The 56th Man (20 page)

"Was someone from your group patrolling the
area the night of the murders?"

Howie Nottoway stiffened. "Well...yeah...it
was Bobby Lovelace's turn. He swears he was doing the route and he
didn't see anything. But he's..."

"Not trustworthy?"

"He parties with the Mackenzies."

"Ah. Well, you must admit, Tracy Mackenzie is
hard to resist."

"I don't admit nothing," Howie said in a
surly tone.

"I didn't mean to offend you." Ari made an
apologetic gesture. "You seem to have doubts about anyone who
associates with the Mackenzies."

"It's nothing I can prove..." Howie took a
deep breath. "I wouldn't be surprised if they're into drugs. But
don't quote me. Like I said..."

It's something
I
can
prove
....

Ari smiled.

"Anyway, it's not just that. There's all the
drinking--"

"And parties."

"You can tell they're all looped. Drunk."
Fear and envy soaked Howie's analysis.

"And the Riggenses...?"

"Sure they partied, but not like that. And
most of them were like social events. They had good people over.
Well, city officials. Even the deputy mayor, once." Howie lowered
his voice. "A lot of blacks."

He choked up, suddenly realizing that in some
quarters Ari might be considered a person of color. Ari pretended
not to notice.

"Did they ever attend the Mackenzie
parties?"

Howie was stumped. "I don't have a clue.
Maybe they did. I was surprised Jerry didn't volunteer for the
Neighborhood Watch--if just for appearance’s sake. Maybe he didn't
want to end up calling the police down on one of their loud
parties. He'd never get invited back."

So the Mackenzie's weren't the only ones with
a low opinion of the civic hoopla surrounding Jerry and Moria. Yet
Howie's interpretation varied from Matt and Tracy's sour view of
the accolades bestowed on their neighbors. Some manifestations of
hypocrisy were more acceptable than others, and Howie did not think
the Rigginses had been too outrageous on that score. In fact, he
was remarkably sedate about it, if what Ari was thinking turned out
to be true.

"You never went to one of their parties?"

"At the Mackenzies? Wouldn't have gone if I
was invited."

"Yes, Matt smokes cigarettes."

Howie had already noted the bulge in Ari's
shirt pocket and prudently refrained from comment.

"Matt Mackenzie seems to think there was a
disturbance at the Riggins house some hours before the
murders."

The silence regarding cigarettes carried over
to the new topic.

"They both say they heard Jerry having some
kind of fit, that he was slamming something."

Howie's head slid sideways, as though his
thoughts had become unhinged. "They probably hear pink elephants
stomping on their gardenias, too."

"You didn't hear anything?"

"No."

"But you were here that day?"

"Yes. I think I told you that before."
Howie's eyes narrowed. "You're really curious about this?"

"I'm pestering you," Ari apologized.

"Well, it's going to take me the rest of the
morning to do these logs."

"Of course." Ari made a show of suddenly
remembering why he had come here. "Oh...if it's possible, could I
borrow your sledge hammer?"

Howie stared like a man dazed by a hit from a
sledge hammer. "Why...?"

"There's a little job I need to perform. I
could have it back to you in an hour."

With a nervous glance at the shed, Howie
said, "I don't have one. Sorry. That was one of the things stolen
before I locked everything up. I haven't gotten around to replacing
it."

"Remarkable. They stole a sledge hammer, but
not your expensive machine here?"

Howie shrugged. There was no explaining the
criminal mind.

"When did this happen?"

"Last…over a year ago. Listen--"

"Of course." Ari turned away.

"Watch out for the flagpole base."

"I'm sorry?" Ari asked, a little surprised
that Howie had jumped forward to escort him.

"I put up a flag a couple years ago. There
was a stink about it."

"Was it an Iraqi flag?"

"Hell no! American, red, white and
blue." Howie threw his arms out, as though shoving away any
suggestion that it could be anything else. "But there was a HOA
ordinance against flying
any
type of flag.”

“’
HOA’? You mentioned that
before.”

