“Take care of her for me, will you?”
“If you want me to. For you, I mean.”
“She should give up on me, she should start dating someone her own age. It’s time. She needs a life.”
“I’ll tell her.”
Justin’s father glanced around at the cruel banality of the visiting room. “I think if I stay too much longer, I’m going to go insane.”
“Go?”
“You don’t know what it’s like to be caged for something you didn’t do.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“But one thing keeps me going.”
“Red Bull?”
“You, Justin.”
“Me?”
“You cannot know how much it means to me to see how hard you worked for my freedom. Just the thought of it keeps me going.”
“I’m glad, Dad.”
“And look at us, after all these years of silence, talking now like the best of friends. The irony that you’ve become my new champion is almost too precious for words.”
“It leaves me speechless too.”
“See, the thing is, Justin, of all the people outside these walls, the only one I can count on not to forget about me is you.”
“You’re right about that.”
“We’re going to find the one responsible, you and me, together. Father and son. We’re going to find who it was who killed your mother and we’re going to make him pay for everything.”
“That’s exactly what I intend to do.”
“While I’m in here, stewing, he’s out there, Justin, eating shrimp and fucking lithe young girls.”
“And all without inviting me. The nerve.”
“But we’re going to find him.”
“The one-armed man.”
“Exactly. You and me, Justin.”
“Okay, Dad.”
“Working together for a common cause.”
“Like in a storybook.”
“Yes.”
“It’s a funny thing about those storybooks, how the deepest wishes of the hero so often come true.”
“Let’s hope, let’s only hope. I love you, son.”
“I love you, too,” said Justin, and when he said it the most peculiar thing happened. Despite everything he had been through, despite everything he now knew with utter certainty, when he said those four words, something thick and heavy lodged in his heart.
It was the truth, what he said, he did love his father, despite everything, maybe because of everything. And at the end of the visit, when they were allowed once more to touch, he gave his father a hug, and it was shockingly genuine. And there were tears, at least the tears of a son.
Something had come over him, some peace that was truer than anything he had tried to find in his battered old Book of the Dead or during his meditative purges. The emotion hadn’t flowed out of him, like in those sessions in his upstairs room, it had flowed in, gushed in, and the gushing changed everything. He didn’t feel hate anymore, or despondency, or despair, he didn’t feel overwhelmed by his worthlessness or his guilt. What he felt instead was love. Love had flowed in and brought light to the darkness and resurrected his soul like the precious words of the book, only it was a gift given to the living, not the dead.
67.
GIN RIKKI
Mia Dalton was outside Graterford Prison with Detective Scott, waiting. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, the asphalt was hot, the air smelled of the burned oil of outdated cars. Mia sat on the hood of the unmarked police vehicle that had brought them to the lot, parked right next to a Harley-Davidson motorcycle with a cobalt-blue gas tank. Scott leaned against the side of the car, his reading glasses low on his nose, a folded newspaper in one hand and a pencil in the other.
“E-M-E-D-E-R,” said Scott.
“Emetic?” said Mia.
“There’s no C,” he said, tapping the paper with the tip of his pencil.
“If you had any real brains, you’d be doing the crossword.”
“If I had any real brains, I’d have your job.”
“What’s taking him so long?” she said.
“You can’t rush family,” said Scott. “I still don’t know why, if you wanted to talk to the boy, we had to charge up here when they told us he was in for a visit. Wouldn’t it be easier if you just called?”
“I’ve been calling. He doesn’t answer and doesn’t return my calls. I’ve even knocked on his door. Nothing.”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“If I waited until someone wanted to talk to me, Detective, I’d be talking to the walls.”
“There’s a message in that, Mia.” He tapped the paper in his hand. “Redeem.”
“It took you long enough.”
“I’m getting old.”
“Not too old. I’m pulling you from your Missing Persons gig.”
“No you’re not.”
“It’s done already. You’re working for me.”
“But I don’t want to work for you.”
“Tell it to the commissioner.”
