The Complete Matt Jacob Series

by Klein, Zachary;

  We passed the Route 128 turnoff, finally exiting somewhere in Wellesley. Tailing now got trickier, since the roads were winding and curved, often looping back on themselves. For a while I thought he’d made me and was going through an elaborate shaking ritual. But before I got too nervous, he slowed his seventy grand and turned into a medium-length driveway alongside a spacious but nondescript suburban house. I noticed toys in the front yard. I intended to continue driving past but, as his garage door opened, I caught a glimpse of a 4×4.

  Without thinking, I squealed into a U-turn and shot up his driveway. The Perm walked out of the garage with a puzzled look on his face. I screeched to a stop and jumped out of my car, but remained standing behind its open door.

  His face had an angry scowl. “Excuse me, just what the hell are you doing?” I took a stab. “Maybe I want a piece of Darryl’s action too.”

  The scowl never left his face, but now there was a fresh wariness in his eyes. His hands also moved closer to the little hip holster I’d noticed in the parking lot. I looked back into my own car in time to see my .38 wink from the passenger’s seat.

  “I’m sorry, but you must be confused.” But he made no move to leave.

  “You got nice clothes, a fancy Newbury Street haircut, and clipped diction, but you’re still just a dope-dealer to me.” I heard my words and wondered if I wanted to get shot. I hoped the toys in the front yard meant he’d hesitate to use his weapon.

  The Perm’s molars worked overtime. I inched my way a little closer to my own gun, though I knew it was too far away to be of any use. By the time I finished soothing my raw nerves, he’d calmed his and, to my surprise, burst out laughing. “You got a pair of big ones, cowboy,” he said without his diction.

  I shrugged.

  “Why are you so sure I won’t use this?” He opened his jacket and let me see his gun. “I figure your kids got better things to do than wash blood off a driveway.”

  His smile evaporated. “What do you know about my children?”

  I nodded toward the toys. “Only what I see.”

  His eyes followed my glance. “I keep telling them to put their stuff away but they never listen. Never.” He had a disgusted look on his face.

  He turned his attention back to me. “Now what is it you’re doing here?” “I want to see your truck.”

  He turned around and looked into his garage. I leaned away from my car door and peered in behind him. I wasn’t sure it was the same one. Trucks look like fucking trucks. Maybe I needed to put my face next to the tire treads.

  He turned back to me. “It’s not for sale.”

  “I don’t want to buy it. I just want to see if it’s the same one that tried to rub my head in the street a couple of nights ago.”

  Comprehension crossed his face. “I understand. You’re Matt Jacobs.” “Jacob, without the ‘s.’ I guess I don’t have to look at the truck after all.”

  He grinned with no amusement, stirring his hand inside his belt, gun visible and accessible.

  I held up one of my hands. “You don’t have to worry. I don’t intend to shoot you. All I want is information.”

  A suspicious look crossed his face. “Information? You want information?” He took his hand from his pocket and let his sport jacket close. “Enough with these threats. I have to take the kids to school.” He slowly walked over, glanced inside my car, and shook his head when he saw my gun on the front seat. “Big ones, or you’re stupid,” he said.

  “Stupid,” I replied.

  He clapped me on my bad shoulder. “I like a person who is honest about his limitations.” Wouldn’t you know it? I had found me a funny dope-dealer.

  We both heard the door. A second or two later, a neatly dressed little girl timidly wandered out of the garage’s shadows. I immediately compared her pretty clothes with the dirt and rags worn by the Belchar kids. Still, it was hard to work up class indignation in front of pigtails.

  “Hiya, honey.” The man squatted next to the little girl and looked up at me with a warning in his eyes. “This is Cynthia. Say hello to Mr. Jacob, sugar.”

  Cynthia looked up out of the corner of her eyes and mumbled something unintelligible. I smiled and waved. An air of unreality began to filter into the scene. I was kissing distance from the guy who literally tried to run my ass out of The End, getting ready to play peek-a-boo with his kid.

