“Simon, what the fuck’s the matter with you? Faigelehs, for Christ sake?”
“I’m sorry, really. I don’t know what I’m saying. This has me by the short hairs, and I’ve been spending too much time with businessmen, I suppose.”
“Well, go wheel and deal. It will use up some energy.”
There was a pause and I suddenly felt uncomfortable. “Simon.”
“What?”
“I’ll stick out like a sore thumb on Newbury Street.”
“According to you, you stick out like a sore thumb everywhere. Just remember to keep your phone turned on. I’ll get back to you.”
I filled a shot glass with bourbon and swallowed it in a gulp. The phone began to ring again, but this time I knew better. After the ringing stopped I turned it off. I wasn’t going to stay awake anyhow.
Sixteen hours of sleep and I still crawled out of bed tired. My skin’s clammy texture was evidence of dreams, but what you don’t remember won’t hurt you. Mrs. Sullivan’s flashing light forced me to dress, grab my toolbox, and go upstairs. Two coffees, four homemade oatmeal cookies, and an earful later, I had the washer replaced and was ready to sleaze behind Fran’s back looking for ghosts.
Misplaced keys, then forgotten cigarettes—I had trouble getting out of the house and on my way. The city looked dirty and battered from another long, cold winter. In bright summer light there were days when even the parks appeared as elegant as Frederick Olmsted envisioned, but mostly the town looked like a working woman: too tired to be attractive most of the time.
I drove to Newbury Street and set up shop. It was a warm perspiring day so I opened the salt-stained window. In contrast to most of the drive, this street glistened with wood, glass, and gold facades; an inclusive shopping experience for the rich. Between the haute couture department stores and high fashion European boutiques stood fancy salons and distinctive art galleries.
I wondered whether my parking spot provided enough cover, but felt reassured as traffic on the street began to pick up. My gun rested quietly and comfortably under my arm. I turned the radio on, then changed my mind. It distracted from the hum of the morning.
Years ago I drove a cab and parked in different spots throughout town to view the sunrise. After a while I became enamored of the rhythm of the city’s awakening, watching as the pace gently accelerated to a full urban trot. It became an intrusion if someone hired the cab. I had forgotten how pleasant it was to sit and watch the world go about its business.
Fran’s red Mercedes swung around the block twice before she found a spot. A smooth park and she was out of the car striding toward the hairdresser. She might be afflicted with horrid nightmares but you couldn’t tell it from the way she looked. Ann Taylor derriere with attitude to match. Tall, blonde, and leggy—not your typical Jewish look. She was spoiled, but given the delight her father took in her, it was no surprise. Alex Hirsh was a self-made millionaire who had elbowed his way into the town’s inner sanctum. Although he was Russian, Jews who didn’t know him believed he was German. Too classy to be a Litvak.
He always seemed like a nice guy to me. Nothing but kindness and generosity toward Fran and Simon. It would have been easy to be hostile toward their marriage. Hell, Simon was already growing shark teeth when they met. To Alex’s credit he recognized Simon’s devotion. In fact, Alex took him under his wing. If he couldn’t refuse Fran Simon, I couldn’t imagine him refusing her anything.
It was a few minutes before I was sure Fran was safely ensconced in the barber’s chair. I reached under my seat for the baggie and carefully lit and cupped a joint with my right hand and watched for police or anything else suspicious. Nothing caught my attention.
Time drifted quickly as the street began to groan under the weight of consumer madness. I was getting around to chastising myself for too much smoking when Fran strolled through the door. I ducked, started the car, and peeked out the window as she walked toward her parking spot. She rummaged around in her purse and put money in the meter before I realized she wasn’t driving anywhere.
It’s funny how some things strike you. I didn’t feel like a detective at the library. Or at Charley’s. But following Fran down Newbury
Street sent an adrenaline bolt through me, pushing the joint’s high into the background, and brightening my vision. I stayed about half a block behind on the other side of the street, and kept her in my line of sight. Window shopping kept her busy and oblivious to her surroundings. It dawned on me that Fran wasn’t my quarry. First order of detecting is to remember the job.
I dropped back and put more distance between us. I hoped she would enter a store and give me an opportunity to spot someone lingering. Instead she swung over to Commonwealth. She stopped for a moment and I ducked behind a parked car. She checked her watch, then started briskly down the avenue. I crossed over to the island that ran the length of the boulevard and matched her pace. The more we walked the more familiar the neighborhood became. Without hesitation she walked up the steps and in the door of 290.
For a moment I stood transfixed, then dodged the oncoming traffic, and raced up the steps. I walked into the entrance hall, looking nervously at the stained oak wainscoting, then remembered the glass directory high on the wall. I pored over the names and notations and figured the odds were seriously against her being here to see Dr. James. My unease lasted until I was back outside; then it exploded into a stomach ache as I realized most of the doctors on the list were Ob/Gyns. It opened a disquieting vein of thought about Fran’s nightmares.
I jogged to my car and drove back to Commonwealth, and luckily found a spot where I could see the building. Suddenly it felt like I was being watched, and my anxiety broke into a full sweat. I joined the growing crowd of pedestrians, walked a quarter-block to a sub shop, and surveyed the area in an attempt to determine if my paranoia was based on anything real.
