He shakes his head side to side, causing his neck to sway back and forth. Pudding. It kind of reminds me of pudding.
"So he’s in there for about three weeks. They actually keep the patients. Is that what you said they called them, patients?"
"Participants."
"They keep the participants right there in the facility for the whole time. I guess to make sure there aren’t any outside factors that could interfere with the research. So this guy’s there for about three weeks and his daughter comes back to visit. She comes in, her father is sitting up in a chair, he’s dressed and neat as a pin, his eyes are clear and his hands are steady. He’s reading a book. He looks up when she comes in and says, ‘Hello, dear, have you had lunch? They’re serving fish today.’ He’s completely lucid. In fact, he’s beyond lucid. Turns out the book he’s reading is in French, a language he learned as a college student at the Sorbonne but hadn’t used in probably fifty years. In three weeks. Three fuckin’ weeks. Well, I heard that story, and I said, ‘sign me up.’"
"Did you ever find out who the employee was?"
"Never did. I don’t really care. It’s an amazing story no matter who it happened to. Dontcha think?"
Amazing alright. All the stories were amazing. It was like an on/off switch. One minute they’re totally out of it; next minute they’re reading French novels. The cynical side of me felt "beyond belief" might be a better description. But Roger Jones is no fool, despite his crude tone and elephantine bulk. Something tells me that there’s a sleek, sharp brain operating the controls.
"Where is this guy now?" I ask. I drain the last drops of my scotch and gulp down the water.
"I don’t know. I assume he’s back at home living his life. But, to tell you the truth, Lily never followed up on any of that. We all got so caught up in the lab construction, and then with Michael’s accident … well, I guess I just never thought about it again."
Jones signals for our waiter.
"You want another drink, Mr. Mackey? I do."
The waiter acknowledges Jones’ order with a bob of his yellow head then looks at me.
"Sure. Same for me."
"And some of those fried cheese stick things, Denny," said Jones. "I love those things. You like ‘em, Mackey?"
I’m starting to understand how Jones keeps his girlish figure.
"One of my favorites," I lie.
The waiter grabs our empty glasses and scuttles off to fill our order. Jones reaches up and loosens his tie a bit more. His neck sways.
"You know what boggles my mind about this whole thing, Mr. Mackey?"
I shake my head, assuming he means something about the science of neurotransmitters or brain chemistry, both of which are certainly boggling to me.
"I can’t figure out what could have happened to cause Michael to crash his plane."
Wait a minute. He’s cranked the wheel down another path of conversation. This guy would make an unbelievable investigator. He is driving us wherever he wants; I don’t know which way we’re going with this, but I’m happy to be along for the ride.
"I believe they determined it was pilot error on take off," I say. I actually don’t know anything other than what was in the newspaper story. Jones is tracing the rim of his glass with his hotdog-size index finger. Around and around and around. He’s thought about this whole thing more than he’s letting on. It’s eating at him.
"Michael wasn’t the kind of guy to make mistakes," Jones says.
"Everyone makes mistakes, Mr. Jones. I bet even you have made a couple in your life."
"Geeze, I’ve made a shitload," he says, chuckling and slapping at his man breasts. "But I’m just a fat slob with a lucky streak when it comes to real estate. Rudolph was a perfectionist."
I starting to kind of like this guy. He’s the real thing. No pretense or affectation. Doesn’t seem to take himself or anyone else too seriously. He leans forward, drops his elbows on the table and wags a fat finger in my face.
"You’d have to be goddamn spot-on to come up with the theories Michael came up with. Guys like that don’t make big mistakes. Not even under pressure. In fact, they’re better under pressure. It just doesn’t make sense to me."
Denny returns with our drinks and a sizzling platter of fried mozzarella. Jones reaches out, plucks two sticks off the tray and pops them into his mouth with a whiskey chaser. There is no visible Adam’s apple to indicate consumption. The food is simply gone, like a seal slurping a sardine.
