Jack of Spades (14 page)

25 Good News!

But there was good news for Jack of Spades.

The new novel
Scourge
received starred reviews in several publications and online—now reviewers were comparing Jack of Spades to Stephen King!

A more visceral, take-no-prisoners Stephen King.

Move over, Stephen King! Jack of Spades is on the scene.

Also, there was enthusiasm among booksellers—orders were reportedly higher than for any previous title by Jack of Spades.

(Embarrassingly near the orders for Andrew Rush’s most recent book, in fact.)

Was this funny? Was this
ironic
?

Should I have felt pride, or chagrin?

Since the ax attack—(I’d come to think of the violent episode in Haider’s house as an attack upon my person, essentially—which I’d had to defend myself against)—my ability to concentrate had perceptibly deteriorated. My ability to see the “humor” in most things, indeed the “happiness” in things.

Admit it, Andy Rush: you’re jealous of Jack of Spades.

And thrilled, and a little scared.

Yes?

“This ‘Jack of Spades’!—he’s
disgusting
.”

By chance I happened to overhear my daughter Julia complaining to Irina about—evidently—another novel she’d just read by the “mystery author,” obviously without my encouragement. It was a source of dismay to me, and some resentment, that my fastidious feminist-daughter persisted in reading what she called “macho-sadist trash,” presumably in order to denounce it, while she never took time to read my far more serious and uplifting mystery novels in which evil people were duly punished and “good” people rewarded.

How I wished I’d quickly stored away those damned paperbacks of Jack of Spades, that Julia had seen in my writing room months ago! It had been sheer carelessness on my part to leave them in plain sight.

Come off it, Andy. You’d wanted your beloved daughter to see my books. You’d have liked Irina to notice too, but your wife has other things on her mind these days—and nights.

The voice was jeering, confiding. Though I knew that it was not truly a “voice” yet I stood very still, head lowered, listening.

You know that, Andy—don’t you?

No. Did not know.

Sure you do. Irina and her Asian lover.

In the other room Julia was describing to Irina the “preposterous plot” of
Prepostmortem,
and Irina seemed to be listening. Or maybe Irina, mind elsewhere, wasn’t listening to our daughter’s vehement objections but only politely murmuring in response.

Prepostmortem
was the second title by Jack of Spades, or maybe the third. Offhand, I couldn’t have given the publication date. The plot, like the title, had come to me out of nowhere.

“I tried to tell Daddy but he refused to listen. Whoever this ‘Jack of Spades’ is, he must know Daddy and his family. The other novel I read was vicious enough but this is worse! The story is about a teenaged boy who ‘accidentally’ kills his younger brother by pushing him off a high diving board in a quarry—then, he’s ‘devastated by grief’—but relieved too, because he’d been jealous of his brother. The family is divided between those who believe the boy when he says it was an accident and those who don’t believe him but think he pushed his brother into the water deliberately. In the present time, he’s middle-aged and married to a woman he insists he loves very much but he’s very jealous of her and tries to find a way to kill her ‘accidentally’ . . . That part seems just fiction but the backstory, about the boy drowning in a quarry, in a park in New Jersey, has got to be based on what happened to Daddy when he was a boy and his brother accidentally drowned at Catamount Park. I don’t know the details, Mom, but it has got to be more than just a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Well, Julia. I haven’t read the novel, and from what you’ve been saying I don’t think that I want to. That accident in the quarry at Catamount—when your father was twelve—was reported in the local papers and anyone in this part of New Jersey would have known about it. What’s your point, ‘more than coincidence’?”

“I think there’s some person Daddy knows, one of his writer-friends, who is using Daddy’s life to write about, but distorting it and making it ugly, with lots more detail and background than you could get from just the media. And Daddy doesn’t seem to know about it, or to care. I tried to get him to read the other novel by Jack of Spades, but he refused. He just says it’s a coincidence, and not important. But I think . . .”

“Why not just throw out the trashy books, Julia? Even if they are based on some parts of your father’s life, how does that affect you, or any of us? Maybe your father does know the writer, and maybe your father is upset and angry, but you know that your father wouldn’t try to censor anyone.”

