Obstruction of Justice

by Perri O'shaughnessy

  "Yo, yourself," Paul said. "Thanks for seeing us on short notice."

  "I brought lunch. Molly stopped by to tell me the lawyer’s office was sending you over. What’s her name again?"

  "Nina Reilly."

  "Attorney with tits," Kenny said. "Babe with a briefcase. Saw her in the paper. Jason sure can pick ’em." He started unlocking the door. He had a dead bolt as well as a Yale lock, custom devices that had not come with the apartment. Eventually the door swung open and Kenny limped in first, followed by Paul, also limping, feeling as if he had fallen into a Monty Python skit. Kenny said, "Chief, just set the bag on the counter there. Good boy. For that, I’ll leave your squaw alone today."

  "Uh, Kenny ..."

  "Yeah, Chief?" Kenny turned on the lights, then went across the living room to a large aquarium and knocked on the glass. "It’s me, sweetness," he said to the fish within.

  "This isn’t a joke. Jason’s really in trouble."

  "Don’t I know it. But you people are going to get him off, right? It’s not like he actually killed his grandpa. Hey, it’s crunchtime. Let’s eat." He limped back to Wish and upended his sack, pouring out a package of pastrami, some French bread, and a two-liter bottle of ginger ale. "You’ll join me, won’t you?" he said with an affected British accent. "Just let me get the Grey Poupon."

  While Kenny slathered mustard on the bread, keeping up a non-stop flow of patter, Paul had a look around. He could feel Kenny’s eyes on him, but Kenny never missed a beat. He and Wish were talking about some scatological event that had occurred at the party Wish had mentioned.

  The living room Nina had described to him no longer existed. A neat green-and-black Baja throw blanketed the couch. A large-screen TV sat primly angled in the corner. Girlie magazines were stacked tidily on a coffee table next to the bubbling lava lamp. A beanbag chair encircled by a stained rug faced the TV. A Bob Marley concert poster had been tacked to the wall, next to a flag with green, yellow, and red stripes. Wandering around, Paul tried, as unobtrusively as possible, the door to the bedroom, finding it locked.

  During her visit after Molly’s suicide attempt, Nina had described seeing tools, chemical equipment, and all kinds of gear that she couldn’t identify, so Kenny Munger must have cleaned house since then, leaving this simulacrum of a living room, devoid even of the computer.

  "Lunchy-wunchy, Dad," Kenny called out from across the room. They sat down on bar stools at the kitchen counter and Kenny, adopting the gracious air of a host at a formal dinner, showed them the label on the plastic bottle, poured an ounce or so of ginger ale into a paper cup, sniffed and tasted it, swishing the stuff around in his mouth. "An excellent year, 1997, IMHO," he said, pouring out paper cupfuls for all.

  Paul must have shown his lack of comprehension, since Wish filled him in while Kenny drank it down, watching them with a smile.

  "Computerese for ’in my humble opinion,’ " Wish said. "Don’t you ever visit the on-line chat rooms?"

  Kenny took one of the pile of sandwiches, parted the hair that fell over his face, and dug in, gesturing for them to follow, which they did, lighting into pastrami as slippery and delicious as Paul remembered from Manhattan.

  While they ate, Kenny chattered on. Paul couldn’t tell whether he was impelled by nerves or just a monumental ego kindled by an audience. Kenny was Robin Williams without the talent, jumping from character to character and never landing a funny line. Humor had probably worked as a longtime compensation for his ugliness, but he desperately needed a new shtick.

  "Lived here long?" Paul asked between bites.

  "The interview starts ... now!" Kenny said in an announcer’s voice through a mouthful of pastrami. He wiped his mouth with his hand.

  Licking his lips, he made a face, and in a declamatory tone said, "Ossifer, I declare as follows: I moved here when my mother moved to Walnut Creek two years ago to live with her new boyfriend. Who could turn down an opportunity like this: a country estate with a pool, service in the form of quaint old Mr. La Soeur, our beloved landlord, and the occasional scintillating visitor such as yourself. The rent is high, naturally, but who can put a price on such quality?" He gestured at the kitchen cubicle. "A man like me, well, you can probably tell women tend to fawn. I needed a grand setting in which to quench my insatiable lusts, so I’ve been here ever since."

