“That’s the stuff,” said Birdie when he had downed half, “to put an atheist on his knees.”
“I’m glad you like it, because it’s the last of anything you’ll ever get from me. Our game is through.”
“You think it’s that easy, boy? We had usselves a cash deal. And like I told the nurse at the sperm bank what helped me out that time—cough it up.”
“I’m not paying a cent, Birdie.”
“You’ll pay,” he picked up his glass, let the light cut through the amber color, and then took a gulp. “One way or t’other.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Not you, because you the one going to pay me. Only a fool would do something that stupid. But there’s that brother of yours, that—”
“Leave him out of this.”
“Or his wife, what comes visiting you in that big old truck to get whatever you’re slipping her.”
“That’s enough.”
“But I’ll end up with my ten thousand, one way or t’other.”
“For what, you old fraud? What the hell did you ever do for me? You’re a con man, and not even a good one. And now the con is over. Get out of my bar.”
As Justin said those last few words, he took hold of the half-full lowball. A bartender never leaves alcohol in front of a customer he is finished with. It is not up to a troubled patron on the other side of the wood to decide how long to stay, how long to ruminate, when to erupt. When a bartender decides that a customer is done, the barkeep pulls their drink as quick as that, and that’s what Justin was doing.
But before he was able to slide it away, Birdie grabbed at it with two gnarled hands and started pulling it back, pulling it back with all the desperation of a man dying of thirst fighting over the last dreg of muddy water. There was a tug-of-war as the old man strained to lift the glass to his trembling lips and liquor sloshed within the walls of glass. With a final fraught yank, Birdie Grackle pulled the glass free, splashing half of what remained across his face. Staring at Justin, he lifted his chin and drained what was left, his Adam’s apple bouncing with ferocity. The sound of the glass slapping down on the bar and a growly sigh came at the same time.
“Mother’s milk there,” said Birdie Grackle as he wiped his face with his hand. He stared at Justin as he licked the wet from his fingers one by one.
“You must have had a hell of a mother.”
“She was that and more. So I guess that’s it, that’s all we got. This little romance of ours, it’s over. Fitting then that I’ve got for you a good-bye gift. Something to remember old Birdie by.”
Onto the bar the old man placed a little box, wrapped in blue paper and bound by a red ribbon tied into a bow, and slid it to Justin.
“There’s nothing you have I want,” said Justin.
“Open it.”
Justin gave the old man a look before he slid off the ribbon and ripped away the blue paper. Slowly he lifted the top off the small cardboard box. He stared at the contents for a moment before putting the top back on.
“What did we agree on?” said Birdie, his head dropping low so he was staring at Justin now through his wild, weedy eyebrows. “Ten thousand dollars? Minus the drink.”
“What did you do?” said Justin. “What the hell did you do?”
“I did what I do,” said Birdie Grackle. “What did you think was going to happen? You got three days, boy. If you don’t have the money, get it from that brother of your’n.”
“What makes you think I won’t start yelling bloody murder?”
“You won’t tell them cops because what would they think, except that maybe your daddy, he ain’t as not-guilty now as he might look. And you won’t tell your daddy because you got your own secrets to hide from him, don’t you, you randy piece of jerky. Three days.”
Justin took a deep breath and took the top off the little box again. A bird, small and yellow. A canary. Justin poked at it with his finger. It was real all right, he could feel the tiny bones right through the feathers. It was real and it was dead.
“What’s the matter?” said the foul old man. “Birdie got your tongue?”
53.
A STEAMING PILE
Justin had to admit this about Birdie Grackle—he was a raw and bracing piece of reality.
Justin knew better than to check out from the present, with its hard and beautiful truths, and turn his face to the future, which was nothing more, really, than a shade of an image of an idea of a hope. But that is exactly what he had been doing, losing himself in a blizzard of conjectures about his father and Annie and his own little life. Would his father get out of jail? Would they have the kind of relationship he had always hoped for? Would Annie be his lover or his stepmother or disappear entirely from his life? He had been busily constructing castles in the sky when Birdie Grackle sauntered into Zenzibar, sucked his big fake teeth, and presented his truths flat on the bar like a steaming pile of crap.
It might not have been a pleasant thing to smell, but it sure as hell did wake him up.
Because what did Birdie represent, really, but reality itself, namely the truth about what happened to Justin’s mother, the truth about the guilt of Justin’s father, the truth about Justin’s own responsibility for a host of crimes? And being face-to-face with Birdie Grackle left Justin face-to-face with the most awful truth of all: that he still knew nothing. And it seemed that everything he had done since Birdie first walked into the bar had left him further from knowing anything at all.
But even in his state of perfect ignorance, he still had to deal with that human piece of excrement. He had been avoiding doing anything about Birdie because all the alternatives were rank. But there was no choice now. This man, who claimed to have killed his mother and now who was claiming to have killed Janet Moss, needed to be dealt with, and fast, before someone else ended up dead. And as far as Justin could see there were only three options: turn him in, pay him, or kill him.