“Of course Daddy wouldn’t try to ‘censor’ anyone. But he should be careful what he tells this person, who’s like a vampire feeding on Daddy’s life.”

“Oh Julia, do you believe in ‘vampires’?”—Irina laughed, reprovingly.

“I never used to. But now, lately, I’m not too sure.”

“But what could Andrew do, to stop this person? Assuming there is a ‘vampire’ in his life?”

“What could Daddy
do
? That’s up to Daddy.”

26 “2 Dark 4 Me”

At the Hadrian, New Jersey, post office I mailed a neatly taped, small box of five paperback books addressed to Stephen King at his home in Maine.

The inscriptions were block-printed in a hand that seemed (to me) quite different from my own.

With Admiration—to Stephen King—

Your Rival-One-Day—

“Jack of Spades”

The return address was the P.O. box in Hadrian which I rented. Not that I expected the very busy bestselling author to respond to some unsolicited paperback books by a little-known writer as King had not responded to a similar cache by Andrew J. Rush.

Imagine my surprise and chagrin when, a few weeks later, a hastily scrawled postcard arrived at the P.O. addressed to “Jack of Spades.”

Whoever you are—“Jack of Spades”—U R 2 DARK 4 Me & We ARE NOT rivals

S.K.

27 Jealous Husband

Admit it, Andy. You are damned jealous.

Jealous of Jack of Spades, and of the woman.

And the Asian, what’s-his-name—HUANG LEE.

Not to my wife’s face was I jealous. Not a hint!

A bruised heart is not visible, like a bruised face.

“I love you, Irina. I don’t know what I would do without you . . .”

“But Andrew, don’t be silly! Why would you be ‘without me’?”

And Irina kissed me, and we staggered in a sudden embrace.

On my breath, Irina may have smelled whiskey. In the soft waves of her hair, I may have smelled perfume.

At this time, Irina was often away in the evenings. I did not always know where she was though (I suppose) she took care to tell me. Leaving food prepared for me in the refrigerator which all I had to do (as she said) was heat in the microwave.

Might be, the woman is poisoning you.

Arsenic can poison by slow degrees. Its symptoms can be many things.

Out of spite as well as caution I scraped the woman’s food into the garbage disposal. A quick call, and I could have a decent dinner delivered to the house, or better yet the hell with food. Scotch whiskey has a way of placating a man’s appetite.

But when I confronted Irina about the frequency of evening meetings at the Friends School she was likely to tell me in her gently reproving way that she hadn’t been at the school but, as she’d explained, visiting with my mother who felt “alone and abandoned” since my father’s death.

Or, if I seemed to recall that Irina was visiting my mother, and I called her cell phone, there was no answer because Irina wasn’t at my mother’s but at a meeting at the school at which cell phones had to be shut off.

Or, she was spending the night with her own family, in Montclair.

Or, having dinner in Newark with Chris, or with Dale.

(Why Dad wasn’t included in these dinners with our sons was not clear. But Dad had too much pride to inquire, thank you.)

“Andrew, I told you where I was going. Shall I write these things down, and leave numbers?”

Yes. No.

Why should you care what the woman does?

Is it your fatal weakness, that you do?

28 “Damn Your Soul to Hell”

Returning home early one evening on Mill Brook Road in a lightly falling rain and seeing about thirty feet in front of my car a dark-furred animal of the size of a fox or a lynx crossing the road at a slow trot. Seeing me, its tawny eyes blazed in my headlights with a look of animal cunning or defiance.

“God damn your soul to hell!”—the voice was furious and aggrieved and like no voice of my own with which I was familiar.

My first instinct was to brake my car and swerve to avoid hitting the animal—(and risk killing myself in a crash)—but my second instinct, far shrewder, was to continue without turning my steering wheel even a fraction of an inch and even (perhaps) to press down harder on the gas pedal.

The front wheels struck—something . . . I felt the brief impact, that reverberated through my spine like an electrical current.

