“You guys sure have a lot on your plate. How are you doing with everything?” Stan asks, with sincerity.
Grayson now knows it’s an act. “Fuck you, man.”
Stan appears wounded. “I’m serious. I want to know. I imagine Bird was your first, right?”
Grayson doesn’t answer him, but he knows what he meant.
“That can be a tough one, your first. A lot of people aren’t emotionally equipped to handle killing. I hope you’re not a big symbolism guy. Are you?”
No answer.
“Because,” Stan says, “In cultures around the world, certain birds are symbolic of the soul. So, I’m worried about you. A sensitive guy might say,” and here Stan laid his forearm on his forehead, put on an agonized, old movie persona, and spoke in a high, mocking voice, “‘Oh, no, oh, no, I killed Bird, and thereby I killed my own soul.’ That seem familiar?”
He looks at Grayson and laughs.
“I’m just teasing you. Look, your brother won’t be visiting your Momma anytime soon. We’ve had him in lockdown since last night. He’s our insurance until you grab that load for us. I dropped his briefcase here this morning, so you can peruse the security info. Listen carefully. I’m not fucking around now. You’re going to take that load. You’re going to deliver it where I say. You’re going to do it by any means necessary. You’re going to do it without our help. We planned to help you but you don’t want to play nice. Fuck it. Do it yourself. If you don’t, we’re going to kill your brother, then your baby mama, and by default, your baby. Although now, as I understand it, that isn’t even a crime. I think that’s what I read.”
Grayson and Donny start toward Stan, but he holds out his hand in a stop signal. “Hold it. I have six heavily armed guys in the parking lot out back. They will storm this place and kill you both if I’m not back by a certain time. Don’t get any stupid ideas. Any more stupid ideas.”
Stan smiles at them for a moment, says, “Good boys.” He salutes and grabs the door knob..
Donny turns to Grayson. “Baby mama?”
“Oh, oh,” Stan says. He lets go of the door. “You didn’t tell your best friend?”
“I didn’t tell anybody. She might not be. It’s uncertain.”
“So, she visited the baby doctor in Wollaston, and got a vitamin prescription from him, and she might not be? Weird.”
“Don’t get too far ahead of yourself, Stanley. I don’t think it’s mine.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Grayson wonders if Stan was lying when he said he had Hugh. He tells Donny to go by Corinne’s and see if he’s there, and if not, go to the Dragon and ask if they’ve seen him.
At a variety store he picks up a fresh copy of the newspaper and reads about William Hawthorne’s wake and the upcoming funeral. Cops are coming in from all over the country to pay their respects.
The District Attorney says they are still trying to confirm the identity of the man who’d shot Trooper Hawthorne, and then fallen, jumped or was pushed out the window. Thus far, they have found no next of kin for the shooter, so they are reluctant to give his name to the media.
The wake is being held in Scituate today from 2PM to 4PM and tonight 7PM to 9PM. According to the story the crowds are expected to line the sidewalk outside the funeral parlor. Grayson wonders why Hawthorne isn’t being waked in his hometown, but figures the Cohasset funeral home, if there is one in Cohasset, isn’t large enough to accommodate the anticipated crowd. Or maybe there isn’t a funeral home in Cohasset because the rich don’t like being reminded that they, too, will die.
Grayson was a participant in the murder of a police officer, as well as the killer of that goofy bastard Bird, so it seems like a good idea to stay as far away from the funeral home as he could. Scituate would be teeming with cops and only a fool would go there. Still, curiosity, cats, and so on.
He motors over to Route 3A south, and takes it to Scituate. The funeral home is on First Parish Rd. which is the main drag that goes from 3A down to Scituate Harbor.
He turns left off of 3A and almost immediately he is at the end of a line of slow-moving traffic. Even though it is an hour before the starting time for the wake, at the end of a long slow bend in the road there were two Scituate cops directing traffic.
