Seventh Heaven (11 page)

“Come on, Pop,” Jackie said. When he knelt and helped his father up, the Saint felt like a bundle of twigs in his arms. Jackie walked his father into the office and over to a hard-backed metal chair. What Jackie really wanted was a cigarette, but he had never smoked in front of the Saint and he certainly wasn't about to start now. Before he called the police, the Saint phoned Phil Shapiro at work, and God, it made Jackie sick to hear him apologize to Shapiro, to be so fucking silent when you knew that on the other end of the line Shapiro was giving him hell. When he couldn't take it anymore, Jackie leaned over and slammed his hand down on the phone to cut off the call. His father looked up at him, confused.

“You don't have to take that crap from him,” Jackie said. “Let him take his business elsewhere.”

“It was my fault,” the Saint said.

“Pop,” Jackie said, “the car was stolen.”

“I should have had an alarm system,” the Saint said, echoing Shapiro's last words to him.

“Look,” Jackie said, “the Jew's insured. He can afford another Caddy.”

Jackie had turned to hang his leather jacket on a hook, so he didn't see the Saint get up and come at him, didn't even realize what was happening until his father grabbed him and pushed him up against the wall. This was it, this was the explosion Jackie had thought he wanted; finally he'd see the Saint act like a human being. But it wasn't the way Jackie had expected, and it brought him no satisfaction when the Saint let go of him. As the Saint backed off he looked smaller than ever; you could snap him in two with one strong hand.

An hour later, when Hennessy arrived, Jackie was in the garage rebuilding a carburetor, but the Saint was still at his desk, staring out the plate-glass window. Hennessy drove up in his unmarked black Ford, which had an attachable siren he kept under his seat. He parked beside the air pump and got out. There was no business at the station and he could hear the radio playing in the garage. “I Only Have Eyes for You.” Hennessy went into the office, and when the door swung closed behind him, John McCarthy didn't even look up.

“You can't believe the roads out there,” Hennessy said. “Slicker than hell.” He went over to the percolator McCarthy always kept on a small pine table and poured himself a cup of coffee, then realized it was yesterday's and cold. Hennessy put the cup back down on the table and wished someone else had gotten this call.

“The car was my responsibility,” McCarthy said.

“I hate to tell you,” Hennessy said, “but this kind of thing happens all the time. Was the garage jimmied open?”

“He brought it in because the door squeaked. He could have taken it back to the dealer, but I offered to do it for him. It turned out the door just needed a little oil,” McCarthy said. “That's all.”

“Windows broken?” Hennessy asked.

John McCarthy shook his head. “I need an alarm system.”

Hennessy lit a cigarette and took a look around. The floor was so clean he didn't feel right just dropping the match, so he slipped it into his coat pocket.

“Think back to last night,” Hennessy said. “Did you lock the garage door?”

There was a curtain of blue smoke between them. Ice was forming inside the plate-glass window.

“I don't know,” John McCarthy said. “I can't remember.”

Hennessy gave McCarthy the police report to fill out and while he did, Hennessy went into the garage. It was colder here, downright freezing outside the radius of a small electric heater set up on the concrete floor.

Jackie was kneeling on the concrete, singing along with the radio he had set up on the workbench. He had seen Hennessy pull up, and now he felt the cop behind him, but he didn't stop singing.

“Maybe you're Ed Sullivan material,” Hennessy said.

Jackie turned as if surprised. “Mr. Hennessy,” he said, standing. “Yeah.” He grinned. “Maybe I am.”

Jackie watched Hennessy check the garage. No broken glass, no jimmied locks.

“It's a bitch, isn't it?” Jackie said. “Shapiro just brought it in to have the doors oiled. My dad wouldn't feel so bad if it wasn't for that Corvette a while back.”

“Your father ever forget to lock the door?” Hennessy asked. He was standing beside the double doors, giving them the once-over.

“Pop?” Jackie said. “Never. He doesn't even forget to sweep the floor every day.”

Hennessy looked down at the concrete; there was no place to put his cigarette out, so he let it burn down between his fingers.

“You ever forget?” Hennessy asked easily.

“Hey.” Jackie grinned. He could hear his own pulse in his ears. “I may be dumb, but I'm not stupid.”