Yet somehow, though (I’m sure) I had not increased my speed by more than ten miles an hour, the Jaguar went into a spin on the wet pavement, and within the confusion of a few seconds the Jaguar was on its side in a ditch.

Fortunately, my vehicle hadn’t crashed into a fence post. The impact might have thrown the reckless driver against the windshield and knocked him unconscious.

When I recovered my wits I managed to force the car door open. On shaky legs I staggered squinting along the edge of the road.

Indeed there was something crushed and flattened at the roadside, a small dark-furred corpse.

But it was not quivering with the last vestiges of life, or bleeding. Its eyes were open yet not tawny with the defiance of life.

Whatever the creature was, it had been there for days, badly flattened and decomposing, unrecognizable.

Fool! You are looking in the wrong place.

29 “Accident”

And now it’s time—for Andy Rush to commit another perfect crime.

For months the idea had been gathering at the back of my mind like a small dense tumor. Each time I dared check the tumor it had grown a little larger, and denser.

It would be an accident—of course. Driving along a country road, and there’s a bicyclist—and the vehicle “loses control”—swerves into the cyclist.

With no witness who is to say if the bicyclist had behaved recklessly? Bicycling in the road, making a sharp turn—that’s it for
him
.

No longer did I inquire after “Huang Lee” when I spoke with my dear wife about the Friends School. For I knew that this person was my wife’s lover and that I must not appear to be suspicious of him, or even aware of him.

But in the early hours of the morning as I hunched over Jack of Spades’s writing table the pen in my hand block-printed

HUANG LEE

R.I.P.

in the form of a jocular gravestone epitaph.

It was known that the popular math teacher bicycled to school nearly every day and even, sometimes, in a lightly falling rain, at which time he wore a shiny yellow poncho. Only in winter, and when roads were near-impassable, did the lanky jet-black-haired Asian drive a car—of course, a gas-saving Honda Civic.

Carefully I calculated when Huang Lee was likely to be bicycling to/from the Friends School, and which route he would be taking on the commute of 3.8 miles.

Several times I drove along the likely roads, approaching the Lee house at 299 East Elm Ridge Road, in which the adulterer (allegedly) lived with a wife and two young children, in a “middle-class” suburban neighborhood in Harbourton; several times, all I could do was drive past the house, into Harbourton, turn around and retrace my route, determined to remain calm.

Be patient. Take care. Time is on your side, Andy Rush!

On these drives, Jack of Spades was my companion.

How lonely, but for Jack of Spades!

And, secure between my knees, not visible to anyone who might glance in my direction, a small silver flask containing a very smooth-tasting liquid much recommended by Jack of Spades for the calming of frayed nerves.

It was a cool day, overcast. Few bicyclists on such a day in early spring and so, I reasoned, I would have little difficulty in sighting Huang Lee if/when I saw him.

Not a happy time for Andy Rush. Grinding my back teeth.

Even my dear adulterous wife was embarrassed by the degree to which our sons Chris and Dale had become “estranged” from their father. I’m not sure how it happened. Or even when.

Damned spoiled kids disrespecting their father who’d done so much for them . . .

I’d known that something was fishy, both of them showing up for Sunday supper—as if by accident. And Irina smiling too much.

Jack of Spades tipped me off early. Sharp-eyed Jack of Spades noting how the boys were exchanging glances with each other and with their mother.

Jesus! This conversation is what you’d call A W K W A R D.

Be alert, friend. Watch your back.

Maybe the disrespect begins with the son growing taller than the father. Is there an actual day, an actual
hour,
when the heights are reversed?

In photos, you can see the kids growing. In life, you can’t.

By this time, the boys in their mid-twenties, both were taller than their dad. And looking not much like their dad.

Don’t go there, Andy. Not just now.

Chris was licking his lips nervously, and Dale was picking at his nose (when he thought no one was watching). And their guilty-faced mother Irina was half the time in the kitchen, hiding.

And finally at the end of the A W K W A R D meal when Irina was in the kitchen (of course!) under the pretext of cleaning up Chris turned this wincing smile on me and said in a croaking voice: “Dad, I think we should talk . . .”

