Goodbye Sister Disco

by James Patrick Hunt

  They started to follow her in and Hastings stopped and placed a hand on Lexie’s arm. He said, “Would you mind if I spoke to her alone?”

  He detected a flicker of disappointment on Lexie Penmark’s face. She said, “Oh. Well, if you—”

  Hastings said, “Please.”

  “Okay,” Lexie said. And walked back out the door.

  Hastings closed the door behind her. Then he was alone in the bungalow with Edie Penmark.

  The place was dirty. There was a large television built into the wall—as there was in the main house—but the couch and the coffee table in front of the television seemed out of place. As if Edie had added those things herself. The coffee table was covered with newspapers and magazines and other papers. There was an off-white ashtray on the coffee table half filled with cigarette butts.

  Edie Penmark had resumed her seat on the couch and picked up the glass of wine she had left on the table. Her attention was supposed to be focused on the television. Inside Edition. Edie leaned forward to set the wineglass on the table, then leaned back with her lit cigarette.

  Without looking at Hastings she said, “Cute, isn’t she?”

  “Who?” Hastings said.

  “My stepmother. Fake tits, lifted chin, lifted ass. Holds together nicely, don’t you think?”

  Hastings shrugged. “Sure,” he said.

  The girl turned to acknowledge him. She said, “So what are you after?”

  Hastings walked over to the coffee table and picked up the remote control and clicked the television off.

  “Not much,” he said. He sat in the chair at the end of the coffee table. She gave him her attention.

  Hastings said, “Let’s cut this out. Okay?”

  She regarded him briefly. Her shoulders sagged and some of her defiance was gone. She said, “I already talked to one of you guys.”

  Hastings said, “Which one?”

  “The one with the blond hair and glasses. Looks like James Spader?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Don’t you watch television?”

  “Not much,” Hastings said. “Was it Agent Kubiak?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tell me about that interview.”

  “He asked me where I was last night, I said I was here. What I knew about Cordy’s friends, I said not much. Had I seen anyone suspicious around here or around her, no I hadn’t. Could I think of anything else, I doubt it.” She said, “Okay?”

  Hastings said, “That was it?”

  “That was it.”

  “Well, that doesn’t sound too comprehensive.”

  “It was to me.”

  “Edith. Let me ask you something: how long had Cordy been seeing Tom Myers?”

  “Her boyfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know. A few months, maybe.”

  “Did she talk to you about him?”

  “A little.”

  “Was she in love with him?”

  Edie Penmark was looking at Hastings. She said, “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Work with me, Edie. I’m trying to help you.”

  “It’s not my money they want.”

  “It’s your sister they have.”

  “I know that,” she said, her voice cracking at the end.

  “I know you do,” Hastings said. “Listen, I usually have reasons for my questions. All right?”

  He was looking at her steadily now, acting on instinct perhaps. Interrogation was as much an art as it was anything else. Hastings had not yet figured out Edith Penmark. But he was hoping that there was more humanity in her than in her father or stepmother. He was asking this girl to trust him.

  Finally, she said, “All right.” She shrugged again. “We didn’t talk that much. We’re a little different, in case you haven’t noticed. Well, how would you notice? You’ve never met her.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  She pulled on her cigarette, exhaled. “No,” she said, “I don’t think she loved him. He wanted to marry her, apparently. For her money. But she’s not stupid. She’s not lonely either. At least, I don’t think she was.” Edie put her head against the cushion of the couch. “Are you wondering if Tom Myers was in on her kidnapping?”

  “I’ve thought about it,” Hastings said. “I kind of doubt it, though.”

  “He was a little slick for my tastes. But, no, I’d doubt that too. Anyway, if you’re wondering if she was so in love with him as to trust him with her life or some shit like that, no. Not her. She’s not an idealist.”

  “Cordy’s not?”

  “No.”

  “How about you?”

  She snorted. “Oh, God,” she said. “Not hardly.”

  Hastings believed that. He said, “You’re divorced now?”

  “Yep.”

  “What happened there?”

  She gave him a mild scowl. “What happened? It was a fucking disaster. It lasted, like, six months.”

  “Why was it a disaster?”

  “Well, let’s see. First, he was going to start a graphic design business. That took about forty thousand dollars of my money, and I don’t think he ever left the house. There were always all these … people over. All these fucking people. I didn’t know half of them.”

  “What were they there for?”

  “Drugs. Bullshit. That’s what he spent the money on: drugs and bullshit.” She said, “My therapist said he was self-destructive. I was like, No shit. I don’t even think he liked me.”

  “Why did you marry him?”

  Edie Penmark sighed. “I had to do something. I mean, I didn’t have a career and I wasn’t going to school. I had to have something.…”

  “Something to live for?”

  She gave Hastings a glare. “Don’t judge. I know how people like you are.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You need to pull people down so you feel better about yourselves.”

  Hastings nodded. He said, “What was this fellow’s name?”

  “Hap Melendy. He’s in San Diego now.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Shit, I don’t know. Playing with himself, probably.” She smiled bitterly. “Ain’t it grand?”

  “What?”

  “The poor little rich girl. White trash living in her daddy’s mansion. You could book me on Jerry Springer.”