“
Homeowners’ association. This one was
set up in the mid-Seventies, long before I ever got here. They’re
supposed to make sure people treat their property responsibly, but
this is crossing the line.” He gave the base a kick. “It was a
good, solid flagpole, too. Twenty feet high, white enamel on
aluminum."

"But I've seen flags--"

"In other neighborhoods. Not this one. They
say it detracts from the aesthetic value of the homes. Idiots. And
there I am trying to protect them from the bad guys. Here..."

The base was formidable, a concrete slab with
a metal slot in the middle for the pole. Ari couldn't imagine being
so blind as to trip over it--unless one were actually blind.

"Won't be easy getting that sucker out.,"
Howie said, exhausted by the very idea of removing it. The man
seemed to be preoccupied with destroying his own creations. Flags,
woodpiles...what next? Would he be tearing down his shed because it
was too vulnerable to break-ins? Howie continued: "Have to do it
one day, though. Someone breaks a toe on it, I get sued. That's one
thing you'll learn. Everyone here spends half their day suing
someone about something."

One good thing about bombs and bullets: they
take a tiny fraction of the time of a lawsuit.

“
Did Jerry Riggins ever have any
problems with this homeowners’ association?”

“
He wanted to build a pier at one time.
They wouldn’t let him. The association said this isn’t a harbor
community. He made a little bit of a fuss, but not
much.”

“
Does the association have anything to
say about the loud parties at the Mackenzies?”

“
I wish it would! No, only if they left
their trash laying everywhere the day after. But they always find a
way to clean up their mess pretty quickly. If you keep your
property clean, and keep your hedges clipped, and don’t tack on any
additions to your house or put up flagpoles, the charter doesn’t
much care what you do. Worthless.”

A girl of about nine was strolling down Beach
Court Lane, peering into the woods adjoining the river and calling
out: "Marmaduke! Mar-ma-duuuke...!"

"Hello, Diane," Howie said, adding a curt
wave. "He's run off again?"

"Hi, Mr. Nottoway." She was wearing a pink
and green rumba dress, her bare legs flouncing the ruffled layers
at her knees. Ari offered a minimal, neutral nod which she saw no
need to respond to. Nor did Howie feel pressed to make
introductions.

"I wouldn't worry too much about him," Howie
told Diane. "He knows his way around."

"But he keeps going back to--"

"I'm sure he's in the woods hunting
squirrels."

Diane appeared aware that her words had been
rudely censored and instantly set off at a brisk clip. It looked to
Ari like a well-practiced reaction to boorish adults.

"Marmaduke!"

Instead of hastening Ari's departure, Howie's
intention now seemed to be to keep him at his side, at least until
Diane was well away. But it was too late. Ari did not need to ask
the girl for details about her missing pet. He now knew
approximately where Sphinx had spent the last nine months...and
that it was on the loose again. He did not know much about cats,
except that they were marvelously unfaithful.

"Pets," Howie shook his head. "We have a dog.
Not much for home defense. A pug something-or-other. But he'll wake
the dead if a stranger comes in the house."

Ari got the impression that not many
strangers entered Howie's home. Not many other people, either.

"I have geese," he said seriously.

"I..." Howie's confusion was distracted when
he saw Ari staring at the flagpole base. "Don't get the wrong
idea."

"Hmmm?"

"Just because they made me take down my flag
doesn't mean I don't believe in my country anymore."

"I can see you're a good citizen," Ari
said.

"This is still the best of the best. We got
freedom of speech, freedom of the press, freedom to you-name-it.
It's an honest country. That word they use now...transparent. We're
transparent. I wouldn't want to live anywhere else. This is the
best goddamn country in the world."

Ari gave his neighbor a straight, honest
look. "I understand, Mr. Nottoway--"

"Howie," Nottoway cringed eagerly, as though
being on a first-name basis was proof enough of his country's
worth.

"Yes. Howie. Thank you. However, I must tell
you that I...visited a land with one of the most repressive regimes
imaginable, and do you know what the people there told me when I
asked what they thought of their country?"

"What?"

"Exactly what you just told me now," said
Ari.