"If I didn’t know better," he says, reaching for a third cheese stick. "I’d say it was something more than an accident. Problem is, everybody loved Michael. You saw the funeral. The man had no enemies. He was a god."
"Did the investigators look into anything besides pilot error?"
"Of course they did. They have to because of NTSB rules. They looked at mechanical failure, weather, even tested his blood for drugs. It was all inconclusive."
"Well I guess that answers your question," I said, grabbing one of the fast-disappearing appetizers and dunking it into a bowl of marinara. "I think FAA and NTSB rules are pretty strict about leaving no stone unturned. I’m sure they looked at every possibility."
Jones wipes the mozzarella grease from his lips with a napkin.
"Have you ever talked with Lily about it?" he asks.
I’d sooner choke to death on fried cheese than talk to Lily about Michael’s death. I hate it when I can tell she’s even thinking about it. It’s like watching a car stall. Everything dies.
"I’ve actually avoided the subject," I say. "We’ve been concentrating on putting together the big picture of his research. I haven’t wanted to bring up such a painful subject."
Roger Jones drops another morsel down his throat and smiles at me.
"You really like her, don’t you?" he asks, still smiling.
"Of course I do. She’s an incredible person. I like her and I admire her."
I am getting very warm. It could be the consumption of cheese sticks and scotch, but I doubt it.
"No, I mean you really like her, don’t you?" Jones smirks at me and rolls his eyes. "Hey, I completely understand. Like I said before, that is one very pretty package."
"Michael Rudolph was my friend, Mr. Jones. Roger. It’s not at all what you think."
Hot. It is getting very hot.
"Not thinking anything. Not thinking anything at all."
He is smiling. Smiling and swallowing.
"I’m probably way off base," he says, but he doesn’t stop smiling. "Puttin’ too much of myself into the equation. I know I couldn’t be around Lily Rudolph for any length of time without turning into a drooling idiot."
I have not started drooling yet.
"But then I’m a horny old goat. You sensitive types can keep your emotions under control, can’t you?"
"It’s all extremely professional," I say. Do I sound whiney? I think I sound whiney and maybe a little ill-at-ease with a dash of guilt-ridden. "I don’t appreciate what you’re insinuating."
Roger Jones erupts in laughter and drops his arms down on the table. The plates and glasses do a little hop.
"I like you, Mackey," he says. "Don’t think I trust ya, but I like ya. There’s something about you that reminds me of me. A little bit of the shark. Know what I mean?"
I shake my head. I appear to have been let off the hook about Lily, but Jones has my number and he’s about to dial it up.
"Sharks are quiet, stealthy, they know when to take advantage of a situation. I think there’s a bit of the shark in you, Mr. Mackey. And, I like that. I like someone with a little bit of the shark. You got any more questions for me?"
I smile back at Roger Jones. I like him too. He knows there’s more to my story than I’m letting on, but he isn’t going to push it. I know he’s way smarter than he lets on, and I’m not going to push that either.
"Are you really going to pull your money out of the lab project?" I ask.
"No," Jones answers. He sniggers under his breath. "But I l
ike to make those geeks at Nesler nervous. They’re fun to watch when they get all panicky. Their brains don’t help ‘em then."
I smile in agreement, imagining Howard sweating through one of his fancy silk shirts.
"Anyway, the damn thing’s almost done. I may as well see it through."
The cheese sticks are gone. A few more patrons have filtered in and the tables around us are filling up.
"Have you been over to the lab construction site lately?" I ask.
"Nope. Heard there was some storm damage. Guess I ought to go over and see for myself."
"I drove by this afternoon. It doesn’t look too bad."
"I’m sick and tired of the delays," Jones says, swatting the air with one hand. "You’d think we were building the friggin’ Taj Mahal for how long it’s taking. Maybe I’ll give my pal, Gavin a call."
"VanMorten? I thought you dealt directly with Howard Stanich."
I’m surprised Jones would settle for anyone less than numero uno. Maybe the tubby guys like to stick together.
