The young housepainter approaches the table, wipes his palms on his overalls, then gently lifts her hand out of the bowl. “You always want to do this right after soaking it in warm water.” Letting it rest in his left hand, he begins moving his right thumb and index finger over her carpals in a circular pattern, constantly varying the pressure. “You can do this for yourself, but it’s better if someone else does it. You can’t really relax if you’re having to move your other hand. My girlfriend does it for me. Unless she’s pissed . . . Sorry, I meant mad. If she’s mad, I’m on my own.” Once or twice, when he bears down hard, she feels darts of discomfort, but the overall sensation is anything but unpleasant. At some point she closes her eyes. Though her sense of timing is impeccable, she loses all temporal awareness. She smells the paint that spatters his clothing, the odor of male sweat, and something else too, some strange scent she once knew but had forgotten.
She jumps when someone cries, “Leszek! Are you eating dinner in there?”
“Shut up!” He doesn’t stop, but the spell is shattered.
She clears her throat, like Richard has so often heard her do, and says, “Thank you.” As gently as he lifted her hand from the water, she pushes his thumb and finger aside.
He stands there for another moment during which she stares at her spice rack, at the bottles of coriander and thyme, cumin and rosemary, dill seed and curry powder, each in its designated place.
The night he interviewed Nick Major, he stayed up till five a.m. Maria Cantrell had driven over to his house, and though he assumed that after saying good-bye to Sandy, Franek would just go to bed and let them talk, his nephew instead asked if he could have a beer with them. “Sure, you can,” Maria said before Richard could respond. So he surrendered the bottle he’d opened for himself and went to get another.
The kid sat there with them for nearly an hour. The transformation was startling. He asked one question after another—about American football, the state of Arkansas, the different varieties of pizza crust, the correct plural of the word “stadium”—and only went to bed when his request for a second Sierra Nevada was declined.
After he left, Richard gestured toward the kitchen. She followed him in there, he opened two more beers, and they sat down at the table. “What’s gotten into him?” he asked. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’d been smoking weed all night.”
She shrugged. “Lights. Color. Action. He asked Sandy a question or two about the game, and that got them talking. The next thing I know he’s telling her about some Renaissance-era building in Krakow. I’m probably mispronouncing it, but it sounded like Suck-a-Knee—”
“Sukiennice. The Cloth Hall.”
“And then she’s saying she’d love to see it, and he’s telling her that maybe she’ll come visit next summer, that his folks have a huge place in the best part of town. Stuff happens faster when you’re young.”
“I guess so.”
They went back over his conversation with Nick Major. She wanted him to call Garcia first thing in the morning and request an interview. He said absolutely not. For better or worse, he told her, she’d handed off this story to him, at least for now. “And my guess,” he said, “is that tomorrow or the next day, Garcia’ll be on the phone to me. Or show up at my door.”
“And if that doesn’t happen?”
“Then in a week or so, I might call him.”
“You’re joking. Right?”
“No, I’m not. For one thing, if Major’s at all worried, he’s probably already called Joe.”
She slapped the table hard enough to rattle her beer bottle. “But what if he’s not worried? What if the slime ball just figures he’s immune, that fuck-all will happen to him because of who he is? I mean, Jesus. He spent God knows how many nights with a woman who was murdered alongside her kids, and then he denied knowing her or the detective who investigated their deaths. And we’re gonna sit here and let whether or not he’s worried dictate what we do?”
“You’re a good writer,” he said. “Better than good. A lot better. But you didn’t listen to what I told you back at Spagnola’s. You just heard what you wanted to. I didn’t say he denied knowing Jacinta Aguilera or Joe Garcia. I said that after I asked him if he knew them, he got up and walked out.”
She leaned over the table. She was wearing a low-cut blouse, and he could see the tops of her breasts. To his embarrassment, his eyes remained there a bit too long, but she was so agitated that she apparently either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “What’s the fucking difference?” she asked.