By the time I returned with a large sausage I decided it wasn’t. I remembered the time I was notified for jury duty and wound up thinking I was going to be the defendant, reminding myself as I reentered the car that I was the one doing the watching.
I unwrapped the sandwich and noticed that the pork fat was beginning to congeal but ate it anyway. When Fran finally came out the door I gave her a head start and followed well out of sight. Her pace was considerably slower than it had been on the way to the building. It gave me too much time to think. Her step quickened as she approached her car, and I stopped daydreaming. Checking whether someone was following her, I didn’t notice anything unusual though I still felt uneasy after she drove away.
At least I could honestly tell Simon that I had kept my eye on Fran and, with luck, after I spoke to Phil, clear the deck with Dr. James as well. I fumbled through my pockets looking for my keys and cigarettes and remembered the trouble I had leaving the house in the morning: I didn’t want any piece of this.
If there had been a lunchtime crowd it was already gone with no early dinner arrivals. The black and white floor tiles seemed to breathe silent relief for the company as I walked through the door. Phil and Red were sitting at a corner table smoking. He nodded and she turned around to look. The way she quickly turned back compelled me to look down my front for sausage. None showed. I went to the same seat at the counter and debated whether I could get away with just ordering a large coffee. I heard Phil get up and slowly walk to the swinging counter section and watched as he pushed his bulk through sideways. He faced his arsenal of short-order equipment and looked back over his shoulder.
“You’re a man of habits, right.” He wasn’t asking so I just nodded.
“Good, saves us both time.” He turned toward the grill and began an egg and bacon sandwich. At minimum, I was going to pay for information with my digestion.
He wasn’t talking so I just sat there feeling my belly roll until he brought my order, then returned to his table while I forced myself to eat. I wondered if he’d forgotten yesterday’s conversation, but then I figured he dealt with considerably more food orders
than requests for police reports.
I was pushing the last bite of sandwich into my mouth when he tapped my back with an envelope. “I did some checking yesterday and you come out pretty good. Why didn’t you tell me you know Julius?”
“It didn’t occur to me. How do you know Julius?”
“Are you kidding? In this city every storekeep knows Julie. He always has a deal working.”
I didn’t understand what he was talking about so I smiled. “He’s a good guy.”
He looked like he was going to say something but changed his mind. He walked behind the counter across from me, leaned forward, and slid the envelope over. “This was harder than I expected.”
I looked at him. Was I supposed to offer something?
His face darkened. “Don’t look at me that way. I’m not asking for anything.”
“Look, Phil, you have to understand. I don’t know much about doing this business. I’m sorry if I insulted you.”
He rubbed his face and grunted. Red stood up and called from the table, “Phil, I want to go out for a while, okay?”
He didn’t stop rubbing. “Every day you go out.”
“So what, you don’t own me.”
He lifted his head and stared hard at her. “You want out without pay?”
She sank back down into the booth and pushed herself into the far corner, draping her legs over the edge closest to the counter. Her uniform rode high on the tops of her thighs. “Never mind.”
I turned away from her legs toward Phil who was staring at her. “Damn it, go on.”
She was up and out in an instant. She didn’t bother to say thanks.
“This is the shit I was talking about yesterday. She goes out damn near every day. She says shopping. I figure I’m paying her to get laid.”
I shrugged sympathetically. He shook his head and changed subjects. He must have decided that I was the better topic. “Julius said you were a cherry.”
“Not the way I’d put it, but true.”
“The reason I mentioned the difficulty was ’cause it usually isn’t. Everybody seemed tighter than a plugged asshole on this one.”
“Does that mean anything?”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“I hope not.”
He didn’t say anything, but took his hand off the envelope. I reached out and brushed it toward me. Since the entire day felt like a movie I ought to do my best. I lifted the envelope off the formica and slid it into my inside pocket opposite the holster.
“I appreciate this. I uh . . .”
“Just eat here more than every few years. You were all right back then and Julius says you’re all right now.”
I laughed as I stood. “I can’t refuse that sort of invitation. It’s money in the bank.”
Saturday nights never were drumbeaters and this one began worse than usual. Once again I’d surrendered to primitive socialization and answered the phone.
“. . . and I’ve put up with your idiosyncrasies, bullshit really, for years. I’m no fool. I didn’t expect you to turn chickenshit into chicken salad, but I did expect more than twenty minutes of work. That just doesn’t cut it, Matt man. I just want a little peace of mind. I can afford it, you know.”
“Simon, you think you can afford anything. Including me.”
“No, with you I don’t think ‘buy.’ ”
“Just ‘owe.’ ”
“You are fucking hopeless. I don’t just think ‘owe,’ shmuck, I think ‘friend.’ ”
No way to get that hook out so I reeled myself back in. Simon started talking about ‘round the clock, but we quickly settled that. Getting out of Sunday surveillance was more difficult. A couple of lies did the trick, and we finally agreed that I’d pick her up early Monday morning. By the time the conversation ended I was depleted. All the discomfort of the morning piled on top of my guilt. I flashed on my earlier unease, and pushed away the growing suspicions I had about Fran and her nightmares. I tried to convince myself that my general antipathy toward her was coloring my judgment. I took the envelope with the bills. I’d saved it to read with dessert but now there wasn’t going to be any dinner. No dinner, no dessert.
