Concert of Ghosts (5 page)

He went back to the foot of the stairs. The girl followed him. She picked up a length of thick curtain the cops had hauled from a window, and she laid it across Isadora in a gentle manner. Tennant studied the dog a moment, then walked outside, found the wheelbarrow, and dragged it ponderously up the steps to the porch. Then he entered the wretched house again.

The girl said, “Let me help you, Harry.”

He was dizzy again. He hated the sensation of drinking on an empty stomach. The day was rushing away from him like a train he'd missed. “I appreciate the offer, but there's not much you can do.”

He stooped, caught the dog by her paws, and dragged her considerable weight halfway across the floor. He tried to imagine her as refuse to be hauled out, a piece of furniture beyond repair. There was no other way he could get through this. This struggle. This misery. His eyes were wet again. Without asking, the girl reached down and slid her arms under the animal's body and, with an enormous effort, helped Tennant raise Isadora from the floor. Tennant kicked the front door open. With the girl's help he managed, somewhat clumsily, to slide the animal into the wheelbarrow.

The curtain that covered Isadora slid away, snagged on a door hinge.

Tennant found himself staring at the Dane's head. He experienced a moment of slippage. All his perceptions were scattered like random atoms. The smell of fur struck him, a deep musk reminiscent of damp places and wet black-brown soil. He walked to the end of the porch, where he stuck his finger into his throat and tried to throw up. Nothing came except some sticky fluid, but his head cleared. When he turned around, the girl was covering the dog again with the drape.

“Are you okay?” Her voice was very quiet, the kind reserved for terminal wards.

“I'm fine. I'm sorry about that.” He gestured loosely toward the end of the porch, embarrassed.

“It happens. It's nothing to be sorry about.” The girl leaned against the porch rail and stared out into the trees. “Maybe you want to bury your dog alone, Harry. If you need my help, fine.”

Tennant said, “I want to get the thing done. That's all.”

He lowered the wheelbarrow down the porch steps in a series of awkward clunking maneuvers. Then he stopped. The wheel was sinking into the earth. It would take all his strength to get to the woods. He fetched a spade propped against the side of the house, then laid it across the curtain. He was suddenly conscious of textures—the rusted metal of the spade, the rose-colored fabric of the curtain, the tan fur of the dog's hind legs. The details startled him in the dull light.

The girl walked down from the porch. “I'll come with you.”

“Sure,” he said. He didn't like to admit it to himself; he wanted company, her company.

The grave he dug for Isadora was four feet deep in a place near the ruins of his tall plants, which had been unearthed and hauled away by the cops, leaving broken stalks and fibrous pieces of root and a scattering of leaves. Appropriate—bury the dead in a dead place. When the hole had been dug, the girl helped him lower Isadora into the ground. A paralysis struck him; he couldn't bring himself to replace the earth. He sat hunched on the edge of the grave. How undemanding it would be to sit here in a zone of stillness and wait until Rozak came to take him to trial.

The girl took the spade and worked silently at filling the grave. Tennant watched her, wondering at her energy.

“I don't know your name,” he said.

“Alison Seagrove.”

“Thanks …”

“For what?”

Tennant shrugged. Alison Seagrove leveled the earth with the head of the spade, then placed the implement in the barrow. She was breathing heavily.

“They busted you for your plants,” she said. She'd seen the ruin of his crop.

Tennant nodded. He stood up because he didn't want to linger in these forlorn woods. He walked away from the grave, beset by the intuition that he was turning his back on more than some broken stalks and an abandoned wheelbarrow and a dead dog. The girl fell into step beside him.

“You have to hand it to the cops, Harry. They've got their priorities in the right place. Rapists go free and guns fall into the hands of schoolkids—but when it comes to the demon reefer, hell, they're right on the ball.”

Tennant forced a small smile. He longed for light-heartedness, a charge of flippancy, an infusion, say, of helium to his brain.

As he emerged from the trees, he heard a car on the dirt road. A gray Ford, solid and bland, came into view. The driver, a bulky man unknown to Tennant, got out. He wore a navy suit and an unbuttoned fawn raincoat whose belt hung loose. Tennant and the girl walked toward the stranger, who had parked halfway between the woods and the house, and now stood with his feet spread belligerently apart and his hands on his hips.

