Dead Money (33 page)

You never know.

Hey, John, I said. I really appreciate this. And don’t worry about it. It stays here.

A brief look of alarm crossed his face.

Oops, I thought. Shouldn’t have reminded him.

Dorita reached over and squeezed his hand. He smiled. Everything was cool.

THERE WAS NOBODY IN MY OFFICE
Tuesday morning. I ordered a tall skinny latte and a sesame bagel. I declined the proffer of a tiny dollop of cream cheese sealed in a minuscule plastic tub. I thought about going to see FitzGibbon. I didn’t have the energy.

I went through the
Times
. I had another latte. I picked up the
Times
again. I read the stories I’d skipped the first time. I learned that a blue
moon is the second full moon in a calendar month. It happens once in a while. It’s not actually blue. It’s just unusual. There were two blue moons in 1999, though. So not all that unusual.

I resolved to never use the phrase again. Too ambiguous.

I still loved the song, though.

I nodded off, Willie Nelson’s version in my head.

I was dreaming of a girl I knew in high school. Her name was Sandra. She was soft and kind and wouldn’t have anything to do with me. I was just settling into a dreamy sofa next to her at the bar in the St. Regis when I was rudely disturbed. The pointy toe of a blue high-heeled Manolo Blahnik prodded my shin. My dream attempted to work the sensation into the narrative. But it didn’t take: Sandra was not given to kicking boys in the shins. I opened my eyes.

Dorita stood over me.

It’s even better than you thought, she said.

What is?

The info.

What info?

The Jake info.

Oh. Well. I’m not sure I thought anything. One way or the other.

So it’s even better than you didn’t think.

Right. Whatever you say. Well. It’d better be good. You interrupted a good dream there.

That’s my specialty.

Why did I know you were going to say that?

Incest.

You’re losing me, darling.

It’s incest. That’s why Jake changed his name. Why Brendan changed his name.

Brendan?

That’s Jake’s real name. Brendan Gibbs.

Brendan? I’m going to have a hard time getting used to that.

Get used to this: he’s a sister-fucker.

A what?

A sister-fucker.

I heard you. That’s going to take some explanation. Meanwhile, I’m just a little taken aback by the moniker. I’d never heard that one before.

I just made it up.

You must be very proud.

I’m proud of all my children. Now do you want to hear the story, or keep trying vainly to demonstrate that you’re more of a man than me?

It’s a tough choice. I guess I’ll go with the story. But I reserve my right to change my mind. If it’s too boring.

Don’t worry about that. Listen. He’s born into a fairly wealthy family in southern Illinois. Some Podunk town you’ve never heard of. Grandpa owned the general store. Dad expanded into hardware, bought a couple of franchises. You know the deal.

I yawned.

The family’s upright, respectable. Brendan’s uncle gets elected mayor. His mother teaches at the local school. They give to charity. They go to church. Brendan plays piano. Gets the lead role in the high school play.

Can I go back to my nap please?

He has a sister. She’s a stunning-looking girl.

Ah. Now you’re talking my language.
Cherchez la femme
.

Every boy in town wants to go out with her.

But she won’t have them.

Right. They’re not good enough for her. She’s the class valedictorian. Plays the violin. Wins the essay contest.

Way out of their league.

Right. She’s very close to her family. They’re enough for her.

Perhaps too enough?

You’re anticipating.

That’s what happens when you put the punch line first.

Guilty as charged. She and Brendan are close. They write songs together. She writes the music. He writes the lyrics.

They play croquet in the backyard.

Probably. She goes to college.

Yes.

That part I don’t know anything about.

Okay.

She graduates. She comes back home. The summer after graduation. To take a rest, before she goes back to Chicago. Start her new job.

Brendan’s thrilled.

A whole summer with his favorite sister.

They play croquet.

Whatever.

They play other games.

Other games.

In other places.

Dark and dangerous places.

And?

They get caught.

Ouch.

In flagrante.

Delicto?

Delicto. Wow.

