The local library turned out to have a pretty decent how-to book on taxidermy. Did you know taxidermists don’t use the body? I’d figured I’d need to slice open their little bellies and scoop out their insides, pack it with cotton or whatever, but turns out all you need is the skin. And I had the skinning part down pat.
It still took me a while to get the hang of it, mind you. Took me a bunch of rabbits, too. But by the time I went back to school at the end of that summer I had a small army of the things dotted around my room. I turned them all so when I’d wake they were facing me. I liked the idea of them watching me sleep.
There was only one thing I could never get right, and that was the eyes. The how-to book said I had to use glass, which would have been fine if it hadn’t been for Nancy. Oh she indulged me well enough—bought me ammo and helped me sharpen my knife—but for whatever reason she refused to buy me the eyes. She said she couldn’t afford it, but that was bullshit. She could afford her dirty cigarettes and her stinking hand-paste, and when I told her that she slapped me so hard she made my gums bleed.
I still don’t know for sure why she refused. They freaked her out a little, I know that. I was so pissed off that afterwards I moved them into their bedroom when they were sleeping. Set them up all over the room, their blank faces and empty sockets pointed right at the bed. I still remember the scream when she woke up. Remember the beating, too.
She threw them out after that. I came back from school to find their remains in the bottom of the fire. My how-to book, too, and that wasn’t even mine to burn.
Chapter Nineteen
The restaurant was called Marco’s and it didn’t look like much. Hidden away from the main drag, down a snowy side street. An old woman was standing there, out of the cold wind, stooped over and sucking on a cigarette. She watched me pass, her face wrinkles and suspicion, her skin so pale it was nearly translucent. I nodded a hello and she shuffled away. It was early Friday afternoon but it was dark; clouds and cramped buildings on either side saw to that.
When I finally found the entrance, I looked it over. Dirty windows and a mechanical whine from the laundromat next door. Before I went in I spent a couple of minutes with my notebook. Took down the license plates of every car that was parked outside. It was a long shot, sure, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to try. When I was done, I squeezed the photograph in my pocket and walked inside to a world of checkered tablecloths and Dean Martin.
The place was small, maybe ten or so little tables. Most of them half set, all of them empty apart from one. He was sitting against the back wall, where the light was dimmest, and he looked up at the tinkling of the door. Hooded eyes regarded me from across the room.
I made my way to him, weaving through the tight spaces. With each step I felt the familiar presence growing from within. That bundle of nervous energy; anticipation with a dopamine twist. Suddenly I was sixteen years old and Lisa Simone was unclasping her bra, straddling me in the cramped back seat while country music played on the radio. Then it was fourteen years later and I was holding down a screaming skinny junkie while Isaac tossed his filthy apartment for pills.
It was all the same. That fevered rush, that edgy buzz. A precursor to something bigger. Flooding my system and overloading my senses until my temples pounded with the pressure of it. I was tense—too tense for a meeting such as this—and liable to take it out on whatever was close to hand. Upending a table, maybe, or snapping a man’s finger. I could feel the reassuring weight of my switchblade in my pocket.
Movement on my left and a plump waitress in a turquoise uniform emerged from the kitchen. I just about slit her throat. She was carrying a plastic tub of silverware and a bored expression. Her nametag read Suzanne, and Buongiorno! underneath. She asked if she could take my coat, and I told her no. She shrugged and wandered off.
The man at the table was watching. This close, I could finally make him out.
He was big; high-angled cheekbones and blond, floppy hair that fell across his eyes. His nose looked like it had been broken at least once and never quite healed right. Arms that filled the sleeves of a plain white T-shirt stretched tight across a broad, powerful chest. I wondered what he could bench. Two hundred, two-fifty. His hands were clasped in front of him, fingers interlocked. A couple of glasses of something dark on the table.
I folded my jacket over the back of a nearby seat. Sat down opposite him.
He said, “Morning, Detective.”
“Morning.”
