“He’s better off, dear,” Claire said. “As, may I add, are you. The only thing worse than not being married to someone like that is being married to them. Wonderful people to know in a pinch, but hard to be married to.”
“As Neville would testify,” Florence said.
“Oh heavens, no,” Claire said. “Neville has no idea. He saw the item in the paper — just a squib, really, that this American fugitive, whatever he was, had died of a drug overdose or something in Paddington Green. And he said to me: ‘Harumph, harumph, isn’t that the young man that Florence asked about?’ And I said I believed it was. And he said: “Huh, strange isn’t it? She was so concerned? That’s what she told me, at least. That if he was recaptured he’d come back and do some harm. Very concerned. Wanted him out of the way, I thought. Wanted him out of the way. Gave me that impression.’
“And I said: ‘Neville, really, I must say, you’re worse than Larry Badger.’ And he said: ‘Claire, for heaven’s sake, Larry can’t even read.’ ”
The other women laughed.
SEPTEMBER 9, 1986
47
Terry Gleason in a white polo shirt, grey slacks and blue blazer sat alone at the round table facing the southwest windows and looking out on the docks of Little Harbor Marina in Sandwich. He watched the sailboats of the summer bitter-enders bob in the low wake of the harbormaster’s Boston Whaler, churning slowly out toward the black-and-red buoy at the entrance. The maples interspersed among the oaks and pines on the steep hills around the harbor had started faintly to turn scarlet. He stirred his coffee absently.
Shortly after noon, John Richards in a blue polo shirt, blue blazer and khakis entered the restaurant, spotted Gleason, walked to the table and placed his left hand on Gleason’s shoulder. Gleason looked up, grinned and started to rise. “Siddown,” Richards said. He took the chair to Gleason’s right.
Gleason reached into his jacket pocket and produced a document consisting of four typewritten pages. He put it down on the plasticized chart placemat. Richards removed a case from his inside pocket and put reading glasses on. “Reason I’m a little late,” he said. “Couldn’t find these things. God really isn’t wholly fair. First he takes your sight away, so you have to wear glasses. Then your memory goes to hell; can’t remember where you put them. Lemme see here, now.” He began to read. As he turned to page two, he said: “John Morrissey thinks you should sign this?”
“Thinks I should think it over,” Gleason said. “Very seriously.”
“Umm,” Richards said. He read quickly through the third and fourth pages. He refolded the document and put it in front of Gleason. He removed his glasses and returned them to his pocket. He nodded toward the coffee cup. “Beer?” he said.
“Beer’d be good,” Gleason said.
Richards turned toward the bar at the easterly end of the room. He raised two fingers of his left hand. The woman behind the bar nodded. He folded his arms on the table. “Recall I said to you, you called me,” he said, “ ‘Big Mo’s no divorce lawyer’? Sure you did the right thing, now, picking him for this?”
“Oh, I think so,” Gleason said. “I didn’t have much choice, you know, she hired Bigelow. Pretty obvious at that point, there’d been a slight miscalculation on my part. More than one of them, in fact, and not so damned slight, either. I didn’t think Barbara’d come out swinging quite so hard. I definitely did not anticipate that she’d get John Bigelow to do the sparring — he’s no divorce guy, either. But he does hate my guts, though, which part she had to like; probate soldier up against him in this case, he would eat the guy.”
The waitress brought two pilsener glasses of beer. “I suppose,” Richards said. “Just that, looking at this thing, have to wonder whether Big Mo didn’t get your clothes stolen. What I read here smarts.” He drank some of the beer. “You gonna sign it, you think?”
“I dunno,” Gleason said. He exhaled a deep breath. He tapped the document with his right forefinger. He drank some of his beer. “Why I wanted to see you, maybe help decide.
“The kids’re the first thing,” he said, “and that’s where the trouble is: that they are the first thing, Philip especially, as far as I’m concerned. And she knows that for a fact. So this is where the two of them, Barbara and Bigelow, really get very crafty.”
“The part about the kids?” Richards said. “I mean, I’m no expert on this, but that looked pretty fair to me. ‘Unlimited visitation’? ‘Joint custody’? Where’s your complaint on that?”
