The Pariot GAme (30 page)

“Ask him to say two,” Jenny said.

“Gee again,” Riordan said. “I must remember to get shot more often. Hurts like hell when they take those pliers to your pelt, get the pellets dug out, but you sure do feel appreciated afterward.”

•  •  •

Junior sat on the floor of the front porch of the Nipmunk Country Club, his back against the white pillar that held up the left corner of the roof over the entrance. He was smoking. Howard sat about five feet away from him, on the top step. Cody sat opposite Junior, his back against the pillar on the right. Insects hummed in the midday heat. Junior blew a smoke ring.

“They should let us swim on days like this,” Howard said. “Walter—I was in the pro shop when it started to get so hot this morning—and even he was saying that they should let us swim on days like this. Look—” he waved his hand at the two Volvos in the parking lot—“there isn’t even anybody here except Mrs. Blake and Mrs. Tobin, and they’re not playing today either. There’s nobody here. There’s nobody even using the pool. They should at least let us use it when there’s nobody else even using it. Even Walter was saying that.”

“Bullshit,” Junior said.

“No bullshit,” Howard said. “We’re right here. All Mrs. Blake and Mrs. Tobin want to do is drink their lemonade and eat their fruit salad. They don’t want to play.”

“They’re probably afraid,” Cody said. “They’re probably afraid they’ll get you and when you get out around seven you’ll try to get them to look at your little prick.”

“Leave him alone, Cody,” Junior said. “It’s too hot. They never let the caddies use the pool, any place, Howard. Walter was just saying that because they don’t let Walter use the pool either, unless one of the men guests invites him or something, or it’s in the morning before they open up. They don’t do that anywhere. We’re just niggers. Might make the water dirty or something.”

“It’s not fair,” Howard said. “Nobody’s even using it.”

“They’re probably afraid,” Cody said. “They let one of us
use it, they’ll have to let all of us use it, and then you’ll get in there and try to beat off in the water with everybody looking at you.”

“You shut up, Cody,” Howard said, turning toward him. “You say something like that, I’m gonna kick the shit out of you.”

“Yeah, Cody,” Junior said. He tossed the cigarette into the shrubbery next to the porch. “Leave Howard alone. He’s not doing anything to you. Just shut up, will ya? Or go home or something.”

“He can’t go home,” Howard said. “His mummy’s out selling her ass and his daddy’s in his second childhood, chasing whores all over Boston. Little Cody hasn’t got no place to go. That’s what my father told me. He just gets dumped here every day all summer long until school starts again, and then she doesn’t even have to dump him ’cause the bus comes by and picks him up along with all the other kids. Just like the garbage truck picks up the trash. The other trash.”

Cody landed on the back of Howard’s neck just as Riordan turned the green Fiat into the driveway. The two boys rolled down the wooden stairs, punching at each other, and landed on the pavement of the parking lot as Riordan stopped the car, got out, pulled a blue blazer from the seat and hurriedly put it on over the gun as he trotted toward them. Cody had landed on top and was pounding Howard’s head on the pavement, while Howard yelled. Riordan grabbed Cody by the back of the neck and lifted him into the air, still swinging, and crying. Cody’s lip was split. Howard’s head showed blood and dirt matted in the hair in back under his cap when he sat up. “Jesus Christ,” Riordan said, “what is it about me? Last night I walk into a fight and get the shit kicked out of me, and I get myself repaired and go off today thinking I’m gonna have a nice quiet lunch for myself at the country club and
there’s another fight going on. You guys want to grow up to look like me? That what it is? I think I’m going to go inside and tell the Bishop about you. He oughta know whom to speak to.”

“Eat shit, mister,” Howard said from the ground, crying. “Bishop Doherty’s not coming today.”

“He’s not?” Riordan said. “Why?”

“I dunno,” Howard said, sobbing. “I was in the pro shop and some woman called up and Walter talked to her and when he hung up, we were talking about letting the caddies use the pool on hot days like this when there’s practically nobody here, and he said we couldn’t even count on Bishop Doherty anymore. So I know he isn’t coming either. He was supposed to play this morning.”

“Oh my,” Riordan said, releasing his hold on Cody. “Oh my, oh my, oh my.” He turned away from the boys and started back to the Fiat.

“Hey, mister,” Howard said. His face was still streaked with tears, but he had recovered from his crying. “What happened to you? Get in a fight with a garbage disposal or something?”

Riordan didn’t answer.