  "Didn’t you get in trouble with the school authorities? I mean, you were only seventeen."

  "Ve haff our vays and mine vas to be eighteen at the time. Next question."

  "How long have you known Jason de Beers?" Paul asked him, controlling his irritation. Kenny had gobbled up his first sandwich and was starting on his second. Wish chewed slowly, turning his head back and forth between the two of them like a spectator at a tennis match.

  Kenny said, "Since I came here. Seems like all my life. Seems like we grew up together. Correction. He grew up. I grew in various directions. My foot grew this way, my back went thataway. Ar ar ar."

  "You’re friends?"

  "Bosom buddies. Besom baddies. Rubber baby buggy bumpers. Say it three times fast and you get another sandwich."

  "No, thanks, but let me pay for this," Paul said. He held out a twenty-dollar bill, which Kenny tucked away. "Your buddy is in trouble," Paul said. "Isn’t that worth a little straight talk?"

  "Straight talk, straight walk. I’m bad at both."

  "Yet you scored a perfect sixteen hundred on your SATs, Wish tells me."

  "Big Chief have-um big mouth."

  "Kenny—" Wish said.

  "Fifteen-ninety. Not worth bragging about."

  "Where were you on the Saturday night Quentin de Beers was killed?" Paul said.

  Kenny sighed loudly. "Ask me a hard one. I was in Walnut Creek at my mother’s latest wedding. I was the best man. I’ll leave you to imagine what the groom looked like. Ar ar ar."

  "What’s your mother’s phone number?" Paul said, failing to understand how Jason could move in with this geek, even temporarily. Kenny gave him the mother’s number after some more encouragement. "Jason stayed with you for several days, until that Saturday. Why?"

  "Just pursuing peace after Pater perished. Like some Abba Zabbas?"

  "No," Paul said. "How did Jason feel about his father?"

  Kenny’s eyes flew to Paul’s. He quickly dropped them again, but momentarily pulled forcefully from his fancies, he looked uncomfortable for the first time. "The details escape me."

  Wish leaned over and poked Kenny in the chest. Kenny jumped back, giving a little shriek. "You tell Paul, now," Wish said.

  "So sorry. I just can’t remember. There were so many delightful moments with Pater. Like the time he almost killed his wife. Accident, or Memorex?"

  "When was that?" Paul interposed.

  "Three years ago. Poor Sarah. Poor, poor Sarah."

  "You think he set up that accident deliberately?" said Paul, not sure if he could believe anything Kenny said.

  "Uh-hunh. Uh-hunh uh-hunh." He was doing a Goofy imitation now, nodding his head with an idiotic expression, the blond dreads flopping around him. Paul had just about had enough. "Jason told me about it," Kenny went on. "Ask him. Jason’s a good boy. Everybody loves Jason."

  Wish said, "I remember you used to call Jason some other name. Phoebus, right? And you called Molly another name the night of the party."

  "Artemis. Virgin huntress."

  "They had a name for you too."

  "No, they didn’t," Kenny said, and sweat sprang out on his forehead. Wish had succeeded in cutting through the crap somehow. Paul lay low, starting another pastrami sandwich.

  "You ought to watch eating too much of that ..." Wish said, giving all his attention to Paul and directing Kenny’s that way too, blowing wide open Paul’s attempt to fade into the background. "That stuff can be lethal." To Kenny, he said, "Yeah, they did. Heff or something. Because you make stuff. You told me about it at the party."

  "I would never tell you anything, Chief."

  "You were drunk," Wish s
aid, leaning in to close the gap between them. "You can tease me if you want. But I don’t like you clowning around when Jason needs help," he said.

  "So sue me." But Kenny shied back, shaking his unkempt locks with his hands as if agitating their spirit might ward off Wish. All attitude aside, Paul thought Wish exercised some power over Kenny. Maybe Kenny found Wish physically intimidating. Wish was large, Paul would give him that. On the intimidation scale, Paul would rate Wish at about the same level as a goldfish, but he wasn’t five feet tall like Kenny, either.

  "What about Molly? You still ready to die for her?" Wish persisted.

  "Total and absolute denial," said Kenny. "Molly and I are just such good friends."

  "As if," Wish said, but he seemed to have run out of steam.