“I took the liberty of ordering you a drink. Figured you were a liquor man. Got you a rum.”
“It’s a little early for me.”
“I thought all you hardened detectives were borderline alcoholics. Or is that just a cliché?”
He smiled at me, bouncing the ice around in his glass playfully. He didn’t look like I’d expected him to. His voice was soft, a little high-pitched. I’d imagined someone scrawny. A pervert with a little pot belly and a zoom lens. Not a big guy like him, who looked like he’d been in a few fights and probably enjoyed them.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Simon,” the man replied. “My name is Simon.”
“Simon what?”
“Just Simon.”
“Well then, Simon,” I said, leaning back slightly in my seat. “Let’s get one thing clear. I’m not here to drink with you.”
“Sure you are. Why do you think we’re in a restaurant?”
“Now listen—”
“If I just wanted to talk, I’d have asked you for a stroll along the river. You been down to the river yet? It’s shit. Now, you’re new in town and I’m guessing you’ve been surviving on takeout. You’ve got that look about you.”
“What look?”
“You need to get more sleep, Thomas. And get some fish in you. But not from here. Christ, last time I was here I tried the catch of the day. That was me for the rest of the night. Ass like the Japanese flag.” He ran a large finger down a laminated page. “Where’d they catch the thing from? That’s what I’d like to know. Probably from that damn river. The veal, on the other hand, is particularly good. It’s the only reason I come here. Despite the godawful music they play.”
“You don’t like Louis Prima?”
“Who?”
I pulled the crumpled photo out of my pocket and dropped it on the table. Tapped the corner.
“Never mind. You got more of these?”
“A few,” he said, shrugging. “Heavy-handed, I know.”
“What do you want?”
“Right now? Lunch.” He grinned. “I think this is going to be fun.”
I’d started to tell him exactly what I thought when Suzanne the plump waitress appeared at the table’s edge. I rested my hand over the photo.
“Are we ready to order?” she asked, digging out a pad.
“I’m not hungry,” I said, staring at Simon.
He turned to the waitress with a smile. “You’ll have to excuse my friend,” he said, leaning in close to her. “He’ll have the veal.”
“I will?”
“Yes,” he said. “And so will I.”
Simon snapped the menu shut and handed it over. The waitress smiled at him, sent me a dirty look. As she walked away, Simon raised his glass to me.
“Cheers,” he said, and clinked it against mine. When I didn’t join him, he rolled his eyes. “If you’re not going to drink that, then at least let me have it.”
I lifted my glass. Went to take a drink and then paused.
Simon bellowed with laughter. “Oh come on, Detective. Do you really think I’ve poisoned it? Hmm? Me and Suzanne over there are going to roll you up in a carpet and drag you out back? I mean, just look at her. I doubt she’d be much help.”
I drained half the glass in one shot. Felt like I was making a point. Simon motioned for another round.
“Before we get down to business,” he said, “what do you think of Cooper?”
“I think it’s a cancer. I think it’s rotten and shoul
d be torn down, brick by brick.”
Simon swept blond hair out of his eyes. “It’s a shithole, isn’t it? I used to wonder if it wasn’t some front for something more exciting. A secret, maybe, if only I could shift my perspective.” He paused for a moment. “I suppose I must sound a little nuts.”
“You do this kind of thing a lot?”
“What’s that?”
“This. Us, speaking here, in this place. The photograph under my wiper. That how you spend your time?”
“You think I’m playing with you.”
“What else would you call this?”
“Getting to know each other.”
“Oh yeah? What’s your last name?”
“It’s Jacobs. I did two stints in Nebraska State for arson and petty theft. I’m a size-twelve shoe and I can bench two-sixty-five.” He gave one of his thigh-sized biceps a loving squeeze. “I saw you looking.”
I downed the rest of my drink.
