by Dorien Grey
“I thought I’d give him his head today, so he might run out of steam by the time we go to Tim and Phil’s.”
“Good idea.”
They’d already had lunch, not being sure when I’d be home, but Jonathan had left me a sandwich and some potato salad in the refrigerator. We still had an afternoon of chores: groceries, laundry—lots of laundry—etc., so while Jonathan corralled Joshua into picking up his toys and books with the lure of going shopping for something for him to get for Tim and Phil, I sat in the kitchen and ate my lunch.
There was a new Laundromat on the edge of The Central that had a kids’ play area, so we went there, letting Joshua put the coins in the washers and press the Start button before we let him loose in the play area. We’d chosen machines fairly nearby so we could keep a close eye on both him and the machines.
Supermarket shopping with a small child is an adventure, and I’m glad both Jonathan and I were there. I don’t know how one adult can do it alone with a kid in tow. I was kept busy returning things that Joshua kept trying to put in the cart, including a huge box of Yummy-O’s cereal, whose main ingredient, according to the small print on the box, was sugar. He reluctantly settled for Rice Krispies. And we did let him pick out the kind of fruit he wanted. In the bakery section, we bought half a dozen large chocolate chip cookies for him to take to Tim and Phil (he wanted to take them a huge three-tiered wedding cake he saw in the display case, but was talked out of it).
*
We—Jonathan, Joshua, Bunny, and I—arrived at Phil and Tim’s just before six. Just as we got to the door I exchanged the bag of cookies for Bunny. Tim opened the door, and Joshua immediately thrust the bag at him.
“Here,” he said. “These are cookies. Can we have one now?”
Phil came up behind Tim as we entered and Jonathan closed the door behind him. Tim handed Phil the bag of cookies and bent down to pick Joshua up and raise him over his head, then brought him down for a hug.
“Thank you, Joshua,” Tim said. “Those are very special cookies, so let’s save them for dessert, okay?”
Looking only mildly disappointed, Joshua nodded and Tim passed him to Phil for a hug, then exchanged hugs with Jonathan and me, an act Phil repeated after setting Joshua down. The minute Joshua’s feet hit the floor, he was off to the fish tank.
Tim, Phil, Jonathan, and I sat around talking and having a drink (soda for Jonathan and Joshua, who was too busy talking to the fish to drink it). Phil asked how my current case…if it could be called that…was going, and I told them what I could.
“Have you got any plans for next Saturday?”
Phil and Tim looked at one another, and Tim shook his head.
“Not that we know of. Why?”
“How would you like to join us for a night at the stock-car races? That way I could combine business with pleasure.”
“Jeez,” Tim said, “I haven’t been out to Elmsley since I was a teenager. It sounds like fun.” He turned to Phil. “Okay by you, Phil?”
Phil nodded. “Sure: I’ve never been there at all.”
So we made it a tentative date, and after finishing our drinks, got up to leave.
Joshua came running over. “Are we going now? We haven’t had our cookies yet!”
Jonathan got down on one knee and explained to him, for probably the fourth time, that he was going to have dinner with Uncle Tim and Uncle Phil all by himself, just like the big boy he was, while Uncle Jonathan and Uncle Dick went to a grown-up’s place for dinner. “But we’ll be back in plenty of time for your story.”
“I want to go with you!” Joshua said, on the verge of tears.
Tim stepped over to him. “But what will we do with those cookies?” he asked. “And I’ve made you a meatloaf—you like meatloaf, don’t you?”
Joshua reluctantly nodded.
Then it was Phil’s turn. “And I thought you might help me feed the fish after dinner.”
That did it.
*
Dinner at Napoleon was exactly what we both needed, but I, for one, hadn’t realized just how much. We took our time, and splurged and had Chateaubriand and talked, and some of the old Jonathan peeked out from around the corners of his shell. It was good to see him. He even asked if maybe we could run home first before picking up Joshua so we could just chase each other around the apartment naked, and play a noisy, no-holds-barred game or two, but we both realized there wasn’t time. But I was glad he was considering it.