“Yeah,” Hennessy said. “Yeah, well, do me a favor. Just keep an eye on your father.”

“What do you mean?” Jackie asked. He looked over to the office. The Saint was busy filling out the report, so Jackie figured he could sneak a quick smoke. He got out a cigarette and his silver lighter. He leaned his head away from the lighter when the flame shot up, and he lit his cigarette carefully.

“I don't know,” Hennessy said. “He's confused. He doesn't know if he locked the door or not.”

That was when Jackie knew he had it made. Hennessy didn't suspect a thing. Jackie looked over his shoulder to make sure his father wouldn't catch him smoking, then took a deep drag of his cigarette and tapped the ashes on the floor.

“Yeah, sure,” he said to the cop. “I'll keep an eye on him.”

That night, at dinner, no one said a word about the Cadillac. The Saint ate quickly, then went out to spread salt on their sidewalk, so children walking to school the next morning wouldn't slip and fall. He always took care of the sidewalk all the way to the corner, past the Olivera house. After an hour, the Saint hadn't yet gone home. He was out there, standing on the curb, still holding the bag of rock salt.

A
CE DIDN'T HEAR ABOUT THE
C
ADILLAC UNTIL
the next morning, but he knew who the thief was as soon as Danny walked up beside him and said, “You're not going to fucking believe this. My dad's car was stolen right out of your dad's garage.”

“Oh, yeah?” Ace said. Not one word more; not a cough, not a shrug. Nothing.

“My father is fit to be tied,” Danny said. “Mild-mannered Phil has gone insane.”

Ace's bad blood pumped out of his heart; there was no way he'd betray his brother to Danny.

“He'll get another Caddy and cool off,” Ace said.

“Yeah, well, I'm not supposed to enter your house,” Danny said.

“Come on,” Ace said. “Seriously?”

“He's ripshit,” Danny said. “To tell you the truth, he's been going insane for a while. He's been leaving for work at six in the morning and coming home at nine, and nobody even sees him anymore. But this Cadillac pushed him right over the edge.”

Ace lit a cigarette and thought about the way his brother had leaned back in his chair at the dinner table the night before, grinning like a millionaire when he asked for more potatoes. Ace wished he could cut school and go back to bed. He saw Rickie Shapiro up the street, walking with her friend Joan. Rickie was wearing leather boots with high heels, and every now and then she slipped on the ice and grabbed Joan's arm. Something was different about her; her hair wasn't straight anymore, it was thicker and somehow wild, as if she had given up trying to control it. When she breathed, a plume of white smoke escaped and circled around her.

“You do the report on the Continental Congress?” Danny asked.

“Oh, shit,” Ace said.

Danny reached into his books and took out his report. “Here,” he said to Ace.

Ace stopped and looked at the paper.

“Just rip off the title page,” Danny said.

“What are you going to use?” Ace asked.

“I already have an A average,” Danny said. “He'll bring me down to a B if I don't have a paper. He'll flunk you.”

Ace knew you weren't supposed to let some guy do this for you unless you were like brothers. He felt completely cold, mesmerized by Rickie's red hair; a victim of his own bad blood.

“Thanks,” Ace said. He wedged the report on top of the books he carried home from school but never read. “I owe you one.”

“Yeah,” Danny said. “Just read it before you hand it in, so you can mouth off to Miller if he quizzes you on it.”

Once they were inside the school, Ace went up to his locker on the second floor. He was following Rickie and her friend and thinking about his father putting salt on the sidewalk. At his locker, he quickly turned the combination, threw his jacket inside, then slammed the door shut. He went around the corner and stopped at Rickie's locker. She had hung a mirror on the inside of the door and had just taken her brush out of her purse.

“I like your hair this way,” Ace said.

Rickie looked up at him, made a face, then turned back to the mirror and brushed her hair.

“Your father's really mad, huh?” Ace said.

“Oh, no,” Rickie said. “He loves getting his brand-new car stolen two weeks after he bought it. He's just thrilled.”

She put her brush in her pocketbook, then closed her locker. As she turned to go past Ace, she glanced down at his books.

