Authors: David Daniel
The Marble Kite (22 page)
“You can't let that get to you,” I said.
“No ⦠I know. That isn't the reason.” But he vented a long breath, and I heard exhaustion in it. “I'll speak with you tomorrow, Alex. I've got to get home to my family.”
Sure, I understood. I told him I'd see him in the morning. Pop was watching me as I put the phone down, his chin quirked up so that in the lamplight I could see a piece of tissue on his chin, like a tiny white flag of surrender. He roused himself. “Anyway, you should get out, too. The good news is you have friends here in town.”
Did I? I was no longer sure. The wind pulsed against the motor home, making it tremble like a subway car moving through a tunnel. “You ought to get over to the hotel,” I said. “Those jokers could come back. I don't think they will tonight, but just in case.”
He ignored it. “Remember you one time asked me where I come from, and I rattled off a list of places? It's true for these folks, too. Moses,
Nicole, the rest. Most of us ain't from any one hometown, a place you know folks and folks know you and your birth certificate's on file in the town hall. You're
from
here. That means something. You've got history. You can pick up that phone and call folks and they know you. Your high school math teacher recognizes you in the supermarket.”
Nicole, the rest. Most of us ain't from any one hometown, a place you know folks and folks know you and your birth certificate's on file in the town hall. You're
from
here. That means something. You've got history. You can pick up that phone and call folks and they know you. Your high school math teacher recognizes you in the supermarket.”
“Make that truant officer,” I said, “but I get your point.”
“Roots is what I'm talking. My roots I can pull up with one hand and shove in a five-dollar suitcase. No, you're well off, and you know it. Or if you don't, you ought to. Christ, you'd do better to step down there in the shooting gallery with a bull's-eye target on your head than to stand in the way of the police and public opinion and all the rest. Am I right, Moses?”
“Amen,” the old jazzman agreed. “There ain't much difference that I can see.”
“You'd be best off keeping warm in your own bed on a cold night,” Pop insisted.
“While you lie in a smutty hotel room, trying to get to sleep with the water pipes coughing? What'd you do, find religion in the ICU?”
“Too soon old, too late smart. It's a bitch, but at least I'm ahead of my dad. He never did wise up before they rolled him away in a shroud.”
I shook my head. “It doesn't feel right.”
“That was
my
line,” he snapped. “You set me straight. Deal with facts, you said. Situations. Well, I am. The situation is thisâI can't pay my bills, and the fact is I got to get out from under. So the show is going to the syndicate. Contract says so. I signed it myself.” A dab of tissue had come off of his chin and a shaving cut was beginning to bleed, but he paid it no attention. “I'm meeting with Hackett tomorrow at noon to sign the papers.”
my
line,” he snapped. “You set me straight. Deal with facts, you said. Situations. Well, I am. The situation is thisâI can't pay my bills, and the fact is I got to get out from under. So the show is going to the syndicate. Contract says so. I signed it myself.” A dab of tissue had come off of his chin and a shaving cut was beginning to bleed, but he paid it no attention. “I'm meeting with Hackett tomorrow at noon to sign the papers.”
“Can't you hold off?”
“For what? They'll call for an audit. Some bean counter will sieve every scrap of paper I've got, and you can bet your bottom dollar he'll find something.”
“You're clean, though. You said your accountant is honest.”
“Honest schmonest. There's always something to find. Even if it ends up being nothing. It's the auditor's job. Hell, if he doesn't find
some
thing, the G's take his abacus away.”
some
thing, the G's take his abacus away.”
“Chew on this, then. You sell the show to Rag Tyme, and that's the end of it.”
“That's what I'm saying. I'm done.”
“Literally. Your legacy is scrap iron.” I told him about the cutting torches and the equipment auction.
His eyes sparked momentarily with outrage, but there was no place for it to go. “It's their call,” he said dejectedly. “We'll be hauling stakes after that. Time to move on. I'm out of choices.” He glanced at the bare walls, as if confirming it. “And I don't want no date with that sicko wrestler. Selling will give me some cash. I'll take care of people as I can.”