And Dale chimed in, jumpily: “Yes, Dad. I th-think we should . . .”

And calm Dad smiled at them, and said: “So? Talk.”

Had to laugh at their flushed faces, anxious eyes.

How gravely they took themselves. And each would’ve been thousands of dollars in debt except that their indulgent parents paid for their overpriced university educations, including even post-graduate training courses, without a murmur of complaint.

And now, their devious adulterous mother had summoned them behind my back.

If there’s one thing a man hates, it is subterfuge within the family.

“Chris, if it’s another loan you need, just tell me. I’ve never turned you down yet, have I?”

Chris was the older by two years. Just slightly deeper in debt than Dale. Spoiled brat with a face like a young Brad Pitt stared at me as if I’d slapped that face and for a moment his mouth worked with no words coming out.

“I—I didn’t come for a loan, Dad . . . I—we—came to talk to you about some things Mom has been telling us.”

Chris glanced at Dale who was gazing stonily at something on the table before him, rubbing his nose.

My tone was gently chiding, bemused—“Really! And what has ‘Mom’ been telling you two?”

“That—that—your drinking has gotten worse, Dad. That—”

“—you’re angry with her all the time, and you’ve threatened her—”

Still Dad was not to be goaded into losing his temper.

“‘Threatened her’—indeed, how?”

“Mom says you’ve grabbed hold of her, you’ve shoved her . . .”

“She says you lose your temper when you’ve been drinking and that your drinking has escalated . . .”

“‘Escalated’—isn’t that a pretty big word? Sons? And where’s the proof behind these charges?”

“Mom told us . . .”

“Mom said . . .”

Dad raised his voice, to summon Mom: “Hey ‘Mom’! C’mon in here, ‘Mom’! There are serious charges being levied against ‘Dad.’”

“Dad, you’re drunk right now. Jesus!”

“Dad, don’t yell at Mom like that. You—you can’t yell at Mom like that . . .”

“Can’t I? Who in hell owns this house?—this property?”
Who is in charge here?
“Mom!” “MOM!”

Wisely, Irina stayed away. Might’ve fled to another part of the house.

“Dad, you’re goddamn
drunk
. That’s what we came to talk about—”

“What’s this, some kind of crap ‘intervention’? The family ganging up against the father? Who planned this?”

“Dad, we’re not against you. We just want to, to—”

“—want to see if something is w-wrong—”

“—in your life, if—”

“—if something is—”

“Look, sons.” (Very calmly, even affectionately, I enunciated
sons
. No one could confuse such solicitude with mockery, or fury.) “Your mother is the one who is emotionally unstable these days. Women her age—you know . . . ‘Menopausal.’ And she’s exhausting herself at that damned Quaker school that pays in moral superiority instead of decent salaries, her and her left-wing liberal colleagues, the worst bigots—there’s the
escalation
. Ask her! Interrogate her! Prosecute her! And I am
not drunk
.”

It was true, I’d been drinking only white wine at the table. Only white wine, so far as the boys knew.

Too bad you don’t have a firearm in this house.

The boys would never disrespect their father if he was properly armed.

Pushed back my chair. Managed to stand, and to exit the room with dignity.

Of course, they called after me—“Dad? Hey—Dad . . .”

Of course, they followed after me—“Dad? Please, we just want to talk . . .”

And Irina as well, following after me, but at a careful distance—“Andrew? Darling, please . . .”

Outside, and in the Jaguar. Out to get some air.

You don’t love them, that’s bullshit.

Never did, and you know it.

Given up enough for them, Mr. Nice-Guy.

Now—it’s your turn.

And then—I saw!—a bicyclist traveling in the same direction in which I was traveling, on East Elm Road. And no witnesses in sight.

It was Huang Lee. Immediately I knew. Lanky, long-limbed, in a Friends School maroon sweatshirt (Irina had one just like it), wearing a shiny yellow crash helmet. As I approached him, pressing my foot on the gas pedal in quick increments, I could see, or begin to see, his flat Asian face—as he turned his head, glancing back over his shoulder, suddenly aware of danger—but too late.

God damn your soul to hell. All of you.