spilled the entire length of the dress, his interest is renewed by sight of finely sculpted knees and ankles as showcased by sheer black stockings and delicate shoes. A return glance at her beloved face finds her cheeks ever so slightly flushed, her eyes reflecting the gleam that must be coming from his own.

  The wine is made to trickle out, along with intimate conversation, for nearly an hour; the transition from desire to satisfaction lasts longer than he ever would have thought possible; the drift into contentment is almost immediate, and the slide into sleep at least two hours earlier than usual.

  He wakes later to find it’s Simon’s little bum his hand is resting on. Without knowing what fresh calamity he’s slept through of mental exhaustion, he switches on a low light to appraise the situation. Laurel is crowded along the opposite side of the bed, mostly uncovered, and dressed in a faded T-shirt and ratty pajama bottoms he’s never seen before. Her one arm is flung out into space in what could almost be a parody of their earlier romp, which saw her arched and grasping for purchase over the side of the bed. She must sense his scrutiny, because with her other arm she gropes backward till she finds a hand to squeeze.

  “What’s an oast house?” she mumbles before lapsing back into the measured breathing of untroubled sleep.

  THIRTEEN

  Morning, April 19, 1987

  A meeting at an Elizabeth, New Jersey, diner does not call for intimidating dress. Nate nevertheless debates the salient features of three different pairs of jeans before making a selection. He bases his choice on history and picks the pair worn on the clandestine trip to L.A. With them, he puts on a long-sleeved polo, a nondescript jacket, and steps into worn loafers that last saw duty the night he gave sanctuary to Laurel Chandler. He calls downstairs to have the car brought around, remembering for no particular reason that it hasn’t been driven since he took Amanda to the airport five days ago.

  Knowing that today’s meeting won’t require any fake bonhomie and very little ego display, he should feel somewhat relaxed when he sets out for the diner at nine-fifteen on an unusually quiet Sunday morning. He encounters no traffic to speak of until he reaches Jersey, where there’s a slowdown at the Bayonne Bridge and another at the connection to the Staten Island Expressway. Then it’s clear sailing across the Arthur Kill and into the grimy neighborhood that’s home to the BridgeGate Diner in all it tarnished splendor.

  He parks the BMW where he can keep an eye on it from the window seat he’ll insist on when he goes inside.

  The contact, Brownell Yates, has anticipated that necessity by installing himself in the booth nearest the door. Brownie’s gaze remains fixed on a cup of sludgy coffee when Nate slides in across from him.

  The freelance reporter looks up, extends a hand, but not to shake. He reaches for the envelope Nate’s about to slip inside a menu, and snatches it without concern for appearances. He glances inside, riffles the contents, and counts with his lips moving before saying anything, and then it’s only to remark that it’s good to be back on the payroll.

  “I figured when you called off the smear campaign against the hot Chandler babe you were done pullin’ strings from behind the scenes, but I’m hearin’ otherwise lately.”

  Nate waves off an approaching waitress. “Does meeting here on the fringes of civilization have anything to do with what you’ve heard?”

  “Yeah. Has to do with you keeping your head down. You’re still anonymous in these precincts, but your interest in Gibby Lester’s murder hasn’t gone unnoticed elsewhere. You were spotted in his old neighborhood a week or so ago, and more recently you were seen at that tourist trap of a pub adjoining Lester’s place, where you milked the bartender for what he was worth. I’m also hearing that another slaying’s captured your interest. I’m told that just a day or two ago you were observed checkin’ out the hospital where Sid Kaplan was whacked. There’s even the rumor out there that you tried bribing the orderly that discovered Kaplan’s body, and an even crazier rumor has it that you tried to break into Kaplan’s place in the Bronx just yesterday. If any of that happens to be true, I’m gonna say it’s because you’re entertaining a few independent theories—you’ve got some sort of investigative bug in your bonnet—and not because you’ve suddenly got extra time on your hands and the need for a new hobby.”

  “Okay, that’s enough. I’ll cop to the charge of not having been all that low profile lately—with no small thanks to your brotherhood, the Fourth Estate, for that.”