At Lowe's, Ari placed a sledge hammer and bag
of zip ties in his cart. He then approached a clerk and asked which
tool would serve best to cut into an air duct—and experienced his
first real sense of cultural dislocation since his arrival in this
country. Everything up to now could be equated with something in
his homeland. His ignorance of how to purchase and prepare basic
food had been just as profound before, when a servant or his wife
cooked his meals, or when he could pick up something familiar
ready-made at a kiosk. Even Howie’s HOA had a parallel, though his
own community association had had much harsher penalties and
methods of enforcement. As for the shoot-out in the grocery
store…well, violence was everywhere. But when the Lowe’s clerk
casually asked him if his house was old and used tin in its HVAC
ductwork, or if it was relatively new and used galvanized steel, or
if he had polyurethane foam panels, or fiberglass duct boards, and
would he be cutting near a flex, or zone dampers, or the stack
head, or the stack boot…Ari felt the same sinking in his gut that
affected a million other would-be do-it-yourselfers every day.

“
It would help if I knew what you
intended to do,” the clerk continued helpfully. Ari’s obvious
bemusement prompted him to add, “You might want to call in a
contractor.”

“
Actually, it’s a very minor problem,”
Ari said. “My son dropped something into the duct and I want to get
it out.”

“
Oh wow, he lifted the floor
register?”

“
Actually, it was near the
ceiling.”

“
What, he climbed a ladder?”

“
The little devil is quite
nimble.”

“
If it’s small I wouldn’t worry about
it.”

“
It’s actually fairly large,” Ari
thought quickly. “A toy truck.”

“
Double wow! A Tonka? Remind me never
to have kids!” The young clerk spotted a coworker and called him
over, repeating what he had just heard. The coworker, older,
scrutinized Ari through his thick glasses.

“
How old is your boy?”

“
Five.”

“
Mmmm…big enough to cause trouble.” The
older man paused. “You really want to go to all that bother? I
mean, we could sell you a pair of snips, but some of that old tin
is hard to cut—if it is tin, that is. Either way, you’d have to cut
a hole first. Malco makes a good cutter. You attach it to your
power drill. Kinda pricey.”

“
I’ve seen people use a jigsaw,” the
young clerk offered.

The older clerk laughed with horror. “A
jigsaw on sheet metal duct? Up and down like that?” He rubbed his
chin. “You might try an angle grinder. Or a Robosaw with a bit for
metal. Bottom line, though, is do you know where this truck ended
up? Is it caught at an angle? Or on a damper? Did it go down to the
basement? You weren’t there when it happened? You didn’t hear it
land?”

Ari shook his head in mortification.

“
Get a professional. They got these
things now, motorized brushes with video cameras.”

“
Rotobrush,” said the young
clerk.

“
That’s it.”

Seeing Ari’s reluctance, the older clerk
said, “You might just want to swing a hook down the register and
see if you can catch it. Attach a little magnet and it might work
itself over to the toy. You might get lucky.”

“
I see…”

“
Run your air and see if your hear a
rattle, first.”

Ari added fifty feet of vinyl rope, a
refrigerator post-it magnet and bungee cord hooks to his
basket.

There were no ash trays to be had.

He was annoyed that his handlers could see
his credit card purchases, but comforted by the confusion those
purchases were sure to cause. Still, he would need cash, and soon,
if for no other reason than that many ethnic stores did not accept
plastic. His taste buds were crying out for proper food.

By noon he was at the Wal-Mart across the
parking lot from the hardware store. He spent about ten hopeless
minutes in the Food Center before surrendering to his inadequacy as
a cook and going off in search of an ash tray. He was in the Home
Décor department when a woman came up behind him and gave him a
painful bump on the Achilles tendon with the undercarriage of her
shopping cart. He turned, frowning. The petite blonde he had met
briefly at the Foxfire Gallery made a dramatic show of
contrition.

"Aw gee, sorry sir!"

"I believe the appropriate response in
America is, 'sorry my ass'," Ari fumed, reaching down and rubbing
his ankle.