  I looked down at the top of the Perm’s well-disguised bald spot. “We gotta talk,” I muttered. “Sure. Of course we’ll talk.” He patted the little girl on her bottom. “Run inside, sweetheart.

  Tell Mama I’ll be there soon.”

  Cynthia ran into the garage without looking back. The man groaned his way to his feet. “Damn. One problem with having little ones at my age is moving around.” He looked at me pointedly. “Of course, I have a lot more patience than I did the first time around.”

  “I didn’t come here to talk about kids.”

  He looked at me with exasperation. “I’m not just talking about kids. So you’re not stupid, you found me. But you don’t come to a man’s home to talk business.”

  “I didn’t exactly look you up in the phone book. And I don’t know the hours you keep in the parking lot.”

  A streak of understanding lit his face. “That fool.” “Yup.”

  “So you don’t even know who I am?” “Nope.”

  He grinned mirthlessly and shook his head. “I am getting old. I was too annoyed to pay any attention on the ride home.”

  “What were you angry about?”

  He stared for a long moment, a thoughtful look on his face. Finally he said, “I’ll talk to you in my office, tomorrow.”

  He made a sudden move with his hand and I immediately backed toward my car door, but all he did was look at the gold Rolex on his wrist. “Christ, I gotta go.” He looked at me and shook his head. “Lighten up, will you? What the hell am I going to do to you here? Now watch. I’m going to reach for my wallet, to give you my card. Then you are going to leave.”

  “You seem awfully good-natured for a guy who wanted to run me over.”

  He looked bored. “Nobody wanted to run you over. I said we’ll talk about it tomorrow. I don’t work at home.”

  I took the card from his hand and slid it into my pocket. “Aren’t you going to look at it?”

  “Right now I prefer to keep my eyes on you.”

  “You can rest your eyes. I don’t plan to relocate just because you found me.”

  I hesitated, watching silently as he turned his back and disappeared into the shadows. After the garage door magically dropped, I climbed into my car, grabbed the gun off the seat, and jammed the fucker into my holster.

  I pulled his card from my pocket and stared. The name seemed familiar, but I was too wired to know. I’d give my memory a better shot after I calmed down. And maybe after I had a drink. I kept looking at his business card until the rest of the copper-embossed letters sank in. Then I started the car and pulled out of his driveway. My family man, dope dealing hard-guy was a banker.

  I tried to retrace my path home, but got hopelessly lost. I found myself driving through towns snatched whole-clothed from New England postcards. I drove past pleasant white wood-steepled churches and rectangular village greens. The snow stayed white in suburbia. This was the “real” New England and its coiffed neatness made my skin crawl.

  My short collision with Lonny Prezoil promised to explain the meat of my business. But I felt dissatisfied. His ease with our encounter, his willingness to meet, left little doubt he considered the attempted mayhem a minor matter, easily resolved. Prezoil’s attitude was a letdown; the runover hadn’t been minor to me.

  I finally found the city’s skyline brooding underneath the gray and white clouds fighting for its air space. I wasn’t crazy about the town but, after my little trip into the hinterlands, I felt like an animal returning to its watering hole—anticipating danger, but danger on familiar turf.

  I supposed I’d been a danger for Prezoil when I’
d nosed around The End. For some reason he’d wanted me out. I tried to work up a mad, but all I felt was encroaching depression.

  By the time I crossed the city limits I knew my sour mood had to do with the quick conclusion of the case. I’d wanted to know who instigated the attack, and now I knew. Tomorrow I’d learn why. I consoled myself with the possibility of uncovering something sinister about Darryl’s death, but I wasn’t going to give points.

  I arrived in my alley about the same time the gray overhead drifted down, victorious. And the conversation, later, with Julius just added to the overcast.

  He sat at my kitchen table toying with the card. “I know of the bank’s department,” Julie said. “Since when do you do business with Merit Bank’s philanthropic services? I don’t figure you for big write-offs.”

  He placed the card face down and lit a cigarette. I pulled over another ashtray and lit one for myself.

