Purgatory Chasm: A Mystery (11 page)

“Who did you kill?”

“Someone who fired an automatic pistol at me from six feet away and missed.”

“You didn’t miss.”

“I had a shotgun.”

“Wasn’t it self-defense, then? Why’d you go to jail at all?”

“The DA thought I did a bunch of other stuff around the same time. He couldn’t prove it. So he hosed me on the thing he
could
prove.”

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Do a bunch of other stuff?”

I said nothing.

Trey puffed hair from his eyes, frustrated. “We’ve gone off track,” he said. “What I was trying to ask is how did you get started? How did you learn the things you know?”

I thought about that.

Then I talked about it, in a way I never had.

Funny how these things work. A skill—fixing BMWs and Mercedeses, say—leads you into a situation—running a chop shop that pulls air bags and interiors out of high-end cars, say. The new situation forces you to learn new skills—outsmarting cops, moving firearms around, protecting yourself against the wolves who want a piece of whatever you’ve got. It comes full circle when all anybody knows about you, all they
care
about, are the new skills.

After I drank away my NASCAR ride and my family, I spent a long time cycling through new skills, forgetting the old ones. When I sobered up, the inner-circle Barnburners—the meeting-after-the-meeting crowd, including Tander Phigg—made use of my more recent skills, but they also showed me the old ones were still there. Dust covered but there.

My story killed most of the ride. Trey Phigg listened well. When I finished, he looked at me a long time. I stared at the road but felt his gaze.

“Are you okay?” he said.

I said nothing.

*   *   *

When we got to Framingham, Kieu fed Trey warmed-over lunch. The kid, Tuan, played with Dale and Davey. Randall caught me eyeballing Tuan. Kids can be rough on cats. Randall made a thumb-and-forefinger circle, mouthed “He’s okay.” I appreciated that.

I nodded Randall away from the Vietnamese jabber. As we left the kitchen Kieu gasped at something Trey had said, rose, rushed around the table, hugged him. I figured he must have told her about the death shack.

I filled Randall in while he unplugged his laptop’s charger and sofa-flopped next to me, holding the computer so we could both see the screen.

“First things first,” he said, opening a Word document. “Understand I’m working with sketchy numbers on both ends here. I’m guessing it took ninety minutes to two hours for Trey and family to clear customs and rent a car the night Phigg died, and the newspaper reports on Phigg’s time of death, per the New Hampshire Staties, have a three-hour window.”

His document had links to the articles, copied Google maps, flight schedules, even a weather report from the day in question and EPA gas-mileage estimates for Trey’s rental. Thorough as hell.

“Running the numbers in the most optimistic way possible,” he said, then paused. “Or do I want to say
pessimistic
? Whichever, Trey Phigg could have landed at JFK, cleared customs, fetched his luggage, rented his Dodge, driven straight to Rourke, and hanged his father.”

“
Could
have,” I said.

“Yeah, if the murder happened on the late side of the state cops’ window. And if he drove up I-95 like a bat out of hell. And if he brought the whole family along to watch. And if he figured out how to hoist a man twice his weight.”

“You don’t think he did it.”

Randall shrugged. “If I were a cop or a DA, I might say I’m unable to rule him out.”

“Huh.”

“I went through the address book,” he said, alt-tabbing to a spreadsheet. “You say you’re looking for a New York City connection?”

“An address, maybe a two-one-two area code.”

“You want to go back fifty years? What the hell for?”

“Curious,” I said. “What chased Tander Phigg Junior back to Fitchburg, a place he hated, to work a job he hated, for a father he more or less hated?”

“Oooo-kay,” Randall said, tapping keys. “There are a bunch of area codes for NYC.”

“This would be an old number,” I said. “Trust me—two-one-two.”

“There’s just this one.” He pointed at a number next to the name
Chas Weinberg.

I said, “Google the number.”

He was already opening a browser.

It was a business listing. Charles A. Weinberg, nothing else. Randall did a Switchboard.com search and found the business listed under Art Galleries & Dealers. Wooster Street, New York.

Randall said, “SoHo.” He saw the question in my eyes. “Artsy-fartsy? Loft living? Galleries and coffee shops, Beat Generation style?”

I didn’t know what he was talking about, but it squared with things Trey had said. I asked Randall to print the name and address. Looked at my watch. It was nearly four. My stomach growled as I dialed my cell.

A man answered. His words said, “Charles A. Weinberg, Evan speaking.” His tone said, “You are a piece of shit.”

I said, “Chas Weinberg, please.”

“And your business is?”

“My business is put Chas Weinberg on the phone,” I said. “If he’s not there, I’ll leave a message.”

“Oh dear, a message! Let me … a pen! A paper! A most important message from an exceedingly butch caller! O happy day!” His voice started to fade. I pictured him playing for laughs, other people watching him. “Right! A pen! A paper! A … whoops!”

Click.

I stared at my cell. Then looked up, saw Randall staring at me. “Uh-oh,” he said. “I’ve seen that face. What happened?”

“I’m going to New York.”

“What happened?”

“Can you print me a MapQuest?”

“What happened?”

We stared each other down.

Finally Randall sighed. “Half a plan and your dick in your hand,” he said. “Remember last time we tried it that way?”

I did. We had waded into a restaurant and started a donnybrook that wound up with six guys whaling on each other in a handicapped toilet stall. And we’d left with nothing to show for it. Huge risk, no reward. “This is different,” I said.

“How?”

“New York’s a long drive,” I said. “I’ll leave in the morning, try to get there around eleven. I’ll have plenty of time to cool out.”

“You’re driving?”

“I don’t like flying.”

*   *   *

Charlene got home at six thirty. I was playing Trivial Pursuit with Sophie. TV Edition, the only version I stood a chance in.

