by S. J. Rozan
Or maybe someone would. Maybe somewhere someone loved even men like this.
I started the car and pulled out hard. I drove away from that place fast, down the rutted, deserted road under a sky where faint streaks of gray light still showed in the west.
Chapter 7
By the time I got to Antonelli's the clouds had thickened. The stars had given up, and the moon was a nonstarter. Patches of fog stood sentinel-like in the trees on the other side of 30, up by Tony's house.
The parking lot was as empty as the sky. The outside lights were off and the red neon Bud sign was dark, but the inside lights were on. I tried the door. Locked. I rapped a quarter on the window. The curtain moved, showed me Tony's face, jaw tight. The curtain fell back into place as I went over to the door. Tony pulled it open, locked it behind me.
The tables from the back of the room had been piled on the ones in the front and the chairs pushed between them or dropped on top. A mop stood in a steaming bucket in the middle of the empty stretch of floor. The reek of ammonia was so strong it made my eyes water.
"What the hell are you doing?" I went around the room opening windows.
"Started downstairs. Couldn't stop." Tony's words came a little thick, a little slow. "Fuckin' cops left the place a mess, just walked out when they was through."
I came back to where he was standing. "I thought you'd be open."
"Woulda been," he nodded. "Started to. But . . ." He paused, looked at me. "This happen to you before, your line of work?"
"Bodies, you mean? Once or twice."
He went over behind the bar, took the bourbon off the shelf. The gin was already standing open on the bar. Tony brought the bottles and glasses over; I pulled two chairs from the pile. We sat, bottles on the floor beside us.
"Vultures," Tony said. He gulped a large shot, poured himself another. "Phone's been ringin' since I got back here. Couldn't take it."
I looked over at the phone. The receiver was dangling from its spiraled silver cord.
"Reporters. Every goddamn paper west of Albany must have nothin' to write about." More gin. "Coupla people wantin' to know could they help. Help with what?" He gestured around the room. "An' assholes. 'Hey, Tony, what happened?' 'Hey, Tony, heard you found a stiff in the basement.' 'Hey, Tony, heard your brother killed him.' Shit!" He shrugged. "I didn't open." His knuckles whitened around his gin glass. His voice got louder. "They been comin' around anyhow, bangin' on the door. Who the fuck they think they are, these guys?"
I drank in silence and he drank too, until the silence was both blurred and sharpened and talk was easier.
"Tony," I said quietly, "did Jimmy kill that guy?"
He looked at me for a long time. The gin had cleared everything from his eyes but pain. "Looks that way," he said finally. "Don't it look that way to you?"
"How it looks and what it is might not be the same,"
I said. "Let MacGregor and Brinkman worry about how it looks. Tell me what's going on, Tony."
He picked up his bottle; it was empty. He got up and got a new one, walking too carefully. "I don't know," he said. He sat heavily. "Little sonuvabitch said he was gonna stay clean. Stay away from Grice. Get a fuckin' job. He was scared, Smith. You saved his ass an' he knew he was lucky." He paused, drank. I lit a cigarette, got up, found an ashtray. "He met this girl, moved in with her. Nice kid. Didn't see him much after that. Funny thing, we was gettin' along better, the coupla times he did come around." He trailed off. His eyes roved over the silent room as though he were looking for something.
We drank. I waited a few minutes. Then, "Tell me the rest, Tony."
His face suddenly flushed. "What the hell for? Anything I say, you're gonna run to your buddy MacGregor. You gave him those fuckin' keys, Smith. What the hell'd you do that for?"
"I had to do that, Tony. You know I had to." I kept my voice even.
"Had to," he muttered, half to himself. "Motherfucker."
"Tell me the rest, Tony."
"Fuck," he said. He drained his glass. "Grice came here last night workin' that protection shit. He ain't never pulled that on me before. Maybe I ain't a big enough operation. Or maybe he figured chewin' on me would break his teeth. But last night he's tellin' me Jimmy's in deep shit, an' it's gonna cost me to keep it quiet. Cost me a piece of the action, long term. Action." He laughed
softly, without humor. "I told him to shove it. You was there for the rest."