“And Troy Pepper?”
“It ain't about him now. He doesn't have sense enough to put up a fight.”
“You do, though. Or did.”
“I'm tired out, I tell you. I've got a stomach that could blow for good any time.”
“Popâ” Nicole cried.
“Not according to your nurse,” I said. “She thinks you'll outlive Mount Rushmore.”
“Is it
her
stomach? Anyway, we talked it over and we're in agreement, each and all. Don't none of us like it, of course, but there's nothing to fight anymore. Deals are deals.” I glanced at the other two, who didn't meet my gaze. “Plus there is one other thing that decided me.”
her
stomach? Anyway, we talked it over and we're in agreement, each and all. Don't none of us like it, of course, but there's nothing to fight anymore. Deals are deals.” I glanced at the other two, who didn't meet my gaze. “Plus there is one other thing that decided me.”
I waited.
“Lying there in that bed, all those tubes crawling into me and the little screens going beep-beep, I had time to think. Didn't want to necessarily, but there it was.” He sighed. “Now I figure he may have done it.”
“Pepper?”
“Hell, yes, Pepper. Who do you think I'm talking about?”
“Pop's right, Mr. Rasmussen,” Moses said quietly.
I turned to him, his lean dark face half shadowed by the lamplight, a little arc of dusty freckles on one cheek. “You think he did it, too?”
“I don't know about that. I was referring to cuttin' losses. Like those old days touring with the band and not being able to stay at some hotels, or eat at restaurants on account of being the wrong shade. Sure, it made a person angry, but you decided when there wasn't no point fightin' it and
you went along, because goin' along kept the world spinning at thirty-three and a third, and that's what mattered most. You got to sit up on a bandstand and play, and to eat, and have some clear space all your own between your ears. In that regard, I guess, I felt like a mostly free man.”
you went along, because goin' along kept the world spinning at thirty-three and a third, and that's what mattered most. You got to sit up on a bandstand and play, and to eat, and have some clear space all your own between your ears. In that regard, I guess, I felt like a mostly free man.”
“Do I hear the old Lackawanna?” I asked.
For a moment I thought I observed anger glitter in the jazzman's eyes, like sparks from night fire, and I thought,
Go for it, man. Let's put it all out where we can get at it and learn what's really going down
âbut evidently I was wrong. Maxwell pinched at the little soul patch under his lower lip. His voice, when he spoke, was calm. “Nossir, just sayin' you already done what you could, and now maybe you want to let it be.”
Go for it, man. Let's put it all out where we can get at it and learn what's really going down
âbut evidently I was wrong. Maxwell pinched at the little soul patch under his lower lip. His voice, when he spoke, was calm. “Nossir, just sayin' you already done what you could, and now maybe you want to let it be.”
“So you're free to go, too,” Pop said. “While you still got a place in this town.”
Nicole had been sitting in the corner through most of this, staring at her knitted fingers in her lap. “What about you?” I asked her.
“Me?” She flicked her glance away, but her face was as transparent as ever. I saw confusion and worry. Still, she managed a woeful smile. “I don't do so good with these kind of things. Pop and Mr. Maxwell are most likely right.”
Pop's shrug said,
You see?
You see?
Why was I so stubborn as to be arguing with people who had my own best interests at heart? Hadn't Phoebe been for me, too? And even St. Onge? And Meecham would've advised the same. “What'll you do?” I asked the old man.
“I'll celebrate is what. I'll pay off creditors. I'll call in a few favors I still got and try to land jobs for some of my people. I'll go on relief, if there's any left after these robbers in Washington give it all away in blue-blood welfare. And there's you. Four days' work at your rate per day sound right?”
“You don't owe me.”
“The hell I don't. You earned it.”
“Save it forâ” I'd been about to say for Pepper's defense fund, but I remembered he didn't have a defense anymore. I shut up. I had worked for them, and my time was worth something. “You have my address.” I got up and took the two paces to the door.