“I haven’t got one,” Gleason said. “That’s what I mean by: ‘crafty.’ The only thing that’d really make me fight this thing — well, the only thing now, that’d make me fight down to the last empty cartridge’d be if she tried some obvious little ploy to deny me access to the kids. And she hasn’t done that.
“The support?” he said. “Not a thing out of line there, either. I could say it’s a little high, I suppose — four hundred a month per kid, plus tuition — but she’s giving me the tax deduction, without being asked, and I was planning on the tuition anyway. I fight? Might get it reduced to, say, a thousand a month, plus the tuition — that’s not worth a fight.”
“The alimony, then?” Richards said. “Isn’t that a little steep?”
“Well,” Gleason said, “it’s staggering, but not steep. You make the mistake of keeping wifey comfy, time you decide to divorce her, you’re gonna regret it. She may not be able to keep you, but she does get the comfort. And there again, no indication they’re trying any dodges: every buck I pay to her is one less I get taxed on.
“I figured she’d go for both houses,” Gleason said. “Fooled again — she gets Canton, I get Chilmark. Mortgage’s bigger on Chilmark, but then, so’s the equity.
“No,” he said, “there’s no sniping going on in any of the places where you’d go and look for it. That fuckin’ Bigelow — I bet shithouse rats learn cute from him. The kicker’s in that innocuous little clause about ‘Children’s environment’: ‘At no time shall the children of the marriage be housed, entertained, or otherwise sheltered, in any domicile owned or regularly occupied by any person of the opposite sex with whom defendant husband has been or is having an unlawful relationship.’ It’s a morals clause, all right? Until such time’s I marry another woman, I’ve got to agree not to live with one, or let the kids see I am. Don’t want Philip finding any bras or pants around, when he goes to take a leak.”
“Who’s the judge?” Richards said. “Who’d you draw on this?”
“You ever hear of Grace McCaffrey?” Gleason said.
“Oh, my,” Richards said. “Norfolk County’s answer to Calcutta’s Ma Teresa.”
“That’s the one,” Gleason said. “She not only looks like the Pope — she sounds like him. Except not Polish, but more doctrinaire. Care to speculate a little, John, her views, adultery? Sex outside of marriage? Fornication, oral sex, all that kind of shit — all prohibited by law? Law’s unenforceable, of course, but still there on the books. Sex outside of marriage is prohibited. Tell me what Grace’ll say.”
“Happy to,” Richards said. “And right after that, I’ll make predictions which way you should look tomorrow, see the sun come up.”
“Right,” Gleason said. “So, there’s the zinger. All I have to do to see my kids for the next four years — unless I’m satisfied taking them out on movie dates and bringing them home again — all I have to do’s either take a vow of celibacy, or acquire another shanty where I go just to get laid. Nifty, huh? And, if I don’t agree, then all bets’re off. All the money stuff’s reopened, also visitation, and John the Big gets to go in before Cardinal Grace, fulminate and filibuster about how my child bride wants to do the right thing, offered it to me, but I’m so randy I won’t have it — I should be strung up.”
“And then Grace will block your hat,” Richards said.
“That’s the way I figure it,” Gleason said. “That’s how I figure it.”
“Lemme ask you something,” Richards said. “How’d they
find this out? I realize you’re separated, you and Lady Barbara. I realize you’ve had companions, reasonably enough. But years ago, you used to be fairly swift yourself. You didn’t go and flaunt your nooky, didn’t rub it in. You don’t show hickeys at your collar, haven’t got the clap?”
“Nope,” Gleason said, “no other vile diseases, either. I’ve been autoclaved.”
“So,” Richards said, “we know they know — how’d they find out? Badgers and Bigelow were thick — they been tailing you?”
“They’re better’n I ever saw, they pulled that one off,” Gleason said. “Besides, they’ve got no motive. Barbara? Sure, Barbara’s mean. So’s Bigelow. But Barbara just assumes things, and he wouldn’t go on that. Only place the kids’ve seen me, stayed with me, I mean, is down on the island — no one else was there. Someone gave them evidence, the Waterford apartment where I live with Chris. And that’s what I can’t figure out. Probably shouldn’t bother me, all the difference that it makes, but things that I can’t figure out — those things bother me.”
“Who’s she told, then?” Richards said, “She told anybody?”
Gleason snickered. “Shit,” he said, “she’s more security conscious’n the Pentagon.”