What he wanted to do was kill him, brutally and quickly, with a maximum amount of blood spilled about his rotting carcass. It shocked and horrified Justin how much he yearned in his gut to stick Birdie Grackle’s chest with a knife or to inside-out his brains with a Louisville Slugger.
But no matter how satisfying it might seem in the imagining, Justin was no killer. Even if he was certain that Birdie had actually killed his mother, even if he had more proof than the old con man’s say-so, he still couldn’t do it, it wasn’t in him, thankfully. A murder like that could only arise from a deeply held belief, of which Justin proudly claimed none. And in his state of pure ignorance, even the idea of murder was anathema. No, Justin would have to bask in the satisfaction of some sort of karmic justice, knowing that a cockroach like Birdie Grackle would inevitably come back to life as, well, a cockroach.
But if he wasn’t able to kill the son of a bitch, neither was he willing to pay him. From the moment Birdie stepped into the bar, he was looking for a payday. He had something else going on other than this ten-thousand-dollar scam—Cody had made that clear—and so Birdie might just end up with his score, but he wasn’t going to get it from Justin, because Justin would sooner pull out a toenail than pay it.
No, Justin wasn’t going to kill Birdie, and he wasn’t going to pay him either. Which left one crappy option.
54.
SCREWDRIVER
Mia Dalton had a headache, and it was Justin Chase who was giving it to her. Each word was like a cymbal clash right next to her ear. Nothing he said made sense, or maybe everything he said made sense, but because she couldn’t be sure which was which, the whole thing was giving her a headache. Clash clash. Listening to Justin Chase was like playing chess with a Russian: you began seeing plots everywhere.
Generally, in the middle of an interrogation, Mia always asked questions on the slant; the answer she was seeking was never directly related to the question. She searched instead for hesitations, improbabilities. You never ask for the thing you really want to know from those on the other side of the de
sk because they might tell you what you don’t want to hear and then where the hell would you be? But now, after hearing the strange story of Birdie Grackle, from the moment he first strode into Justin’s bar until the last unsettling meeting just the night before, she broke her rule.
“Justin,” she said, “do you want your father to get out of jail? I mean really?”
“He’s my father,” said Justin.
Mia looked at him for a moment and then smiled in admiration. She had asked a straightforward question and Justin Chase had answered on the slant. Too bad he never took the bar, he would have been a hell of a lawyer.
The phone rang. She picked it up and heard her secretary tell her there was a call for Detective Scott. “It’s for you,” she said to the old man.
Scott grunted as he pushed himself out of the chair. He grabbed the phone and barked his name into the handset.
“Okay, good. Did you check the book?…How about the description? Anything?…Remember, he wouldn’t be alone. There’d be some muscle with him…Yeah, it would be hard to miss the tattoos. What about a walk-through?…Just do it so we can say we did it, or Dalton will be chewing my ass…You don’t got to tell me. Okay, good. Oh, and Kingstree, it’s the Parker, so don’t go in alone.”
He hung up the phone, gave Mia a look she couldn’t decipher, and eased back to his chair right next to Justin’s. “Kingstree gives his regards and told me to watch out for frostbite.”
“What did that lunkhead learn?”
“No Birdie Grackle registered at the Parker,” said Detective Scott, “as well as no one named Birdie and no one with the last name Grackle. Though it is the Parker, which means that a photo ID is not strictly required before they put a name in the book. And the description Chase gave, old alcoholic with yellow hair and bad dentures, fits about half the current residents. Kingstree is going to go floor by floor to see if he can pick up anything other than a rash.”
“Who did you say followed him there?” said Mia to Justin.
“Just some guy,” he said.
“Who?”
“I don’t want to get him involved.”
“You already did. A name would help.”
“No.”
“Okay, so here we are,” said Mia, rubbing her temples in an attempt to relieve the pain. This whole thing was like a screwdriver in her brain. “You’ve told us this story, which we can’t corroborate, about a guy who claims he killed both your mother and Janet Moss, six years apart. And because of the fentanyl we found in the drugs in her drawer, we can assume, if he killed Janet Moss, he killed Timmy Flynn, too. So we have three possibilities. Either you’re lying, or he’s lying, or we have some sort of serial killer on our hands. But since we can’t confirm anything you said, it makes it more likely that someone is lying.”
“I’m not,” said Justin.
“Good, since that is settled, then he is probably lying, which makes the most sense. Scott here is going to do everything he can to find this”—she looked down at her notes—“this Birdie Grackle, and if he succeeds he’ll bring the old man in for questioning. And, of course, the old man will deny everything. So in all likelihood, nothing will come from it, but we’ll try.”
“What about the bird?” said Justin, indicating the small box he had put on her desk.
“It’s a bird, Justin. We’ll have Eddie Nicosia look at it, and we’ll have our scientists see if we can compare it to anything left in the cage, maybe compare DNA with some of the feathers or dung, but you and I both know it could have come from anywhere. Go into a pet shop, buy a yellow canary, twist its sweet little neck and put it in a box.”
“But how would he even know there was a bird there?”