The wooden doors of the Rectory of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre were open behind the screen doors. Riordan parked the Fiat in the driveway and climbed the steps. He knocked once, timidly. There was no answer. He opened the screen door and stepped in, closing it behind him. The fat honeybees circled the flowers along the stucco walls, and there were birds dancing on the lawn in the spray from the sprinkler system. He said, softly, “Mrs. Herlihy?” There was no answer.

Riordan cleared his throat loudly and walked down the hallway toward the study. The door was open. He made as
little noise as possible. When he reached the study door, he rapped once on the frame. The bulldog, Spike, walked into his field of vision and stared at him. Then it turned away and walked out of his view. “Mrs. Herlihy?” Riordan said.

She answered in a dull voice. “Who is it?”

Riordan went into the study. She was sitting in one of the red leather chairs, absently scratching the dog’s right ear. The dog contemplated Riordan as it sat down next to her. “Pete Riordan,” he said. She looked at him as though she had thought it would be sufficient if the dog took care of such obligations for both of them. “Oh,” she said, “yes. You.”

“I,” Riordan said, “I was supposed … we were supposed to meet for lunch at the club,” he said. “Yes,” she said. She returned her gaze to the fireplace. “He wasn’t there,” Riordan said. “They told me someone called this morning and said he wasn’t coming.” “Yes,” she said, “I did.” “I was worried,” Riordan said. “I was afraid he might be sick or something.”

“No,” she said, “he isn’t sick.”

“No,” Riordan said. “Well, is there, is there some trouble in the family or something? That I could maybe be of some help to him?”

“I suppose there’s some trouble,” she said. “In his family, I mean. That brother of his. There’s generally some kind of trouble with him. Always has been.”

“Well,” Riordan said, “is that, is that where he is?”

“No,” she said, staring into the fireplace and leaving the bulldog to make eye contact with Riordan. “No, he’s not there. He’s not anywhere. He’s dead. He’s with God. I guess. That’s what he always said would happen. With God. Not here, though. Not here. Dead.”

“Dead,” Riordan said.

“Dead,” she said. “He wasn’t here this morning. He went out last night, late. He didn’t tell me where he was going. He didn’t even say good night. I was in my room. I heard him, the door shut. The car start. He was going to see his brother. That
was what it always was, when he went out like that. He never said good night to me when he went to do that. Never told me. Knew what I would say. His brother was too much for him. I told him that. After his attack. Too much for him. Before, too. Always worried. Worried about his brother. Worried sick.

“I heard him come in,” she said. “Switched on my light. It was after two-thirty. Heard him in the kitchen, getting something. Liquor. Left bottle out. Bourbon. Never drank that. I put on my robe, came downstairs. Peeked in here. He was sitting right in the place where I am now. Spike was sitting there. Father was crying. He was drinking and he was crying and talking to himself and drinking. I went back upstairs. This morning, not here. Knew he had golf. He didn’t come down. Went up, knocked on his door. No answer. Called to him. Opened the door. He wasn’t here.”

“Where was he?” Riordan said. “Where did he go?”

“God,” she said. “Said that’s where he would go. Sooner, later. Suppose he did. Not here. Just what was left of him.”

“His body was here?” Riordan said.

“Umm,” she said. “In the bed. What was left of him. He shouldn’t’ve been drinking. Doctor told him, told me. I told him. You. Your fault. And this business you and he had, whatever it was. Shouldn’t’ve been doing that. He knew that.”

“He seemed fine,” Riordan said.

“Wasn’t,” she said. “Your fault, got him all excited like that. Made him think he was a young man again. He believed you. Wanted to believe you. Monsignor Fahey said that, this morning. Saw Father this week. Father bothered him. Acted strange. Monsignor Fahey said he was worried at the time. Said he should’ve said something to somebody. Maybe the Cardinal. Cardinal always had a way with him.”

“Fahey?” Riordan said.

“Monsignor Fahey,” she said. “Most Precious Blood. Only
friend he had. My sister’s in that parish, she and her husband. I mentioned him once to Father. Father was in the seminary with him. He was a hero, you know. Father spoke very highly of him, what a trim figure he cut. I had to call somebody. Father didn’t have many friends. Arrangements, you know. I couldn’t make them.”

“I didn’t know,” Riordan said.

“No,” she said. “Lots of things you didn’t know.” She put her hands over her eyes. “You can go away now,” she said. “You’re finished here. Father’s dead, and I’m all alone now. There’s nothing more for you to do. I just hope you realize what you’re doing.”

Riordan did not say anything for a while. Then he said: “Yes. Most days, at least. Most days I think I know.”