I stretched out on the bed, found someone on the radio complaining about the Governor, and balanced a glass of bourbon on my chest. It proved too taxing so I sat up and drank it. By the time I heard my lock being picked I had finished three and fallen asleep. My mouth felt like the Sahara so while I waited for Julie I got up, poured a glass of orange juice, and turned on some light. The door swung open and he stood half hidden in the shadows of its frame.
“Are you moving in?” I asked.
He didn’t bother to answer, just shut the door and walked into the kitchen. He was carrying his medicine bag so I poured another o.j. It was going to be a long night.
“Got some coffee?” he growled.
I thought about the time, then Phil’s comments this afternoon. I offered him the second glass of juice while I worked the coffee. Julie sat at the kitchen table and unpacked his bag.
“Here’s your regular stuff, though I truly do not understand Valium or codeine. If you want to do downs why not ‘ludes?”
“I like to stand.”
“A new and different you, my man.”
I looked over from the counter where I’d been willing the coffee to drip faster. I don’t know why I bothered to pour the juice since neither of us was going to drink any.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I glanced at the dope on the table. “Isn’t it a little early in the month for this?”
“From what I hear, I’d say I’m right on time.” He didn’t lift his eyes from the table where he was lighting a chunk of hash, patting out the flame and crumbling the burnt hash into a cigarette paper. I waited and watched his fingers fly as he pulled a couple of buds from the bag, crushed and added them to the paper. He worked a joint like Ozawa worked a baton. The only thing he did better was chop and dice cocaine, but there were probably other reasons I enjoyed that. He lit the concoction and passed it. It went back and forth for a while with neither of us talking. The coffee filled the room with a wonderful smell and the lamplight played off the green marbled front of my Depression-era stove. It felt good to be awake.
Julie’s voice cut through my reverie. “The java’s done, slumlord.”
I got the mugs from the cabinet, poured, brought them to the table and sat back down. I motioned for the joint, relit it, passed it back and lit a cigarette. The coffee tasted as good as it smelled and I was getting easy.
“Every time you call me slumlord, you like something I’ve done around here. What’s it this time?”
“Not here, my man, out there.” He nodded toward the back door.
I didn’t think he meant the alley. “How so?”
“I had a citizen inquire about you yesterday.” He stopped talking long enough to suck on the reefer and sip some coffee. Julie referred to everyone he did business with as a citizen. It hadn’t occurred to me before but I was probably a citizen too.
“This citizen has ears that dip heavily into the constabulary of our town. I’ve worked with this gentleman as his business occasionally has use of one or two items I often possess.”
“Phil pushes dope?”
Julie looked at me with disappointment on his face. He let me get a real good look at it too. I felt terrible, but wasn’t sure why.
“Matthew Jacob. Do you really think I survive by dealing drugs?”
“Damn if I know, Julie.” I waved at the stuff on the table between
“Not an entirely unreasonable assumption, but an ignoble line of work.” He stared at me balefully. “I don’t know how you got Phil willing to check for you if you think like this.”
“Come on man, I was straight when I talked to him.”
“Don’t be silly, slumlord, it would take a year off dope for you to be straight.”
He might be right but I didn’t like hearing it. “Hey, lighten up. I’m sorry if I offended you.”
<
br /> He looked at me carefully. “Likewise.”
I nodded as the moment of tension passed, took the cups, and reloaded.
“I occasionally broker goods. Dope I do with whom I smoke.”
“You don’t have to explain to me.” I grinned and lit another cigarette. “What kind of goods?”
He looked at me and laughed. “I work with lost semis and their insurers.”
“Stolen stuff?”
“All sorts of misplaced items.”
It made sense. It also explained his ability to straddle many worlds.
“So Citizen Phil was useful, I would imagine?”
I stood up, passed the joint to Julie, and went to the desk to get the report. “Yeah, whatever you said helped.” I returned to the table, envelope in hand. “He said it was difficult to get. He seemed surprised by that.”
Julie looked at the envelope. “Allow me a glance, will you?”
I tossed him the envelope and played with a cigarette while he looked the report over.
“Things are odd here.”
“What things?”
“That our citizen had any trouble getting this.”
“Why? Is Phil that wired into the Department?”
Julius lifted his eyes. “Like I say, the man oughtn’t have had any difficulty getting this.”
“So what does that mean?”
“I have yet to determine its meaning. One other thing is odd as well.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know who did the break-in.”
I lit the cigarette and passed it over. “Is that unusual?”
“If I want to find out, it’s unusual. Not unheard of, but unusual.”
My head was beginning to hurt. I rummaged through the pharmacy on the table for Valium. Julie saw what I was doing and shook his head. “Why do you want to ruin a good high like that?”
I pointed to the report. “I don’t want any complications with this shit, damn it. I’m a superintendent, not a detective. All of a sudden you’re telling me I have a mystery on my hands?”
“Maybe.”
The Complete Matt Jacob Series Page 5