Five minutes later he is near the front of the funeral home where there is a bunch of motorcycle cops in State Police uniform, that get up that looks like it was designed by someone who hated cops and wanted to make them look silly. The uniform has the weird pants which balloon out sideways on the upper leg, like the pants worn by ritzy polo players. The cops also are walking around wearing the Smokey the Bear hats, with the chin strap hanging down the back of their heads. They can’t help but look ridiculous.
The cars going by the funeral home slow to a crawl, mainly to gawk. Grayson gawks as well, since there are so many other gawkers it won’t attract attention. Meanwhile the Scituate cops wave their arms and gesture at the long slow lines of traffic from both directions. Periodically, they throw up a stop gesture as some car signals a turn into the funeral home lot from the opposite lane.
Right when he gets to the front of the funeral home a cop steps in front of the GTO and holds up his hand. Grayson feels his hair stand on end, which he thought, until now, was just a saying. But, the cop just turned and waved at the traffic coming the other way. Cars from the other side of the road crossed in front of him and make their way into the crowded parking lot, which is now jammed. Two State cops on motorcycles are halfway in the lot and behind them is a black Cadillac limousine with darkened windows. The limo is perpendicular to Grayson’s car, and the rear window is about twenty feet from his windshield. Hawthorne’s family is no doubt sitting behind the smoked glass, the widow with her life shattered by nitwits, one of whom is close at hand. He wants to crawl under a rock, or jump out and confess, or jump from his car and run away on foot. He wants to kill Bird again, this time with his bare hands.
After a time, the limo pulls in the parking lot and up to the front of the funeral home, but the other cars are still lined up crossing the street, blocking his way forward. Despite himself, Grayson watches as a state cop wearing long white gloves, opens the back door of the limo. A woman in a black dress and a widow’s veil gets out and says something to the cop. The cop smiles sadly, and she sweeps him up in a gentle hug. Mrs. Hawthorne turns and looks out to the street, and her gaze falls squarely on the GTO’s windshield, as Grayson’s involuntary nervous system sucks in all the air it could fit into his lungs--the first step in activating the fight or flight response.
The Widow Hawthorne lifts her veil and pats it down on the top of her head. Then she looks right at Grayson and gives him a sad smile.
Amanda Hawthorne and Amy Nihill are one and the same.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Grayson’s skin is burning up as he sits in the traffic. His whole head is a bad toothache. The traffic is still stopped, as Amy, or Amanda, is ushered slowly into the funeral home. When he finally breaks free, he speeds back toward North Quincy. He crosses the Fore River Bridge (No Jumping!) and pulls into the Dairy Queen lot at a payphone and calls Hugh’s place again. Just because Stan said he was holding Hugh captive it doesn’t mean it’s true. In fact, Stan told them not to believe anything he said. So, Grayson calls Hugh and relief sweeps over him when the phone is picked up. But the relief didn’t last.
“Hello, Grayson residence,” Stan says.
Grayson almost swallows his own tongue.
“Let me talk to Hugh,” Grayson says.
“He’s not conscious at present. Can I take a message?” Stan says.
“Where is he?”
“Guess,” Stan says.
“What the fuck are you doing there,” Grayson says.
“Looking for his toothbrush,” Stan says “He’s got one tooth left, so I advised him to take good care of it.”
“Where is he?”
“Indisposed. But he will be disposed soon, unless….”
Gr
ayson is silent.
“I said, ‘Unless.’” Stan says. “Now you’re supposed to say---”
“Fuck you, Stan?”
“No. You say, ‘Okay, I’ll hijack the truck.’”
“I’m going to need Hugh’s help.”
“We have the security booklet, and in it is the schedule, so we already know when the loads move, the route they’re required to take and how they plan to protect them. What else do we need, guy?”
“There are a lot of unanswered questions. Where, when, how are we---”
“So. Are you in?” Stan asks.
“Yes.”
“Welcome aboard,” Stan says. “This should be fun. Although, I have to say I was looking forward to dishing out some punishment. You may not know it from my tone, but I don’t like you.”
“Ouch,” Grayson says.
“Where is your cousin,” Stan says.
“I’m the only one around,” Grayson says.
“You and your pregnant girlfriend,” Stan says.
Grayson is tongue tied, but only for a second. Then he laughs.