“Anybody seen you with her?” Richards said.
“Seeing us would not do it,” Gleason said. “Answer is, they have. Seen us at the Station Tap, seen us having dinner. But Bigelow wouldn’t go on that. That’s not ‘shacked up’ enough. No, he’s got something, he can prove we mostly live together. Well, we have been, anyway.”
“Then she has to’ve told someone,” Richards said. “Where’ve you been with her? Where she’d meet someone she would trust, and tell them happy news? Or where you would’ve had to be sharing living quarters.”
“Only real excursion we’ve had,” Gleason said, “only place we’ve been was to her father’s funeral there. Back a month ago. I did go with her to that, because she asked me to.”
“And where was that?” Richards said. “That down in New York?”
“The burial was private,” Gleason said. “They, we flew down one morning, got met at LaGuardia. There’s this funeral home, White Plains, where they burned the old man up. Shouldn’t’ve had too much trouble igniting him, either, all the booze he’d put away. Bet he went in a sheet of blue flame, they lit the pilot light.”
“Who was there?” Richards said. “Who came to pay respects?”
“Mother,” Gleason said. “First time I met her. Son James was detained elsewhere. Saw no sign of him. Assumed he didn’t want to come. Woman named Claire Naisbitt that the Walkers knew in England, apologizing for her husband, said he couldn’t get away. Couple docs, the hospital, some black Congressman. Your old pal, Fiona there, from the FBI except she isn’t anymore. TV pretty boy named Oates, I didn’t recognize. Two or three more greybeards wearing suits that cost more than my car, and some ladies in fine garments that I didn’t know at all.”
“Where’d you stay that night?” Richards said.
“In Waterford,” Gleason said. “Took the last shuttle back. After the cremation, we went back the Walker’s condo, had some drinks and made small talk. Other folks gradually left, except the Naisbitt lady. Chris and I had dinner with them, her mother and Claire. Oh, and the Fiona person — very civilized. Everyone was very nice, specially the mother. Hadn’t met her before that, and wasn’t looking forward, but she seemed very nice and friendly — couldn’t ask for more.”
“She knows you’re playing house,” Richards said.
“Oh, yeah,” Gleason said. “The Naisbitt woman and Fiona took Chris upstairs to talk, transparent strategy to leave me alone with Mom. And we had a real nice chat, everything hotsy-totsy. Most of it, she’s warning me. Not about what she might do — just about how Chris needs help, and she hopes when my life’s straightened out, I can give it to her. ‘Christina needs stability’: that is what she said. I said I was very glad we’d gotten back together. Said to me: ‘I’m going to tell her, if you don’t object.’ I said: ‘Hell, no. I wish you would.’ Whether she did, I can’t say. Did not stay long enough, I think, she could’ve on that visit.”
“There was another one?” Richards said.
“Two weeks ago,” Gleason said. “Memorial service in the hospital chapel. Very dignified and refined. This time Mister Naisbitt came, delivered an oration. This time the TV kid did not — they don’t get along.”
“Who else was there you recognized?” Richards said. “Anybody else?”
“No,” Gleason said, “just the folks from the cremation. Course the Badgers, both of them, they were in the hall. Alton had to fly right back. Larry stayed around. Came back with us to Sutton Place. He left around eight.”
“You come back that night?” Richards said.
“Nope,” Gleason said. “That was Friday. We stayed over, in the Walkers’ pad.”
“Sleep in the same bed, did you?” Richards said.
“Of course,” Gleason said, “why the hell not? That’s not what Bigelow’s using, that I fucked her in New York. I’m sure old Barbara doesn’t like it, and I’m sure they probably know. But I’m not likely to take Philip, or Joanne, far’s that goes, stay with Florence a weekend, when I’ve got visitation. No, Bigelow’s not trying to, stop me getting laid — even Grace can’t go that far. What he’s shooting for is stop me, living with Christina. I can get my ashes hauled, but I can’t make a life.”
Richards laughed. “You didn’t,” he said, “I assume you didn’t see Cowboy Fred lurking around, any time you’ve been with her.”
Gleason grinned. “No Cowboy Fred,” he said. “What’s he gonna do now, John? He gets out of school? Specialize in extraditions? ‘Fugitives Brought Back Alive’? Interesting specialty, that’s what he decides to do.”