"I usually do, but Howard can be a tough fella to get a hold of sometimes. Gavin’s my fallback. He’s a little slow on the uptake, but he aims to please. You’ve met him?"
"Yes, he strikes me as an usual fit for the job."
"I’d like to say he’s smarter than he looks, but what you see is probably what you get."
Yellow-haired Denny approaches our table once again.
"Anything else, gentlemen?"
"I’m good. What about you, Mackey? Can I get you anything else?"
"I’m fine, but please, let me pay. I’m asking the questions."
"Thanks for the offer, but they know me around here." He gestures at the waiter. "Denny’s already put everything on my account. We’re good to go."
Denny smiles and reaches for the empty cheese stick platter. Jones waits for him to clear the table and watches him walk back toward the kitchen. I think he’s admiring his butt. It appears Jones is an equal opportunity butt-admirer.
"Mind if I give you a little piece of advice, Mr. Mackey?"
"Of course not."
"Keep your eyes open."
"For what?"
"For the unexpected."
"I’m not sure I understand what you mean."
He pushes back from the table and hoists himself out of the chair. It’s like watching a whale breech.
"There’s something going on. I can’t quite put my finger on it and that pisses me off, but there’s a piece missin’. That’s why I’ve been on Howard’s back. Things are draggin’ on too long. I don’t know if it’s all because of Michael’s accident or if there’s something else wrong. I just don’t think I have the real story."
The real story. That’s what I’d asked Howard for too, and what he’d assured me I’d gotten. Maybe Roger Jones was paranoid as well as prurient, but I think he might be on to something. I wonder if he knows anything about native tree branches.
"It’s been a pleasure meeting you," he says, extending his huge hand, enveloping and crushing my own. "Take my card and feel free to call if you come up with any other questions. And do me a favor; tell that twit, Stanich that if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll return my phone calls in a more expedient fashion."
Jones presses a business card into my hand and I automatically slip it into my coat pocket.
"Be happy to, but it might be few days before I see him again."
"That’s okay. In the meantime, I think I’ll take my own tour of the job site and chat with some of the guys. Maybe they can tell me more about what’s going on."
"Go to the source. That’s my motto."
"Good luck on this book of yours. It sounds like a big job."
"Bigger than you might imagine."
"Oh I know big," he says, laughing and pulling his jacket closed across his spacious expanse of shirt. "I know all about big."
With that, he heads for the door, still laughing. The other patrons turn their heads at the sound and stare. The door closes behind him and I realize Denny has come up behind me and is also watching Jones leave.
"Quite a guy, huh?" Denny says.
"I can honestly say I’ve never met anyone quite like him."
"He seems pretty harsh, but he’s really a pussycat. If he likes you, he’ll do whatever he can to help you."
"What if he doesn’t like you?"
"I would not suggest being in that position."
TWELVE
I walk across Tony’s parking lot, alone. Not getting-into-a-car-by-myself alone. That’s obvious and not too distressing. Alone in the broader sense. Roger Jones, as loud and obnoxious as he is, has a circle of long-time friends. People know him. Like him. Ask him to parties. I start the engine and let it warm for a minute.
I know the people I work with, but they’re only people I work with. If I had to pick one of them out of a police line-up, I’d probably fail. Phil, Todd, Karen, Sam, Sherry, Rob—their names roll off my tongue but the faces are indistinct, one morphing into the next. Belinda has blond hair and a big ass. Or is that Evelyn? Doug? They’re acquaintances. They’re all just acquaintances. I guess I’m more of a surface feeder, content to take a few bites off the top and leave the rest for the pearl divers, the people who can hold their breath for several minutes. I don’t like it down there in the deep end.
I check the rearview mirror and back out of my parking space. Why now? Why does it matter now?