There was a clatter from the kitchen and a moment later the door swung open. Suzanne reappeared and placed two large plates down in front of us along with another couple of rums. The booze must have been working because the food looked incredible. Thinly sliced breaded veal topped with tomato sauce and melted cheese, small boiled potatoes and green beans on the side. The smell of it reminded me I’d skipped last night’s dinner. When I looked up, Simon was watching me.
“What did I tell you?” he said.
“Jack shit, so far,” I said. I nudged the photo. “You take this yourself?”
Simon nodded as he cut into his food, suddenly serious as he began chewing. “I did.”
“Tell me what you saw.”
“I saw you,” he said. “Saw you and your partner burning that car.”
“So we burned a car. So what.”
“Not a car. That car. And that car was used to rob a police transport.”
“You saw that too?”
“I did. Interesting choice of masks, I must say. And those bags, Thomas. Or do you prefer Tom? Tommy?”
“Detective Levine is fine.”
“Well, Tommy Boy, judging by the weight of them, I’d say those bags were quite full.”
My empty stomach was fluttering, a heaviness behind my eyes. I popped a potato into my mouth and it melted into a warm, garlicky mess. I was suddenly very glad to have decided to stop carrying the money around in my pocket.
“I’m supposed to believe you just happened to be there?” I said. “Nice early-morning drive out by the reservoir?”
“Of course not. I’ve been watching you for a while now. Getting a feel for you.” He nudged the photo with a large knuckle. “Imagine my surprise when I saw that.”
“And at last we reach the point of this conversation,” I said. “You think blackmailing a cop is a smart move?”
“Actually, yes.”
“I’ll ask again. How many of these do you have? They saved on a hard drive somewhere?”
“I’m old-school, Detective. Been using the same Leica for twenty years.”
“You’re an artist. I got it.” I leaned in close. “Simon, I want those photos, you understand me? The negatives, everything. My patience is evaporating.”
“Tell me about the girl,” he said.
I fell silent, his question catching me off guard. “What girl?”
“You are investigating a murder, aren’t you?”
“I don’t see the connection.”
“They say Kevin Foster killed her.”
“I’m not at liberty to—”
“Discuss an ongoing investigation, yes yes yes I understand all that. But have you seen the poor guy? Course you have. You found him. Anyway, they had his picture in the paper. I’ll be honest, Thomas. That man does not look like a killer.”
“You know what a killer looks like?”
“I understand you’ve yet to release everything to the press.”
“That’s right.”
“She’s missing a watch, isn’t she.”
I took a deep breath and let it out slow. Picked up a green bean with my fingers and chewed on it. “You talk to one of my men at the station? That it? Late-night chat with your drinking buddy who says something he shouldn’t and you think you’ll have a little fun?” I moved my glass to one side so I could plant my elbows on the table. “Let me tell you something. This whole charade you’ve got going on? This . . . lunch, this forced air-of-mystery bullshit you’re peddling? I’m not interested. I don’t have time to be interested. You want to mess around with a cop? Run a red light and tell your story to the highway patrol. Don’t waste my lunch break with this Hollywood crap. Now, you give me those photos before I really start to get pissed off.”
Simon grinned. “You’re lecturing me about Hollywood crap? Seriously? After that?”
He was devouring his lunch now. Laughing as he swirled large chunks of meat in thick, red sauce.
“Alright, alright,” he said. “Let’s make a deal.”
“I don’t break that nose again,” I said. “That’s the deal.”
Simon picked up the photo. “Remember who holds the leverage.” He glanced beyond me, catching the eye of the waitress and motioning for the check.
“Where you going?” I said. “We’re not done here yet.”
“You know, I read a book recently,” Simon said. “I’m a voracious reader. I’ll read anything. I once read every ingredient on the back of a shampoo bottle while taking a shit. Anyway, this was about an illness known as Capgras delusion. Fascinating condition. It’s most commonly found in those suffering from paranoid schizophrenia, and it manifests itself as . . . now I have to make sure I get this right . . . one’s belief that someone close to them has been replaced by an imposter. Ah, thank you my dear.”
