by M. M. Mayle
“I couldn’t agree with you more,” Amanda says. “And just so you know—if you ever call me little lady again you’ll be shoveling real shit for a living. And you, Nate.” She whirls around to target him. “If you ever again allow me to be perceived as your live-in secretary, you’ll be sharpening your own pencil.”
No one could mistake her meaning as she hurries into the bedroom and slams the door.
Brownie makes a big point of not slamming the door when he leaves.
Nate lets a quarter-hour go by before opening the bedroom door a crack. He peers inside, expecting her to have flung herself prone on the bed in typical temper tantrum form. But she’s sitting in a chair by the window, studying the notes taken at the meeting.
“Are you still pissed?” he says.
“No. And I wasn’t that pissed to begin with. If that bozo and his borderline lunatic theories hadn’t stirred me up so much, I might not have said anything. God, but I don’t want to give credence to what Yates said, and I’m afraid not to.” She flips through the pages of the steno pad and sets it aside. “I’ll transcribe that later, if you don’t mind. I don’t want to confront it again for a while.”
“That’s fine, honey,” he says and sits down on a corner of the bed. “The transcribing can wait, but the confrontation can’t. What Brownie said does have credence. Especially in light of what I have to tell you now. It’s something I should have told you at the start . . . Something I should have told someone at the start, and I didn’t because—”
“For god’s sake, just spit it out. It can’t be worse than anything that reporter had to say.”
She follows him with her eyes when he gets up and measures the length of the room in quick strides. “You’ve read the transcript of my taped session with Laurel when I recounted Colin’s accident and the aftermath,” he says.
“Yes, I did some editing of the rough copy. I’m thoroughly familiar with the content.”
“Then you know Aurora was decapitated.”
“I knew that from before. That’s public knowledge, and probably the only thing about Aurora that hasn’t been exploited.”
“Right. I sometimes forget that was only decency the press ever showed her—not that she deserved it.”
“If the subject is decapitation, you’re digressing. Can you please sit down and tell me whatever it is that has you even jumpier than you were last night?”
He continues pacing. “It didn’t happen that way.”
“What didn’t happen? Where are we?”
“The decapitation. It didn’t happen the way you’ve heard. I didn’t tell anyone at the time. I went along with the official version because I didn’t trust myself to believe what really happened.”
He pauses to slug down a few swallows of cold coffee. “When I first reached the accident scene, Aurora was intact. Dead, but intact, which is to say her head was still attached. However, when I returned to the accident scene with help, her head was gone. The help—Big Bill, the guy Brownie just referred to—took for granted she was decapitated by the accident, and I was too fucking shocked to say otherwise. I was so fucking freaked out, I even wondered if her head ever was there . . . if I’d only imagined seeing it because I couldn’t deal with the bloody stump.”
“Oh . . . my . . . god. And you’ve been carrying this around with you all this time?”
“Yeah, and now it’s not entirely preposterous to think this Hoop creep got to the wreckage after I left it, and cut off her head for what unholy reason—with Colin as witness. I’m guessing he thought Colin was dead, or he would have finished him off then and there. I’m also guessing this could be the guy who was tailing me while I chased after Colin right before the accident occurred . . . And come to think of it, it’s not outrageous to believe he was the ballsy Native American I took for a local paparazzo when he tried to get around Bemus during Colin’s initial hospitalization.”
In a flat uninflected voice, he recites all the other reasons to believe Hoople Jakeway is their man, and concludes with the obvious: “I’ve got to get back to New York. I may even have to go to Michigan.”
“Do you want me to book you on the Concorde flight with Yates? It wasn’t full.”
“No. First of all, I’m not in that big a hurry, and second of all, I’ll be wise to make my own airline arrangements.”
She ignores the reference to his gaffe. “I wish I were free to go with you.”
“So do I, but even if you were, I’d feel better if you stayed here to ride herd on Colin.”
“How much should I tell Bemus?”
“Only enough to have him on top of things. Tell him level three and he’ll know what you mean. If he wants reasons, tell him it’s because of Colin’s sudden resurgence as a superstar. Tell him it’s an extra precaution because of Laurel’s presence, and because they’ll be taking the kids on the road. You’ll know what to say.”
He sits down on the rumpled bed, stretches out, acknowledging how tired he is. “And I should be thinking about what I’m going to say to the police when the time comes.”
“I’m glad that’s a consideration,” Amanda says and joins him on the bed. You’ll have to be glad to get that load off your chest.”
“I’m already glad. You cannot imagine how glad I am I told you—and how relieved I am you didn’t ream me out for having kept quiet all this time.”
She stretches out beside him, extends an arm across his unburdened chest. “I don’t see that as a gross omission. You don’t deserve reaming out. You did what seemed right at the time. Who in their right mind would ignite a possibly frivolous criminal investigation in the middle of a mess like that?”
He gets an arm around her, draws her close. “I hope you know I’m sorry I didn’t correct Brownie’s assumption about your status.”
“Yeah, I know. And I hope you know I’m sorry I went off on you. The pencil remark was a cheap shot.”
“Yeah, now that you mention, it was.” He flashes a weak smile.
