Cinderella (15 page)

    "In any event…"

    "I want that tape," Nettington said.

    "Mr. Nettington…"

    "Do you hear me? I want that tape."

    "Yes, I hear you," Matthew said. "Tell me, Mr. Nettington, when Detective Rawles asked you-"

    "Don't change the subject," Nettington said.

    "When he asked you where you were on the night Otto was killed, what did you tell him?"

    "I told him
exactly
where I was."

    "Which was where?"

    "If you're so curious about that, ask him. Or don't you two get along?" he said, and grinned wolfishly. "Would you like to know what he said about you?"

    "Not particularly."

    "He said you enjoyed playing cops and robbers. Said if you ever came to visit me, I should call him right away."

    "So you came to visit me instead," Matthew said.

    "I called first," Nettington said.

    "So you did."

    There was a long uncomfortable silence.

    "But if there's nothing further," Matthew said.

    "Will you let me have that tape?" Nettington said.

    Matthew sighed.

    "You ought to reconsider," Nettington said.

    Which was when it sounded like a warning.

    He looked at Matthew a moment longer, his gaze unwavering, and then he got up and walked out of the office.

    

    

    They had decided between them, he and Susan, that it might be best if their daughter didn't find him there when she got home. Joanna was a very smart cookie, and she was apt to put two and two together if she came home and found Mummy and Daddy munching crumpets and sipping tea together in the living room.

    They were neither of them ready to answer questions about what had happened this weekend or about just what the hell was going on here. Neither of them
knew
just what the hell was going on here, but even if they suspected-after two nights and days of making love around the clock and never once leaving the house-that something was in the wind, they didn't feel like sharing it with Joanna just yet. Anyway, what could you say to your fourteen-year-old daughter about something like this? Mummy and Daddy have been fucking our brains out all weekend, darling, how nice to see you? No. Better for Daddy to disappear in the night like a terrorist with an unexploded bomb, handle the questions later, if and when they came up. Matthew knew the questions would come up sooner or later.

    In Calusa this year, school had ended on the ninth. Last year, it had ended on the twelfth. Each year in Calusa, the kids were out on the second Monday in June, and back again early in August, which should have been a criminal offense. Joanna was sleeping late now that school was out; she called him at the office shortly after Nettington left. The moment he came onto the line, she began singing "Happy Father's Day to You," to the tune of "Happy Birthday to You," the lyrics a bit strained but the sentiment heartfelt.

    "Hi, baby," he said. "What time'd you get back?"

    "Around eleven, I figured it was too late to call. Dad," she said, "I want to apologize about the weekend."

    "No need," he said.

    "It's just that Mom was so insistent… well, you know how she gets when I'm about to see you."

    "No," he said cautiously, "how does she get?"

    "Well, she's always trying to finagle me out of it. Well, you know."

    "Uh-huh," he said.

    "I told her I'd be embarrassed to death, calling you and telling you I was going away for the
Father's
Day weekend, so she said she'd call and square it with you, which I know she did, but I still feel rotten about it."

    "Did
what,
honey?
Called
me, did you say?"

    "Well, yeah. I almost called you, anyway. When I went home to pack. But Mom said she'd already taken care of it, and it might be best to leave well enough alone-what she said, actually, was 'Let sleeping dogs lie,' referring to you, Dad, the sleeping dog-that you'd taken it calmly, and I might wreck it if I called."

    "Called me a sleeping dog, huh?"

    "Well, you know Mom," Joanna said.

    "Said I'd taken it calmly, huh?"

    "I
hope
you did, Dad. Were you very angry?"

    "No, no. Mom was there when you went home to pack, huh? You didn't just leave a note on the table or anything?"

    "What?" Joanna said. "A note? No. What note? What are you talking about?"

    "Nothing. Nothing."

    "I should have called myself, I'm such a coward."

    "Well, don't worry," Matthew said, "Grown-ups Inc. took care of it."

    "Who?"

