“How are you, Mr. Bowman?”
“Not bad, Pierre. Not bad at all. Yourself?”
“Making a living,” Pierre said. He was also drinking grapefruit juice, though without ice, which gave more for the money. His bald head looked polished, his smooth face free of any trying thought. “We don’t usually see you here on a weekday.”
“That’s true.” Bowman removed his glasses, fogged them with his breath, and applied a soft napkin. His defenseless eyes may have been born too soon. “Where do you live, Pierre, not here in Bensington?”
“In Lawrence, Mr. Bowman.”
“That doesn’t sound safe.”
“I’m careful.”
“Live alone?”
“I used to have a dog.”
Bowman replaced his glasses. “To us, a dog is a lovable pet, a faithful companion with soulful eyes, but to the Oriental he’s edible.”
“Dining is relative.”
“Everything is relative, Pierre, except the bottom line. That’s where the real buck stops. I learned that at B.U. Did you go to college, Pierre?”
“I was a dropout. It was the sixties.”
“The sixties, yes.” Bowman smiled and sampled his juice. “That’s when everybody wanted to learn to play the guitar, but very few did. I’m more a product of the seventies and an example of the eighties. We’re all products of our times, Pierre.”
“You think so, Mr. Bowman? I’d say we’re products of ourselves.”
“Everybody’s entitled to his opinion,” Bowman said with a wink, “but I agree only with my own.”
The bartender sauntered over to see whether anything was needed. “Mr. Bowman? Dennis? Everything OK?” Everything was OK, to a degree. Bowman’s eyes crinkled.
“What’s this Dennis bit? I thought your name was Pierre.”
“Dennis is my real name.”
“We’re all something we’re not. It might not make the world move, but it makes it interesting.” Bowman paused to smile. He was lightheaded, as if the grapefruit juice were alcoholic. “You like your work, Pierre? You like being a masseur?”
“It has its moments.”
“You like doing the women?”
“They trust me. They talk, I listen and never reveal a confidence.”
“What does my wife tell you?”
“I never reveal a confidence.”
Bowman laughed. “You’re good. Tell me, professionally speaking, of course, what do you think of her ass?”
Raising his glass, Pierre considered the question. “I’m in the mood to speak personally.”
“OK, go ahead.”
“I like yours better.”
Bowman looked away. Two customers had come in, and the bartender was busy with them. “I thought that would be your answer.”
• • •
Glancing here and there, Clement Rayball walked through the house he had been raised in. His eye was quick and thorough, militarily trained. In the room he and Junior had shared as children, he snatched the Polaroid of himself from the wall and destroyed it. In the kitchen he tapped the face of his watch, which had stopped, but failed to wake it. A few minutes later he heard the pickup come into the yard.
He did not ask Papa where he had been. He did not want to know. He did not care. He sat at the table and drank Papa’s apple juice. A mosquito whined, but kept its distance. “We got any family pictures, Papa?”
“No. I never saw the sense.”
“None of Ma?”
“I burned those. You saw me do it, you were ten.”
“Any of Grandma?”
“My ma?”
Clement nodded. His last memory of his grandmother was picking up kindling near the shack where she had lived. She had reverted to childhood and smiled at him from another century.
“I don’t recollect any of her,” Papa said.
“I got anything of mine here? Anything at all?”
“The rifle was the only thing, and you know where that is.” Papa squinted. “What are you askin’ these things for?”
“I’m leaving tonight. I don’t expect to come back again.”
Papa said nothing. He washed out a pan in the sink, which had been Junior’s job. Clement stared at him and found him smaller. He tapped his watch again, without result. The battery was dead.
“I’m restless, Papa. I can’t just sit here. I’m going for a drive, you want to come?” When he got no answer, he said, “Suit yourself.”
Papa followed him out the door. “I’m comin’.”
The digital clock in the rental told him the time, which was neither early nor late. It was just the time. The sun was still white, but the sky was now glass. Near a gully on Papa’s side of the road a dead woodchuck awaited crows.
Papa said, “I been thinkin’, it ain’t right. Junior should be beneath the ground.”
“He’s all right where he is.”
“She had better, he should have the same.”
“Let’s not talk about it, Papa.”
“Where we goin’?”
“Nowhere in particular.” He was approaching the bridge that connected Bensington to West Newbury. “This where you threw it, Papa?” He slowed down as Papa nodded and parked on gravel and grass, scaring up dust.
“Whatcha stoppin’ for? Nothin’ to see.” Papa watched him climb out and sat tight. “I ain’t goin’ with you.”
Clement walked onto the bridge and felt the breath of the river, the Merrimack, which had been clean only when the Indians had it. Through the metal rungs of the railing, he peered down. Last night’s rain had given it life. It ran with authority.
“What are you stoppin’ here for? I was farther down, I flung it.” Papa’s voice was right behind him and jumped ahead of him. With the strut of a game cock with the run of a henhouse, Papa went to the middle of the bridge and pointed. “Right here’s where Junior and me got rid of it. He was ‘fraid you’d be mad. I told him you’d be madder we didn’t do it.”
“You always told him right.”