“âRasmussen,' with one
s
and then two,” Sonders called after me. “I'll mail it.”
s
and then two,” Sonders called after me. “I'll mail it.”
The wind yanked the door wide when I turned the knob, and I nearly lost it; then I went down the steps.
“Good night, Mr. Rasmussen,” Nicole said quietly from the doorway. “Thank you for all your help.” She meant it, too; poor sweet simple girl. She actually thought I'd helped the situation somehow. As I closed the door I wished I'd had the presence of mind to ask her to explain it to me.
I stood there on the matted grass, my mind full of incoherent thoughts. An eddy of night wind twirled dead leaves past. Somewhere a dog
bark-bark
ed. When I got into my car, I slammed the door. I gunned the motor a few times. Someplace I found maturity enough not to lay down smoking tracks of Goodyear. I jerked into the flow of traffic on Pawtucket Boulevard, three lanes of unimportant little people, pushing their big gas-guzzlers hard to get nowhere and do nothing.
bark-bark
ed. When I got into my car, I slammed the door. I gunned the motor a few times. Someplace I found maturity enough not to lay down smoking tracks of Goodyear. I jerked into the flow of traffic on Pawtucket Boulevard, three lanes of unimportant little people, pushing their big gas-guzzlers hard to get nowhere and do nothing.
Motion helped. Definitely. If Warren Sonders and Co. wanted piano for blues and brandy, what was that to me? They were adults; they could make their own damn decisions. And in one regard they were absolutely right. My intentions had been good; that's what mattered. If my judgment was faulty, Pop had straightened me out. It wasn't my fight. Where the hell did I ever get the idea that it was? I was strictly a day-jobber. A private shadow would be a fool to get between the cops and the courts and wannabe gangsters over a man who was most likely guiltyâespecially when said shadow didn't even have a client. He was fool enough to have practically insisted on turning down the fair wage he had coming. He'd be a bigger fool to turn down a good woman who was waiting. Moses had it right: a night to sit with a lover by a cozy fire, tally the costs tomorrow. All at once, I felt a strong desire for Phoebe. I drove off, praising myself for finally coming to my senses, lauding my good luck â¦
Are you afraid?
Phoebe had asked me.
Phoebe had asked me.
I stopped for the red light at the intersection before the Rourke Bridge and waited for a green arrow. On the skyline, a moon was just beginning to shine, fat and full and yellow asâthe corn moon! We'd forgotten
all about it. Well, there it was. A left turn and I'd be crossing the river, heading for Phoebe's house, ten minutes away, to announce my wise decision, and to cash the one chip I still seemed to hold. Her arms would be warm, the wine chilled. We'd raise a glass to good sense and
vive la différence,
and then a second to
auld lang syne,
and a final giddy glass to something more sweetly carnal. It was our time. The traffic signal glowed ruby red and teetered in the wind. Green-eyed Phoebe was going to be glad to see me, and vice versa.
all about it. Well, there it was. A left turn and I'd be crossing the river, heading for Phoebe's house, ten minutes away, to announce my wise decision, and to cash the one chip I still seemed to hold. Her arms would be warm, the wine chilled. We'd raise a glass to good sense and
vive la différence,
and then a second to
auld lang syne,
and a final giddy glass to something more sweetly carnal. It was our time. The traffic signal glowed ruby red and teetered in the wind. Green-eyed Phoebe was going to be glad to see me, and vice versa.
Across the river, a train hooted, a long, lonely sound in the night, and for some reason I thought of Pepper, sitting in his dark cell, in his solitude. Was he waiting for something from me? I thought of him last Sunday evening when he'd handed me the big wooden hammer and murmured, “Good luck,” like somehow I'd been given the one chance, a long shot to ring the bell, but I got stuck in Cake Eater land, and I'd fallen away,
clunk
. I sat there. The train hooted again, farther-away-sounding now. Bound south for Boston? North to Nashua? If the signal told the answer, I couldn't translate it.
clunk
. I sat there. The train hooted again, farther-away-sounding now. Bound south for Boston? North to Nashua? If the signal told the answer, I couldn't translate it.