“You know what else you have coming?”
“No, what?” He smiles again, thinking of the obvious.
“Extra credit for what you’re doing for the Yates guy.”
“What do you mean what I’m doing for him? He’s the one doing the field work at the moment.”
“Maybe so, but I get the distinct feeling you’re not simply using him as a means to an end. Because he didn’t toady to you at all, I get the feeling the two of you go way back, that you have a history beyond what brings you together now.”
“Jesus, you’re clairvoyant as well?”
“I don’t know about that, but I’m guessing—”
“Guess no further. You’re on the money. Brownell Yates attended undergraduate school with me at Penn. Things haven’t always gone well for him, so—”
“So you’re helping him get back on his feet by using him for this—”
“You are clairvoyant.”
“Lucky guess, that’s all,” Amanda says.
“But based on astute observation. Christ, you probably even know what caused Brownie to pursue his present line of reasoning—something I forgot to squeeze out of him before he left.”
“His inspiration? Oh that’s easy. The headlines. Isn’t that the business he’s in?”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Late morning, May 23, 1987
The music channel is rerunning the big hullabaloo concert for the dead British rock star again. When it was first broadcast three days ago, Hoop didn’t pay much attention to the swankers vying for the spotlight before Colin Elliot hogged it all. Now he realizes one rock star may be as good as another when it comes to stirring the blood with renewed purpose. The caterwauling about not having found what was looked for, followed by bragging about how a lawman was bagged but the sidekick was spared, works fine for keeping him at a slow boil till Elliot’s appearance turns up the heat.
Today, Saturday of the long Memorial Day weekend, is the first day Hoop’s had off since signing on as janitor-handym
an at the Speedwell Motor Lodge three weeks ago. And here he is, stuck in the room the motel people agreed to rent at a reduced rate in exchange for him forgoing Social Security contributions.
Given a day of freedom, he should be anywhere but inside. Anywhere that doesn’t have four walls that talk about how many kinds of confinement there are, and a television set that constantly reminds how stymied he is. However, unless it’s on shank’s mare, going out comes with a risk because—as brought to his attention by the scoff-laws that hired him and ought to know—the El Camino in its present state is illegal to drive.
Registering and licensing it in New Jersey was never thought of in a serious way; the guy who sold the truck flaunted that it had a fresh new inspection sticker and didn’t give any pushy go-by-the-book advice when he signed over the title. The Michigan plates transferred from the junked Jimmy to the El Camino were not thought of either, and now they’re expired with no way to renew that won’t stir up the same kind of notice and red-taped bother that getting a certified birth certificate would have brought.
He switches off the TV just as Elliot and his cronies are carrying on about their dead brother as though they’re proud he died such a shameful death. That refresher will last for a long while, and so will this new setback that no doubt comes with a message as soon as he can work out what it is. Meantime, he’ll go through all his important papers to be sure no other pitfalls are left open.
He takes what’s needed from the gym bag, sits down on the edge of the bed, and spreads the larger documents out in front of him. The first one, his high school diploma, he passes over for being outside present interest. Next is the birth certificate with his footprints on it that will always be of present interest and legitimate as far as he’s concerned. Thinking about the setback at the hands of the passport agency still riles him. How can a certificate be uncertified? Doesn’t the word certificate mean certified? Isn’t asking for a certified certificate some kind of doublespeak?
The El Camino title and bill of sale appear watertight, so he sets them to one side and digs into his wallet for the everyday important papers. Social security cards never expire unless the owner expires; he sets aside the card showing wear for having spent so much time in his wallet. Same can be said for his driver’s license, but only about wear because the license is due to run out early next year. That doesn’t have to be a big deal, though; by early next year a driver’s license may not matter much.
The half dozen receipts he finds are throwaways. So are the newspaper clippings that are no longer of use. Along with those, he can toss an old Blue Cross/Blue Shield card that hasn’t been good since he last had fulltime employment a good seven years ago.
The other insurance card found in that particular pocket of the wallet is also invalid. He’s in the act of tossing it in the waste can, when he’s hit with a sudden realization. Sweat comes to life in all the usual places as he owns up to having driven some of the heaviest traveled roads in New Jersey without up-to-date vehicle insurance.
Anyone else would excuse this lapse as foreseeable because he’s never had to take the first step toward updating vehicle insurance. Ade, the hometown shuffleboard champion, was the local insurance agent in his spare time and always took care of collecting fees and handing out renewal cards in person.
“The only way I can be sure all you lamebrains are up to date,” Ade always said with a laugh when carrying out this duty at the Kings Tavern. But this far removed from Bimmerman and that kind of mollycoddling, Hoop cannot excuse the oversight or ignore that it’s brought with it the message he was expecting.
After a brief struggle, Hoop stands up arrow-straight and confesses like a council of chiefs was listening in: “I was overproud to buy the truck of my longings.”
That’s the problem. That’s what’s wrong. That’s what changed his luck. The day he bought the truck he started making big mistakes. Buying the truck with found money was the biggest mistake. He didn’t earn it, and that made him undeserving.