“Yeah, don’t remind me,” Grayson says. “You know how many little bastards I already have crawling around out there? I don’t. One more, or one less, either way, no big deal.”
Stan says, “I ain’t buying that bullshit. Listen to me: In all my years, I have never kicked a pregnant woman in the stomach. Many of my friends have, so I feel a powerful urge to get that notch on my belt.”
“I bet you’d love it. But, look, Stan, you cockroach, I will cooperate. I’ll drive, but we have to plan.”
“All right,” Stan says, in a comically disappointed way. “Come over here. I have the security info, and a map already. Could be fun. Bring some snacks, we’ll make a time of it.”
“No. A public place. Meet me at the beach.”
“Wollaston Beach?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Stan asks.
“So you can’t kidnap me, too. Look, do you want to meet and reach an agreement or do you want to argue? Because I’m in no mood--”
“All right,” Stan snaps. “Wollaston Beach. You’re worse than a woman. Where?”
“At the wall, diagonally across from Billings St. I’ll be there any time after five but don’t make me hang around. You can tell Amy I’m in, but I want to talk about our strategy. Will she be there?”
“She’s got the wake tonight, too,” Stan says. “From seven to nine.”
Shocked silence rushes over the line from Grayson’s end of the phone. Had Stan let that slip? Or, had he spoken to Amy?
“What wake?” Grayson asks.
“Stop it,” Stan laughs. “Don’t be coy. You’ll make me suspicious, and we’re just starting to be friends.”
“No. What are you--”
Stan says, “Do you think I don’t know what you’re doing?”
“What am I doing? I have no idea, so, how could you?”
“Ah, playing Mickey the Dunce again, your favorite role, I’m told.”
“Now that I know the story, I want money. From her. Tell her I want twenty grand for hijacking the truck. It’s a fair wage, and she’s all for the working class being well compensated, right? Or is that her act?”
Stan says, “We all have to play our parts. I’ll tell her, twenty grand. She’s going through a difficult time and could probably use a good laugh.”
“Five o’clock, tomorrow, Wollaston Beach. Are you going to see her later tonight?”
“I sure hope so,” Stan says. “She promised to wear her widow’s veil while I fuck her in the master bedroom.”
“Be sure to pull the shades, so the five hundred people out front don’t see you.”
Stan says, “Good advice.”
“So, are you just going to drive up on your bike? With the cops?”
Stan says, “I’ll use my Benz. Cops? So what? I clean up nicely. Navy blazer, with brass buttons.”
“What are you going to tell the cops?”
“They know me already. I’m her brother.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Grayson opens the door to the apartment on Newbury Ave to find Ron Kerr and his latest hostage sitting in front of the TV in the living room. Kerr is howling with laughter watching a Dean Martin Roast.
Grayson sticks his head in to say hello.
“Grayson, you know Nancy Anne, right?” Curly says.
“Yes, we’ve met a few times. Hello again, Miss Cianci,” Grayson says. He nodded toward Curly. “Mr. Kerr.”
Grayson starts down the hall to his bedroom.
Seeing him go, Kerr shouts, “No! Come in here. You’ve got to see this.”
On TV, Don Rickles is at the podium calling Flip Wilson a hockey puck. Seated at the dais, beside Norm Crosby, Dean Martin has the burning tip of cigarette butt smoldering between his fingers. Grayson expects Dino to jump up cursing, and douse his charred fingers in Joey Bishop’s cocktail. Phyllis Diller, Peter Lawton and the rest of the gang are doing that exaggerated flopping around in their seats, a signal to the post production crew to turn up the canned laughter because, this is hilarious.
“Isn’t that racist?” Nancy Anne says. “Calling Flip Wilson a hockey puck?”
“Maybe,” Curly says. “But it is funny.”
“He calls everyone a hockey puck,” Grayson says. “That’s why he is the court jester to the Rat Pack. And we all know how cool they are.”
“What’s the Rat Pack?” Nancy Anne asks.
“You know, the Rat Pack?” Curly says. “Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Junior, those guys. And, of course, Dino.”