"What kind of trouble did he say Jimmy was in?"
"Didn't say. What's the fuckin' difference?"
"Maybe it's not true. Maybe he was just fishing."
"My ass." He reached for the gin bottle, closed his hand on air. He tried again more slowly, picked the bottle up. The cold night air drifted through the room, drifted out again. It didn't take the ammonia smell with it. I wouldn't have, either.
"Jimmy's girl," I said. "Know anything about her?"
"Nice kid." He poured gin very slowly into his glass.
I leaned forward. "What's her name, Tony? Where does she live?"
He gave me an unfocused gaze. "Don't know. Somewhere."
"What's her name?"
"Nice name. Old-fashioned." He frowned. "Alice. Alice Brown ..."
"That's a song, Tony."
He stared defiantly, "s a name, too."
"Yeah, Tony, okay. Where does she live?"
"Alice Brown, Alice Brown, prettiest little girl in town. She sells seashells. No, she don't." He rubbed a hand along the side of his nose. "No, she don't. She sells pies. Georgie Porgie, puddin' an' pie—"
I took the gin glass from his hand. "Go on, Tony. Pies?"
"Pies, asshole." He reached for the glass; I put it on the floor. He slumped back in his chair, looked at me. "Pies. Blueberry, strawberry. Chocolate cake. Cookies, even."
"Where?"
"People eat 'em. Gimme my gin."
"Where?"
He frowned, didn't answer.
"All right," I gave him his glass. "Listen, Tony. I'm going to make a couple of calls and then we're going to close this place up and go home. Okay?"
He shook his head. "Gotta clean up. Smells bad in here. Smells like blood. Shit!" His eyes were suddenly wild. "In the cellar, Smith. There's a dead guy in the cellar!"
"No, there's not." I stood, put my hand on his shoulder. "There was. He's gone. It's okay, Tony."
He stared at me, unseeing. Then he turned his eyes away. "Fuck you," he said.
"Yeah." I walked to the bathroom. I ran cold water in the cracked sink, splashed it over my face and the back of my neck. That cleared my head. I came back out; the ammonia hit me again, cleared it even more.
I picked up the mop and the bucket, hauled them to the bathroom, dumped the scummy gray water down the toilet. Half a dozen flushes later the place was almost bearable. I left the door propped open and went to the phone.
I hung up the receiver, searched my pockets for change. I checked my wallet for Eve Colgate's number. She answered on the second ring.
"It's Bill Smith," I said. "I want to ask you a couple of questions."
"Where are you?" Her voice was low and measured, the way it had been last night. "Are you at Antonelli's? Is Tony all right?"
I looked over at Tony, slouched in the chair. He wasn't drinking now, just staring into the emptiness in front of him.
"He's drunk. He's okay. You heard?"
"My foreman. He said you ... found the body. It all sounded horrible. I'm sorry." She paused. "Not that sympathy does you much good."
"You'd be surprised," I said. "Thanks."
There was a short silence. Through the phone I could hear a Schubert piano sonata. The C Minor, written while Schubert knew he was dying. I'd never played it.
"You said you had some questions?" she prompted.
"Oh. Yeah." I cradled the phone against my shoulder so I could light a cigarette. "I found some silver today that I think is yours."
There was a very short pause, just a heartbeat. "Where? How?"
; "An antique place near Breakabeen. I'll bring it over in the morning. But I wanted to ask you: do you know a girl, probably about sixteen? Golden hair, sparkling eyes, dazzling smile?"
"Quite a description, but I don't think so. Who is she?"
"She's peddling your stuff. I was hoping you could tell me who she is."
"No," she said slowly. "But I'll think about it."
"Good," I said. "Listen, I've got to get some dinner. Tony's out of business for tonight. I'll be up in the morning." We fixed a time and I hung up, seeing in my mind the yellow farmhouse standing in the sunlight at the top of the hill.
I glanced at Tony. His empty glass had slipped from his grip and was lying on the newly scrubbed floor. He was still staring ahead of him, looking at nothing.
