The Last Kind Words

by Tom Piccirilli

  I finished my drink. I wondered if it would be easier to phone the host and tell him to send up another.

  “Grey’s told us that you’ve been away from home for a while,” Eve said to me.

  She’d checked into the family. She knew I’d been gone. But she tried to personalize the fact. I wondered if it was a reporter move or if she was just being polite. “I have.”

  “We’ve kept up with the Rands in a professional capacity. But I must confess I don’t know much about you.”

  “But I bet you’ve checked my police jacket,” I said.

  “Yes, I admit I have,” she said, grinning, which brought the dimples out. “You’re not so bad.”

  “So far as you know.”

  “Can I get a few words from you on record about your brother?”

  “No,” I said. “Sorry.”

  It was a knee-jerk rebuke. I knew she’d work on me for the story. It was her job. I tried not to hold it against her. I still felt tight and guarded, but I liked her lips and I kept staring. I felt strong but foolish.

  “I understand,” she said.

  I wondered if she really did. I wondered if anyone could understand the conflict I felt over Collie, and how much a part of me wanted to rant about it, and how the rest of me would be mute forever. “Do you?”

  She sipped her drink. “I think so. Most people enjoy talking about themselves and telling us their stories. Whether they’re just cultural filler or something deeper, more relevant on a personal or even social level, they want to share their tales.” She leaned back in her seat, but she held me with her acute focus. “It’s only the tragic cases where people prefer to say nothing. They’re too overwhelmed.”

  “And always will be.”

  She gave the slightest, most feminine of shrugs. “Perhaps.”

  She had watchful, intense eyes. I liked the way she looked at me. “You’ve visited your brother in prison,” she said.

  At least we weren’t going to have the usual so-tell-me-about-yourself kind of conversation. In one way I was glad for that. In another I thought, When he’s dead, will they stop wanting to know about him?

  “Yes,” I told her.

  “Twice. I’m curious as to what he had to say to you.”

  “The same thing he’s been saying for five years. Mostly. He now states he didn’t murder Becky Clarke.”

  I didn’t know why I told her. I turned and looked out the window. I thought that maybe I should run again. I’d promised not to, but since when did I keep promises? North this time, somewhere it was cold and white. Maybe I’d just picked the wrong direction the first time.

  She touched my wrist and I turned back. She smiled, dropped her gaze. That bothered me. She said, “He never admitted to it.”

  “But now he flat out denies it.”

  When she glanced back up at me, she tried to give off an air that she knew all my secrets. “And you don’t believe him.”

  “I don’t believe much of what I hear.”

  She interviewed me without making it seem like I was being questioned. She made flat statements that filled in for interrogatives. She had a well-practiced rhythm to her cross-examination. It was subtle and she tried to up the ante by being even more indirectly flirtatious. It wasn’t an act. It was just the way she came at life, unable to separate herself from the job. Few people could. She put three fingers on my wrist, the same way Collie’s wife, Lin, had. Where Lin was almost a will-o’-the-wisp, Eve put weight and energy into the touch.

  “Have you met his wife?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  Grey perked up and snapped out of his lovers’ huddle. His cheeks were pink from all his kissy business with Vicky. “What’s this now?”

  “He married a pen pal in prison a year ago,” I said.

  “Your father never said anything.”

  “My parents didn’t know. I met her this afternoon.”

  “And what’s she like?” Grey asked. He appeared genuinely interested. “Or do I really need to ask?”

  “Not what I expected,” I told him. She hadn’t been, but I only realized it now. All of the anger I’d felt had faded, and I replayed my conversation with Lin.

  “What did you make of her?” Eve asked.

  “I’m still not certain.”

  Three waiters brought the dinners up, along with another round of drinks. They set a lobster in front of me still in its shell and provided a nutcracker and bib. Vicky put hers on and tore in. Eve crossed her legs and bumped my leg with her heel. It gave me more of a thrill than I would’ve thought.

