What good would turning in Mad John accomplish? He would probably get off by reason of insanity, or do his time in a mental hospital. Except for a fit of passion and a chainsaw, he was an upstanding little guy. He loved the river and was fighting to protect it. He may well have saved my life out there. Sure he was insane, but who’s perfect? He was a lot saner than, say, Glenn Beck. And I cared about him.
Chevrona came in and handed me a pink-frosted donut. She sat back down and eyed me.
“So … what have you found out about Esmerelda’s murder?”
“You’re the one who told me to keep my nose out of all this.”
“Your evasions are only increasing my suspicion that you’re holding out on me.”
I took a bite of donut and composed my response. “I can say in all honesty that I have no theories on who killed Esmerelda.”
Just facts.
Chevrona gave me a skeptical look.
“Now can you please tell me how you’re doing?” I asked.
“Could I have the turkey shepherd’s pie, please,” I said to Pearl.
“Make that two,” Zack added quickly.
Pearl looked at us like we’d just asked for a whole roasted human—but then shock was her perpetual expression. Maybe she was just more in touch with her feelings than the rest of us—I mean, does anyone ever really get over the shock of being born? Pearl eventually raised her pencil to her pad and began to write.
“I really wanted the salmon but I knew it would be another twenty minutes,” Zack said.
Since Abba was visible in the kitchen we could have just called out our order and saved a lot of time and aggravation, but Abba refused to fire Pearl, praising her “energy.” That was Abba—you can take the girl out of Tibet, but you can’t take Tibet out of the girl.
When Pearl had shambled off, Zack poured us both glasses of wine. I’d been out at his cabin all afternoon jumping his bones, and we were both in that beyond-mellow place. He leaned across the table and kissed me. “I’m so proud of you, babycakes.” He raised his glass and we toasted. “But next time, mind your own business.”
“Don’t worry about that, I am never getting involved in anyone else’s mishigas again,” I said, taking a sip of my wine. “Never.”
George walked into Chow, looking despondent.
“Hey, Georgie-boy, wanna join us for dinner?” Zack asked.
“Eat? How could I possibly eat, my life is over.” Then he started quivering and his eyes filled with tears. “Dwayne left me.”
“It’s my treat,” Zack said.
George shuffled over and sat down with a sigh. “I’d kill myself but I’m already dead,” he said, taking a roll and slathering it with butter.
“What happened?”
“The world hates beauty and happiness. It wants to crush them into a bitter powder of loneliness and regret,” George said as a tear rolled down his cheek, and he picked up my wineglass and took a deep swallow. “His wife found out, that’s what happened.” Then his face dissolved into a mass of tears as he finished my wine and poured himself another glass.
Zack put a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, come on, buddy. You’ll be okay; we still love you.”
George shuddered “Don’t touch me, please. I never want to be touched again. It only leads to heartbreak and agony.”
“I don’t want to fuck you, dude, I just want to cheer you up,” Zack said.
“Cheer me up? Cheer me up?” George said, reaching for another roll. “If you want to cheer me up, kill me and put me out of my misery.”
“George, have you seen that guy who just moved in over the Laundromat?” I said.
“Janet, you really are a walking faux pas, the MVP in the World Series of Insensitivity. You have less depth than a plastic wading pool and less empathy than a concrete block. The love of my life has just dumped me and you want me to start thinking about another man. There will never ever ever be another man in my life.” This triggered a fresh flood of tears, followed by a full glass of wine, followed by a disinterested shrug, and then, “I didn’t know anyone had moved in over the Laundromat.”
“The gang’s all here,” Abba said, bringing a plate of tuna tartare over to the table.
“I’m not here,” George said. “I’m dead.”
“So is River Landing,” Abba said, sitting down and helping herself to Zack’s wine. “Apparently Vince Hammer is so shook up that he’s withdrawing his proposal. He may come back in a few years when all the publicity has died down, but the project is permanently tainted and the opposition is only growing.”
“I will give Janet a petit soupçon of credit,” George said. “Speaking of soupçon, Abba, could I have the roasted pepper soup, the endive salad, the free-range braised chicken with all the sides, and a double slice of chocolate cake with ice cream and whipped cream. Oh, and Zack, could you run down the street and get us another bottle of wine, please?”
Zack rolled his eyes but got up and headed down to the liquor store.
The three of us sat there for a short bit.
“Well, Janet, you really made your mark up here,” Abba said.
“Yeah, you have, kiddo,” added George.
“No big deal,” I said. “You know how it is—one thing leads to another.”
I poked my head into Josie’s room, Sputnik by my side. She was in bed, reading Stephen King. Two suitcases were on the floor by the door.
“Big day tomorrow,” I said.
She nodded.
“I’m sure they’re a terrific family.”
She nodded again.
“The check came today for the two squeeze toys you sold on eBay. I owe you your commission.”
“I only accept cash.”
“Thatta girl.”
I went over and sat on the edge of her bed, fussed with her blanket.
“I’m proud of you, Josie.”
“Thank you for being my friend,” she said.
“Thank you for being mine. You were a big help in solving this murder. And, hey, Troy is only about fifty miles away. What do you say I give you a couple of weeks to settle in, then I come up and take you out to dinner?”
She nodded. I touched her cheek. I could see that, like me, she was willing herself to stay cool. She was going to need that strength a lot more than she needed some soapy farewell.
“See you in the morning.” I kissed her forehead and stood up. “Come on, Sput.”
I went into my bedroom and got undressed. I was exhausted, in that bone-deep way that feels like release. Sputnik curled up on his rug. I crawled under the covers. The moon was almost full and moonlight spread across the ceiling.
Just as I was halfway to dreamland, there was a ping on my window.
I swung my legs over the side of my bed and looked down to my ratty backyard.
There was Mad John, with a pile of debris tucked under his arm, traipsing through town in the moonlight, gathering the makings of his new raft.
He waved.
I hesitated.
Then I waved back.
THE END
Acknowlegments
For their support and guidance, I’m grateful to Terri Bischoff, Brian Farrey, Connie Hill, Steven Pomije, and everyone else at wonderful Midnight Ink.
Special thanks to Sue Ann Jafferian, who is as generous as she is talented and adorable; to David Dolittle, who helped me find Janet; to Alice McCauley, for the words and so much else; to Dr. Kurt Gress, for sharing his expertise; to Brian DeFiore, for being such a pro; to Mameve Medwed, for reading and for just being.
Also to the folks in the Hudson Valley/Catskills, for endless inspiration. Extra special thanks to Louie Ruggiero, for thirty years of friendship and flowers. And to Steve McCauley, for everything.
About the Author
Sebastian’s last novel, The Hour Between (Alyson, 2009) won the Ferro-Grumley Award and was a National Public Radio Seasons Readings Selection. The ghostwritten Charm! by Kendell Hart (Hyperion, 2008) was a New York Times bestseller. 24-Karat Kids, written with Dr. Judy Goldstein (St. Martins, 2006) was published in seven languages. His first novel, The Mentor (Bantam, 1999) was a Book of the Month Selection.
As a playwright, Sebastian was dubbed “the poet laureate of the Lower East Side” by Michael Musto in The Village Voice. His plays—which include Smoking Newports and Eating French Fries, Beverly’s Yard Sale, and Under the Kerosene Moon—have been seen at the Public Theater, The Kitchen, and LaMama, among other venues.
Sebastian has worked as a ghostwriter and editor in every genre imaginable, from business to politics to show business to travel.
A native New Yorker, he now lives with novelist Stephen McCauley in Cambridge, Massachusetts and Saugerties, New York.
To the Manor Dead Page 17