Damn.
I hammered the steering wheel with the heel of my hand.
Double damn.
A horn beeped behind me. I looked up and the arrow was green. I pulled over to the right and waved on the VW bug behind me, which blew a testy little blat that didn't need translation. When the road was clear, I hung a U-turn and started back.
The cell phone chirped.
“I've drunk so much coffee I'm humming.”
Courtney accompanied me to my car, double-parked outside the Dunkin' Donuts shop on Merrimack. She shivered and drew up the collar of her jacket. “I kept watching the office,” she said, “waiting for Mr. Meecham to go home. I could see the windows from that corner booth.”
Our offices across the square were dark now except for reflected moonlight.
We took the back stairs up to the third floor. She unlocked Meecham's suite and ushered me in. We went into his law library, and she turned on a table lamp. “Judge Travani called, and Mr. Meecham called him back. Afterward, he spent time in here, but he wasn't studying. He was brooding about something. I heard him pacing. I stayed for a while, in case he needed me, and I had some typing to get caught up on, but finally he told me I should go home.”
“How did he seem?”
“Preoccupied for sure. If I had to guess? Depressed.”
The lamp had a deep-green glass shade, and it cast a glow on the rich mahogany of the table. A legal pad lay there. On it were some doodles and scribbled notes and a phone number. One of the drawings was a gallows.
I wondered if he liked to play Hangman or if it meant something else. “Did he make any calls after he talked with the judge?” I asked.
I wondered if he liked to play Hangman or if it meant something else. “Did he make any calls after he talked with the judge?” I asked.
“Not while I was here.”
I pressed redial on his phone, and it rang through. A machine answered, and a voice that I knew from only a brief encounter identified the line as the courthouse office of Carly Ouellette. I hung up.
Courtney turned off the lights and locked up, and we went back down the corridor to my office. I put on my desk lamp. She took the client chair, and I sat at my desk. I brought out the bottle of Wild Turkey and held it up inquiringly. “I shouldn't,” she said. “But maybe it'll settle the coffee. With a little water, please.”
I poured two, adding water from a carafe. I drank mine off. She took hers in a more refined fashion, but she didn't grimace.
“Did you learn anything just now?” she asked.
“From the bourbon?”
She smiled. “From your phone call.”
I scootched my chair in closer to the desk. “Fred apparently called Judge Travani's office assistant.”
“That Ouellette person?”
“Uh-huhâwho also happens to be the person who witnessed Flora Nuñez's signature on her request for a restraining order. And whenever I've tried to talk to her, she runs away. Apparently she's a one-woman flying wedge around the judge. All of which may mean nothing at all.”
Courtney drew a pad from her purse and clicked her pen. “On the other hand?”
“I don't think you can bill Fred for any of this,” I said.
“I haven't felt this wired since my last No-Doz binge, cramming for finals. Talk.”
“Okay, question number one. If Pepper isn't guilty, why doesn't he squawk?”
“An innocent person usually protests his innocence loudly,” she agreed.
“That's the puzzler, isn't it? But there might be an explanation.”
I reminded her of Pepper's childhood as an orphan and foster child, always looking for a family. I told her about the Asbury Park pennant.
“And now, with the carnival, it's like he's been on a trial basis
again,” Courtney said, a little breathlessly, connecting dots that I thought only I saw. “He didn't want to screw up. So now he doesn't know what to do.” She leaned closer, her smooth brow crinkling, and I had an image of her as she must've been in school, sitting in the front row, interested and eager and as smart as they come. “He's learned not to speak up because it's always tended to go bad for him. Right from childhood.”
again,” Courtney said, a little breathlessly, connecting dots that I thought only I saw. “He didn't want to screw up. So now he doesn't know what to do.” She leaned closer, her smooth brow crinkling, and I had an image of her as she must've been in school, sitting in the front row, interested and eager and as smart as they come. “He's learned not to speak up because it's always tended to go bad for him. Right from childhood.”