3

The visitor introduced himself as Ralph Flitt, county attorney. He was pleased with his title. A smile, a firm handshake; Flitt bore the stamp of one who'd been to more than a few management courses. He pushed himself at people, thrusting, hand forward, unlikely smile fixed, eyes made electric by sheer effort. He had a certain raw stage presence. Tennant half expected him to break into song. Flitt's white skin, though, was unhealthy and belied the robust surface.

“I tried to be in court for your arraignment, Harry,” he said. “Held up. Story of my life. Busy as all hell.”

Tennant stepped back. Flitt's breath was rancid; sour milk, diapers, crypts.

Flitt glanced at Alison Seagrove but didn't ask for her name. He shifted his position and gazed toward the woods. “Heard all about your bogus lawyer, though. Funny kinda business, guy turning up claiming to be an attorney. Weird.”

Flitt looked back at Tennant and smiled. “It's a good feeling to be free, huh? Makes you want to go down on one knee and praise the system, Harry. America the bounteous. Turn criminals free. Let dope dealers stroll the streets. Give a pusher an even break. Yessir. Something to be said for that. In Turkey, now, you'd be hanging by your heels. In Saudi Arabia you'd have your hands cut off. Perchance, Christ, your balls. Good country this is. So why the hell do people who live in it abuse it, Harry? Breaks my heart. I think, ingrates, ingrates.”

This spray of words was delivered rapidly. Each little expulsion of breath sent a putrid pocket of air toward Tennant.

“Got an answer for me?” Flitt asked.

Tennant said, “I don't think I've abused anything.”

“No?”

“You found some marijuana growing on my property. Prove it was mine.”

“Hi-diddle-dee. I didn't graduate law school this morning. The dew ain't dripping from my ears. I know you. I know your type. You broke the law, mister.”

“Even if I did, it's a stupid law. Grass should be legal. It's like the Dark Ages.” This was more than Tennant wanted to say, but Flitt provoked him.

“Dark Ages! No way! You gotta love America, Harry! How can you bad-mouth a country where even criminals can freely criticize the laws of the land? What a deal we got here. Smell that air. Whooo-eee. That's liberty. You think air smells like that in Iran or Turkey?”

“It's goddamn hard to love a country where the cops trash my house and kill my dog.”

“Line of duty.”

Alison, who had looked uneasy and impatient, said, “Line of duty, my ass. You want to look inside this man's house? You want to see the dog? Then maybe you can define duty for us.”

“I don't know your name, missy, or what you're up to here. But you're walking straight into a heap of trouble by hanging around, lemme tell you.”

“I'll take my chances, Mr. Flitt.”

Flitt turned his attention back to Tennant. “What am I doing standing here listening to an angry doper and his chick? Guys like you. Sewage. I don't need this.”

“Sewage,” Tennant said, and laughed.

Flitt leaned toward him and gripped his shoulder. “Laugh, Harry. Enjoy. Here's the kicker. Here's the punch line. You're going to jail. You know that, don't you? You're clear about that, I hope.”

“That's un-American of you, Flitt. Sentence a man before trial?” Alison said.

Flitt dropped his hand from Tennant's shoulder. He glared at the girl. “I'm just stating a fact, missy. A trial's for press and public. PR. Lookee here, taxpayers of the county, your system's at work! Smile and be joyful, drones. Harry better face it. He's going down. Two years minimum.”

The certainty in Flitt's voice filled Tennant with disbelief. How it contrasted with the forceful optimism of the phantom Rozak. “I imagine my lawyer has other ideas,” he said.

“Sure. Sure he has. McKay's full of them. Gets well paid for them too. Just don't kid yourself. Harcourt's a good man. But when it comes right down to the buzzer, he knows you're going away and he can't do a goddamn thing about it.”

“I'd like his opinion on that.”

“He's your lawyer. Go talk to him. He's all ears and his meter's running. He'll be happy to chat until hell freezes. But the outcome's the same no matter how you slice it. You're about to become a guest of the great Empire State, where accommodation is free but disagreeably unwholesome. Still feel like laughing?”