Park Hills’ downtown core empties after dark. There are no clubs, few restaurants, no scene. You’ve got to drive to Chicago for that. After ten o’clock, only empty office towers are left to guard the sidewalks and dumpsters. You’re pretty much out of luck unless you’re interested in a 24-hour grocery or a check cashing store. The few people driving along the empty streets don’t know me. They’re probably headed home. Home sweet home. Home, home on the range. There’s no place like home. I roll down the window a bit and let the cool night air hit my face. I should probably have something harder smack me in the head … maybe knock some sense into me.
My ability to blend in has always been one of my best qualities, like the Cheshire Cat. He was cool. The way he could disappear into the background and leave only his grin. But what if he got stuck? What if one day he couldn’t come back and stayed a grin forever?
I think I would make an interesting scientific test subject. Researchers are always arguing about how much of personality is genetic and how much is environmental. If, as the environmental camp asserts, personality is developed by the reactions of the people around us, then outside perceptions should be a window to our true self. If someone sees a pathetic slob and treats you like a pathetic slob, then a pathetic slob you must be.
In my case, people’s perceptions are under my control. If I can convincingly portray a pathetic slob, that’s who they see, that’s who they believe me to be. But it’s not really who I am. I’ve shut the window to true self and closed the blinds. How tight? I know a little of the real me bleeds through even when I’m pretending to be someone else. How secure? I’ve never been one alternate personality for more than a few hours at a time. I’ve been Albert Mackey for so long now it’s starting to take more effort to switch back and forth. I’m a little worried I’ll lose track of who I am and say the wrong thing. Or I’ll say the right thing, but to the wrong person.
One year, I think I was fifteen or sixteen, I got a reversible t-shirt for my birthday. One side was plain green; the other side was red, brown and black stripes. It was just two t-shirts sewn together, which made it double thick and kind of hot, but I thought it was extremely cool. At the time, I believe I thought it was "bitchin'." Wear it one way on Monday, turn it inside-out on Tuesday. Two entirely different shirts in one handy package. I was eating lunch one afternoon in my bitchin’ shirt and spilled burrito grease down the front of the green side. It soaked right through to the striped side and left a big stain. So you see my point, right? I made a mistake on one side and it leaked through to the other. As Charlie, I’ve never m
inded having acquaintances instead of friends. As Albert, it kind of bothers me. And then there’s Lily. Roger Jones was right. I do really like her. But there’s the question again. Who likes Lily, Charlie or Albert? She doesn’t know Charlie.
We’re co-mingling, Albert and I, blending, but not smoothly like cream in your coffee, more like oil and vinegar. Allowed to sit, we separate. Shake violently and we’re mixed up for awhile. I toss my salad dressing head side-to-side and take a deep breath. The air outside the car’s window is sharp and damp. It smells late. Have you ever noticed time has its own aromas? Early smells fresh and unused. Late reeks of wasted days and stale ideas.
The longer Albert is around, the more real he becomes. It’s like that old kid’s book, the Velveteen Rabbit. The toy rabbit was around so much and loved by the little boy for so long, it finally became real. If Lily loved me, would I become real or would Albert become real?
Is this what happens when you go insane?
The road stretches out in front of me. I pass under the streetlights with their comforting pools of intermittent light. One blinks out as I drive underneath. Maybe there’s a metal plate in my head transmitting high frequency interference. That would explain a lot.
I stare through the windshield and see the road, but inside my head, the picture I see is Lily. Lily likes Albert, but I don’t think she’d care much for Charlie. He’s socially unacceptable in so very many ways: delivers eulogies for people he doesn’t know, picks up strange women in unfortunate circumstances, lies about who he is and what he does. He is a snappy dresser, but that’s not tipping the balance.
It’s the ultimate cosmic joke. I’ve become my own antagonist. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.
I press down on the accelerator and the streetlights flick by like frames of a rickety filmstrip. The faster I go, the closer together they become. At sixteen frames-per-second, individual film frames coalesce into a clear picture. A moving picture. How fast is that in miles per hour? How fast do I need to go before I can see what is going to happen? I hunch over the steering wheel and focus on the end of my hood. Faster.
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