“It adds up. Behavioral patterns run deep. We keep making the same mistakes, 'round and around. Sometimes therapy, or a life-changing event, can help us see, but it's tough. And it isn't something a defense attorney could take to court with much hope of selling it.”
“I know Mr. Meecham was struggling with that.” Courtney's blue eyes clouded. “Do ⦠do you think Troy Pepper killed that Flora Nuñez?”
I hesitated, then said, “Do you want to go further with this?”
Her turn for hesitation; then, “Yes.”
“Hold on to that question for a bit. We'll get there.” I gestured with the bottle. She shook her head. I poured mine again.
“Do you drink a lot when you're working on a case?”
“What's a lot?” I didn't go into my woes. “All rightâyour question. I've grappled with that day and night since Monday morning, and I finally have my answer. I haven't seen anything that proves it one way or the other, so it gets down to what I understand about people. That past experiences can help us predict what we might do. Pepper is an extremely sensitive personâa loner who nevertheless is looking for connection.”
“But even a sensitive person can do something really bad,” Courtney said.
“I knowâand therein lies the key. He's taciturn to a fault. He has a hard time even going out with his fellow workers for a beer. But if he'd done something like what he's accused of, he'd have felt a strong need to talk about it, because it would bother him so much. A psychopath or a hardened criminal can dealâfor different reasonsâbut they won't crack. He would. So he'd have talked with somebody. Fred, Pop Sonders, the cops. Even me. But he hasn't. So that's your answer. That's why I don't believe he did it.”
“But rather than protest that he's innocent,” Courtney said, “he went even deeper inside ⦠and he's trapped there.”
“I think so. But try to prove it. It's a tall order.”
“Was Fred right to drop this one?”
I was slow to answer. “I'm not judging Fred. I'm sure he's got reasons, good ones. But I don't.”
“You're staying on, then.”
Through the window, riding above the illuminated sign for the
Sun
building across the square, was the moon, small now and bleached white as a bone. “For now,” I said.
Sun
building across the square, was the moon, small now and bleached white as a bone. “For now,” I said.
She nodded.
“And for now we're done,” I said. “You, girl, did good. Very good. But you need to be on your merry way and get some rest.”
“I think I'll sleep fine.” She capped her pen and put her notes away. She reached for the phone. “I'll call for a cab.”
“I'm going that way. Let me just make one more call.”
Her apartment was in the stretch of artists' lofts on the lower end of Middle Street, in the block beyond Palmer. As I double-parked in front of the building that she indicated, a woman came to a tall third-floor window and looked down. Beyond the glass, she appeared to be some years older than Courtney, dark hair to her shoulders and wearing a green robe. She saw Courtney and me get out of the car and waved vaguely in our direction, probably full of questions, and probably relieved. I escorted Courtney inside the locking outer door and said good night. As I turned to go out, she said, “You ought to go home and get some sleep.”
“Yeah.”
“Right. So what
will
you do?”
will
you do?”
I gave it a quick smile.
“Ask a stupid question.” She chewed her lip. “When I did my honors thesis on the Bread and Roses labor movement, I realized that a lot of people, right here in this city, women and men, did a lot of brave things ⦠stood up for things.”
“Don't be too quick to put me in their league. I just know myself, Courtney. If I roll over once, it's easier the next time.”
“Suppose there isn't a next time? Maybe you need to weigh that in, too.”
“There's always a next time. And knowing what you didâor didn't doâit sticks with you, and you feel dirty. I'm dirty enough as it is.” She was studying me intently. I wasn't sure what her expression meant, and I wasn't going to try to find out. If she was looking for a mentor or a philosophy course, she'd do better back at Mount Holyoke. I gave her a gentle push toward the elevator. Then I drove off, my tires buzzing on the cobblestones, and headed toward where the late-night action was.
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