“I tried.”
Two cars went by, one right after the other, and then there were none. Clement reached under his loose shirt and tugged free the Saturday night special. He stood directly behind Papa, who was peering through the rails to watch the waters rush. A gull with angry eyes, not unlike Papa’s, planed the river.
“I ain’t gonna turn around, Clement. You got somethin’ you wanna do, do it. Just don’t take all day.”
The only man he had ever executed, a bullet in the back of the head, was a Contra captain who had given a nun to his men before killing what was left of her. Big stink about it later because the captain had been on the right side.
“I know what you got in your hand,” Papa said. “Same as I knew back at the house you were only pretendin’ you didn’t care if I come. I know you. I brought you up.”
“You want me to do it, Papa?”
“I ain’t got nothing to live for. Like Junior, I ain’t never been happy. Chief wanted to do it, better it’s you.” Papa gazed far out. “Only takes a second, then throw me in, no one knows.”
Clement let his gun hand drop. He should’ve known he wouldn’t do it. He wished the chief had, or God would. Papa spun around.
“ ‘Fraid? Then leave that thing with me and go on back to Florida.”
Clement crossed his arms and hid the weapon in an armpit as another car went by. “I can’t do that, Papa.”
“Why not? I ain’t your father.”
“Maybe not, but I haven’t known any other.” Clement turned to leave. “You coming?”
“Not this time.”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“I ain’t goin’.”
Clement trudged back to the car, slipped inside, and looked at the clock. The time now seemed significant. He had never known exactly when his mother died, only when he was told about it. He started up the car and coasted onto the bridge. Papa was standing in the same place.
“OK, Papa, last time. You coming?�
�
“No, I’m gonna suit myself.”
“You always have.”
“Ain’t gonna change now, am I?” A mosquito flew into his ear, and he dug it out with his middle finger. “You take care of yourself, you hear?”
“Papa, what was your father like?”
“Like me.”
“What was mine like?”
“Never knew him.”
Clement drove on, into West Newbury, and soon came upon a weatherboard house, where a warm-faced woman was crumbling bread and tossing it to birds, mostly pigeons. Behind her a rock garden, freshly watered, vibrated. A short way up, he made a U-turn and, keeping a light foot on the gas, drove back to the bridge.
Papa was gone.
• • •
The eldest Wetherfield boy, Floyd, sat before Chief Morgan’s desk. He wanted to be a policeman. Now that a spot was open with Officer MacGregor gone, he thought he might have a chance. “My mother said I should see you personally.”
“How is your mother?”
“She’s all right. Always working at that sewing machine.”
“See much of your father?”
“Not too much.”
“Floyd, it’s too soon for me to start thinking about filling the vacancy. Too much else is going on.” Morgan leaned toward the calendar block. “But look, I’ll write your name here and keep you in mind.”
“I want to be a policeman bad, Chief.”
Morgan considered the face. It carried the strong good looks Thurman Wetherfield had once had before a nimbus of drunkenness circled him whether he was drinking or not. “How old are you, Floyd?”
“Twenty-one. I started college late. I’m putting myself through scraping chicken mess out of Tish Hopkins’s coops. I don’t mind. I want to make something of myself.” He lowered his hot eyes and then raised them with twice the fire. “I want to be more than my father.”
“Every boy does.” Morgan mutilated a paper clip. “On your way out ask for one of those civil service forms. If Miss O’Brien’s gone, ask the sergeant.”
Floyd Wetherfield lifted himself up and stood taller than his father. “Do I have a chance, Chief?”
“Everybody has a chance.” Morgan tossed the mangled paper clip into the wastebasket. “Well, ‘most everybody.”
Watching him leave, Morgan sat back. His eyes were unnaturally bright. He was afraid to close them, sure he would nod off. A few minutes later Meg O’Brien poked her head in and said something, but his ears were not receiving and his eyes were not focused. “I’m sorry, Meg. What did you say?”
“Someone else is here to see you, Clement Rayball.”
Morgan showed no surprise. “Tell him to come in. Here, first take this.”
She stepped forward and took back her little gun. “You sure you don’t still need it?”
“Positive.”
Presently Clement Rayball appeared, closing the door behind him. He looked different in a way Morgan could not put his finger on. Or maybe he looked more intensely the same, which was a difference in itself. At another time Morgan might have pondered the implications of that. Clement sat down.
“I’m leaving town tonight. I’ve got business in Boston tomorrow, and then I’m on to Florida. I did some dirt to you while I was here. I’m sorry.”
Morgan waited. “Is that all you came to tell me?”
“No, there’s a little more,” Clement said. “You can write my father off your books. He’s not around anymore. It was his choice.”
Morgan’s voice deepened. “Where is he, Clement?”
“Where he threw the rifle.”
“Then I have a fair idea where to look, unless you want to tell me exactly.”
“He’s not in a hurry to be found.”
Morgan reached for another paper clip. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”
“No, Chief, same as you didn’t. Junior’s gone too. It didn’t happen here. It was misadventure in Boston, but he came back and died here. He’s with his mother, where you found her.” Clement reached under his shirt, where the handgun had been, and drew out an envelope, which he placed on the chief’s desk. “That’s the money to bury him. Put him next to where she really is.”