  Kenny rapidly drained what remained of his soda, emitted a long rumbling belch, which seemed to have a calming effect on him, and said, "Good Lord, I’m teddibly late. I must be off to the manicurist. You’ll excuse me, gentlemen?"

  "One more thing, Kenny," Paul said. "Where’s all the equipment that was sitting around here when Ms. Reilly came to the apartment? What are you working on now?"

  Kenny waved his finger like a metronome at Paul, saying, "You cheated. That was two questions. One. Two. Session terminates ... now." Paul estimated the distance of Kenny’s finger from his teeth, contemplating whether to bite it off.

  "What he means is, can we go in the back room where you keep all the fireworks and stuff, Kenny?" Wish said. Now Kenny couldn’t sit still any longer. He slid off the chair, shaking his locks in a violent negative, and hopped around the scarred counter, rattling out more of his jive.

  "Kenny, what’s a sugar rocket?" Paul said, cutting in. Kenny stopped dead in the middle of a sentence.

  "A sugar rocket?" he said. The mannerisms fell away and Paul was facing a homely, scared young man. "Why do you want to know?" Kenny asked.

  "Ms. Reilly saw it in one of your books, before you hid the book," Paul said. "What is it?"

  "She did? A book of mine? I don’t recall that."

  "Well, what is a sugar rocket? You’re obviously familiar with that term. I’m curious."

  "You have to go away," Kenny said. "I’m tired now." The frenetic mood had lifted from him as fast as it had come. He sat back down on a barstool, slowly, and rested his head in his hands.

  "Tired," he said. "Oh, so tired. Go away now."

  Paul gave up, and motioned his head toward the door. As soon as the door closed he heard the locks clicking and the dead bolt shoot into place behind them.

  "Dreadlocks and deadlocks. What’s he on?" Paul asked as they walked out to the parking lot.

  "It’s just his way," Wish said. "He doesn’t use any hard drugs that I know of. You gotta feel sorry for him. He’s so smart, but he’s so incredibly fucked up."

  "I wonder what’s wrong with him. Medically, I mean. A clubfoot that wasn’t fully correctable, I’d say. And maybe some kind of bone or growth hormone disorder. And he seems to have some sort of psychiatric problem. So why would Jason have anything to do with him? Why did Molly come to his party?"

  "I think he did something for them," Wish said. "Made them something. I wish I could remember what Molly called him that night."

  "I liked the way you picked up the slack in there, Wish."

  "I did good?"

  "You did good. So what did we learn?"

  "Jason really doesn’t have anybody who can say he was at the apartment that night."

  "That’s right. I’m going to call Kenny’s mother, though, make sure he checks out. That’s the rule. Confirm everything. What else?"

  "More about how Jason wasn’t too thrilled with his father. But he’s not under arrest for killing his father." They got in the van. "Where to next?"

  "Prize’s. Leo Tarrant is remodeling the casino. He’s next on the list. Interesting, how modest Kenny was about the stuff in the back room."

  "Some of the stuff he does might be illegal," Wish said, and his voice held just the tiniest note of boyish thrill. "Like the fireworks. He’ll probably get evicted or something."

  "So how does he support himself? He’s not in college. His family doesn’t have money to spare. He must be making money somehow, not that he’s exactly flush."

  "You got me there," Wish said. "Oh, now I remember. He called himself Hephaestus. It was some kind of game between the three of them. We were studying Greek mythology in our lit class. Phoebus, Artemis, and Hephaestus."

  Prize’s casino hadn’t closed for its second round of remodeling in as many years, but in the oblivious way of casino habitués, its clientele seemed unfazed and just as eager as ever to stand around its blackjack tables, tripping blithely over ripped-out rugs and tossing money around like confetti to add to the general disorder. Paul and Wish muscled their way through the crowds, past the rows of noisy slots and the roulette table with its natty croupier, Wish taking it in pie-eyed. The kid wasn’t even twenty-one. He’d obviously never been inside a casino.

  Partitions ringed the Tonga Bar, screening the saws that shrilled inside. They ducked under a drop cloth hanging from the ceiling.