  “I wasn’t thinking that.”

  “Weren’t you? I’ll bet you feel a great satisfaction in it.”

  Hastings said, “Not hardly.”

  She was peering at him now and Hastings was thinking she was lost. Too much substance abuse, too many drugs, too much booze. Too much. A little girl not many years ago and now lost. He was not altogether surprised by what happened next.

  Edie Penmark said, “Do you like me?”

  “Sure.” Hastings was calm.

  Edie Penmark was still looking at him. She said, “Do you want to fuck me?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “No? Why not?” She was smiling at him now. A cold smile, which was not at all arousing.

  Hastings said, “I have a girlfriend.”

  “So what? What does she do for you?”

  “Well, that’s private.”

  “Yeah? I’ll bet she’s pretty conventional in the sack. But you want something more, huh?”

  Hastings was repelled by this. It was an invasion that was meant to arouse and interest him. It didn’t. But he didn’t want the girl to know how he was feeling. Not yet. He said, “Well, we do what we can.”

  Edie Penmark said, “I bet I know what you’d like.”

  Hastings made a gesture. “Well, who’s to say?” He stood up. He put a card on the table. “If you think of anything, I want you to call me.”

  “Maybe I’ll call you even if I don’t.”

  Hastings was walking out the door when she said that.

  * * *

  The guard opened the gate and Hastings drove his Jag out onto the winding road. He looked at h
is watch. Then he called a number on his cell phone. She answered on the third ring.

  Carol McGuire said, “George?”

  “Hey,” Hastings said. “What’s going on?”

  “Not much. Had a long day at work. How about you?”

  Hastings said, “I kind of need a bath.”

  Carol laughed. “What happened?”

  “Oh,” he said, “it’s a long story.”

  Carol said, “I understand you’re working on the Penmark abduction?”

  “Yeah. Lovely people, the Penmarks.”

  “Hmmm. You sound tired.”

  “I am,” he said. “How was your day?”

  “I pled out that assault case. So I won’t have a trial next week.”

  “That’s good. Was that the one with Sanderson?”

  “Yes,” she said, referring to a prosecutor they both knew. “I don’t think he was crazy about trying it. Do you still want to come over?”

  “Yeah.”

  * * *

  When he got there, she asked if he had had dinner yet. He said he hadn’t and she told him to sit down at the kitchen table and she would make him a sandwich. He did as he was told, glad to do so. A middle-aged man like most, happy to have a woman feed him like a mom. She could walk over and mop his hair with her hand and take the effect too far. But she wouldn’t.

  She set the sandwich in front of him. She said, “Do you want a beer?”

  “Yeah. That’d be great.”

  She was smiling at him now. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “What?”

  “This little domestic scene.”

  “Sure.”

  “Don’t get used to it. It’s not really my style.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  She put the beer on the table and sat across from him.

  She said, “How’s it going?”

  “You mean the Penmark thing?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s pretty unpleasant.”

  “I imagine it would be.”

  “I mean, yeah, the murder of a young man and the abduction of a young girl. But it’s not just that.”

  “Oh? What else?”

  “The people involved…”

  “You mean the Penmarks?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about them?”

  “They’re creeps.” Hastings stopped, considered. “Well, I don’t want to judge. They’ve had their daughter kidnapped. Who knows how you’d deal with that situation if it were you.”

  “You mean if it were Amy?”

  “I wasn’t thinking that.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. I can’t do things like that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think you know what I mean. The nature of this work requires you not to think that way. I would think you would understand that.”

  “What, because I defend criminals?”

  “Sure. You can’t afford to be bound up with sympathy or fear. Not for the victims. Not for your client either. Not too much, anyway.”

  “That’s true,” Carol said.

  “It’s the same here. I could say, Gee, what if it was Amy that was kidnapped? But that would lead to me having a breakdown and … that’s not going to do anybody any good.”

  “Okay. Then why are you down?”

  “I don’t know. Well, I guess I do know. The girl’s family…”

  “They’re not nice people.”

  “No.”

  “And you feel sorry for the girl?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Beyond the kidnapping.”

  “Yes.”

  Carol was smiling at him. “What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t expect anything.”

  “Yes, you did. You expected them to be nice people because they had money.”

  “No, Carol. Much as you’d like to believe otherwise, I’m not that predictable. I wasn’t expecting Ozzie and Harriett.”

  “Well, I’m not surprised.”

  “That’s good you’re not surprised. But did it ever occur to you that you’re predictable in your own way?”

  “How so?”

  “Someone’s wealthy, you presume they got it by ill means. That they’re corrupt.”

  “I do not. I don’t envy the rich.”

  “I don’t either.”

  “No one says you do. I just wonder if you presume nice things about them, that’s all. Don’t categorize me either.”

  “As what?”

  “As the simplistic liberal.”

  Hastings smiled at her. “I don’t do that. I don’t think I do, anyway.”

  After a moment, she said, “No. You don’t.”

  Hastings said, “Gene Penmark may not be a nice man. But he never killed anyone. I don’t think he ever stole from anyone. And no one deserves to have their daughter abducted.”

