The Lacey Confession (37 page)

“What does your sister Jean look like?” Walter asked, a sickening feeling creeping up from his stomach, looking to shut his lungs down tight as a drum.

“She's forty years old and forty pounds overweight.” For a moment, Walter stopped breathing.

It's never cold on St. John. Rarely is it too hot. When the rains come, people like it. True, a hurricane in September or October can make things unpleasant for a while, but the storms are never as bad as the television news says they will be. Most days in February are the same—seventy-something degrees, bright sunshine, sea breezes. Light, wispy clouds float across St. John's blue skies, most often in small bunches on their way in from St. Thomas to the west. The hotels are full. The houses are rented. The beaches are packed and so too are the restaurants and bars in Cruz Bay. Dinner reservations, in February, are a must.

Walter's visit with Roy Messadou presented a continuing puzzle. The solution evaded him. He thought about it late into the night. Walter was a late riser at home. Often he liked to drop in a DVD and watch a movie at one or two in the morning. These days getting to sleep at three-thirty, even four, was not unusual. He wondered if his heart attack and bypass surgery had affected his sleep patterns. By nine or nine-thirty, ten at the latest, he was up. Denise knew to have a fresh pot of coffee ready. She also knew he would have his breakfast at Billy's, even in February.

On Sunday he walked into Billy's a little after ten. Billy was still in back checking the meat and fish. Ike was eating a bowl of something, sitting alone at his table out front near the sidewalk. He smiled at Walter and Walter smiled back at the old man. He was not in his seat five minutes when Helen brought him some scrambled eggs and buttered toast—lightly buttered—and a cold bottle of Diet Coke.
The New York Times
, Sunday edition, was within reach, sitting unopened on the bar at the far end near the kitchen where Walter always sat. Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons played on Billy's superior sound system.
“I love you, baby.”
This Sunday began no differently than many others.

“Best oatmeal I had since . . .” Ike was searching for a time. A man as old as he was had a lot of time to sort through. He blew out an amazing amount of smoke from his mouth and nose, holding the cigarette, fast approaching butt size, up in front of him like it was some kind of pointer. “Since the Army,” he finally said.

“Thank you very much, Ike,” said Helen, truly pleased the old man had enjoyed her out-of-the-ordinary choice of a breakfast for him. Most mornings he ate a single hard-boiled egg and three or four pieces of bacon. Today, she brought him oatmeal saying, “You know, all that pork you eat doesn't go well with that tobacco.”

“Huh?”

“What I mean Ike is, that stuff will kill you. Either one probably. The pork or the cigarettes.”

“Damn, Helen,” said Ike, a man whose dignity could absorb substantial assault without damage. Still, he said, “You married him, but it looks like you got a attitude transplant from him too. You and Billy, now one of a kind.”

“Why thank you Ike,” she said with a gracious smile and curtsy, certain there was more pride than truth, more humor than hurt feelings in his protest.

“When were you in the Army?” Walter asked from across the bar. He knew perfectly well Ike had never been in the Army.

“The Army? Did I say I was in the Army?”

“Yes you did,” Helen said.

Walter said, “The oatmeal, Ike. The best you had, you said, since the Army.”

“Oh, that. I didn't mean I was
in
the Army. 'Cause I wasn't. Nope. Tried to be, but I didn't make it. Didn't want any more Negroes, they said. Had enough. I believe I said
since
the Army. I was in the Navy, you see. Officers' Cook, Second Class. And, let me tell you, that's what we was back then—second class.”

“What about the Army and the oatmeal?” Helen asked.

“I was slaving on that ship, colored boy hidden away in the very bowels of that fine vessel. Until we made port in Ireland. I met up there with these Negro Army troops, 92nd Infantry. Brave young men. Wouldn't let them fight, so they sat there, in Ireland, where there was no Nazis, drinking and messing with the local women. Serving their country, in their way. I hung around them as much as I could back then. Anything to stay off that ship. One morning I went over to where they had this mess hall. That's where the oatmeal comes in. I ate that oatmeal, sitting there with maybe fifty Negroes. First good meal I had since I left St. John. This one,” he said pointing to his empty bowl, flashing one of his trademark grins, “second only to it.”