“You know I will.”
“You’re too good to fade away at a desk. And I got your pay grade bumped up too, which will bump up your final pension.”
“It’s no fair you trying to bribe me.”
“Is it working?”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t working, I just said it wasn’t fair.”
“You start tomorrow.”
Mia Dalton had hoped it would allow her to sleep more soundly at night, learning the truth about Mackenzie Chase. When Detective Scott had called with the whole story about Vernon Bickham and his playacting as Birdie Grackle, she had felt a keen sense of relief. It didn’t answer all the questions about the murder of Eleanor Chase, and it didn’t yet solve the connection between the murder of Timmy Flynn and Rebecca Staim, a mystery that might never get solved, but it certainly made it clear that Mackenzie Chase was exactly where he should remain for the rest of his miserable life. Whatever she had done at that trial five years ago, she had done the exact right thing.
And yet still she tossed and turned with insomnious vigor through the night as Rikki slept heavily and peacefully beside her.
Which meant her uncertainty was not focused on any one case, on any one defendant, but on the span of her career, or on the whole of her life. She somehow had slipped from a delicious certainty into an existential crisis without noticing. When the hell did that happen? And what would she do about it?
Detective Scott clucked his tongue and nodded toward a thin, bladelike figure leaving the prison’s visitor entrance. In the calm, steady gait, Mia recognized Justin Chase.
When Justin reached Mia, still sitting on the hood of the car, he smiled at her. A smile was something she hadn’t ever seen on Justin Chase before. He looked good in it.
“You guys still following me?” said Justin.
“We wanted to see how you were getting on,” said Scott.
Justin lifted his bandaged hand. “I’m trying to meditate the pain away.”
“And how’s that working out?”
“Not well. The blade went right through.”
“My advice is pills,” said Scott, “and lots of them.”
“How’s your father?” said Mia.
“Angry, bewildered, more determined than ever to get out. But I do have to tell you, Ms. Dalton, in some strange way, my relationship with my father has never been richer. I guess I have you to thank.”
“So you’re still going to work to get him out of jail?”
Justin turned his gaze to the gray surface of the prison. “Ever since my mom died, I’ve been looking for something meaningful to do with my life.”
“Bartending, wasn’t it?” said Scott.
“For a while it sufficed, I suppose. But I’ve finally found something I want to dedicate my life to.”
“Your father?” said Mia.
“That’s right,” said Justin. He turned to stare straight into Mia’s eyes. “An
d making sure he never, ever steps foot out of that foul building.”
Detective Scott laughed at that. “Now you’re learning.”
“You know, Justin,” said Mia, “the best place to keep tabs on your father’s case would be in the DA’s office.”
“I’m not a lawyer anymore.”
“You were never a lawyer,” said Mia. “But your legal education is impeccable and you have something that most of our lawyers don’t have: you know what it is to be a victim. We spend much of our time dealing with the victims and their families, yet it’s all too easy to forget what they’re going through as we fight to build our cases. You never would.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything. Think about it. Take the bar exam, buy a suit, cut your hair.”
“Cut my hair?”
“Do all that and I promise there will be a job waiting for you at the office.”
“How’s that Overmeyer girl?” said Scott.
“Not bad considering she’s got a face full of stitches,” said Justin.
“Give her my regards.”
“Come over for tea sometime, Detective, and you can give them yourself.”
“I just might.”
Justin smiled before hopping onto the seat of his motorcycle and taking hold of his helmet, ready to ride like a hero into the setting sun.
“One last thing, Justin,” said Mia. “I thought you should know that it was highly unlikely that your mother was having an affair with Austin Moss.”
Justin turned his head and stared at her.
“When Austin Moss died, he was living with a man named Nick. They were more than roommates. His struggle was to be truthful to himself, and apparently, according to this Nick, your mother was a great help to him. Which sort of puts those letters of your mother in a different context. I thought you should know.”