  Grey sipped and sat back, clinking ice cubes. “All the worst killers have their fan clubs. The ones who want to know what it’s like. Who get excited from the prospect of writing to or meeting with or, Christ, actually marrying someone who’s crossed that line.”

  “I don’t believe she’s like that,” I said. My voice sounded strange to me because just a couple of hours ago I had been convinced that she was.

  “Either that or they want the gratification of bringing another one into Jesus’s fold. They want to prove that nobody is beyond redemption. They weep and praise God and think they’re saints for putting time in on lost causes.”

  “She’s not like that either. She said Collie was irredeemable.”

  “I really hope she doesn’t start showing up for the holidays.”

  “I met her once,” Eve said. “She came down to the television station, trying to prove he was innocent of the Rebecca Clarke murder.”

  Vicky touched the back of Grey’s hand, as if she had to soothe him due to the nature of the conversation. Her fingers were dappled with a sheen of butter sauce. “That’s right. We let her talk on camera for a while but she made some wild accusations. She believes another killer is loose and the police aren’t investigating properly.”

  Grey caught my eye and said, “Sounds like a ruse to throw off the scent at this stage of the game.” His face clouded. He slowly dug into the lobster, chewed it as if he refused to let anything ruin his night. He had a staunch capacity for pleasure.

  “He admits the others, just not that one,” I said.

  “It’s a new game he’s running. You don’t wait years to tell someone you’re innocent of murder.”

  “He doesn’t claim to be innocent of murder. Just that one.”

  His voice was beginning to thicken with alcohol. “It doesn’t matter. They’d have to retry his entire case. Who knows, maybe it’s what he was after all this time. I didn’t think he had it in him, the patience to do it this way, but it’s a nice maneuver, if that’s what he’s after. A hell of a gambit. I give him a lot of credit for holding off until the last week. Eat, Terry. You’re too thin.”

  “He looks good,” Vicky said.

  “Yes, he does,” Eve agreed, and the dimples flashed again.

  I ate without enjoyment and without putting the stupid bib on. Grey kept things lively and the women responded. The conversation shifted to other news topics that I hadn’t been following. Eve asked about my tan and I told her about working on a ranch. I didn’t know why. Maybe she was right and everyone wanted to tell their own story, so long as it wasn’t laced with tragedy. My life out west had been boring but not tragic. I mentioned the one time I tried to break a bronc and wound up with a concussion. They all laughed and eventually so did I. Once the table was cleared, Grey and Vicky decided to go for a stroll on the deck and listen to the band. I could hear them playing “Carolina Moon.”

  “Back in a few minutes,” Grey said. He didn’t wink but it felt like he had. He thought he was doing me a favor. I turned to Eve. The window behind me vibrated. The breeze was picking up. It was about to rain again.

  Her purse was carefully propped against her hip, slightly open. I suspected a digital recorder. Reporters wanted a statement one way or another, but it didn’t faze me. I was glad that she put her job first and foremost. It clarified things. I wasn’t ready for a real double date. I couldn’t imagine trying to begin a relationsh
ip and making the small talk that led to enduring times.

  “I’ve been flirting with you all night,” Eve said. “You don’t seem to enjoy talking much. Or is it that you just don’t enjoy talking to me?”

  “To any reporter or recording device.”

  She lifted her purse, opened it, and withdrew a miniature recorder. “It’s not on. I’m eager for a story, but not to the point of deception.”

  “Some journalists play a low game.”

  “Yes, they do. But put it in perspective. Are they lower than the games a family of professional thieves plays?”

  I went to finish off my drink and it was already empty. “Are you asking my opinion?”

  Her grin eased into an expressive smile. I wondered how many stories she’d gotten out of men who never wanted to say a damn thing. “I bet if this wasn’t already turned off, you would’ve cased my house and stolen it while I was in the shower.”

  “I would’ve waited until you were asleep.”

  “I see. Well, if that’s the case, let me save us both some embarrassment and I’ll tell you now that I sleep in the raw.”