We got back to Tim and Phil’s around nine thirty. Phil opened the door with his index finger to his lips, and we saw Tim sitting on the couch, watching TV, with Bunny on his lap, and Joshua, sound asleep, using Bunny as a pillow.
We thanked them both profusely (and quietly), and declined with thanks their offer to stay awhile. Jonathan went over and picked Joshua up off the couch, and I took Bunny. Joshua woke up, sleepily, for just a moment, then put his arms around Jonathan’s neck, laid his head on Jonathan’s shoulder, and went back to sleep.
And our new little family went home.
CHAPTER 11
Sunday and the entire rest of the week went by quickly. I had a couple of fairly simple cases, the longest lasting all of three days.
With Saturday approaching, I began thinking more of Roy D’Angelo, and wondering when he might be coming into town.
I keep a city/suburbs map both in my car and at the office, so Thursday morning, after doing my coffee/newspaper/crossword puzzle routine, I got out both the map and the phone book and started looking up motels in Vernon and their proximity to Elmsley Raceway. Vernon is mostly industrial as opposed to residential, and there were only four motels, three of which were within half a mile of the track. I began to call each one, asking if Roy D’Angelo had a reservation for the weekend, and lucked out on the second call (The Twilight Inn). Apparently Roy stayed there whenever he was in town, because whoever it was I talked to mentioned that he “usually” checked in early Friday afternoon. I left a message asking him to call me when he got in. I had no reason to think that he would, if our last conversation was any indicator, but I didn’t have anything to lose, and if he didn’t, I’d still try to find a way to corral him after the race Saturday.
*
So, needless to say I was quite surprised to answer the phone around two thirty on Friday to hear, “This is Roy D’Angelo. What the hell do you want?”
I’m fine, thanks, Roy. And how are you? my mind-voice asked.
“Thanks for calling. I really do want to talk to you about…”
“I told you, he’s my kid and I want him!” he interrupted.
I paused a second before saying, “This isn’t about Kelly. It’s about Carlene and who killed her.”
That got his attention.
“What the hell has that got to do with me?”
Now, there are some people—most people, actually—with whom tact and diplomacy are very effective tools. And there are some people who can’t even spell “tact” or “diplomacy,” let alone know what they mean, with whom no-nonsense monosyllables appear to work better. Roy D’Angelo, I sensed, was one of the latter. I hadn’t had any intention of a confrontation, especially over the phone, but there was something about this joker’s attitude that got me.
“Well look, Roy, here’s the way it is. Carlene’s death was no accident.” I still didn’t know that for an absolute fact, but what the hell? “The police know who was driving the van that killed her, but they haven’t found him yet. The guy’s a known hit man, so that means somebody wanted Carlene dead.”
I paused a moment, but D’Angelo remained quiet, so I continued. “Now, I’ve been looking into the case, and I’ve come up with some pretty interesting facts which I’m going to be taking to the police. The only loose end right now is you.”
“Me?” he said incredulously. “Why drag me into it? I haven’t had any contact with that lesbo bitch for five years, and I sure as hell didn’t have anything at all to do with her death!”
Other than the use o
f the pejoratives, I wondered how he knew Carlene was lesbian if he hadn’t had any contact with her since their affair.
“Well, then, you shouldn’t mind answering some questions for me. It would be nice, when I talk to the police, to be able to rule you out as a suspect and keep them from bothering you.”
There was a long pause while he mulled that one over. “What kind of questions?”
“I’d just as soon not go into them over the phone. Could we get together privately either sometime today or tomorrow? I’ll be coming out to the track for the races Saturday anyway, and maybe…”
“No, that won’t work. I’m with my team, and we’ve got a lot of work to do before the race. But I suppose I can get away for a few minutes Sunday morning before I head back home. I can meet you at The Finish Line around noon.”