“Why don't you get the hell off my property? Next time reach me through my attorney.” Tennant turned and started to walk away.

“Wait now, Harry. Don't go slamming doors. Don't go off in a funk. I think we've got some room for negotiation.” Flitt suppressed a belch. His stomach rumbled in a remarkable manner, the sound of a door creaking on stiff hinges.

Tennant stood still. “Negotiation? What are you talking about?”

Flitt walked toward him. “I take back that sewage remark, Harry. I have this mean ulcer and it bites like a crab, and I get cranky, and sometimes I say things I don't mean. You're probably an okay guy. Misguided, sure. But you don't strike me as your common or garden doper. You're smarter than that.”

“What are you trying to say?” Tennant stared at the man, noticing how the whites of his eyes were tainted a little by yellow.

Flitt shoved his hands in his coat pockets. “Harry, you were growing maybe fifteen kilos here on your property.”

“Something you still have to prove.”

Flitt ignored this. “Fifteen keys is a goodly amount. But it's not fifty, and it's not a hundred. So I draw this conclusion—you're small-time. On that account, maybe, just maybe, a guy like you deserves a second chance. Probation. Some drug counseling thrown in. A little community work. Raking lawns for people in wheelchairs. Working the Salvation Army thrift store. Something decent.”

Tennant knew. He knew where this was going now.

Flitt sighed, harassed by his ulcer and the burdens of office; a pity-me sound. “Look. It would save me the trouble of a trial and you the certainty of jail, if you could see your way to
assisting
me, Harry.”

“You want names, don't you?” Tennant said.

“Quick thinking, Harry. Yeah, I want names. I want to know who takes the dope off your hands. I want to know the moneyman. The distributor. Bottom line, I don't want you. You're a tadpole. You're an amoeba. You're a flyspeck, sweetheart.”

“I can't help you.”

Flitt shrugged, turning his face back to the house. “Lemme tell you what happens when you're found guilty at your trial. Not only do you go to the slammer for a while, which is tough, but you also lose this property.” The county attorney swept his arm greedily in an arc. “All this green and pleasant land, Harry. The federal government confiscates it on account of how it was used for profiteering in the drug market and probably even purchased with illicit income—which leaves you, Jack, with zippety-do-da. Bite on that one. Hurts, huh?”

Tennant looked at the house. He felt disconnected from the property anyway, but the idea of the feds taking it away galled him. What was going on in the land of the free? Men in uniforms, officers, constables, came and punched holes in your walls and hacked your possessions into tiny pieces and walked away unaccountable. He experienced an oppressive cloud in his head. What had Flitt said? Line of duty? Duty was a tarnished word explaining nothing. A buzzword.

“The land's nice, Flitt, but the house needs work after last night's wrecking crew. Good starter home for a young couple maybe. Do-it-yourselfers.” Tennant tried to sound unconcerned, even cheerful.

“You may jest,” Flitt remarked, “but unless you negotiate with me, my hearty, you go in the toilet. Just say the magic password and pleasant stuff starts to happen. Lo! The sun shines on Harry.”

“It's shit,” Alison remarked. “If that's the system, it's complete shit.”

Flitt belched brightly. “Best shit in the world though.”

Flitt went back to his car and waved cheerfully as he drove off. Tennant looked at the girl, whose expression was one of anger.

“I can't stand guys like Flitt. They come off as half-assed gods. They've got their own little patches of America and they think they can do anything they like with them and the rest of us have got to lie down and roll over. You better call your lawyer, Harry.”

Tennant, who found himself admiring the flame in this slight girl, said, “Yeah, I better.”

He walked to his truck.

“You don't have a phone here, do you?”

“Never needed one. Anyway, it's only a few miles.”

“Let me drive. My gas guzzler's probably faster than your pickup. The sooner you make this call the better.”

Tennant was agreeable, ready to be activated by somebody else. He didn't feel much like driving right then. He was lacking a certain coordination; he wanted to be a passenger, to sit with his eyes shut and be taken away.

“What was that stuff Flitt mentioned about a bogus lawyer?” she asked.

Tennant told her about Rozak, about the man's confidence. It was a puzzle already diminishing in his mind, obscured by other matters.