  “Who’s the Fourth Estate? I don’t belong to no brotherhood of the Fourth Estate.”

  “Don’t give me that shit, Brownie. You know damn well what I’m talking about, not that it’ll make any difference at this point. I’m referring to the media notice I attracted recently when my business relationship with Colin Elliot came to an end—when I got my fifteen minutes of fame that made me identifiable to those having nothing better to do than—”

  “Hey! I wouldn’t be callin’ the kettle black if I were you, and I wouldn’t be kidding myself, either. You’ve always been identifiable to those of us makin’ it our business to know who you are and what angles you might be playin’. That nasty period after your boy was put outta commission back in ’eighty-four saw to that. You couldn’t go after somebody like Gibby Lester the way you did without callin’ a certain amount of attention to yourself and—”

  “I’m not here to reminisce,” Nate says, “and I’m not here just to be tipped off to some unwitting notoriety on my part. You left word at my office that you had something significant for me, cash has exchanged hands, so let’s have it.”

  Nate frowns at the reporter with whom he’s avoided eye contact until now. It’s hard to believe they’re contemporaries, were once considered equals in parallel fields of study at Penn. Brownell Yates III appears to have aged a decade in the two or so years since they last had a face to face; very little remains of the gleam that set him apart in their college days.

  “I hear ya, I hear ya,” Brownie says while fishing something from an inside pocket of his rumpled suit jacket. “Fact is, I was on this strictly for my own reasons before it started lookin’ as though you might likewise think there could be a link between the Lester and Kaplan killings. And why wouldn’t you, what with the historical connection to Lester and the fresh tie-in to the moron of a photographer that was gonna take a shot at sucking your boy dry for loss of livelihood and permanent facial disfigurement?”

  “How do you know what Kaplan was planning to do?”

  “I had better luck than you. I’m not sayin’ I was able to break into Kaplan’s place, but I did have a productive sit-down with a girlfriend of his that I latched onto at a neighborhood watering hole he used to frequent. Didn’t take that many fuzzy navels to get her to say that Kaplan was plannin’ to hold Colin Elliot up for a bundle in damages.”

  “And your reasons for pursuing any of this?”

  “The usual. For bucks, and maybe the one big story that’ll get me the cover and a byline on one of the weeklies—legit weeklies, if you know what I mean.”

  When pigs fly, Nate rates Brownie’s chances of going legit without help.

  “So, you’ve just sold me the electrifying n
ews that the photographer assaulted by my so-called boy planned to sue for whatever astronomical figure the courts would allow. You’d better have more than that or we’ll be talking about a full refund.”

  “I’m gettin’ to it, I’m gettin’ to it.” The hard-luck reporter unfolds an item retrieved from an inner pocket and hands it over.

  Nate gasps at sight of an intact photograph he’s only ever seen in part. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” he says, his detachment shattered. “Where . . . where did you get this?”

  “The girlfriend. She had presence of mind to remove the questionable items from Kaplan’s place before the cops ransacked it. She sold this to me for ten bucks and says she’s got more if I have a market for ’em. By the look on your face I’ll say I do.”

  “I’d prefer to negotiate with her directly. What’s her name and number?”

  “No way. My way or no way. And I’m not namin’ the source that says the powdery residue found in Gibby Lester’s floor safe—the only thing found in Lester’s floor safe, by the way—is an exact match for the bulk product shoved down Sid Kaplan’s slit throat.”

  To buy absorption time, Nate signals for the waitress and orders coffee and a bagel; to recover a semblance of detachment, he reminds the reporter he no longer works for Colin Elliot in any capacity. But it’s too late to pretend he has no interest in preventing the willful distribution of porn featuring Colin Elliot’s late wife. That cat’s out of the bag, and he may or may not have telegraphed the rush of gratification he feels—akin to expiation—at news of the drug match.

  The crotch shot of Aurora pleasuring herself is face down on the table, where he flipped it after the identifying glance. He doesn’t have to look long at the watermark on the back of the photo paper to know it’s the same as the one partially revealed on the back of the photo remnant socked away in his home safe.