  “I know that.”

  “I know you do. I just wanted to say it.”

  The sandwich was finished and for a few moments they looked into each other’s eyes, their expressions simple, plain, and unsentimental.

  Carol said, “Can you stay the night tonight?”

  “No,” he said. “I’ve got Amy. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “Can you stay a little while longer?”

  They got up from the table and moved to the bedroom. Undressed on opposite sides of the bed and met in the middle.

  NINETEEN

  Amy was still up when he got home. He unlocked the door and came in and she was curled up on the couch with a blanket over her, watching television. Becoming a little lady now. He remembered when she was younger—five or six—and would sit in front of the television on a little reindeer beanbag, one leg crossed over the other. It all went by too fast.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi,” Hastings said.

  He turned to see what was on the television screen. A newscaster talking about Cordelia Penmark. Shit.

  Hastings said, “Why are you watching this?”

  She looked up at him, not hurt, but noticing his irritation. He was not often sharp with her. She said, “It’s on all the news stations. What do you want me to do?”

  “You can do your homework.”

  “I already did it.”

  Which was probably true, knowing her. Hastings checked his watch to see if she was up past her bedtime. Then realized she hadn’t had a bedtime in a couple of years because she had been, since an early age, more or less self-disciplined. Shit.

  Hastings said, “Okay.”

  He put his coat away and stored his gun. Then he got a Heineken out of the refrigerator and popped the top off. He came back to the living room and took a seat. He let out a sigh, then turned to his daughter.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “It’s okay,” Amy said.

  “Did you have a good day at school?”

  Amy shrugged. “It was all right.” She said, “Is it your case? The kidnapping?”

  “Sort of,” he said.

  “Oh.” For a moment, she didn’t say anything else. Amy Hastings had inherited her mother’s intelligence, if not her character. And she had a partial understanding of why Hastings was in something of a black mood.

  Amy said, “Would you rather we watch South Park?”

  Hastings smiled wearily. “No,” he said.

  “Friends?”

  “If you like.”

  “I was kidding. Jay Leno?”

  “If we must.”

  “Or,” Amy said, “I could go to bed if you’d rather be by yourself.”

  “No,” Hastings said. “Why don’t you stay up with me for a while? A half hour, then go to bed. Okay?”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  * * *

  She got up to go to bed while Leno was helping Russell Crowe laugh about something that wasn’t that funny. From the hall she called out “love you” and Hastings said “love you too.” After she was gone, Hastings c
licked the television off and sat alone in the quiet living room.

  Eileen had been a Catholic of sorts. During their marriage, he had attended mass with her a few times. He saw a side of her there that he never could quite reconcile with the one he knew at home. Kneeling, praying, reciting the prayers from memory, receiving the Eucharist. She knew her theology too. Made a point of it, in fact.

  Hastings remembered a priest who was from England, visiting apparently, giving a homily about the sin of anger. He said he reserved his harshest penances for those parents who took their anger out on their children. The priest seemed to have a passion not seen too often in the American clergy. But, whatever. An elementary sermon not said often enough.

  Hastings was aware that he had either done that or come close to doing that to his own daughter tonight. Irritable and depressed, he had spoken sharply to Amy. Over nothing, really. They were neither one of them emotive types, and her acceptance of his apology was expressed by staying up with him a half hour longer than usual. And like that it was fixed. They said their I love yous as usual without any additional melodrama or meaningful pauses.

  He was thinking about the last time he had questioned Amy about her viewing choices. He remembered coming home and seeing a DVD on the coffee table titled Grizzly Man. Not being a man who read the entertainment pages, he thought it was in the same ballpark as, or a remake of, Grizzly Adams, a soft-touch show from the 1970s. Nice liberal fellow with a beard having adventures with his friend Ben, the warmhearted bear. But no, that’s not what it was. It was about a young man named Timothy Treadwell who was more or less mentally ill and went to Alaska to commune with the grizzly bears.

  Once Hastings figured out what the conclusion was likely to be, he turned to Amy and suggested that they turn it off. She asked him not to do that and pointed out that it was a documentary, not a dirty R-rated film. Which was true, he remembered. But it was ultimately going to conclude with poor Timothy Treadwell being eaten by a thousand-pound bear.

  Fortunately, there was no video of that scene. Though it was on audiotape, the filmmaker had mercifully refrained from playing it. So Amy and, for that matter, Hastings were spared the anguish of that. And once he realized that neither one of them would have to see a man and his girlfriend being torn apart and then eaten, he enjoyed the film and was actually glad that he had seen it with his daughter.

  Hastings had been a hunter since childhood. There hadn’t been much else to do in Nebraska. He’d tracked and killed quail, deer, and duck, but had never shot a bear. When the movie was over, he explained, as best he could, certain realities of nature to Amy. That you could give cute names to grizzlies like Sergeant Brown and Mabel and Big Mama, but that wasn’t going to change them into human beings any more than if you gave the names to sharks in the sea. That you could tell yourself that you understood the bears and that they understood you. But telling yourself didn’t make it so. Timothy Treadwell was an idealist and he made those bears his religion. And he was dogmatic in his self-made faith to the bloody end.