“You do know there’s a difference. Don’t you?”
He’d posed the question as a mild rebuke, and she accepted it in that spirit, sitting back in her chair and crossing her arms. “All right,” she said, “there’s a difference. He could be taking care to avoid having to admit a little farther down the road that he lied to you when you asked. And that might mean he’s smarter than you think I’m giving him credit for.”
“It could also mean that while he slept with her any number of times and knows somebody suspects it and may even have something close to photographic proof, he’s not guilty of anything worse than hoping to keep it quiet. And while that’s immoral, it’s not illegal, unless of course he paid her, and maybe he did. At this point, I’m not sure what I think the story is. I won’t know until I see whether he calls Joe and how Joe reacts if and when that happens. I may not even know then. So we’re going to wait. Or at least I am. What you do is up to you.”
He thought she might get up and walk out. Later, she’d tell him she considered it. Instead, she said, “I think I want to sit here and get shitfaced.”
He studied his beer bottle. The first time he offered Julia a Sierra Nevada, she protested that she could see a layer of sediment at the bottom. He explained that this particular pale ale was bottle conditioned, that they added yeast and sugar after filtering, which accounted for the residue. She didn’t really like beer that much, but after she tasted this one, it became her favorite. In hot weather, she sometimes preferred it to white wine.
For the past two and a half years, he hadn’t drunk alcohol at all, believing that if he hadn’t had too much that night, he would’ve been behind the wheel and everything that did happen wouldn’t have. He’d bought a twelve-pack last week. Who’d want him to keep living like he’d been living, if living was what you could call it? Not Julia. Not Anna.
“Well,” he said, “I’d be happy to sit here and get shitfaced with you. But only on one condition?”
“Yeah? And what’s that?”
He gestured toward the living room. “You’ll have to sleep on my couch. I’ve seen enough wrecks for three lifetimes.”
Now it’s Thursday morning, four and a half days since he walked into the coaches’ lounge and spoke with Nick Major. Garcia hasn’t visited or called. The UCC Cowboys are presently ranked number nine in the Associated Press poll, having jumped fourteen spots after dismantling Wisconsin. Last night on ESPN, Mark May predicted they’d finish the year unbeaten, that in a worst-case scenario they’d play in a BCS bowl and, if a couple more heavyweights lost, might even compete for the national title. A brief interview with Major followed, and he acted as self-assured as ever, claiming that the only thing on his mind was Colorado State, his cocked chin suggesting exactly the opposite.
Maria has become increasingly insistent, sending several texts a day asking if there’s anything new. Last night, after he went to bed, she left a voicemail that he listened to at breakfast. “Hey,” she said, “have you ever heard of an ‘orange Coke’? I had a cousin from Little Rock who used that term. Took me a while to figure out she meant a Fanta. To her, ‘Coke’ was just generic for ‘soft drink.’” She paused, and he heard liquid being poured. “You know what I have a problem with, Richard? I don’t wait well. Never have. But I guess you’re asleep. I probably ought to be too. Call me tomorrow?”
He will, but not until later. His car’s due for service, so after letting Franek and S
andy out at school, he drops it off at the Toyota dealership, where they tell him it’ll be ready by noon. This is a nice day for early October—a little overcast, temperature around 70—and he decides to walk home. It’s about two miles, straight down Maroa through old Fig Garden, so called because once upon a time it was an orchard. About half the shade trees in Fresno stand here, mostly ash and eucalyptus. They used to talk about trying to buy in the neighborhood but never found the right house at the right price.
There are no sidewalks, but since the speed limit is 25, with a stop sign at the end of every block, it’s safe to walk on the pavement, stepping off into someone’s yard if you hear a car approaching from the rear. He’s just done that when a maroon Buick pulls up beside him. The glass slides down, and Joe Garcia says, “Want a ride?”