“Dino?” Nancy Anne says. “The dog on the Flintstones?”
“No, the guy on here,” Kerr says, pointing at the TV. “Dean Martin.”
Then Curly starts talking about his favorite Flintstones episodes, and how crazy were the clothes that cavemen wore in the old days and how he read somewhere that Fred and Barney were fictional people based on the real Ralph Kramden and Ed Norton. At that point, Grayson realizes that Kerr and Nancy Anne had ingested something from Kerr’s cache of hallucinogenics and it has kicked in hard. Few things are as unpleasant as being around the seriously fucked up when you’re straight. Grayson went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth and went to bed.
He can’t sleep, so he tries to read but can’t focus, and finds himself rereading the same paragraph over and over again. He’s given up and is trying to will himself to sleep when he hears moaning and groaning, punctuated now and again by the occasional yip. It’s coming from Kerr’s room across the hall. Grayson puts on his pants, goes out on the third-floor porch to smoke a cigarette and wait for Nancy Anne’s ordeal to be over.
Grayson sits on the porch in a lawn chair, smoking, shivering and looking at the sky. He takes a final drag, and steps to the edge of the porch to flip the butt off. Going by on the street below, he sees a LeMans, and when it passes under the streetlight it is identifiable by the good-sized dent in the roof, the result of an Idaho baking potato chucked by a lovesick sous chef. As the car goes by, Grayson almost calls out. He fantasizes for a moment that she’s driven this route to catch sight of her beloved, and seeing him she’d slam on the brakes and beg him to take her back. But, the fact is, if she is just getting back from New York, this is the street she would use to get home.
He thinks about following her, but lacks the will to move from that spot. He’s afraid if he tries to turn around to go in the house, he’d topple backward off the porch. Is that a fear or a wish?
And, if he followed her, again, what would he say? Things are way different now that she’d gone to New York. What can she say? He didn’t want to face her and find out just how much more she hates him now.
He hears a familiar, blat and rumble of a blown muffler. A white van scuttles through the lamplight on the street below, and Grayson might have jumped down thirty feet from the porch to get more quickly to his car had he not realized his keys were on the table in the kitchen.
He races in, r
unning heavily down the wooden hallway floor, bounces off a wall in the kitchen, grabs his keys and storms back down the hall and fumbles with the knob on the door. Behind him hears shouts and questioning of some kind from Curly, but by the time he realizes it, he is at the stairs. He grabs the railing and vaults down to the landing where the stairs turn, between the second and third floor. From there he vaults down to the second-floor landing, turns, jumps to next landing, and so on until he’s on the sidewalk, then running to his car. He jumps in the car, got the key in, lit it up and roars away from the curb and down Newbury Ave.
Moments later he comes around the corner of Catherine’s street on skidding wheels, he drops a gear, the engine bellows and pushes on. Just ahead, he can see her LeMans at the curb, and down at the far end of the street a pair of red taillights are glaring back at him. The van is signaling a left onto East Squantum St. Grayson speeds up, assuming that some Dark Lords have grabbed Catherine and thrown her into the van, but as he passes her house, he sees Catherine standing in the light from the fixture over the front door. She turns to the street to identify the source of the ruckus. He jumps on the brake pedal, the tires screech, loud as hell at midnight, and the car slides sideways between the cars parked on both sides of the street and all together they form the letter H.
Grayson jumps out, starts toward Catherine, stops, looks down to where the van is turning, then sees her coming over to him, carrying a horrified look on her face. She has her pocketbook strap over her shoulder and she’s holding a bulky paperback book in her right hand.
“What,” Catherine says, “are you doing! Are you insane!”
Behind her, the front door to her house opens, and Mrs. Chrisolm appears in the doorway, her hair in rollers, clutching her bathrobe at the neck.
Catherine is in her waitress uniform, and she stands with one hand on her hip, the other holding the book.
“You were at The Harvest?” he says. “I thought you were in New York?”
“Is that supposed to explain why you’re racing around out here like Evel Knievel?” she says. “Look at me. I’m shaking. You scared me. You idiot.”
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