  “This is a city of mirrors,” Julie said. “Same things happening all over town, only the images are separated thicker than that wall they pulled down.” He stuck his thumb over his shoulder; I think he was pointing to Berlin. “Our friendly city is layered with generations of serious dislike…the Irish, Blacks, Spanish, plaids.”

  “Plaids?”

  “Protestants. But no matter how intense the divisions, the players know each other.” “And,” I lifted the card, “Lonny, here, is a player.”

  “Works for ‘em.” “The bank?”

  “Takes money to do business. And Slumlord, you’re dead on about the scare. They want to do you, they do you. A run-off is no big deal.”

  “To Prezoil, Julie. A bigger deal to me.”

  “I can understand that,” he said. “Prezoil may have had a particular deal working and didn’t want a stranger around. Might have been a general street clean. Maybe he’ll tell you.” What passed for a smile, a grimace for anyone else, lined his face.

  “Why do I think I know this guy?”

  “Maybe since you became a slumlord you been needing write-offs.” “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “You are a piece of work, Matt. You say you got to know the who and why somebody showed you his tires. You know the who and the dude says he’s gonna tell you the why. I’d say you be one conversation from the couch. Why you sitting here frustrated instead of satisfied?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it keeps me from thinking about malls. Anyway, I don’t feel finished with The End.”

  Julius shook his head. “With The End or some of the people?

  Julie left, but I stayed right where I was. Dissatisfied. Incomplete. I flashed on my conversation with Jonathan in his little secret room and remembered the look on his face when he spoke of his frustration. I didn’t think I’d help either of us, but it gave me a measure of satisfaction to imagine Prezoil’s smooth ruffled when I plucked at the strands of The End’s underlife.

  I might as well imagine, since I was exquisitely aware of the message behind Julie’s words: Prezoil was connected—warning enough that I could forget any real payback. Imagination was as close as I’d get.

  I sat nailed to Dutch’s chair, disappointed and in a bad temper. Worse, the longer I sat thinking about my banker, the more certain I was that I knew him. But try as I might, I couldn’t shake the memory loose. A couple cigarettes only added to my anger.

  My body started complaining about last night’s indignities, and I faced the choice of bed or couch. It took a while, but I picked the bed. At least until a few semi-refreshed hours later.

  I opened my eyes to early evening, trying to remember the day. I caught it on my third try. I needed coffee and nicotine. I showered, dressed, and grabbed a cup on the way into the office.

  Where it eventually turned from dark to darker, the tip of my cigarette the room’s only glow. My feet were on the desk between piles of bills. I was staring across the room at the collection of Bakelite radios. Twenty years ago the conclusion of one project always led to exciting possibilities of another. Twenty years later was a very different time.

  When the phone rang I put my feet down and pulled the small desk lamp’s chain, bathing the papers and telephone in shaded light. I reached into the small bright circle, and lifted the receiver.

  “I’ve called to apologize,” she said without a preamble.

  Her voice did nothing to yank me free of the past. “Hello, Melanie.” “I feel horrible about my behavior.”

  “There’s no need for any apology. I appreciate how easy it is to get driven into painful history. Anyhow, my contribution is almost finished.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked without the suspicion I associated with my work in The End. “I found who I was looking for.”

  “Really?” There was a note of surprise in her voice. “So quickly?” “Yeah. A lucky break. I haven’t spoken to him yet, but I will.” She sighed, then asked, “Are you feeling different about me?” “Of course not. Our last conversation is history.”

  There was a silence at her end of the line. I began to feel confused, but then she confused me more. “Why don’t we get together tonight?” she asked, her tone as inviting as her words.

  Despite a fleeting thought of Boots, the night loomed lonely with too much glum familiarity. “Sure.”

  Before I set a time she caught me short again. “Terrific. Tell me your address.”

  I was uneasy about Melanie coming to my apartment. My picture of her was framed by The End; other images were hard to imagine. Also, I wasn’t really used to women in my home. Hell, even Boots and I rarely spent nights together here.