    "Grown-ups Inc. Don't you remember? When Mom and I used to-"

    "No," Joanna said. "Grown-ups Inc.? Is that real or something you made up?"

    "Well, something we made up, actually."

    "You and Mom?"

    "Yes."

    There was a sudden silence on the line.

    "So how was the weekend?" Matthew asked.

    "Good," Joanna said.

    "I understand Diana's brother went along."

    "Did Mom tell you that?"

    "Yes."

    "She shouldn't have. I wish she hadn't, Dad. She probably said I have a crush on him, am I right?"

    "Well, she hinted that might be the case."

    "I wish she hadn't," Joanna said again.

    "Don't worry about it."

    "Well, she shouldn't have."

    There was another silence.

    "When am I going to see you?" he said.

    "Can you take me to dinner tonight?"

    "I'd love to. What time shall I pick you up?"

    "I'll check with Mom. I think she has a date with Peter the Pest, maybe I can spend the night."

    "Oh?" Matthew said. "Does she?"

    "I think so. I'll call you later, okay?"

    "Fine," he said.

    "I bought you a nice present," Joanna said, and hung up.

    

    

    In most civilized cities, people didn't begin drinking until four-thirty at the very earliest. In New York, for example-according to Frank Summerville-the bars didn't start filling up till about five-thirty. But Calusa was a resort town in season and a retirement town all year round, and tourists and senior citizens sometimes discovered time weighing heavily on their hands. So what better place to while away the late afternoon hours than in a bar where, during Happy Hour, you got two drinks for the price of one? Happy Hour in Calusa began at 4:00 p.m.

    At four-oh-seven that afternoon, at which time Joanna was on the phone again to say it was okay for tonight, Jimmy Legs was in a bar called The Yellow Bird, listening to a piano player slaughtering some very good Cole Porter tunes, and waiting for a man named Harry Stagg to join him. Jimmy was not here to while away the time. Jimmy had business to discuss with Harry, and the business was finding a hooker who had copped his brother's gold Rolex.

    Stagg came into the bar at about four-ten, five minutes earlier than he was due. He was a very punctual person, Stagg, and he was also very tall-though, actually,
everybody
looked tall to Jimmy. He was wearing a white linen jacket over pastel-colored slacks the same color as his open-throated shirt. He was wearing white Italian-looking shoes with no socks. He looked like one of the cops on "Miami Vice." Needed a shave, too, just like that cop on "Miami Vice." That was a show Jimmy hated because it made cops look like heroes instead of the pricks they really were. "Hill Street Blues," too. Propaganda. He stood up as Stagg approached the table.

    "Hey, how you doin'?" he said, and took Stagg's hand. The men shook hands briefly. Stagg looked over at the piano as if wondering what had died inside it. He ordered a Johnnie Walker Red on the rocks from the waiter who came over to the table and then looked over at the piano again.

    "Where'd that guy learn to play?" he asked Jimmy.

    "San Quentin, sounds like," Jimmy said.

    "It does sound like it," Stagg said. "They remodeled this place, din't they? This used to be called Franco's, dinnit?"

    "I think so."

    "Yeah, Franco's, I think. So now it's The Yellow Bird, huh?"

    "Yeah."

    "That's a big difference, Franco's and The Yellow Bird."

    "Yeah."

    The waiter brought two Johnnie Walker Reds on the rocks to the table.

    "I only ordered one," Stagg said.

    "The second one is complimentary, sir," the waiter said.

    "I'da known that, I'da ordered the black," Stagg said.

    The waiter smiled. "Next time, sir," he said, and walked off.

    "They should tell you in advance it's two for one," Stagg said. "Give you a chance to order premium stuff."

    "Nobody tells you nothin' nowadays," Jimmy said.

    "Whole fuckin' world's fucked up," Stagg said. "Terrorists, all kindsa shit." He sipped at the Scotch and then said, "So what's on your mind?"