Billy came out of the back, into the bar. He carried a cup of coffee in one hand and a receipt in the other. “Sonofabitch,” he muttered. “He shorted me on the red snapper.” He handed the receipt to Helen. “You call him and tell him to get it over here—all of it—right now—or I'll call him and he won't like that one bit. This is not the first time, you know.”

Walter finished his breakfast in silence. Everybody's mood seemed a little off this morning. By the time he was done, people were starting to filter in for lunch. It's February, Walter reminded himself. Billy's will be jammed all day and all night. No wonder he's pissed about the red snapper. There's nothing worse for him, once he runs out, than to have to tell customers the snapper is not available. Billy—and now Helen—took great pride in how well the place was managed. Running out of an item, a specialty of the house no less, would make him look bad. The embarrassment would gnaw at him.

“That fish man better come back with the fish,” said Ike. “Billy's so upset he might just kill the man.”

“Nah,” said Billy. “I'm pissed all right, I might push the sonofabitch around, but nobody goes and kills somebody because they're . . .”

“Embarrassed?” Helen gave him the word. She'd been doing that more and more lately and it seemed he liked it.

“Yeah, embarrassed—and that's what I'd be. Money, that's what people kill for, Ike. And love. Money and love.”

“You think so?” said Walter.

“You still here, Walter?” joked Ike. “Haven't heard a peep out of you.”

“Still here, old man. Money and love. Is that it, Billy?”

“Believe it,” said Billy. “I know what Ike's saying—got a point—but it's the wrong one. Some people look like they'll kill somebody because they've been shamed, you know. But that ain't it. I knew a man once, his wife took up with a guy. Big mistake on her part. Her husband, this was no man to fuck around on . . . if you know what I mean.”

“Was that New Jersey, hon?” Helen asked.

Billy looked at her, stared at her steely-eyed, quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Yeah, New Jersey.”

Walter caught Ike's eye as Billy spoke. New Jersey? He knew Ike was asking himself the same question. Was this more of Billy's mysterious past, more than they had ever heard coming from his mouth? “Anyway, this guy—the one whose wife was playing him—his wife gets taken out.”

“Taken out?”

“Just listen, Helen,” said Billy, irritated. “She gets shot. Real messy. In the face, and down . . .” He looked down and motioned clumsily to his groin.

“She got shot there?”

“Helen!”

“Sorry.”

“Well,” continued Billy. “We all figured he did it, you know, the guy, the husband—and we figured he did it himself. The cops figured it the same way. Christ, every phone his wife talked on was wired. Should've known better. The cops knew everything.”

“He was plenty embarrassed, this guy?” Ike asked, then answered his own question. “Had to be.”

“Yeah, sure he was embarrassed. You would be too if you were . . . you know . . . a kind of boss and everything, and your wife was fucking some guy on the side and the cops had it all on tape. But he didn't kill her. We had it all wrong. Cops too.”

“Who killed her?” Walter asked, by now on the edge of his seat.

“You kill her, Billy?”

“Fuck you, Ike! What are you, crazy? I didn't kill her. I ain't talking about me. You're missing the point here.”

“Okay,” said Ike inhaling as much smoke as he possibly could in a single breath. “Okay. I got you now.”

Billy was leaning on the bar with both hands. Walter could see his jaw was tense, his teeth clenched. Whatever this was, it was hard for him. He wanted to reach out and help his friend, but he had no idea how. Helen too. Walter could see she felt the strain, wanted to do something, but what? She stood there, respectfully silent.

“The other guy did it,” said Billy. “The guy she was fucking.”

“No!” said Helen, eyes as wide as saucers.

“The reason he shot her up so badly was to make it look like the husband did it. You can see that.”

“Oh yeah, make it look like the angry husband,” Ike said. “I can see that.”

