by Grant Mccrea
My tongue wasn’t working. My brain wasn’t working. Hell, I wasn’t sure my entire central nervous system wasn’t shutting down. The central nervous system, I thought. The system that makes you nervous. So that was it.
And it wasn’t just the hangover. There was something really wrong. Nothing was making any sense. Who was this strange woman in my living room? Why were small creatures scurrying about in my digestive tract? Why were their nails so sharp?
Louise Chandler sat impassively for a moment. From her vantage, I deduced, she could see into the kitchen. Empty bottles. Chinese take-out cartons.
Sorry about the mess, I said. I wasn’t expecting company.
It’s all right, she said, without conviction.
How can I help you? I asked.
It’s about my sister, she said.
Your sister.
Yes. My sister.
She looked around the living room. In radical contrast to the rest of the house, this room was pristine. Everything left just the way Melissa had designed it. Lived in it. Died in it. Along with the African stuff, the Bauhaus divan. The carefully chosen paintings, abstract, but with some thing elusively warm in them. The carpet, furiously, elaborately Persian. All of the contrasting styles somehow synergizing into something ineffably peaceful.
It’s a nice room, said Ms. Chandler.
Your sister, I said. You were telling me about your sister.
It was bad enough she had invaded Melissa’s space. I wasn’t going to start chatting about the décor.
She was taken aback, momentarily. Recovered herself, I was relieved to note.
Yes, she replied. Eloise.
Eloise, I said. Louise and Eloise.
Yes, she said with an air of having heard it before. Our parents were, I don’t know, odd.
Well, yes. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to cause offense. I mean, George Foreman’s sons are all called George. I think there are eight of them. So it could be worse, I guess.
Don’t worry, she said. It doesn’t bother me anymore.
I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile and not a leer. In my condition, I couldn’t tell the difference.
Yes, she said. Well. The problem is, I haven’t heard from Eloise in a long time.
I waited. I tried to remember the last time I’d talked to my sister.
I know that’s not necessarily unusual, she said.
I see, I said. So you’re not saying that she’s … missing?
I’m not sure. I haven’t heard from her. I’m not going to pretend that’s abnormal. We haven’t been close in a long while. But she is my sister. I’m concerned for her. The last telephone number that I had for her is out of service. I’m not saying anything bad has happened to her. I don’t know. I’d just like to know that she’s … all right.
I understand. Well. I’ll—we’ll need some information.
Of course.
There was another pause. Ms. Chandler smoothed the sleeves of her jacket. Ah, I thought, self-soothing behavior. A sure sign she was bluffing.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything for her to be bluffing about.
Had to get my mind out of the poker gutter.
Mr. Redman, she said, do you carry a firearm?
Uh, I’m not sure why that’s relevant.
Do you?
Do I what?
Carry a firearm.
No, I don’t.
That’s strange. I thought it was standard procedure in your business.
Well, I do own a gun, I said. The phrase had a novel feel in my mouth. But I don’t usually carry it. Anyway, if this is danger work, I get hazard pay.
Oh, don’t worry about compensation, Mr. Redman. You’ll be taken care of. Oh, and you wanted more information.
She fished around in her tiny handbag. Pulled out a piece of paper, folded many times. But neatly. Folded neatly.
She handed it to me.
I opened it.
Her handwriting was tiny. But clear. At least, it looked as though it would be clear. Once my eyes began to focus.
I have an appointment, she said. I apologize. I must go. Please read that. I’ve tried to put everything down. But I’m sure you’ll have some questions. I’ll call you again when I’m free.
Of course, I said. Of course. Please.
I showed her to the front door.
Brendan was just coming up the stairs.
I introduced them. Brendan shuffled his feet. Extended a hand.
A pleasure, he said, without conviction.
Pleased to meet you, said Louise, very properly.
But her eyes lingered a bit on Brendan. Just enough to make me notice.
Well, no harm in that. Brendan was a good-looking guy. Blue eyes. Good jawline. Wavy, dirty-blond hair. Any woman might take a second look. And seeing as how he was gay, he wasn’t a threat to my own nascent inappropriate intentions.