I fed the phone again and called Lydia. This time, Lydia answered her office number. That line rings through to her room at home, and I knew that's where she was, because I could hear her mother puttering around in the background, singing a high-pitched Chinese opera song. She obviously had no idea what a narrow escape she'd just had, not having to talk to me.
I, on the other hand, did.
After Lydia got through telling me who she was in English and again in Chinese, I said, "Hi, it's me. You have anything for me?"
"Oh," she said. "Well," as though she was thinking about it, "just information."
"What else could I want?"
"What you always want."
"Not over the phone," I said in wounded innocence.
"Since when?" I heard her rustling some papers; then she asked, "Are you all right? You sound tired."
"I am."
"Oh," she said. "That's why the lack of snappy patter."
"No, this country living must be dulling my razor-sharp senses. I thought I was being pretty snappy."
"Wrong. Now listen: I haven't picked up anything about your paintings, if that's what you want to know."
"Among many other things. Where are you looking?"
"Shipping companies. Maritime and air-ship insurance. Art appraisers, auction houses." She paused. "Don't worry, I was subtle."
I hadn't said anything, but she knew me. "How?"
"Mostly I said I was looking for stolen Frank Stellas that would be being shipped as something else. People were very cooperative."
"Good old people. Anything else?"
"I went to see your friend Franco Ciardi. He remembered me and was charmed to see me."
"Isn't everyone always?"
"Of course they are, but sometimes they hide it well. Anyway, he knows nothing, but he promised he'd be interested and most discreet if I do come up with anything. Was he offering to take them off my hands if I find them, do you think?"
"I'm sure he was. That's it?"
"Yes, but isn't no news good news? There's no sign yet that those paintings are on the market. Isn't that what you wanted?"
"Yes. How sure are you?"
"Well, I've only been on it since this morning. I may be missing something; but you can do a lot with a phone and a cab in a day."
"Okay. Any other ideas?"
"I haven't got any ideas. But I have something interesting."
"I'm sure, but you won't let me see it."
"And you said not over the phone."
"Sorry."
"Uh-huh. Anyway, listen. You know how art galleries work? On commission? Well, the normal commission is ten to fifty percent of the price of the work—the lower
the sale price, the higher the commission. Artists who feel a gallery is taking too high a percentage will go with another gallery, if someplace else will take them. Okay?"
"Okay," I said. "And?"
"Eva Nouvel's work is very, very high priced. Any gallery in town would love to handle her, but she's been with her gallery—Sternhagen—since she first started to show in New York, close to forty years ago. Bill, they take seventy percent."
"Umm," I said. "How do you know that?"
"My brother Elliot? You know his wife's an art consultant. She has a friend who has a friend who used to work at Sternhagen."
The Chin network. I said, "You believe her?"
"Him. Yes."
"Lydia, I didn't ask you to check on Eva Nouvel."
She paused for a moment. "No, that's true. But I was waiting for some people to call me back and I got curious. What's the problem?"
I rubbed my eyes. "No, nothing. It's okay."
A slight chill crept into her voice. "It might be better if I knew what was really going on."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, if I knew who the client was," she said. "If I knew why six valuable paintings were sitting around a storeroom in cow country. If I knew why you took a case up there at all. If I knew things like that, maybe I wouldn't make dumb mistakes."
"You never make dumb mistakes."
"I might if I don't know what's going on."
The windows I'd opened had made it cold in the bar. Back where I was, by the phone, the floor was empty, all the tables and chairs crowded together in the other half of the room as though something were wrong back here.
I rubbed my eyes again; that did about as much good as it had done the first time. "Jesus," I said to Lydia. "Look: you're right, and I'm sorry. But it's been a long day. Can we do this tomorrow?"
"We can do this whenever you want. You're the boss."
"That's not—"
"Apparently it is."
"Lydia—"
"Should I keep on it?" she asked, brusque and professional.
"Yes," I said. "Please."
"Talk to you later, then."
The phone clicked, and she was gone.