Billy took in a big breath of fresh air. He needed it. “See, people think you'll do anything if you're embarrassed enough. Even kill somebody. But that's not what it's about. It's about the money. It's always about the money.”

“Where's the money here?” asked Helen.

“The husband kept a lot of cash in the house. The kind of business he was in made that a smart move. I'm telling you, a lot of money, probably a couple hundred thousand. So, the guy who's fucking his wife finds out where the money is, where the husband stashed it in the house. He kills the wife—like I told you—and steals the money. And, to cover his tracks, he sets up the husband.”

“How did the husband get off the hook?” asked Walter.

“What makes you think the husband got away, Walter?” Helen asked.

“Oh, he did. No doubt about that, right, Billy?”

“Well, I'll tell you, Walter. The husband had some friends and when we . . . when these friends saw the cash this guy was laying out, not so broke anymore, going to Atlantic City and stuff, they sort of put two and two together. They sat him down and it didn't take much. He confessed the whole thing. Once that little shit stepped up, told the cops everything, the husband, they let him go.”

“And the other guy, the one who did it, he went to jail?”

“No, Helen. He never went to jail. He didn't make his trial. Something happened to him before his case got that far.”

“You mean, he . . .”

“That's another story which we're not interested in,” said Billy, the tone of his voice making it very clear he had reached the end of his tale.

Walter looked over at Ike. He motioned with his hands, a sort of unspoken question for the old man, like—what have you got?

“Not me,” said Ike. “Billy, you wear me out. I got nothing for that. You are most definitely in a class by yourself today. Unless Walter has something to say. Walter?”

“I'll say only this, and then I'm getting the hell out of here, before the bushwhackers take over. I think we ought to vote on it.”

“Vote on it? Vote on what?”

“You said it, Billy. Love or money.”

Ike said, “That's good. That's very good, but I do believe we need to throw embarrassment in there with them. We do need three, do we agree?”

“Love, money and embarrassment,” said Billy scratching his recently clean-shaven chin. “Okay with me.”

“Write it up,” said Walter.

“Un huh,” echoed Ike.

“Can I do it?” Helen asked. Billy looked to his friends and seeing no resistance, he flipped the chalk to her. She grabbed it out of the air, with one hand and a big smile that said—
I'm one of you!
And she slid herself over to the rimless chalkboard next to the old cash register and wrote, in strong capital letters: LOVE/MONEY/EMBARRASSMENT.

Walter was already thinking about money.

When Tucker Poesy walked into Billy's she looked very different from the last time. Of course, the last time she didn't exactly walk in. She was carried in on a chair, a chair she was attached to in a most unfriendly manner. Billy's wasn't exactly open then—she was brought in at four in the morning. And Walter was not on the island. He was already gone, off to Washington, he thought, but really to New Mexico. Walter was here now and he heard her behind him. She was dressed for the climate. This was a woman who traveled well. She wore shorts, tight, white shorts showing off her dancer's legs. A bare midriff was topped by a blue t-shirt with a picture of the Dixie Chicks on it. Underneath them was written, FUTK. Walter had no idea what that meant. She had no baggage—it must have been stowed somewhere already, he thought—and she was as cheerful as any first-time bushwhacker, fresh off the boat from St. Thomas. She could easily have been from Pittsburgh or Minneapolis, come to St. John looking to spend some money and drink a few of Billy's more exotic beverages. This was a woman Billy had some experience with—under the worst of all possible conditions. He had personally hosed her down when she needed it most.

“Hello, Billy,” she beamed.

“Hello,” he replied, more than a little tentatively. Walter had clued him in, but it was still a little difficult for him. It didn't make any sense to him. What would he do, he thought, if somebody from Jersey, someone from his past—when he was another person, with another name—what would he do if they just walked into his bar and said, “Hello, Billy.” Shit, Walter must know what he's doing.

Walter turned in his seat, smiled broadly at her and said, “You look terrific, Tucker. I'm really glad to see you. Ike, Billy, Helen, I want you to meet my friend, Tucker Poesy.” She smiled to each, greeting Billy as if he was a perfect stranger. This girl's got balls, he thought.