  It made me laugh. She wasn’t flirting so much as she was trying to break through my hard shell, and I knew it. “I certainly appreciate your concern for my emotional well-being.”

  There was a real affection in her expression, the frown lines smoothing, her face opening. But her fertile eyes were still trying to pin me down. “You were going to be the centerpiece of my report.”

  “We’ll both survive the letdown. So will your viewers. You were bound to bore the hell out of them anyway.”

  The tension between us thrashed and built and lessened like the sound waters. “People can’t understand your brother. What he’s done is too hideous. But you, they’ll sympathize with you. They’ll identify with you.”

  “Why would they want to? Because I’m not so bad? Or because I’m not as bad as him? He’s going to be dead in a little more than a week. He’ll be forgotten two days after he’s in the ground. There are better stories for you to chase.”

  “That’s a wonderfully honest response.”

  “They’ve all been honest,” I said. “They just haven’t been what you wanted, sadly.”

  She ran a hand through her hair, and the silver strands caught the light a little more brightly. She turned her face away for a moment and something in her strong profile seemed to call to me. The set of her lips or the distinct arc of her jaw.

  Grey and Vicky returned. They were both flushed, their faces streaked with sweat. Grey was an amazing dancer. He’d tried to teach me over the years, but I had no rhythm. He used to say, “No woman will ever take you seriously if you can’t lead or keep up with her on the dance floor.”

  The waiter appeared and presented Grey with the dessert menu. He ordered seven or eight items, more than we could eat, and said that we would share. We moved over to white wine. The chatter became even more casual. It wafted past me and I responded adequately and had no idea what I was saying. Eve spoke of her daughter, who was training to be a vet technician. She took out her phone and showed us photos that her daughter had sent her of a litter of newborn Rottweilers. Grey and I chuckled and talked about how my father had boosted JFK from a puppy mill he’d accidentally broken into. It was, to my knowledge, the one and only time my old man had ever called the cops.

  The chocolate layer cakes and cheesecakes and pie à la mode arrived. We ate from one another’s dishes. Eve fed me forkfuls of icing. She leaned in a little farther. She continued her sweet yet powerful assault on my will.

  I waited for Grey to use the men’s room. When he excused himself I gave it a ten count and then pushed away from the table.

  “Excuse me, ladies, I need to use the house phone.”

  “You can borrow my cell,” Vicky said.

  I stood. “Okay, I lied. I want to talk to my uncle about you two.”

  “Stay here and ask us instead,” Eve said.

  “Sure,” Vicky concurred. “We’ll tell you anything you like.”

  I grinned and turned away and headed for the men’s room.

  Grey was in a stall. There was a towel guy who looked like he’d been put together from pieces of driftwood washed up in the Bay Shore marina. He could’ve been anywhere from forty to eighty, his rough-hewn skin colorless, his face pudgy and soggy from years of alcohol abuse. He glanced up at me as I entered, and his whole life story was in his glazed eyes. Condemned for his sins to sit in the corner of a shitter and hand out towels to rich men.

  He nodded to me. “Sir.”

  “Can you do us a favor and give us a little privacy?” I asked.

  “I’m not supposed to leave, sir.”

  “How about when you need fresh hand towels or more soap or something?”

  He cocked a thumb at the stacks of towels, toilet paper, hand creams, soap, and cleaning products behind him. “We have plenty, sir.”

  He made sir sound like fuck you, shitheel.

  I pulled out my wallet and dished him a fifty. “You just ran out, right? Take ten minutes.”

  “Certainly. Thank you, sir.”

  He tipped off his stool and clawed for the door handle, his vision burned out by hours of blinding porcelain-tile reflection.

  I stood outside Grey’s stall and said, “So what’s this all about?”

  “I’m busy at the moment, right?”

  “I knew you had a thing going with Vicky, but why did you invite me along? Why expose us this way?”

  “You like Eve, don’t you?” he asked.

  “She’s sharp. She’s insistent. Forceful.”

  “So why’s that bending you out of shape?”

  “It’s not,” I admitted. “But we don’t need another pair of eyes on us.”