    "There's somebody I'm lookin' for," Jimmy said. "She's a hooker stole my brother's watch."

    "Oh, okay," Stagg said. "Because first, when you said you were lookin' for somebody, I thought Why's he comin' to me, am I the Missing Persons Bureau? But then you say she stole your brother's watch, and I get it." He took a pad from the inner pocket of the white jacket. He took a pencil from the same pocket. "What kinda watch?" he asked.

    "A gold Rolex," Jimmy said. "It cost eight grand in Tiffany's, New York."

    "That's some watch," Stagg said.

    "Solid gold," Jimmy said. "The band and everything. Eight grand in Tiffany's."

    "That ain't cornflakes, eight grand."

    "My brother's ready to kill her," Jimmy said, "a watch like that."

    "Well, let me see I can find it for you, the watch. Maybe he won't want to kill her once he gets the watch back. Lots of people, they say they're gonna kill people, they only mean they want their goods back, you know? Let me ask around, see what I can find out, okay? I give it my best shot, we see what happens, okay?"

    "His initials are on the back of the case," Jimmy said.

    "Good, I'm glad you told me that," Stagg said. "What are his initials?"

    "D. L. For David Larkin."

    Stagg wrote down the initials, and then said, "There's a Larkin Boats on the Trail. Is that the same Larkin?"

    "Yeah, that's my brother."

    "No wonder he can afford a watch costs eight grand," Stagg said. "What'd he do, change his name? 'Cause
your
name's Largura, ain't it?"

    "I'm the one changed my name," Jimmy said, and smiled.

    "So did I," Stagg said. "My name used to be Stagione, that means 'season' in Italian, I changed it to Stagg. That's better than Stagione, Stagg. Harry Stagg, I like that better than Harry Stagione, don't you?"

    He blinked at Jimmy and then said, "Whattya mean
you
changed your name? From Larkin? To Largura?"

    "Yeah, I wanted an Italian name," Jimmy said. "I didn't like havin' a Wasp name."

    

    

    Matthew picked up Joanna at seven o'clock.

    No sign of Susan anywhere around the house.

    In the car, he casually asked, "Did your mother go out with Peter?"

    "Yes," Joanna answered.

    Peter the Pest.

    Suddenly jealous of Peter the Pest,
nee
Peter Nelson Rothman, the main man in Susan's life for the past… what? Two, three months? None of Matthew's business, of course. She was no longer his wife, she was his
former
wife, his
ex
wife. Still, it wasn't right, was it, for a situation to have become
so
transparent that your fourteen-year-old daughter could automatically assume that if Mommy had a date with Peter the Pest then she'd be free to spend the night at
your
house because when Mommy dated Peter
she
spent the night at
his
house.

    Well, listen, it was none of his business.

    Free country, woman wanted to date the town's…

    The thing he couldn't understand, though, was how she could
do
this the very night after they'd…

    Well, listen.

    No strings on her, she was entitled to whatever…

    But, damn it, she was the one who'd…

    Well, what the hell.

    But truth was truth, and she was the one who'd engineered their weekend together. Told Joanna she'd call him to explain about the Palm Beach trip, never called, was waiting instead to pounce when he got to the house Friday evening, fresh out of the shower and looking good enough to eat. Oh my, didn't Joanna call you? She said she would call. Well, just so it shouldn't be a total loss, let's go to bed together, okay?

    So tonight she was seeing Peter the Pest.

    Who once, on the tennis court, told Matthew he could beat him no matter
what
Matthew did.

    "Here's what we'll do," Peter said. "You can hit the ball wherever you want, anyplace on the court. When I hit the ball back, I'll hit it directly to your forehand, right where you're standing. And I'll
still
beat you."

    Matthew was offended.

    He told Peter he didn't want to play with him anymore, and walked off the court.

    But that wasn't why she shouldn't be dating him tonight. It was simply… well.

    Well, damn it.

    Really.

    "So will you be sleeping over?" he asked.