Back in the kitchen, I gave Brendan a beer and the download.
I hope it doesn’t interfere with the poker schedule, he said.
Yeah, I said. I didn’t tell her about that. Wouldn’t be good for business. But if she’s going to weasel her way into our lives, she’ll have to pay for it.
Yeah?
Yeah. If she shows up again, I’ll ask for a big retainer.
11.
I WASN’T OPTIMISTIC. Find a sister. How much could we bill for that? A couple grand, maybe? I supposed we could just bill by the hour. Hated that, though. Had enough of it in the law business. It just encouraged useless effort. Waste. Dishonesty.
I looked at Louise Chandler’s tiny handwriting. I crossed and uncrossed my eyes a few times. My vision unblurred a bit. The writing was small but neat. Precise. Scary precise.
Name, Eloise Chandler. Date of birth, June 13, 1970. Description, green eyes, five foot two, slim, pale skin, red hair.
A lot like her sister.
Allergic to sunlight. Ouch. What was that? Lupus? Phone number, no longer working. 702 area code. Last known address, Henderson, Nevada. My, my. Maybe she’d died of lupus. Could you die from lupus? I made a mental note to look it up.
I read the rest aloud to Brendan:
My sister and I were never particularly close. I was four years older. Eloise was always very introverted. Bitter, you might say. She never had many friends. She tended to be easily dominated by larger personalities.
As a result, despite our relative lack of intimacy, I was always very protective of her. Our parents died when we were high school age. We were taken in by an uncle. He was not a nice man. I’ve always feared that he did something to Eloise. She never said anything of the sort, but then she would not have. Certainly not to me.
Eloise left home when she turned eighteen. I did not blame her. I would have as well, but I was in college, and could not afford to do so. We stayed in touch, however, as sisters do. When she became ill, it seemed to affect her psychologically. She began having less to do with me. She became somewhat reclusive. Eventually she left the city. I do not know where she went initially. I lost track of her for a time. Eventually she settled in Nevada. She wrote to me from there, from time to time, at first. She found a boy she liked. He was a Russian immigrant. He repaired old cars and sold them. That is all that I know about him.
The letters became more sporadic. And then they stopped. I kept writing. My letters were not returned by the post office, but they were not answered either. I did not worry at first. As I said, we were never very close. She had that bitter, independent streak. But as the years went on, I began to be concerned. Finally, I called a local agency in Nevada, and asked them to check at the address I had for her. They told me that she did not live there. That was when I became concerned. I spoke to Mr. Kennedy, who is my personal lawyer. He recommended you.
A bit strange, I said.
Sounds pretty standard to me, said Brendan.
Not the story, I said. The story’s as common as bad cheddar cheese. What’s strange is why she felt she had to write it down. There isn’t any
thing in there she couldn’t have told me in ten minutes. And if she had, I could have asked the obvious questions. How much she was willing to pay, for example. And the writing. Stilted as hell. Not a contraction in the whole thing. ‘I could not afford to do so.’ Sounds like it was written by the star student in a class of Chinese taking English as a second language. Not that any of that has anything to do with the case. If it is a case.
Okay, Brendan laughed. But you got to figure. We just started The Outfit, and already we have some business. Doesn’t matter if it doesn’t amount to much.
No, it didn’t matter. And it didn’t amount to much. But something about it made me uncomfortable.
Maybe it was the past tense.
The whole thing was written in the past tense.
12.
I COULDN’T GET PAST THE IMAGE OF MELISSA ON THE SOFA. Louise Chandler in her space.
There was only one thing to do.
I called Sheila.
One of her crackhead clients had canceled. She could see me right away.
There are advantages to a shrink who specializes in addicts.
I rang the buzzer outside. I smiled at the security camera. I passed inspection. The door buzzed. I took the ancient elevator to the penthouse. I wondered about the etymology of the word. Penthouse. Nothing obvious came to mind. I made a note to look it up.