“You knew,” she said flatly, and saw Justin wince at the accusation that it all might be a fraud that he himself set up. “But what I’m trying to figure out, Justin, is what you’re doing here. Mrs. Moss’s apparent suicide seems favorable to your father’s cause. His attorney has already called, asking if we’re ready to dismiss the case and release him.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I laughed, but it was more out of reflex than conviction. The way things stand, your father’s motion for a new trial looks pretty solid. But now you’ve just given us the possibility that Mrs. Moss didn’t kill herself out of guilt and regret, but that she was helped along. Which throws everything into doubt.”
“Maybe she hired him originally,” said Justin, “because my mother was having an affair with her husband, and then, six years later, he killed her for the exact reason he said, to extort money from me.”
“Well, you see, Justin, the second part might be true no matter who did what six years ago. This Birdie Grackle might have seen an opening, conned you into thinking he had killed your mother, and then killed Mrs. Moss for the ten thousand he wants from you. Meaning he might actually be a murderous son of a bitch, which, if true, would ruin the whole suicide-out-of-guilt theory and leave your father smack in jail. Which leaves me again wondering why you’re here.”
“I just want to tell the truth.”
She looked at Justin and then at Detective Scott, who seemed strangely content with that answer, and then back at Justin. It was such a simple response—the boy just wanted to tell the truth—but it left Mia again feeling that he was manipulating her for some reason of his own.
“Thank you, Justin. We both appreciate you coming. We’ll have the…the thing in the box tested and then we’ll get back to you.”
“Which means you’re not going to do anything,” said Justin.
“We’re going to do what we can,” said Mia.
“He said if I didn’t pay him the money, he was going to kill someone else. Maybe my brother.”
“Then maybe your brother should take precautions,” said Mia.
Justin stood up and nodded, as if he were trying to control some emotion roiling beneath his placid surface. “Thanks for your all your concern,” he said before walking out of the office, closing the door behind him a little too loudly.
“You were pretty cold,” said Scott.
“Just living up to my rep. Wouldn’t want to disappoint Kingstree. Keep your eye on him. There’s something about him I don’t trust.”
“I think the kid was telling the truth, Mia. I could sense he was holding back something before and I guess this Birdie was it. He maybe mentioned something about it outside the prison, but it didn’t really register.”
“Why was he holding it back?”
“Because he didn’t believe the old man.”
“Then why this meeting?”
“Maybe because now he does.”
“And he gets to screw over his father at the same time, which is a nice daily double. With this kid there always seems to be a hidden agenda.”
“It’s not so hidden.”
“No?”
“Whoever it was who killed his mother, he wants that son of a bitch to burn.”
55.
MORE WILD TURKEY
When his brother Frank saw Justin standing in the doorway of the house, he lunged at him, grabbed him tight, hugged him like he was a long-lost brother suddenly found.
“I talked to Dad,” said Frank, still hugging away.
“I bet you did.”
“You’re amazing. You did it.”
“I didn’t do anything,” said Justin, “and we’ll see what happens.”
“It’s a chance,” said Frank, letting go and stepping back to get a look at his little brother. “You gave him a chance.”
“It wasn’t me, really.”
“Do you think the lady who killed herself really was responsible for what happened to Mom?”
“I don’t know.”
“We’ll never find out for sure now, will we?”
“No,” said Justin. “No, we won’t.”
“Let’s celebrate,” said Frank, backing into the foyer. He called up the stairs. “Cindy. Justin’s here. We’re having a drink.” He turned to Justin. “Let�
�s go into the library.”
Justin stepped into the foyer and once again couldn’t help but look down at the floor. Still impossibly spotless. He didn’t want to be here, in his father’s house, which still stunk of death to him, even though he knew it truly smelled more of potpourri and Lysol, but he didn’t see he had much choice. His attempt to turn in Birdie Grackle had not only failed, but it had hurt his father’s chances of getting out of jail. Nice move, Justin. Now he was trying to avoid the third and final option for dealing with Birdie Grackle.
In the library, Frank went right to the bar and picked up a bottle. “A nip?”
“You know I don’t drink,” said Justin.
“But this is a special occasion,” said Frank, putting some ice from the bucket into a glass. “We’re getting our father back. If that doesn’t put a drink in your hand, I don’t know what will.”
“It’s not a sure thing that he’s getting out.”
“He thinks it is. Oh, and he wanted you to talk to his attorney.”
“I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“He’ll be pleased. I wonder what it will be like, the moment he gets free,” said Frank, lost in reverie. He twisted the top off the bottle and started pouring. “We’ll be waiting in the rain, the cleansing rain, like in a movie, and out he’ll step. And everything will start again. Do you think it will be just like it was?”
“It can’t be,” said Justin. “Not without Mom. I need money.”
Frank stopped pouring, looked up at Justin for a moment, his expression turning from lost to found in an instant, and then put another shot and a half into the glass. He took a long sip before walking slowly to the desk. He sat down, leaned back like a banker, looked at his glass as he rubbed his thumb along the rim. “How much?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
“I don’t have that kind of money in the house.”
“But you can get it quickly.”
“The company has been struggling lately. We lost our best salesman when we lost Dad. I don’t know.”
“I need it right away.”
The Barkeep Page 29