Still, Sophie had earned all six of her pie slices and was moving in for the kill when Charlene kicked the front door open. She shouldered in with her purse, her laptop, and a steaming bag from an upscale Italian place.

Sophie and I popped up, went to the front hall, lightened Charlene’s load. Charlene kissed Sophie. “Hey there, last-day girl!” she said. “How does it feel to be a seventh-grader?”

Sophie talked about how it felt while Charlene emptied the bag of lasagna, garlic bread, and a salad. I set the table. We paid a lot of attention to Sophie, egged her on, smiled more than we needed to. After Tuesday, we were grateful to have something to focus on other than each other.

An hour later we had to face each other. Charlene waved good-bye down her front steps as Sophie piled into a giggle-filled Honda Pilot and headed for a sleepover. Charlene walked slowly back to the kitchen where I was stuffing dishes into the dishwasher. She grabbed a Diet Sprite—her big thrill; she’s a drunk like me and the most disciplined person I’ve ever known—popped it, sipped it, set it on the granite countertop. “Well,” she said.

I killed the water, wiped my hands, and leaned on the counter myself. It’s a big kitchen. We were fifteen feet apart. I said, “I came over tonight because I wanted to say good-bye. Going to New York tomorrow.”

“For how long?”

“Probably just the day. Maybe two.”

“Flying or Acela?”

“Driving.”

Half a smile. “You’re scared to fly, aren’t you?”

“Somebody once said a good race driver makes a lousy passenger.”

“You like to be in control.”

“Yes.” I slipped my boots off and stepped to her, put my hands on her hips. She left her hands on the counter and said, “What’s happening, Conway?”

“With this Tander Phigg thing?”

“No. With you.” She cupped my chin. “Where
are
you?”

“I’m here.”

“Technically you’re here,” she said. “Physically.” She made a soft little intake as she said it—I was pushing a little now, hips on hips.

“I’m here right now,” I said.

Charlene stroked my cheek. “No, you’re not.” She walked toward the stairs.

I slept on the couch, Trivial Pursuit shoveled beneath, dishwasher thrumming.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The next day about noon I found a parking space at the corner of Wooster and Spring Streets, New York City. I parked, tossed the MapQuest printout on the F-150’s bench, rubbed my eyes, shrugged tension from my shoulders. It had been a rotten drive in heavy rain.

I hate New York. Too big. Too much.

I took it in. The street was paved with cobblestones. The building was right on the corner. Yellow brick, five stories. The bottom floor was a storefront: black aluminum-framed plate glass that had been tinted near-black. Matte-silver words on the door said
CHARLES A. WEINBERG
. The overall message: Extreme coolness here, tourists will be mocked.

That reminded me of Evan, my buddy from the telephone. I fished in the glove box for a Sharpie, pocketed it, got out, locked the truck, and hunched across the street through the rain.

I pulled the door and winced at the noise that hammered me. Music, I guessed, way too fast, way too loud. I stepped in and forearm-wiped rain from my face.

It was dark enough so that my eyes needed time to adjust. Once they did I saw that around the perimeter of the gallery, every eight feet or so, a spot shone on whatever they were selling—paintings and sculptures, mostly. In a far corner I swore I spotted an Ace Hardware wheelbarrow, rusted, lit like the
Mona Lisa
.

In the center of the space, two kids stared at me. College age? It’s hard for me to tell anymore. Everybody under forty looks … unfinished. The boy was short and couldn’t weigh more than a buck and a quarter. He had bleached and buzzed hair, rabbity eyes behind chunky black glasses. Big surprise: He wore a black shirt, black pants, black shoes.

The girl was dressed the same way. She was taller than me and as skinny as the boy. Looked like a vulture that hadn’t found any roadkill for a while. She had a shaved head with a Chinese character tattooed above each ear. Her eyes were smarter than the boy’s.

I pointed at him. “Evan?”

He either didn’t hear me over the music or pretended he didn’t. I stepped closer and said it again. He ignored me again. The tall girl shifted her weight.

Another step. I said, “Can you turn it down?” Had to more or less shout it, even though I stood two feet away.

The boy said, “The music?”

I cupped my hands. “Is that what it is? Thought it was three Germans banging on washtubs and shouting their times tables.”

The boy gave me deadpan rabbit eyes, but the tall girl half smiled and stepped behind a partition. The music died.

“Thank God,” I said. “Evan?”

He said nothing. The girl returned. I said, “I’d like to speak with Chas Weinberg. He around?”

The girl said, “Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” I said. “Got a piece of paper?”

She found a slip. I pulled my Sharpie and wrote:
Tander Phigg hanged himself 2 days ago
. Folded the sheet. “If Weinberg reads this,” I said, handing it to her, “he’ll want to see me.”

She turned and started toward the back of the gallery. I said, “Wait. Is this Evan?”

She stopped. “That’s Evan all right.”

Evan stared at me, arms folded across his chest. But not for long. I got my left hand under his chin, grabbed his throat, and jacked him to his tiptoes. The girl said, “Hey,” but she didn’t put much into it.

I quick-stepped Evan backward until his bleached head thumped drywall. I watched the fear in his eyes, tried to convince myself I took no pleasure from it. I bit the cap off my Sharpie and said, “Hold still.”

On his forehead, in the neatest block letters I could make, I wrote:
MANNERS
.

He squeaked when I released him, rabbited off to the back where they must have a bathroom. As he passed the tall girl she read his forehead, smiled, covered the smile with a hand. “I’ll be right back,” she said.

I wandered. It
was
an Ace Hardware wheelbarrow. The tire was half inflated, and surface rust fought with the sky-blue paint. A card on the nearby wall said it was a found object by so-and-so. There was no price tag.