“Nice to meet you,” Helen said.

Ike's warm, toothy smile, and a tip of his Cleveland Browns cap—Helen was sure he wore it to both honor Jim Brown and annoy her—did not obscure his immediate, first reaction. Boom! It just happened in his head. The old man couldn't help it. He saw Isobel Gitlin, right there in front of him, clear as day on the water. Now, that girl had been nothing but trouble for his friend Walter. God only knew what damage this one had in store. Some people, Ike was sure, spent their whole lives waiting for something, for someone. Other people spent their lives running away from it—from somebody, most likely. He knew Walter was special—among the cursed, sad to say—and there was nothing he could do about it. He had one foot looking and the other running. Cursed, thought Ike, truly cursed. Still, his ancient, creaky bones and wrinkled face wished Gloria would hurry up and come.

“What'll you have?” Billy asked Tucker. She leaned in on him, so only he could hear her. “I eat and drink for free,” she said. He nodded his acceptance. It was the least he could do.

“I'm starving,” she said, loud enough for all to hear. Then she ordered a steak—the biggest rib eye on Billy's menu. “Is that prime beef?” she asked. Billy just looked at the floor. He made no effort to respond. “Fries and salad with that,” she said.

“What are you drinking?” he asked, practically unable to look her in the eye.

“How 'bout a big bottle of your best champagne. You know, the one that goes for a hundred and seventy-five bucks a pop.”

“I don't carry that.”

“Well, order some. I may be here awhile. In the meantime, a Corona will do.” Billy walked away thinking he was getting off cheap.

Walter and Tucker Poesy sat in Billy's all afternoon. She ate her steak and drank her beer. He nibbled at a fruit and veggie plate Helen prepared for him and sipped his usual. He had given up all pretense. He talked business, right there at the end of Billy's bar. A couple of times he thought about it—uneasy thoughts—but what the hell. Ike really was right. He was retired. There were no rules anymore. He was no longer working for Conchita Crystal. This was all on him. He bore the load. They killed Harry and he had become
the Cowboy.

He had it now. Almost the whole story, from beginning to end. Well, not quite. A few details still stumped him, especially the very beginning. Whatever he still didn't know didn't matter, at least for now. He wanted Tucker to get it the way he had. He didn't want to tell her. He was afraid she might simply take his word for it. He wanted her to figure it out for herself. So, they talked about details, not the wider picture. He put his part in. He told her how someone had approached him with the job. He still did not mention Conchita Crystal. Walter had been protecting clients for forty years. Even if he wanted to, he wasn't sure he could reveal one now. But it didn't matter. It was what happened, the order of events, the puzzle and its pieces. No puzzle had to be perfect. Chita was a piece that could be left out. He told Tucker about Harry's Aunt Sadie, and went over his discovery of Bergen op Zoom and how fortunate he was to have a contact in Holland—his old friend Aat. Finding Harry turned out to be the easiest part. He told her about Devereaux—about Il Localino. It rankled him still. Just the mention of it flushed his face. She had to notice. Devereaux knew he was on the job—knew even who hired him.

“Who?” she asked.

“No. I can't, Tucker. But it's not important.”

Once the narrative reached Amsterdam, Tucker filled in her side. Devereaux called her, in London, told her to meet Harry Levine and get the document from him. She never said, but Walter wondered if she would have killed Harry too. He meant nothing to her. Walter liked her. He liked her more the more he was with her. But she was a killer and she was the most dangerous of killers. She was what he had always thought of as a swatter. Like swatting flies, she could shoot anyone without asking why, without caring why—walk away without a second thought. Shooting people was what she did. The only question for Walter was, could she kill someone she knew, someone she had nothing against? Could she have killed Harry Levine? He'd never know. It turned out Harry showed up to meet her without the document. She didn't do this well, and admitted as much to Walter. She scared Harry off and he lit out for Holland. Tucker said she got a call, from Devereaux, with Walter's flight plans. She was there, waiting for him, when he landed in Holland. The rest was all her. She followed him to Bergen op Zoom and then all the way back to Amsterdam, spotted their little hideaway, and decided to make her move the next day. By then it was too late. Finally, Devereaux sent her to St. John.