The local press goes crazy.

A gold mine.

Sells more papers than the latest crop figures.

The police beat: ‘Local youth apprehended for spitting on sidewalk.’

Right. Big-time story at last.

Scandal.

Excess.

The rich brought low.

Mega-juicy.

They’re all over it.

Exactly.

Daddy must have pissed somebody off, I said. Small town, prominent citizen and all that. Figure he could have hushed it up.

Or something. We’ll find out.

If we want to.

We want to.

You
want to.

I
want to. So
we
want to.

Yes darling. So, we’ve got something on Jake. But what does it buy us?

The story’s not over yet.

Enlighten me.

Dad shoots himself.

Dead?

Dead. With a shotgun. Can’t stand the shame.

Jesus.

Mom goes off the deep end.

Locked away?

Threw away the key.

Positively Gothic.

Delicious, isn’t it?

Well it would be. Except I know the guy. And I kind of like him. It’s a bit of a shock.

Life is like that.

Shocking?

That too.

So then what happens?

The kids leave town. Nobody knows where. The papers keep playing it up for a while. Eventually it dies down. Everybody’s dead or gone. Nothing new. They can only keep it up for so long.

That’s it?

That’s it.

Wow.

Yes. Very wow.

Very wow, but how does it help us?

I’m not sure it does.

But it sure is interesting, I said. I mean, there’s certainly more to Jake than first appeared.

Isn’t there?

And so.

And so, what other deep dark secrets might he have?

What other things might he be capable of?

Exactly.

I’m not liking this.

You don’t have to. I’ll do the liking for you. I’ll also keep doing your job for you, she said, turning on her heel.

You could never tell when she was serious.

I didn’t have the energy to worry about it.

THE POKER GAME HAD GONE UPSCALE.
Mike had found some rich guy, Trip Batson, some silver spoon investment banker type who thought it terribly cool to have a bunch of artistes over to his penthouse on East Seventy-ninth to play dirty poker for just enough to cover his monthly parking bill.

The table was set up with napkins in silver holders, piles of pre-counted monogrammed chips, and tiny bowls of unidentifiable Japanese gunk. And a professional dealer. The scene was pristine.

We sat. Jake asked for booze. The Philippine girl-for-hire was very accommodating. Anything we wanted. Single malt Scotch, four choices. A fine selection of wines. No beer keg, though. She was apologetic. Our host suggested that she make a trip to the corner store. Buy a few six-packs. Mike politely declined. The Scotch would be fine.

The host explained that everyone had been allotted two thousand in chips. At the end of the night, he’d do the calculations. Whoever was short would write a check.

I looked around the table. Everyone was having trouble keeping a straight face. Poker was a game of cash, not checks.

Nobody interrupted to let him know. Nobody figured it would be their issue. Any losses amongst ourselves we could handle our own way. And nobody expected to owe anything to Trip at the end of the night.

Not a problem there. Trip was your typical rich amateur player. To him the game was all hope and luck. When he won, he gloated. When he lost, he cursed the cards. He cursed a lot more than he gloated.

It should have been fun. But it wasn’t. It was hard to enjoy. When I’d started going to the game, it had been entertainment, a dissolute night out with a crowd of characters I’d never get to meet at my day job. Now it was too complicated. Jake. Andrea too. I wasn’t sure what to expect from her. She could have already talked. Told the others of my abject failure of the other night. Worse yet, she could choose the game itself to make the revelation. I’d never live it down with Butch.

But she just ignored me. I was nothing to her.

That was the best I could have hoped for.

Jake was a different problem. He was his backslapping self. But I couldn’t see him as I had before. My guileless and charming oddball friend. Brother in maladjustment. Now I knew that his adjustment problems made mine look like a guy with a stutter looks to Steven Hawking. His mood swings made sense now. His faraway stare. Drinking himself incoherent. Dark allusions to secrets unrevealed.