“Pride goes before a fall! There’s no rest for the wicked! No pleasure or satisfaction ever comes from ill-gotten gains!” He quotes a Christian grandmother in a voice usually reserved for chanting and confronts truths that first devilled him a month ago, after the major setback. Although he still won’t go to the extremes thought about back then, he will make sacrifice—one big enough to change his luck.
The social security card and driver’s license go back in his wallet; the larger documents go back in the gym bag with the other useless things.
For the ride along Route 22 to the Family-Mart, he stays with slow-moving traffic clusters instead of flaunting the El Camino in the passing lane. This could be more caution than needed, but he can’t afford another setback now. Getting picked up for a traffic violation now would be same as giving up altogether and creeping back to Bimmerman with his tail between his legs.
At the big discount store, he competes for a parking spot up front, in the most crowded part of the lot, where the El Camino may pick up a ding or two from shopping carts, but won’t stand out like it would if left in back by the dumpsters. He doesn’t praise himself for this better plan; he’s still got a lot to make up for, and a long way to go before he’ll let himself feel proud again.
Inside the store, he makes a couple of false starts before figuring out which department to go to. Then, in the toy department, with no one there to guide him, he’s met with more choices than expected. In the end, common sense says to go for a sturdy looking one and never mind the streamlined ones all tricked out with the sort of bells and whistles that led him astray when it was a truck instead of a bicycle he was buying.
The next item is easier to find. He saw the one he wanted when he bought the gym bag—when he might better have bought a backpack—so he knows to lug the bike over to the sporting goods department where choosing takes no thought.
At the last minute he remembers to add a chain lock to his purchases. He knows where those are kept from when he bought the padlocks. He makes his weighted-down way to that department, then to the front of the store and the checkout counters, where he’s stopped for trying to buy an already assembled bike they’re calling a floor model.
Yesterday, pride would have made him leave everything at the checkout and walk out of the store bullheaded and empty-handed. Today, without pride dictating any such foolishness, he offers to pay extra and the assistant manager they summon over the loudspeaker agrees to the deal.
The cash laid out is earned money from the motel job, so there’s nothing to be ashamed of there. Shoving everything into the back of the El Camino without worrying about scratching the bed liner shows he’s making progress, and gliding instead of squealing out of the parking lot shows he doesn’t need to drive the sleek one-of-a-kind maroon and silver truck like something’s after him.
On the way to the storage yard, he sees a cop car, but it’s going the other way and too far distant across the wide divider of Route 22 to be a worry. At the storage yard, no one’s around, so he needn’t conceal what he’s doing when he works the padlock and keypad, lifts the overhead door, and drives the El Camino inside with only inches to spare lengthwise.
There aren’t that many inches to spare crosswise; the driver’s door can be opened only wide enough for him to snake sideways through the narrow gap. And once he’s got his feet on the pavement and his eyes adjusted to the low light, he sees there’s no clearance to speak of between the truck and the items crowded into the far corner.
He should have thought to move Audrey and the other containers before he drove in. Another mark against him that he’ll have to erase the hard way—by hefting those items without room for leverage. Before he does, he thinks to raise the lid of the load bed all the way so he won’t have far to maneuver everything.
Again without worry of scratching the bed liner, he hoists the bins, file boxes, and bucket up over the side, slides everything to the rear, and climbs in after them.
He sits there, as nervous and t
ongue-tied as he used to be in high school, and as winded as he’d be after a hard pedal from Bimmerman to Paradise—or so he imagines, because today’s puny effort is nothing compared with one of those trips.
When he does screw up the courage to tell Audrey what he’s done, he doesn’t blat it right out—no “wait till you hear this” kind of announcement. He creeps up on the subject gradual-like, like when he’d take a try at conversation at the Paradise lunch counter.
“Just like old times,” he begins. “I bought a bike today and that’s how I’m gonna get around till I’ve done my penance.”
Good thing she can’t talk back because if she asked, he’s not sure he’d want to tell her why he needs to do penance. On the other hand, it’s too bad she can’t say something in agreement, something to encourage the plan to forgo the prized El Camino—forever, if necessary—and earn a fresh supply of luck.
He talks to her for another quarter-hour or so, giving assurance that she’ll be safer than ever under the additional lock on the rear compartment of the truck. He says nothing else about the bike. She doesn’t need to know it’s heavy duty, designed to stand up to rough ground as well as paved roads. She’d know without being told that this one’s no girls’ bike with a flowery basket on the front and fringes on the handgrips. And she doesn’t have to be told no one’s ever going to make fun of him again for that reason. Or any reason.
“I have to go now,” he says and scrambles to the tailgate to unload the bike and the backpack. Then, with a lot of squeezing and maneuvering, he retrieves the gym bag and the tool case from the cab of the El Camino. The contents of the gym bag don’t amount to much. Just the copybook and pens he hardly uses anymore, the personal papers that spell out a whole string of failures, and a few oddities, like the picture wallet he should have stowed in one of the bins but now dumps into the backpack along with the other useless things. From the tool case, he transfers everything but a rusted monkey wrench and a few worn bungee cords, and then has to paw through the backpack because he forgot to leave out the tools needed for removing the license plates holding the expired tags.