“Thank you,” said Justin, his voice as cold and as distant as his gaze as he tried to figure it out. Without anything further, he put on his helmet, kicked the bike alive, pulled out of the lot.
“He didn’t take it like I expected,” said Mia.
“He’s got to process it. He’s got a load to process still.”
“Like living with his father’s mistress. Is that Oedipus laughing in the distance?”
“Life is full of surprises if you’re open to them,” said Scott.
“Well, here’s one for you. From now on you’re working full-time on the Rebecca Staim murder. Find the killer, and I don’t care how far you have to go to do it. And then maybe when our Justin Chase finally shows up in his suit and buzz cut, you can work with him.”
“That I’ll look forward to,” said Scott. “So, Mia, what surprises are in store for you?”
“Who knows,” said Mia, thinking on it for a bit. Something about the way Justin Chase always seemed ready to reevaluate everything in his life made her want to do the same. “Maybe I’ll run for my boss’s job.”
“Heaven help us all.”
“Or maybe I’ll just get married.” Married? What the hell? Talk about surprises. Mia didn’t know where that came from, and didn’t even know what Rikki would think about it, but just saying it made her feel suddenly lighter, like she was rising from some depth. “Yeah, married. It’s about time, don’t you think?”
“I don’t get paid to think,” said Scott. “That’s why I do the Jumble.”
68.
SIDECAR
Derek holds on tight as Sidecar gallops around the circle. He does not have to grip so tight when Sidecar walks slowly. He can just sit like a king atop the saddle. But when Sidecar gallops and his head bobs and the saddle rises and falls like on a wild amusement ride and the great huffs of breath spurt from his huge nostrils, then Derek has to squeeze with his legs and lean forward while his fists grab the horse’s mane. And he feels his own heartbeat, and the horse’s heartbeat, and the horse’s hooves thundering beneath him, and that is the best feeling ever, like he is rising right out of himself, becoming some new kind of creature formed of horse and man.
It is thrilling and frightening both, and he owes it all to Cody. Cody is the only one of his special friends who kept all his promises. Vern or Tree or Rodney or even Sammy D, none of them were as good to him as Cody. He can count on Cody to take care of the details, count on Cody to take care of him. And Cody, true to his word, has gotten Derek a horse. Derek loves Cody with a warmth that wraps around his heart like a snake, which is why what is happening makes Derek so sad.
When Derek pulls back on the leather straps, Sidecar slows out of the gallop, and bit by bit Derek feels himself fall from the sky and slip comfortably back into himself. At the edge of the circle stands Graham, in his tight black pants and funny cap.
Graham is tall and lean, and he smiles at Derek with his big horse smile and Derek smiles back. He likes Graham, not as much as he likes Cody, but Graham knows horses and Graham has a hardness in him that is comforting.
Sidecar makes his way around the circle to Graham, and Graham grabs the horse by the leather strap and rubs his nose. “You riding well, young Derek,” says Graham.
“We went fast.”
“I saw. You was making time, good time. You should be racing.”
“I am too big to race.”
“I can maybe set something up.” Graham scratches the horse’s jaw, and Sidecar whinnies. “He’s not the fastest, but he’s sturdy, and when he gets going, there’s no stopping him. Sort of like you. I was just thinking—”
Graham turns his head and quiets as a red car rumbles down the dirt road to the riding circle, spitting dust behind it. Cody’s car.
When Cody clambers out of the car, he is wearing dress pants with a shirt untucked, and his nose and eyes are red. From the powder, Derek knows. Cody is always nervous now, he drinks too much, even during the day, and he has begun to stuff the powder up his nose like Rodney. It is strange and sad how all Derek’s friends seem to fall apart over time.
“You look good up there,” says Cody with a slight slur.
“Yes, he does,” said Graham.
“Do us a favor and leave us a bit, Graham,” says Cody. “We have business to discuss.”
“No problem, boss,” says Graham, looking up and giving Derek a wink before he ambles off.
“We have a job,” says Cody, looking back down the now-dusty road. “There’s a girl who is missing.”