“Not much call for it, though,” Richards said. “Also: discouraging work. Saw him maybe three months, four, after Tibbetts got it. New lieutenants’ swearing-in? Decided I’d give him the leg a little, see how he’d react.”
“How did he?” Gleason said. “I heard he was quite pissed off.”
“Very calm,” Richards said. “Made out he was completely satisfied. More’n he would’ve been, in fact, if Sam’d made it back for trial.”
“He believe the inquest?” Gleason said.
“Of course not,” Richards said. “He assumes that Ianucci, or one of your other druggie clients, wiped him out for you.”
Gleason frowned. “So,” he said, “Lieutenant Fred gets out of law school, most likely past the bar, some time down the road a piece, becomes a prosecutor and spends his life chasing me? That’s something to look forward to. Phil Ianucci ever sees direct sunlight again, may have to get him to do something like what Fred thinks I have done already.”
Richards laughed. “Calm down,” he said, “you’re worse’n Fred. Fred’s not mad at you. His attitude’s that you fixed things. Finally won Sam’s case. Even respects you a little. Keep in mind what I told you: Fred likes symmetry. Sam’s book was open ’cause you dropped it. Now Sam’s book is closed, so Fred thinks you made amends. That’s how Fred would handle it, he was in your shoes. Forget about the Cowboy — he thinks you did just fine.”
“Yeah,” Gleason said, “ ‘just fine.’ I wish I had Fred’s inclinations, I could be so sure. Must be wonderful, that feeling, knowing you’re always right.”
“Well,” Richards said, “what’s the net effect, then? You gonna sign or not?”
“I got this thing a week ago,” Gleason said. “I went into Big Mo’s office, and he handed it to me, and I read it and he said: ‘Whatcha gonna do?’ And I said: ‘Talk to Christina, I think. Only way I’ve got a dime, next ten years or so until the damned tuitions’ over, she gives up her apartment and I sell the Vineyard house, and we get something together. That’s the only way I float. So, I think I better ask her.’ And I did. And she said: ‘Sign. Contest with your kids, I know: I am going to lose.’ ”
“But that’s the end of you two, then,” Richa
rds said. “All intents and purposes.”
“Uh huh,” Gleason said. “And you know, I was relieved? Live with someone for a while, really find out who they are, it can take a toll on you. Going down her place, naturally the traffic’s jammed, I’m rehearsing all the speeches. ‘It’s just until the decree’s final. Then we can get married. Then the kids can visit us. It’ll be all right.’ And the trouble with the speeches is, it’s not that they’re not true. It’s that I don’t want to make them, even though they’re true.
“I know her now, John,” he said, “like I never did before. Fault’s all mine, I didn’t — she was always right up front. Told me, time and time again, showed me by her actions and confirmed them with her words. She drifts. The current changes your way, and that’s the way she goes. The current shifts away from you, and so she goes away.”
“Short attention span,” Richards said.
“No,” Gleason said, “no center. That’s what made her so confusing, everyone she met. You look back on that crew she was with, and whatever else you want to say about that pack of animals, at least they had strong beliefs. And so did Fred, and so did you, and I had them, too. Theirs meant they could do things that the law said they could not. Ours said that the law came first, and that’s how we all behaved. This old bastard Naisbitt, made the funeral speech, he got passionate about his subject, really emotional. ‘Clayton was a man of conscience.’ And while I never met the guy, I could believe him. Remember how his kid acted, on trial for his life? He showed the same intensity at MCI Walpole — in prison but unchanged. Had to get it from someplace. Probably his dad.
“So,” he said, “and look at me: I never broke the law. But when I saw what I wanted, well, I went after it. How long did you work that case? Well over five years? Christina doesn’t do that, doesn’t grab and won’t hold on.
“Her mother told me that,” he said. “That’s exactly what she meant, and now I know that she was right. ‘I hope it does work out for you, for the two of you,’ she said. ‘But pray, as I will, nothing happens, that will frighten her. Christina never loses, never loses any fight. But that’s because she runs away, before the fight begins. She’s quite smart, Terry, quite smart, and she is most alert. I hope your life goes smoothly now — that’s the only kind she’ll have. That she will tolerate.’ ”
Outlaws (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard) Page 42