  The bar, which for years was sheltered under a pseudo-Polynesian thatched roof and housed an immense tropical fish aquarium near the bottles, had been stripped of its magic. The fish tanks, glass walls streaked with gray scum, and the roof, thatches lying in piles on the floor, had gone, and so had the liquor. Two workers ran a sander, busily moving it over the left half of the wooden floor’s newly dull and dusty finish. Another one, a girl, Paul noted, was measuring the shelf area.

  They found Leo Tarrant leaning over some blueprints piled on a makeshift table in the place where the bartender usually stood. When he saw the two men, he straightened up and came over, hand outstretched. "You’re from Nina Reilly’s office?" he said.

  Paul introduced himself and Wish. He had come to meet the sole surviving partner in De Beers Construction and the man Nina suspected was Sarah de Beers’s lover. Leo Tarrant had come out of the deaths with very good prospects, and Paul was as suspicious of his good fortune as Nina was.

  Yet his first impression was favorable. The hand Paul shook was strong and heavily callused. Close-cut hair light with sawdust looked practical and unaffected. A heavy tool bag hung from Tarrant’s belt. His face was lean and cracked from years of building outside, and he had the sort of forearm that is shaped by a hammer. He was a working man, not a person born to boss. "Can we talk here?" he said, a little breathlessly. "I have a meeting with the manager coming up in a few minutes. The whole renovation Ray did a couple years ago is coming apart. It’s not safe. We’ll have to work on the roof, shore up the fire escapes...."

  "Sure, this is fine. I know the manager," Paul said. "He won’t mind if we run a little late."

  "You know Steve?"

  "How’s his wife? And the baby? I haven’t seen them in a while."

  "Oh, Michelle is fine. I saw her last night. Ivan’s a tough little guy. Blond like his mother. He looks like he’ll be up and walking any day now. How do you come to know Steve and Michelle? Oh, of course, you must have worked on the Patterson case...."

  "Seems like a long time ago," Paul said. "Now, to move forward in time a little here, Nina has a few things she’s trying to clear up before Jason’s preliminary hearing."

  "Like I told her. Anything I can do."

  Tarrant’s face seemed open and honest, but you never knew. Paul decided to dive right in. "You’ve known the de Beers family for a long time. If we read it right, you’re interested in Sarah de Beers."

  "That’s true. I do love Sarah. I’ve cared for her a long time. But I want one thing to be clear." He took a step closer. "She’s never encouraged me. She was Ray’s wife and she stayed his wife, right up to the end.’’

  "I hear you," Paul said. "I take it that since Ray’s death you have worked something out between the two of you?"

  "No. She’s half crazed worrying about Jason. I’m worried about him too. I’ve known h
im since he was twelve years old, and I just want to say, the police are nuts accusing him of murder. Jason is a wonderful kid. Maybe something happened, a fight or something, I don’t know. They both had strong tempers. But murder ..."

  Tarrant’s voice had faded. He raised so many questions in Paul’s mind that it took a minute to sort them out. Finally, Paul said, "Let’s assume Jason was in fact at the cemetery that night, and did in fact dig up his father’s body. None of that is proven yet."

  "But Jason’s fingerprints were on the shovel that was used ... on Quentin," Tarrant said. "I read it in the paper."

  "Reading it in the paper doesn’t make it so," Paul said. "There were also some partial prints yet to be identified. But assuming it was true for the moment—a kid who would pull a bizarre trick like that could do almost anything. Couldn’t he?"

  "Not Jason. Hurt Quentin deliberately? I can’t believe that."

  "He’s not a happy kid, though, is he? What drives him?"

  "Ray was a taskmaster. His kids had to be perfect, you know? Attractive, smart, popular, the whole thing. He was always riding them. The thing was, they were damn near perfect, but he couldn’t see that. They are both great kids, and it burns me to see how unhappy their lives have been. Ray always found some nitpicking way to criticize them. He was never satisfied.

  "He wouldn’t let them grow wings and fly away like kids naturally do. He did what he could to prevent it. That kind of parent gets in more and more trouble as his kids get older. They start to challenge him."

  "Ray probably had the same kind of upbringing," Paul said. "It runs through the generations."

  "I imagine he did," Tarrant said, smiling a little. "Quentin was a fearsome old man, I can vouch for that. Anyway, this went on for a long time, and it was hard on Sarah. She was trying to be supportive of Ray."