  “Ah, she does have beautiful, enchanting eyes.” He sounded like he was half in love with her himself. “And since when do you speak for the whole family? You’ve been back a few days and you’re taking over the entire house? You running the show?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Eve is a lovely woman. I thought you’d like her.”

  “I do.”

  “See how easy that was?”

  “But—she wants a story.”

  “So feed her one.”

  “That’s not what I do.”

  He sighed. “I’m sorry, Terrier, I’m not sure what it is you do anymore. I thought you might like to come out and enjoy yourself for a night.”

  Thunder broke over the sound, and the echo picked up such strength on its way to shore that it was like a colossal hammer coming down on the restaurant. The acoustics in the bathroom made it even worse.

  “Jesus Christ, what are you doing in there?” I asked. “Giving birth?”

  “It would go faster if you’d quit diverting my attention.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  He finished up and unlocked the stall door and spent a long time washing his hands and staring at himself in the mirror. He combed his hair, smoothed down one eyebrow. “You’re going to have a good time with her. She’s very witty. She’s also very creative in bed.”

  I shook my head. “Oh, Christ, did you really have to tell me that?”

  “Go frolic. Have some thrills. Infiltrate. It’ll be an agreeable experience. Trust me.”

  “Stop saying shit like that, Grey.”

  He laughed and finished duding himself, checked the knot on his tie, and walked out. I followed.

  Grey didn’t sit again. The bill was on the table. He said, “Are we ready?” He didn’t look at the check, just counted off six C-notes and laid them down. I wondered what he thought he was getting for his payout. He didn’t need to impress the women. Was he trying to impress me?

  He held his hand out to Vicky and helped her put her wrap on. Eve began to put her own jacket on, and I realized there was no reason to be rude and I held it for her while she shrugged her arms in. Then she lightly touched my elbow, squeezed it twice, and then released me. I wonder
ed what my play should be. I wanted to talk with Grey longer. I was worried about his health. I wanted to know if he’d seen a doctor as well. He hadn’t had any leafy greens with his dinner. He should be taking fish-oil capsules. Lobster wasn’t fish, it was crustacean. I thought maybe it wouldn’t count.

  “I think Vicky and I are going to walk down to the beach and sit in the moonlight for a while,” he told me. “Eve came with me. Do you think that—”

  Eve interrupted and said, “It’s all right, I can have the host get me a cab.”

  “Nonsense,” Grey said.

  “I’d be happy to drive you home,” I told her.

  “Thank you, Terry, that’s very sweet of you.”

  The valet brought my car up. We got in and I pulled off and drove a little stiffly. I was surprised and a bit uncomfortable that I felt some attraction for her. She didn’t put her hand on my thigh. I thought she might. I sort of expected it.

  She said, “I live in Head of the Harbor. Just take 25A east.”

  It was a ritzy area on the North Shore. “I know where it is. Northern State is quicker.”

  “And more dull. Besides, it’ll give us time to talk.”

  “Sure.”

  I drove east on 25A. We were going to hit a lot of lights. The traffic was fairly heavy and it grew worse around Huntington when the rain started to come down again. I remembered driving Kimmy down the shore on dark storm-filled nights like this. Eve asked about my youth and I answered honestly, what I could remember. So much of it was always right there on the tip of my tongue, in the front of my mind, and yet so much of it seemed gone forever. I talked about my dad, about climbing drainpipes and jugging safes. There was no inflection in my voice no matter how much I tried to sound lively. Maybe once we got Collie out of the way it would be different. Or we’d be done. I turned on the radio and Eve shut it off. I glanced at her and she smiled. I thought she would smile no matter what I might say or do.

  “You want to discuss him,” she said.

  I turned and looked at her face in silhouette. “Christ, no.”

  “I think you do. It seems to be what matters most to you right now. That much is obvious, Terry.” Her voice rose a bit with a tinge of anger. I wasn’t sure if it was for me or Collie. “You’re thinking about it right now. Anybody can see the pressure you’re under.”