There are several reasons to deem this encounter unlikely. The first is that the detective lives way out north, in Woodward Park. The second is that the police department is miles south of here and more easily reached via the 41 freeway. The third is that while “Old Fig,” as locals call it, is surrounded by the city of Fresno, it’s technically not part of it. Administered by the county, it falls under the jurisdiction of the sheriff’s department. The FPD stays away.
He steps over to the car. “Hey, Joe. What are you up to this morning?”
Garcia observes him for a moment. “What am I up to? Well, let’s see. Oh, I know. I’m driving down Maroa.”
“It’s unusual to run into the FPD in Old Fig.”
“Think so?”
“This is the sheriff’s turf, right?”
“Who says I’m on duty?”
He squats beside the Buick. “I thought you were always on duty.”
“I am unless I’m not. I pretty much control my own schedule. Know what I mean?”
“Actually, I do. Because I pretty much control mine too.”
“I know you do. Most people, when they go to a football game, they’re there to have fun. But some people go on business. Coaches, refs, the folks that sell hotdogs. Sportswriters. Which I didn’t know you were one of. Why don’t you climb in? We’ll drive around for a few, and I’ll tell you what I’ve been musing about.”
He’s dealing with a different Joe now—though, in retrospect, it’s a Joe he always knew existed. Julia only met him once, but she disliked everything she’d heard about the detective and was never happy to learn they’d had another conversation. One day, she maintained, Garcia would cause a big problem. “Tell you what,” Richard says. “I’m taking this walk in lieu of the gym, just trying to get my exercise. So why don’t I keep going, and you meet me back at my place? Shouldn’t be more than another ten, twelve minutes.”
Garcia sighs and turns his gaze to the street. “I need to gas up. See you in fifteen.”
As soon as the Buick disappears, he calls Maria and tells her about the encounter.
“That’s kind of spooky,” she says. “You think he’s dangerous?”
A few years ago, after he wrote an article on Valley gangs, somebody slashed his tires, sprayed graffiti all over his car, and left a mutilated cat near the front door. A piece he wrote about ecoterrorists led to death threats, and for a while the FPD placed his house under twenty-four-hour surveillance. You sign on for certain risks. They troubled him when he still had the safety of his family to worry about. “I never thought he was dangerous,” he says. “I always just thought he looked out for Joe. In the past, that meant working extra hard to get his name in the paper. Now it might mean keeping it out.”
“Want me to come over?”
“And do what?”
“Hide in the basement or the bedroom. Just in case.”
The other night, when he got drunk with her, a subtle shift occurred. Not a quake, just a tremor. At one moment they were talking about Nick Major and Joe Garcia and the Aguileras and the FPD, and the next she was asking him if he’d been back to Krakow since the accident. “No,” he’d said, “though I’m sure I’ll go back one day.”
“Because you feel like you have to face up to it?”
“I faced up to it before I left. It happened. It’s final.”
“I don’t guess you’re religious, are you?”
“I don’t go to church.”
“But do you believe?”
“Intelligent design makes a certain amount of sense to me. What about you?”
“I was raised Southern Baptist. I have no doubt God exists. And there’s another thing I don’t doubt.”
“What’s that?”
“That He’s a great big son of a bitch.”
He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.
“Am I making you uncomfortable?”
“Not at all. I’m just checking to see if the sky’s about to fall.”
“It fell on me a long time ago.”
One look at her, and he decided she wished she hadn’t said that. In an effort to ease her discomfort, he offered the blandest response he could come up with on short notice. “Oh, it falls on everybody from time to time.”
“You know what I’ve been wondering?”
“What?”
“After you lost your wife and daughter,” she said, “did you ever . . . well, did you ever consider suicide?”
It took a moment or two to recover from the shock of being asked. “No,” he said, “I can’t say that I did. But I would’ve been perfectly happy if I could’ve rolled back the tape and died alongside them.”