I gathered The Finish Line was a bar probably not too far from the track…I could look up the address.
“Noon it is. See you there.”
I hung up without saying good-bye.
You think he’ll actually show up? one of my mind-voices asked.
He’d better, I answered.
*
Having already made plans with Tim and Phil to join us at the races, I couldn’t very well cancel just because I wouldn’t be talking to Roy D’Angelo afterwards. It was probably just as well to meet him privately on Sunday, anyway.
If he shows up, the mind-voice said.
You made your point. But I was fairly sure he would…if not because he wondered what I might have on him, then to keep me from siccing the police on him.
*
Actually, the races were kind of fun, and everyone had a good time, especially Joshua, even though he kept his hands over his ears a lot. He wasn’t used to being in large, enthusiastic crowds, let alone the roar of the cars zooming. There were a couple of dramatic spinouts and one major pile-up—caused, interestingly, by car #38, Roy D’Angelo’s car, clipping another while attempting to pass. It didn’t look accidental, but the crowd loved it. That delayed the race for about ten minutes while they hauled off four cars, but Roy went on to win one other heat.
I wished we were a little closer to the track so I could get a good look at Roy in person. But of course he was wearing his helmet anyway, so….
Phil, Tim, and I had a couple of beers during the races, so Jonathan drove while Joshua fell asleep in my lap. We didn’t get back to the apartment until about eleven thirty. We managed to get Joshua to bed, which was an interesting experience in that, as he’d done when we’d left him with Tim and Phil the week before, he managed to sleep through most of the changing-into-his-pajamas ritual. It was rather like trying to undress and dress a very large rag doll.
When we went into our own room and closed the door, Jonathan moved a chair in front of it. He then came over to me with a wicked grin—God, it was good to have the old Jonathan back—and he pushed me down on the bed.
“How about a game of The Race Car Driver and the Pit Chief?” he whispered, unbuckling my belt. “I think we both could use a lube job and an oil change.”
Great idea—and he was right, as usual.
*
Ah, and another observation about having a four-year-old in your life: don’t count on sleeping in on Sundays. Or ever. I woke to the gentle tapping of something soft on my nose, and opened my eyes to see it was Bunny, whom Joshua was using to subtly get my attention. The chair had been moved away from the door in the course of my trip to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
“We’re hungry,” Joshua announced in a semi-whisper.
“Why didn’t you go wake up Uncle Jonathan?”
“He’s sleeping.”
I resisted the temptation to point out that I had been sleeping, too, until he woke me.
“Okay,” I said, speaking softly so as not to wake Jonathan. “You and Bunny go into the kitchen and I’ll be right there.”
“Okay,” he said, and ran out the door. Luckily, I’d put my robe on the chair within reach of the bed, and I was able to slide out of bed and into the robe in practically one motion. Joshua had pulled a chair over to the counter and was in the process of opening the cupboard where the cereal was kept. He wasn’t in danger of falling, so I said, “Okay, you get the cereal and I’ll get the bowl.”
“Two bowls!” Joshua insisted, taking down the box of Rice Krispies.
“I’ll eat a little later, when Uncle Jonathan gets up.”
“No,” Joshua said, climbing down from the chair and taking the cereal box to the table, “…a bowl for me and a bowl for Bunny.”
“Bunny doesn’t eat Rice Krispies.”
He looked at me with mild exasperation. “He pretends does,” he said.
So I got two bowls, two napkins, and two spoons. I drew the line at pouring milk in Bunny’s bowl, however.
Jonathan got up shortly thereafter, and while he was making regular breakfast—pancakes and sausage—I retrieved the Sunday paper from the hall and sat down with Joshua and Bunny to read the funnies. He didn’t understand most of them, of course—most funnies aren’t really for kids, after all. But Joshua particularly enjoyed the ones with animals and he was pretty good at identifying them. And of course there were the usual endless questions, some because he wanted to know, and some because he just enjoyed asking questions.