“What about your father?”
“Like I told you, he doesn’t want to be found.” He watched Morgan’s fingers try to bend back into shape what they had unbent. “I was a kid somebody dared me to swallow one of those. To this day I don’t know if it ever came out.”
Morgan threw the clip away. “So it’s time for you to go back to Florida and be someone else?”
“You never forget who you are,” Clement said with a cynical smile. “Dreams remind you.”
“The trick is not to have any.”
“Then you die.”
“That sniper’s rifle. That was yours?”
“Yeah, that was mine. I never should have left it there.” There was a look on Morgan’s face he did not like. “When I leave tonight, you’re not going to try to stop me, are you?”
“I haven’t decided.”
He slouched easily in his chair. “Be careful, I know tricks you’ve never heard of. You can kill a man with your thumb.”
“But I don’t think you ever have,” Morgan said.
Clement smiled. “You’re right — not with my thumb.”
“I want something from you,” Morgan said in a suddenly stiff voice. “I want it in writing that Papa told you he shot and killed Florence Lapham. Also that he killed your mother. I’m sorry, Clement, but I know for a fact he did because he told me. In the same statement, write down everything you know about Junior’s death. Then I want you to mail it to me from Florida, so it’s like I’m learning about it for the first time.”
“You’ve got it,” Clement said quietly and picked himself up from his chair. “About my mother. I guess I always knew.” He smiled again. “I guess we both know everything now, unless there’s something missing?”
“Do you need to know?”
“Will it change anything?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t need to know.”
Morgan picked up the envelope, weighing it in his hand as Clement moved to the door. “I suspect there’s too much in here.”
“No, there isn’t. Give him the best.”
• • •
Gerald Bowman had second thoughts even before he climbed out of his Mercedes, which he felt would not be safe. The street festered with activity. A man in a black shirt and tight jeans stepped out of a martial arts studio and gave the car a long look. Across the street, costumed in Spanish colors, was a man Bowman suspected was a drug merchant flanked by bodyguards. Nearby women paraded in and out of a body-toning salon. “Nothing to worry about,” Pierre said, but he went through a dense moment of doubt.
Pierre lived above the martial arts studio in a tastefully decorated apartment, except for erotic artwork on the walls, which he ignored. He did not want to get into a discussion about it. The liqueur Pierre served was exotic, nothing quite like he had tasted before, and not entirely to his liking. The music was Wagner, but tuned low, which made it something other. They talked with quiet voices. His was strained while Pierre’s came through pure.
“You’re not comfortable yet, are you, Mr. Bowman?”
That was true. His eyes skimmed objects and returned to a wrought-iron piece of table sculpture that appeared to be a male figure swinging a baseball bat. Pierre was on his feet.
“Do you know the best way to relax, Mr. Bowman?”
He had never relaxed. Always the push to be better, supreme, not merely to be smarter than most but smarter than all, the cock of the walk. He had wanted the power to pull strings and make the world tilt his way. His eyes burned blue through his rimless glasses.
“What are you waiting for, Mr. Bowman?”
Stripped of his clothes, Pierre was pigskin. He was still dressed, and he stayed dressed. This was not what he had in mind, or if it had been, it wasn’t anymore. How to expla
in?
“I can’t do it. It’s not you, Dennis. It’s me.”
Pierre had an erection and made it nod. “How do you know?”
All that skin — too pink and too moist-looking, hog hairs on the shoulders — was threatening, menacing. This was not for him, he wasn’t that way. When Pierre stepped closer, he snatched up the statuette to ward him off.
“Put it down, Mr. Bowman. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
He felt he was ten years old again and a bully was taunting him, humiliating him for his prissy ways. His father, who should’ve protected him, taunted him too. Stand up to him, Jerry! His father had never known his ass from his elbow. And had it been left to his father, he never would have gone to Boston University. His mother’s push got him there.
“I didn’t force you here, did I?”
“No, you didn’t, Dennis.” He was being humble and hated himself for it. And he hated this hulking bald man with no clothes on, whose erection had fallen.
“If you don’t know what you are, how am I to know?”
He reached inside his suit jacket for his wallet, though usually there was little money in it, only major credit cards honored in most parts of the world. “Let me give you something.”
“Keep your money, Mr. Bowman. I’m not a whore. You are.”
He got out of there, descending narrow stairs, which shook with thumps coming from the martial arts studio, along with blood-curdling shouts of assault.
The Mercedes was safe and sound. The man in the black shirt and tight jeans said, “Nice wheels.” He went around him, stepping into the gutter, where a pigeon lay dead like the remains of someone’s hurried lunch. The man said, “You must be a big shot.”
“I am,” he said.
• • •
It was dark now, and time to tell her. Chief Morgan phoned the hospital to leave word that he would see her later, but she was not there. He phoned her house, no response. Then, on a whim, he punched out his own number, and she answered. “What are you doing there?” he asked, an inane question. She was waiting for him. He asked how she’d got in, another silly question. Through a window.
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