“I did not do it,” says Derek.
“I know that. There’s a man in the neighborhood, and the parents are certain he knows where she is. But the police can’t do anything about it. The girl’s parents want us to ask him some questions.”
“But he’ll see me. It won’t be tidy.”
“We’ll make sure to tidy it up after we ask.” Cody turns so Derek can see his eyes, red and crazy. “He’s a bad man, Derek. He’s done it before. He needs to be stopped.”
It is funny how Cody always tries to make sense of it for Derek, even though Derek does not care. It is as if Cody is really trying to make sense of it for Cody. Graham would not have to do that, Graham wouldn’t care either. Graham is more like Derek.
“Okay,” says Derek.
“And then I think we have to go.”
“Go?”
“Leave Louisville. I got word that someone was down here asking questions about me. Some old cop from Philadelphia.”
“Looking for me?”
“I think just me for now, but either way it’s time.”
“What about Sidecar?”
“We can’t take him with us.”
“But he is mine.”
“I’ll get you a new horse when we settle down again.”
“I do not want—”
“We don’t have a choice.”
Derek stares at Cody for a moment, notices the redness of his nose, the fear in his eyes, the way he staggers slightly as he reaches up to take hold of the leather around Sidecar’s jaw. What Derek sees is what he so often sees in Cody now, the weakness po
uring off him. Cody is not the same man anymore who taught him that trick with the penny and the quarter.
“Okay,” says Derek.
“We just do this job and then we go.”
“Okay. Let go of Sidecar.”
“Sure,” says Cody, letting go of the leather as Derek jiggles the straps.
Sidecar starts walking again around the circle with Derek sitting high in the saddle like a king. Derek turns and looks at Cody, who is rubbing his nose. He turns back and sees Graham smiling at him in the distance, encouraging him to go faster. Graham was born in Louisville, and he knows everyone, the rich with their horses, the workers in the paddocks, the bookies who take bets, and the gamblers who make them. And Graham is going to set up a race for him. More than anything, Derek wants to race, to see how fast he can go in a straight line, to merge into the horse and never have to stop.
Derek kicks Sidecar with his heels, and the horse begins to gallop again. Derek holds on tight as the saddle bounces and the hooves clop beneath him. His heart begins to race, merging with the heartbeat of his horse, and he feels again like he is something more, like he has burst through his limitations and is flying high, a force of nature, rising above the rest of the world, melting like a ray of light into the cloudless sky itself.
He is really going to miss Cody.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The Tibetan Book of the Dead in my father’s bedroom. This was in the Age of Aquarius, when a psychology professor named Richard Alpert changed his name to Ram Dass and, along with his colleague Timothy Leary, touted The Tibetan Book of the Dead as a manual for life. My father was as straight an arrow as ever flew, but he was always willing to check out new ideas, and thus the book. I’m not sure what he made of it, but he did end up practicing his own form of meditation. Like Justin Chase, my father was always a seeker, who taught me to be more interested in the questions than the answers.
My father grew up in the Logan section of Philadelphia, two streets over from the home of David Goodis, a Philadelphia novelist who died in 1967. Though Goodis and my father grew up in the same neighborhood and are now buried in the same cemetery, I can’t imagine two so different lives. While my father was living the suburban dream, Goodis followed a starker yet more literary path, writing Dark Passage, from which the Bogart movie was made, and then Down There, which was turned into the Truffaut film Shoot the Piano Player. After an unsuccessful marriage, and a failed stint in Hollywood, his career dimmed, his drinking picked up, and his writing turned ever darker. He ended his life holed up in his parents’ house, banging away one seamy pulp noir masterpiece after another, books like Night Squad and the brutal Cassidy’s Girl, all with very little commercial success. His memory has been kept alive by a coterie of admirers such as Lou Boxer, Deen Kogen, and Duane Swierczynski. Partly through their efforts, a Library of America volume of five of his noir novels has been released, edited by Robert Polito.
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