Sheila shared the penthouse with a couple of other shrinks. There were patients waiting. This was unfortunate. Not because I was uncomfortable. Because they were. My natural inclination was to smile, nod, say hello. You can’t do that in a shrink’s waiting room. For some reason everyone’s embarrassed. Staring intently at the month-old copy of Time magazine. I guess they want everyone to think they’re normal, well-adjusted folk.
Hey, I always want to say to them, don’t worry about it. There’s no such thing.
Sheila’s door opened. She ushered me in. I sat on my couch. I considered it mine. For the first time I thought of other people sitting there. Sharing their lives and anguish with her.
I didn’t like it at all.
I got down to business. Melissa business.
To me, I told Sheila, she’s still on that couch. On her back. Mouth open. A line of saliva drooling from the corner of her mouth, forming a pool on the sofa cushion.
I didn’t say it in those words. But Sheila understood: I was stuck in the memory.
She nodded sympathetically.
I’d left the living room just like it was, I explained. Her space. Her final resting place. Penultimate resting place. Oh, hell, where she died. Choking on her own vomit. Call me weird, shit, call me neurotic if you want, but I couldn’t touch that living room. And I certainly wasn’t going to ask anyone else to, or let anyone else, touch it. So there it was. Everything in its designer place. Her cigarettes still on the coffee table, even. The way she made it. The way she lived in it. The way she died in it.
Kind of like a museum.
A natural history museum. Not so natural. A diorama.
Sounds like you won’t let yourself grieve, Sheila said.
Yeah, yeah, I said. The eighteen stages of grief. Or twenty. Whatever it is. I know. Well, I don’t know, actually. But I don’t really want to know. Why does everyone have to deal with shit in the same way? Why can’t I have my own way?
Is your own way making you happy?
Oh, please. Does anything make me happy?
Kelley?
Of course. But that’s different.
Of course it’s different. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter. And it doesn’t have to be the only thing that makes you happy.
Of course it does. I’m a miserable depressive. I guess I’m as happy as a miserable depressive can be. And I mean that in the nicest possible way. Don’t get me wrong. You’re very helpful. The drugs are very helpful. They really are. But happiness, Jesus. That’s for people who do good works. And I’m not the type.
Maybe you could try.
Doing some good works? I’ve tried. And it only makes me more depressed. All those sad, lonely people? It’s really depressing.
You’re in quite a state today.
I am. I’m sorry. Can’t make much progress when I’m in this mood.
Let’s talk about something more concrete, then.
Like what?
Like anything you choose.
Well, speaking of happiness, I met this woman.
Oh dear.
Yes, I know my history isn’t promising. But she really seems special.
So did Dorita.
Dorita was special. It’s just that, I don’t know, she needed even more medication than I do.
But you know your real problem.
Of course I do. Idealization. I have to find the perfect woman, never will, perfection is for heaven, not this vale of … what is it, sludge? I know, I know. But let me tell you about Louise.
All right. Tell me about Louise.
I told her about my new client. Her legs. Her silky manner.
Are you supposed to be having these kinds of thoughts about a client?
I’m not a shrink, I said. I’m not her lawyer. I’m just an investigator. A helper. I’m not sure there’s a code of ethics for helpers.
You don’t need to have a code of ethics in order to have ethics.
A good point, I said. Excellent point. I’ll give it some consideration. But I haven’t done anything, anyway. I’m just telling you how I feel.
All right.
So, I’m having this meeting with Louise, my client. She bends over to reach for a glass. I take a sharp breath. Really. Just like they say in the books. I try to disguise it as a cough. If she notices, she doesn’t let on. Anyway, you know how some guys say they’re breast men? There’s the ass guys? Love that booty? Some guys go for legs. Long, shapely legs. I go for all those things, of course. But at heart I’m a skin guy. Smooth skin sends me. So, when she bent over, her shirt lifted up from her skirt. I saw a few inches of her back. I was sent to the moon.
I see, said Sheila.
Skin that sun-blessed color you can’t buy in a tube or a tanning salon. Soft and firm. You don’t have to touch it, to know. You can see it. You sure as hell know. That and the curve of it. A curve so pure and gently placed, you had to know it went on endlessly, and just right. All the shapes and valleys just where they should be.