That last part was aimed at Suzanne, who had briefly returned with the check in a little silver dish. Simon began counting out cash.
“One of the cases they talked about was a woman from North Dakota, I forget her name. She was young—late twenties—and had recently given birth to a child. A boy. Now, they don’t know what triggers the condition, but believe me, this woman had a laundry list of mental problems. A hotel laundry list, you get me?
“So her husband was a traveling salesman, and after a long trip selling cleaning supplies to single mothers he returned to the family home to find his wife curled up on the bedroom floor, covered in blood and repeating over and over to anyone that would listen that her darling son, her infant boy no older than six months, was a fake, an imposter, a carbon copy replaced some nights previous while she’d slept, and after living with it for three days she hadn’t been able to stand the notion of doing so for a second longer, and so she’d bludgeoned the poor thing to death with a rolling pin just before noon.”
He dropped the cash into the dish and reached for his coat.
“I’m not sure I can imagine anything worse,” he said. “Losing my grasp on reality like that. You know, ever since reading about it I’ve had this recurring dream, where I’m staring into a mirror and the person staring back is a stranger. I wonder what that means.”
Simon paused, perhaps waiting in case I said something, and then flashed me a strange, slightly sorrowful parting smile when I didn’t. He got to his feet and I made to do the same and he gave me this look, his features all at once different, his eyes narrow and his jaw set. “Don’t follow me, Thomas,” he said. “I see you in my rearview, I get stopped by some traffic cop a half mile down the road, these photos reach your captain’s inbox before my engine’s cool.”
And so I waited until he’d left, until Suzanne had returned to clear the table and take the money and I told her to keep the change. That nervous buzz I’d felt when I’d arrived had left. The anger that usually rode alongside it nowhere to be seen. In its place I felt dejected and melancholic, and I just wanted to go home.
When I went outside the street was darker still. The old woman I’d passed on my way in was gone now, a little pile of matches and a half-smoked ciga
rette in the spot where she’d stood. As though she’d vanished into thin air before she’d had a chance to finish. It was frosty, and I hurried back onto the main street and into my Impala, where I turned the heater up to full and held my hands over the vents. My fingers trembled with the cold, or at least that’s what I told myself.
Rookie never speaks to me. Keeps that mouth zipped up tight. He’s more of a listener, Rookie. Might be he just zones out while I talk, but I doubt it. Either way, it’s good getting some of this stuff off my chest.
As we walk to my cell, I take him back. Back to Eudora. To the dustbowl and the cornfields and the warm summer nights, and the house where I grew up.
There was a room in that house that was always locked. Through the front door, straight past the kitchen and on your right. Grandpa Eddie kept the key to it on a chain around his neck, and there were only two occasions when he’d take it off: when he was showering and when he was screwing. Seeing as how he didn’t like showering all that much—and judging by the mood Nancy was always in—I reckon it’s safe to say he pretty much wore it around his neck twenty-four-seven.
When I turned five, just before I started school, Eddie took me by the hand to that door (straight past the kitchen and on your right), removed the key from under his shirt and ushered me inside.
I don’t remember what happened next all that well, and that was perhaps on account of the fact I was only five, and who the hell remembers much from when they were five.
All I knew was that I had wet myself, and Eddie had started screaming at me. There was a cross on a mantel and a bible on a desk, a hook in the ceiling and a chain on the floor, and the walls were red and I’d wet myself.
But that was then and this is now, and I’m sure we’ve all seen enough Hollywood movies to get the subtext. If you’ve been paying attention you might have already worked it out.
I mean, it actually makes a whole lot of sense. Eddie’s son—my dad—was a rapist, right? And who do you think he picked up that little trick from? I bet that Eddie did the same to him as he did to me. Right down to the goddamn candy when he was finished. Smarter folks than me talk about it all the time. The abused becoming abusers. Countless generations of screwups; one big, happy, sexually abused family.
Welcome to Cooper Page 10