  It annoyed me that I couldn’t keep the two women separate. While I picked up around the house I tried to convince myself that it was Boots’ fault. That her questions and requested downtime forced me to link the two. I almost had it believed by the time I sat rolling a couple of joints at the kitchen table. Almost.

  I pushed my doubts aside at the rap from the office’s alley entrance. I shut the door as Melanie stepped inside, glanced around, and rested her eyes on my face. She unbuttoned her coat and handed it to me; I felt the intensity of her stare as I placed the coat on the couch. When I turned she was still staring at me, her mouth slightly open. She wore a short black dress that showed a lot of neck and sheer gray stockinged legs. The shaped darkness of her clothes next to her soft ivory skin shattered the last of my reluctance to imagine her outside The End.

  “I hadn’t realized we were going out,” I said. I felt my sexual anxiety recede as disappointment took its place.

  She looked at me questioningly, then saw my eyes run quickly up and down her body. Melanie smoothed her hands along her hips. “You mean the clothes. I didn’t plan on going anywhere. I just don’t get out of The End very much.” She stepped deeper into the room. “Especially for this.”

  Her look left little doubt what “this” meant. My disappointment faded and I invited her deeper into the apartment.

  The more contact I had with Melanie, the less I felt catapulted into the past. I’d worked my way past Megan; and tonight Chana seemed safely tucked away. If there was “unfinished business,” it was with Melanie, and it concerned right now. Perhaps tomorrow The End might lose its nostalgic status and become just another savaged territory in a pockmarked landscape.

  But while the night might not belong to the past, I was still me. And I wasn’t ready for bed.

  I led us into the living room where Mel sat on the couch while I picked a tape. Hartman and Coltrane seemed too romantic, so I eliminated Hartman and chose Coltrane’s “Gentle Side.” “Do you want some grass or a drink?”

  “Whatever you’re having will be fine. I brought cocaine, but it’s in my coat pocket.”

  I hid a surprised smile. On my trot back to her coat, I questioned my surprise. The other night’s passion had given more than a promise of tonight’s sophistication. I shook my head as I picked a small bottle with an attached spoon from her coat pocket.

  I stopped for the joints on my return to the living room.
Melanie had her shoes off, legs curled under. I sat down next to her gray thighs, handed her the coke, and lit a cigarette. I wanted her, wanted her very much. But, in a flash of understanding, I knew my wanting was different from what Boots imagined. This was simpler; this was flat-out desire.

  Boots’ shadow faded under my doper’s anticipation of the cocaine. Melanie snorted from the little spoon and, after relinquishing my stranglehold on the cigarette, I did likewise. She nodded for me to repeat. While I hunched over my knees, Mel leaned forward and took the cigarette.

  “It feels like stolen time, being here with you,” she said. “Out of The End,” I suggested.

  “No…” She wore a twisted half-smile, then leaned to me and kissed me on my mouth; taking my lower lip between her teeth she gently bit. My mouth went electric. She let go, sat back, and took a long drag on the cigarette. “More like a forbidden dessert.”

  I reopened the bottle, snorted, and handed it back. I wondered what had happened to the brittle, angry lady in the storefront. But my desire wasn’t interested in what had happened on previous afternoons. Or in any tomorrows. Tonight there would be no talk.

  I stood up, watched her use the coke, then held out my arm. Coltrane was crying as we walked to the bedroom.

  I could finally answer Boots’ questions, though the answers did nothing to ease my situation. What drove me toward Melanie was my wish to drown in flesh. To lose myself in heat. To disappear.

  We collided, naked, on my bed. Reaching across two separate lifetimes, demanding from each other a path to ourselves. Twisting into moments of combination, only to fall, come apart, then demand again. It was as if some compulsive lunatic repeatedly put a jigsaw puzzle together, then time and again ripped it apart, always forcing the shapes to fit in different places. This wasn’t the surrender of love, it was the attack of fragmented psyches looking for missing pieces.

  Sometime during the night I awoke and stared at Melanie’s full body. She breathed deeply, contented in her sleep. I wondered if this was everything I needed, or the best I could do. Before I grew too frightened, I blocked out the thought and fell back asleep.