“He knew you were coming back.”

“I came back to meet Abby O'Malley. Let me tell you something about her.”

Abby O'Malley's phone records showed a million calls to Louis Devereaux. Walter saw the regularity with which she called him and asked his contact in the phone company to check back as far as he could. Sure enough, she had been calling Devereaux's home phone for as long as they had records of her calls. It was easy after that. It didn't take much to find out they both went to the University of Chicago Law School. A few phone calls to people there turned up plenty of information about a couple of distinguished graduates. Abby O'Malley and Louis Devereaux, together as a pair, went back decades. That explained Sean Dooley.

“You called Devereaux, didn't you?” he asked Tucker.

“Sure,” she said.

“And you told him I was comfortably settled, with Harry Levine, in Amsterdam.”

“Right.”

“And you told him exactly where.”

“Of course, and that I wasn't going to do anything about it until the next day. Oh, fuck!” shouted Tucker Poesy, still pissed at her own stupidity. Billy looked down the bar, in her direction. She waved him off. “Sorry,” she mouthed, since there was no way he could hear her from there unless she screamed again. Then she apologized to Walter too.

“Devereaux called O'Malley,” she said, having put two and two together and gotten four. “The sonofabitch. O'Malley gets her boy into action immediately. But he's a fuck-up artist. You beat it out of him and then beat it out of there. All the while I'm sleeping in a hotel overlooking the canal around the corner.”

“I like that,” said Walter. “The canal around the corner. Sounds like a Dutch country and western song.”

He filled her in again on his travels with Harry. They had gone over this part in Puerto Rico, but Walter could never repeat things too much. Like an athlete, deep into an intense training regime, for Walter, it was the repetitions that were the key to success. The more a fact was scrutinized, the more certain he could be it was a fact. That brought them to St. John, and their first meeting. It seemed an uncomfortable moment for Tucker, but Walter was apparently undisturbed. She noticed that and it actually made her feel better. If he was cool with this, why shouldn't she be?

“This is where Devereaux fucked up,” he said. “Can you tell me how?”

“Sure,” said Tucker Poesy, by now able to dissect this with the same detachment Walter had. “You were supposed to kill me. That fucking Devereaux—sonofabitch!”

“Exactly right, my dear girl. I was supposed to kill you. I'm sure you do your job very well, but messing around trying to fool me isn't part of your job description. You were set up. Devereaux knew you were impulsive. He knew you'd make some kind of move on me—even though it made no sense. And he figured I'd kill you.”

“You didn't have the document,” said Tucker. “He knew you didn't have it. You would have been nuts to bring it with you. He sent me to get something he knew wasn't there. But why did he want to get rid of me? Why did he want you to kill me?”

“He didn't need you anymore. He either already knew where Lacey's journal was, or was about to know. You had too much information. You were the man—or in this case, the woman—who knew too much. You may not have known precisely what Lacey had written, but you certainly had to know it was worth killing for.”

“He didn't need me anymore? You mean he needed to get rid of me?” She sounded like she was shocked.

“Yeah. Cover his tracks. Loyalty,” said Walter, holding his hands out like the scales of justice, pretending to be Devereaux. “To you—or to me? Snap decision. Easy. You were an asset that had become a liability. But, like I said, that's where he made his mistake. He had you figured pretty good, but not me. He was sure I'd kill you, but I didn't. I let you go once I realized you didn't kill Harry.”

“You took your sweet time about it.”

“Water under the bridge,” said Walter. “We're in a tough business, you and me.”

“What now?”

“Devereaux killed Harry Levine—or had him killed. He tried to kill you, through me. And, no doubt, his plans eventually called for getting rid of me too. Everything in due time. It's time now. It's his time.”

“Let's go get the little prick,” Tucker Poesy said.