I could feel Sheila’s disapproval. But I couldn’t stop.
It kills you. It could kill you. Such perfection in a human form. You have to have it. You have to have it or die. You have to have it to know. To know if it really is the perfect embodiment of the female flesh. In which case you’ll never let it go. Or that it isn’t. Which is a relief, I guess. A relief from the responsibility. The need to have it at all costs. Because if you never had it, never tried it, never found out, everything else you ever touched would suffer from the image of perfection you’d constructed. From that one glimpse of that one part of that one whole you’d sought forever, now and forever past, before you were born, even, the other half of the Platonic egg, you flattered yourself …
I looked down. I realized that I’d pulled half the tassels off a throw pillow.
It’s all right, Sheila said.
I’ll buy you another.
Don’t worry. I’ve got extras.
But still.
As we were saying, said Sheila.
Yeah. Idealization. Am I boring you?
No, she said. But the time’s up.
Ah. Saved by the bell.
13.
WE WERE AT FAST VINNIE’S GAME AGAIN, BRENDAN AND ME. Looking for a challenge. I mean, the field at the World Series is pretty weak generally, but if you go deep, last into the third, fourth day, you’re going to be playing some of the best players in the world. Some of the best players in history. So there’s no point in warming up with fish. Fish like cold water. If you’re warming up with them, they’re usually on the grill.
The usual crew was there. Won Ton John, Internet Mike, Bennie Sn
iffles with the box of tissues, Donny from Hudson County. I was glad to see Donny: as big a fish as they came. Bluff Daddy, a fat guy from Brooklyn with a moon face and speckled gray skin. Sort of reminded you of an uncleaned ashtray. And a guy called Bruno. New guy. Vinnie told me to watch out for him. He was huge. Not fat huge. Bodybuilder huge. Impossibly good-looking, in that square-jawed, blue-eyed way. And with enough arrogance to tell you he was well aware of both. Had the Nazi-style motorcycle helmet next to him. Oh yes, he was telling you, you can see me on the Harley—it had to be a Harley, one of the biggest, loudest and most obnoxiously beautiful of Harleys—rocketing down the turnpike, all in black, anonymous and massive, stray dollars from that night’s take flying out behind me like the sparks of the hellhounds’ claws on the blacktop. Oh yes. A walking, talking comic book hero. A towering heap of intimidation.
The kind of guy, he got run over by a semitrailer one day, you held a party.
He bought in huge as his shoulders. Banded stacks of hundreds, ten thousand dollars each. Made a nice handsome pile in front of him. Made sure he had more money on the table than anyone else. Had to be that way, for his style to work. I knew the type. Big bets. Very big. Always putting the question to you: Are you good enough? Do you want to invest your whole bankroll with that lousy pair? No? Ship it! Ship those chips over here. Of course, half the time the guy would have air. Seven, Four off suit. But when you stood up to him, and you’d guessed wrong, and he had Kings, or two pair, you just lost all your money. That’s what he counted on. Fear.
Those guys were hard to play against. But not impossible. Everybody has a weakness. Anybody can be exploited.
There are two ways to play against the big-stack bully, the Bruno type of guy. Both ways require that you have a hand, though. You’re certainly not going to bluff the guy, because if he re-bluffs you, it’s going to be for all your money. The old saying, you can’t bluff a bluffer, has far more than a grain of truth in it. So, you wait for a serious hand. Jacks, say. Or a premium drawing hand. King, Queen of hearts. You can flop a flush, a straight, two pair, all sorts of good stuff. And when he shoves his chips at you, you push back over the top. Put him in for all his money.
Since, most of the time, a guy like Bruno is shoving his chips in with less than a monster hand, he’ll usually fold. He doesn’t want to play a pot with you. He’s looking to intimidate you. Shove you off your cards. And since against most guys at the table it works eight times out of ten, maybe nine, he doesn’t need to look you up. Take a risk for a lot of chips. He’s making lots of money without having to do that.