*
Since I was going to be gone, Jonathan decided to take Joshua to noon services at the M.C.C. I left the apartment for The Finish Line at around 11:15. According to the address in the phone book, it was within a block of the Twilight Inn, where Roy D’Angelo was staying.
The bar’s parking lot was about a quarter full, mostly with trucks with flatbed trailers behind them, and most of them carrying cars with race numbers painted on the sides. The cars, with only two exceptions, displayed obvious evidence of their battles, like old prizefighters sporting out-of-shape noses and cauliflower ears.
I did not see #38 among them. Well, I was a little early, as usual.
The bar itself, I saw when I entered, was your usual windowless square box, fairly good-sized, with metal posts holding up the flat roof, a pool table, several neon signs touting various beer brands, a small stage in one corner, and an L-shaped bar running most of the way along the opposite wall. There was a faint smell of motor oil mixed with the usual stale-beer smell I associate with a lot of less-than-classy bars.
There were maybe twenty people in the room, most of them men, including the bartender, who wore a striped shirt usually seen on referees and the guys who wave the checkered flag at auto races. There were one or two patrons who made me fleetingly wish they were gay and I was single, but no one I recognized even vaguely.
I walked over to the bar and took an empty stool two places away from where a beer bottle stood on the bar, unattended. I ordered a beer and was just taking some money out of my wallet when I saw someone coming out of the bathroom. I couldn’t be absolutely positive, but I thought it might be Roy D’Angelo. He came across the room and sat at the stool in front of the unattended beer.
He didn’t look in my direction; just sat with his forearms on the bar, head down, looking at nothing in particular.
When I’d given the bartender my money and picked up my beer, I turned to the guy.
“Roy D’Angelo?”
He turned his head to look at me, expressionless.
“Yeah. You the P.I.?”
I nodded. Neither of us made any attempt to shake hands.
“I didn’t see your car in the lot.”
“Mike’s got the truck. He’ll be by shortly to pick me up, then we’re outta here. So let’s make this quick.”
Fine by me, I thought. I had no idea who Mike might be…probably his mechanic…but it didn’t matter.
“So how did you know Carlene was a lesbian?”
Quick he wanted it, quick he’d get it.
He scowled and his eyes darted around the bar to see if anyone had heard the dreaded “L” word.
“I just knew.”
“Yeah, but I’m curious how you knew. Carlene didn’t have her first lesbian experience until after she dumped you.” I saw him flush.
“She dumped me?” he hissed, trying to keep his voice down. “No cunt ever ditched Roy D’Angelo! I don’t get trapped, neither. She deliberately got pregnant. I gave her money for an abortion and told her I never wanted to see her sorry ass again!”
Uh-huh.
“So how did you find out she was lesbian?” I asked again.
He scowled again. “What the fuck difference does it make how I heard? I heard, okay?”
“Do you know a Jan Houston?”
“Never heard of her.” It was obviously a lie.
“She knows you.”
There was a pause, and he looked definitely uneasy. “How?”
“She wouldn’t tell me. But she knows you.”
He took a long drink of his beer, and set the bottle back on the bar. “Well, I don’t know her and I’d like to keep it that way.”
I decided to switch track slightly. “So it was your mother who told you Carlene was dead, and that she had a son.”
He nodded. “Yeah. So?”
“I understand you and your mother aren’t exactly close.”
“We get along okay,” he said, noncommittally. I was rather surprised he didn’t ask me how I came across that bit of information.
“Ever heard of a Frank Santorini?”
He shook his head.
“How about Eddie Styles?”
There was a quick flash of something in his eyes—too quick for me to get an idea of what it might mean.
“Never heard of him.”
Like you never heard of Jan Houston?
I skipped to another subject. “You make pretty good money on the race circuit?”
The scowl returned for the third time. “That’s none of your damned business, but yeah, I do okay. What’s that got to do with anything?”
I shrugged. “I was just thinking it must cost a bundle to hire an expensive Louisville lawyer to handle your custody suit.”