After that, she steered the conversation into inanity. The alleged sharpness of razorback hackles. The stupidity of style sheets, which once led a copy editor at the Sun to change a robbery suspect’s vehicle from “black Ford Taurus” to “African-American Ford Taurus.” The merits of Texas barbecue. The decline of the apostrophe. When all the beer was gone, he went to bed and she went to the couch. The next morning he woke to the sound of voices and the odor of fried bacon. She was in the kitchen with Franek. Though hungover, she’d made herself at home and was wearing one of Julia’s old bathrobes. “Hope it’s all right to borrow this,” she said. “I found it in the bathroom closet.” She must not have noticed the effect on him, because she continued to wear it until she finally got dressed and left. That night he dreamed he was back in the crashed Mercedes, waking to find the sun in his eyes, Julia’s head turned away, her body still, one cold hand locked around the wheel.
“I’m not scared of Joe Garcia,” he says now as he walks on down Maroa toward his meeting with the detective. What he doesn’t say is that the reason he’s not scared of him is he’s not scared of anybody or anything. Along with so much else, he’s lost the capacity to feel fear. The worst that could happen already did.
When he gets home, Garcia is sitting in the driveway. “You’re not quite as swift as you thought,” the detective observes, climbing out of his car. “Took you twenty-one minutes.”
“Really?”
“Give or take.”
Richard steps onto the porch. “You put a stopwatch on me?” he asks as he pulls the house key from his pocket.
“Time’s money, money’s time. Mine is anyway. I’m looking to retire the second my social security kicks in.”
“Retire and do what?”
“Kick back. Let off a little steam.”
The front door has six glass panes, and in one of them he can see the other man’s reflection. He’s not smiling, or scowling, or doing anything else that it’s easy to find a name for. His face is expressionless and stiff, as if a layer of sealant has been applied.
Seated on the couch, Garcia lets his eyes roam the room, taking in the ailing rubber plant in the corner, the pile of magazines on the coffee table, the photos of Julia and Anna that stand above the fireplace. He’s been here before, though the last time was years ago. He picks up a copy of the New Yorker, flips through it, then lays it back on the table. “In some parts of town,” he says, “you see this thing on everybody’s coffee table. It and New York Magazine and the New York Times. Why are so many people in Fresno, Ca
lifornia, so goddamn fascinated by New York?”
It’s a rhetorical question, Richard understands, part of some process they’ll have to go through before they discuss what Joe came to discuss, so he doesn’t point out that while he probably enters at least as many homes as Garcia does, he almost never sees any of those publications on people’s coffee tables or anywhere else except Borders or Barnes and Noble. “Well, New York’s the media and entertainment center,” he says. “That’s probably a big part of it.”
“Other day,” Garcia tells him, “I went to the doctor. Fucking prostate’s got me wanting to climb Half Dome. So I’m sitting there in the waiting room with needles shooting up my ass, and there’s this professorial-looking fellow who’s reading guess what? The New York Times. This scruffy kid’s in there with us, and he’s got a plaster cast on his arm that somebody’s drawn a king-sized cock on, and he says to the guy with the paper, polite as can be, ‘Excuse me, sir. If you’re not reading them right now, could I get the want ads?’ Can you fucking beat that? The want ads?”
“No,” Richard says, as if this is all great fun, “I guess not.”
“Hating New York’s probably in my DNA.”
“Yeah? How come?”
“’Cause I was born in L.A.” He crosses his thick thighs, then locks his hands around his knee. “So what’s your problem with Coach Major?”
“Nick Major? I didn’t know I had one.”
Garcia shakes his head, then looks out the window as if he can’t bear to make eye contact. It occurs to Richard that the detective honestly, and justly, feels betrayed. This little epiphany is followed swiftly by another: until Saturday night, when he stepped into the coaches’ lounge, it had been a long time since anything he’d done or said had caused this kind of discomfort. When he was doing his job the way it’s supposed to be done, he caused it all the time. There’s not much bite to him anymore. His edge has been rounded off.
The Unmade World Page 13