“What's this?” she asked. She looked closer and recognized the report Danny had been working on the night before. “You're going to let him go to class without a report?”

“Big deal,” Ace said. “He'll still get a B.”

“You really make me sick,” Rickie said.

She'd been just as nasty to him before, but this time Ace felt himself getting angrier than he should. When Rickie tried to pass by him, he didn't move.

“Oh, yeah?” he said.

“Do you mind?” Rickie said.

Ace didn't budge. Her hair was blinding; it could knock you off your feet. Rickie looked at him, disgusted. She moved to the left and so did Ace. She moved forward and Ace immediately blocked her way.

“Cut it out,” Rickie said, panicky.

Ace walked toward her and backed her up against the lockers. Rickie could feel the cold metal through her sweater and her shirt and her bra. There were hot red spots on her cheeks.

“‘Cut it out,'” Ace repeated, with so much menace he surprised himself.

The hallways were less crowded now. Larry Reinhart came by and slapped Ace's back in greeting, but Ace didn't turn. He moved in even closer. He could smell something lemony, like soap or shampoo. Rickie was looking past him, down the hallway, as if something could save her. Ace felt his bad blood get hotter; he could feel himself growing hard. He would have liked to take her right there, on the linoleum floor or up against the lockers. Rickie tilted her face and stared back at him, and when she did Ace saw what he had seen many other times, when other girls looked at him. He realized that he had her.

“I make you sick, huh?” he said, real low, but he knew she could hear him.

Rickie looked so terrified that Ace finally backed off. But there was another reason he had to pull back. He realized that she had him, too. The bell rang, and Rickie still didn't move. Ace turned away and got out of there as fast as he could. He was late, so he slipped into his homeroom while the teacher's back was to the class.

Ace put his boots up on the desk in front of him. The air was heavy with chalk dust and sweat; if you took too deep a breath you might faint. In the seat in front of him, Cathy Corrigan shifted when he pressed his boots against her back. Her hair was teased up and lacquered into place; she was wearing a straight black skirt and a white blouse with ruffles at the wrists and throat. Cathy worked in the A&P after school and was well known as a slut, but she never complained when Ace put his feet up. She didn't say a word. Cathy's neck was perfectly white, and every time she tilted her head her red hoop earrings swung back and forth. Last spring two guys Ace knew had sworn that they had personally been there when Larry Reinhart's older brother had talked her into fucking his dog down in the basement, near the Ping-Pong table and the small refrigerator where Larry's father kept extra soda and beer. Ace stared at Cathy's neck while the homeroom teacher took attendance. He should have been reading Danny's report on the Continental Congress, but instead he was thinking about Rickie, and he felt himself get hot all over again. Cathy Corrigan looked over her shoulder at him; she had a soft, crumpled face and blue eyes. Ace was afraid she had read his mind and caught him wanting Rickie, but then he realized Cathy was trying to move her pocketbook, which she'd hung over her seat. Ace had put one of his boots up against the white leatherette, and now there was a black footprint on one side of the bag.

“Hey, Cathy, I'm sorry,” Ace said.

“That's okay,” Cathy said. She took a Kleenex out of her bag and tried to wipe away the footprint.

“Try Pine-Sol,” Ace suggested. “My mother uses that all the time.”

“Yeah,” Cathy said. “Pine-Sol.”

“Or ammonia,” Ace said. “That might do it.”

“McCarthy,” the homeroom teacher shouted.

Ace shut up. Danny Shapiro shifted in his seat and grinned at him, and Ace realized it wasn't because the homeroom teacher had called out his name but because Danny thought he was trying to score with Cathy.

Ace leaned forward in his seat. “It's a real nice pocketbook,” he whispered. “Real pretty.”

Cathy turned around and gave him a big smile, as if he'd just paid her the biggest compliment in the world, as if no one had ever said two nice words to her before. That just made Ace feel worse; he wished his bad blood would take him over completely, he wished he didn't need to apologize. He sat waiting for the bell to ring, trying not to look at his own black footprint. When homeroom was finally over he waited for Danny in the hallway, then shoved the report back at him before Danny could say a word. Why not? That bastard Miller would never fail him for missing one report. If he did he'd get Ace in his class for another damned year.