I walked around the silent room shutting the windows I'd opened. Then I went through the swinging doors into the kitchen, lifted Tony's jacket off the hook there, brought it to him. "Come on, buddy," I said softly, leaning down. "Time to go home." He looked at me as if he didn't know me. He rose unsteadily, pushing on the arms of his chair. I gave him his jacket. It took him some time to get into it. I didn't help, just stayed close enough to catch him if he needed that. He didn't.
I shut the lights and locked the place and we went out into the parking lot, crunching through it to the road. The night was dark and damp and foggy. It wasn't the up-close kind of fog where you couldn't see your own hand if you held your arm out straight. It was a soft film you didn't notice if your focus was close, where everything was clear and sharp and normal, what you expected. It was only when you tried to look around, to get your bearings, that you noticed that five yards away in all directions there was absolutely nothing at all.
Chapter 8
I left Tony inside his front door without a word. I waited on the porch just long enough to see him get a light on; then I headed down the steep stone steps and across the mud to my car.
The fog was thickening along 30 as I drove toward my place. I kept my speed down. I was hungry, exhausted, and in spite of Tony's bourbon I could feel all my nerve ends twitching.
The car slipped in and out of silvery patches of fog. I half expected with each one to come out somewhere miles away, some bright, warm place where people had honest work to do and no one's steps echoed in an empty house. Someplace where you didn't get to be Tony's age, or mine, with nothing to show but a collection of losses.
Down at the end of my fissured road my cabin was a squat, unnatural shape hunching in the winter trees. I thought of the work I'd done on it over the years, the constant battle to keep anything man-made—no matter how small, how carefully built, how wanted—from corroding, rotting away. The processes of destruction were relentless, and had all the time in the world.
Inside, the cabin wasn't bright and it wasn't warm but it was a familiar harbor. I put on a CD, Jeffrey Kahane
playing Bach three-part inventions. I built a fire. The smell of cedar and woodsmoke, the music, the shadows began to work on me. I sliced some bread, fried some eggs to go with a can of hash I found on the shelf. I drank some more bourbon and followed the mus
ic. Bach. Logic, order, clarity. I should play more Bach. The hard knots in my shoulders began to melt and my eyelids got heavy.
In the morning I had to force myself out of bed. The day was gray and I'd slept badly, prodded awake more than once by uneasy dreams I couldn't remember. I had a dull headache and though I knew it wasn't from sleeping badly, I poured a shot of bourbon into my coffee cup and downed it before the coffee was ready. It helped a little. The coffee helped some more. I showered, and this time I shaved, carefully but not carefully enough, cursing as the foam burned my cheek.
Leaning on the kitchen counter, I smoked a cigarette, worked on the day. The piano gleamed in the light of the kitchen lamp. It wasn't as good a piano as I had in New York, but it was fine, an upright with a strong, clear sound. A guy from Albany with a key to the cabin came out a few days before I came up each time and tuned it for me; and I kept the heat on low in the front room all winter, so the piano did all right. Those things cost me. But the reason I came up here and the reason I played were pretty much the same, and this setup worked for me.
I finished the last of the coffee. If I spent the day practicing, the new Mozart might begin to sound like music.
Music; sleep; walking in the silent winter woods: that sounded like a good day to me.
But I thought about Eve Colgate's eyes as she told me about what she'd lost. And I thought about Tony's eyes, and about other kinds of loss. There were so many kinds.
Halfway up 30 toward Eve Colgate's there was a 7-Eleven.
I bought more coffee and some other things, drank the coffee in the car with the Mozart Adagio in the CD player.
IfI couldn't play it at least I could listen to it.
Eve Colgate's yellow house seemed to stand more somberly on the hilltop under the gray sky than it had yesterday in the sunlight, but it was still a vaguely comforting sight, like an old friend at a funeral.
I parked in the drive behind the blue pickup. As I started inward the porch the black dog raced, barking and yapping, around the side of the house. He stopped when I did, cocked his head, wagged his tail tentatively a few times; but when I started forward again he snarled and dug his feet in as he had the morning before. His breath was visible on the cold air.