He moved into aggressive mode. Aggressive and with an arrogance I hadn’t seen before. Not stupid aggressive. Good aggressive. He jammed a lot of pots. He stared people down. He kept up a constant chatter. I’ve got the nuts! he kept exclaiming, hand after hand, laughing hyena-like and gathering in another pot as the tight and cautious of us folded mediocre hands. When he was challenged he had the cards. We knew that all that meant was that we’d chosen the wrong hand to call him on. But his rush lasted through the night. He ended up with a pile of chips that made ours look like amateur night at the bingo parlor.

After one particularly subtle move that garnered him a major pot at my expense, I leaned over, put him in a playful headlock and said, Do that again and I’ll have to start playing seriously, my man.

He laughed. He punched me in the side. I twisted him sideways. We fell over and rolled on the floor. The gang gathered round, egging us on. A play fight. Butch threw himself on top of the pile. Mike poured a glass of Scotch on our heads. We spluttered up, cooled down.

When the game was over and we were waiting for the elevator, Jake turned to me.

Hey Rick, he said with childish glee, did I kick some ass tonight, or what?

You kicked some ass, Jake, I said. You kicked my ass. You kicked everybody’s ass.

I did, he said, I did.

He had that faraway look again.

I fingered in my pocket a small envelope.

I CALLED UP LAURA
. It seemed to me she owed me one.

Her office was drab and devoid of personality. You might expect someone working in a morgue to try to jazz the place up a bit. But no. The desk was stainless steel. Just like the slabs. I suppose a little color might only have made the place worse. The contrast too extreme. But she didn’t have so much as a picture of the kids on her desk.

Laura, I said, I need a favor.

Just ask, she said, and it’s yours.

Well, it’s a really, really big favor.

She tilted her head quizzically.

All right, Rick, spit it out. What do you need?

I need a private DNA lab.

I can refer you to several. Some of them are actually quite good.

No, I can’t use commercial labs.

Why not?

Let’s just say there are certain things they won’t be able to do.

Laura shook her head.

I don’t know, Rick. I think I see where you’re heading. But that’s a lot to ask.

I know. I told you that up front. It’s a really, really big favor. But it’s really, really important to me.

She looked me in the eye. This has something to do with Melissa, Rick?

Maybe.

Can you be a little more vague?

I’d like to tell you more. I really would. But I think it’s better if I don’t.

Rick. This is a little weird. I mean, I think I know you well enough to know that you wouldn’t be up to something illegal …

That much I can assure you, I laughed. It’s just that …well. I need this to be private. It’s very important to me.

You’re making it awfully hard for me to say no.

Good. Then it’s working.

All right, she said, pulling over a pad of paper. I reserve the right to change my mind. But let’s do this. If you have a sample you want tested, leave it in an envelope in my home mailbox. Here’s the address. Don’t
ring the bell. Just drop it in the box. It’s locked. Write any instructions on the inside of the envelope. Don’t put it on a separate piece of paper. Just write it under the flap before you seal it.

My, you’ve got a little of the spy in you, I said.

She gave me a wry smile.

And Rick? she said.

Yes?

If this turns out to be something that’s important to a case I know about … she paused to give me a knowing look …I can’t keep it to myself.

Okay Laura. I understand. But let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, okay?

Okay, she said, with a dubious shake of her head.

On the way home I had the car make a detour. I took the small envelope out of my pocket. I wrote some simple instructions on the underside of the flap. I sealed it, and dropped it into Laura’s mailbox.

BY THE TIME I GOT HOME
I felt as deflated as a wineskin in the desert. I thought of going to the Wolf’s Lair, to drink some of the emptiness away. I quickly thought better of it. Apart from all the self-defeating irony of the idea, it would send a message to Kelly that might as well be: Why don’t we both kill ourselves right here right now? Which, come to think of it, wasn’t a bad question. But not one that I wanted to inflict on my only and most precious progeny.

But I had to do something.

So I called Dorita.

Do you want to come over? I asked.

Over? To your house?

The very one, I said.

There was a long pause.