Dead Money (21 page)

An incident? he said, raising his eyebrows.

A murder. A homicide.

Good Lord. What could such a thing have to do with me?

Nothing to do with you, I assured him. But maybe something to do with some people you know.

Lucious. I knew I never should have brought him back. What’s he done now?

I don’t know who Lucious is, I said, but I don’t think he’s the person we’re interested in. Do you know Ramon and Raul – I paused involuntarily at the incongruity of the last name – FitzGibbon?

The Fitz brothers! Wallender exclaimed. Of course. They have something to do with this?

His mouth hung open in a convincing show of incredulity.

How is it that you know them? Dorita asked.

I could feel her itching to take over the conversation.

Um, perhaps I should know who you are, Wallender said. Are you with the police?

No, Dorita said. We’re just lawyers.

Oh. Are you representing the Fitzes?

No, I said. We’re representing someone else. Did the police not talk to you about this?

Not me. He paused. His mouth opened, closed.

Ah, he said. I remember now. Yes. I wasn’t here. They talked to Igor.

I see.

Who might it be? he asked. That you represent?

Nobody you would know, Dorita said.

All right. I think I understand. Am I to take it that you’re not at liberty to reveal the identity of your client?

That’s correct, I said.

This seemed to reassure him. He returned to the topic of the twins.

They’re one - two - of our best customers, he said. More than customers. Friends. Part of the fabric of the place. They were here at the inauguration. They pitch in. It’s like the Club is their second home. They’ve been intimately involved in the renovations. They have very good taste.

He paused, perhaps suddenly aware that he was babbling.

So, he said, surely they’re not implicated in some …crime?

He said the last word after a long pause. As if the notion required a serious screening before admittance.

I’m not saying that, I said. Not at all. We’re just trying to put together facts.

Okay, he said, not entirely convinced. What facts can I provide you with?

Let’s start with whether they were here the night of February 18th.

Oh dear. I don’t know if I can tell you that. I’m not so good with dates. I’ll have to check my calendar. Although I can’t guarantee you that will help.

Give it a try, I suggested. You really don’t have anything to lose.

I wasn’t sure what I meant by that last. Apparently he wasn’t either. He gave me a quizzical look. Went into a small room in the back. To check his calendar. Or maybe to call up some guy named Luigi and his lead-pipe-wielding minions to come and break my kneecaps.

Fortunately for my figure-skating career it turned out to be the former. Wallender came back with a smile and a nod.

As it happens, he said, we had a private party here that night. For an old friend. Tenth anniversary. Of his divorce. So I can tell you that they were here. They wouldn’t have missed that party for the world.

I see, I said. Do you remember when they left?

Oh, I don’t know. These things tend to go on all night. Maybe five or six, they left.

Are you sure about that?

Pretty sure.

Is it possible that one or the other left for, say, half an hour?

Well…

Wallender smiled, shrugged.

Listen, I’d love to keep chatting, he said, but this is a very big night
for us. We’re opening the new VIP room. The Dalai Lama will be here. And a thousand things have already gone wrong, of course. Everything was supposed to be ready a week ago. I’m a tad overwhelmed.

The Dalai Lama. Jesus.

Wallender seemed to be sincere. Although since he also appeared to be a man whose vocation was to exude sincerity, I wasn’t sure that meant anything.

Well, I said, thanks for your time. Can we speak to you again at a later date, if necessary?

Of course, of course. Any time. Juan, please, that wallpaper is crooked! he shrieked at a muscular young man on a ladder. We’re going to have to redo the entire wall!

We’d lost him.

I tried one last question as we turned to leave.

By the way, I called to him, how do you come to know the twins?

Oh, goodness, said Mr. Wallender, they’ve been around the club scene forever. They helped design this place. He’s … they’re very sophisticated. I can’t really say when I first met them. Juan, come down here right now! I’ve
got
to talk to you.

He shrugged an apologetic shrug at us, and scampered over to give Juan a wallpaper-hanging lesson.

We left. I suggested that we drop into a local pub for a quick pint of Guinness. Clear the perfume from our heads.

I suppose, Dorita said, Mr. White Swallow could have called the twins when he went into his office, asked them whether they wanted to have been there that night.

Possible. He certainly seems to think highly of them.

Or wants us to think he does.

Yes. Well. I don’t know what we expected to find out, to tell you the truth. But anyway, it’s one more fact to add to the list.

What’s that?

That we don’t know if they could have been near Jules’s place.

That’s a hell of a fact.

Best I could come up with.

Anyway, you’re right, Dorita said. He wasn’t exactly unequivocal about it.

Or forthcoming.

Nor.

Nor. If you insist. I mean, the cops talked to Igor, but Igor didn’t tell his boss what they talked to him about?

And anyway, they’re twins, remember? Couldn’t one of them have been gone for a while? Without anybody noticing?

Sure.
The Patty Duke Show
.

Right.

Dorita began humming the theme song.

Well, I said. Another theory for the pile. But there’s a small piece missing before we can give that one any credence.

What’s that?

I’ve only met one of them. I don’t know that they’re identical. Or even similar.

Ah. Good point.

For all I know, Raul’s got a handlebar mustache.

Or some other hideous deformity.

I STOPPED BY THE HOUSE
on my way to the Wolf’s Lair. To see Kelly. Get the report on Melissa.

Steiglitz had seen her that morning. The prognosis was poor.

There was nothing new about that. Every relapse after the first one made the ultimate chance of recovery worse. It had long been approaching zero.

They were sending Melissa home. There was no point in her staying at the clinic. They needed the bed for more promising cases. Steiglitz had repeated to Kelly the advice we’d heard before. She’s got to hit bottom. She touches another drink, throw her out on the street.

I knew I wasn’t going to do that. No matter what. I just didn’t have it in me.

I didn’t want to be there when she got back. But I hated to leave Kelly alone in the house. I talked her into calling up Peter, asking him over. Usually she didn’t take much convincing, but on this night she seemed determined to wallow in it. Fear. Disappointment. It took me half an hour and a threat to call Peter myself, but she finally gave in.

I decided to wait til he got there. To make sure.

He barged loudly into the house without knocking, as usual. He’d dyed his hair in purple and gold streaks. He was wearing a T-shirt that said ‘I’m like a superhero, but without powers or motivation.’

I’m writing a book, he announced. It’s called ‘Quentin Tarantino Is God.’ It’s all about how Quentin Tarantino is God.

I laughed.

Kelly laughed.

I loved the sound of it.

I knew I’d done the right thing.

They decided to watch episodes of
Family Guy
on DVD. More laughter. Maximally therapeutic. I was even tempted to stay. Watch
Family Guy
with them. Kelly loved it when I did that. I always laughed so hard. It was infectious. It made everything seem even funnier.

But I just couldn’t bear the thought of dealing with Melissa. Yes, it was heinous, I agreed with myself. To leave it to a child. But really, Kelly was more an adult than this old man. She reminded me of that, from time to time. When she caught me smoking. When I yelled at Melissa. Lost my temper.

I needed my Wolf’s Lair too. I needed a Scotch, real bad.

That clinched it.

I bade Kelly and Peter good evening. I added the usual useless imprecations about bedtime, and not eating in the basement.

I wanted everything to seem normal.

The Wolf’s Lair didn’t feel normal, though. Not its usual inviting self. I looked around. The bar was still mahogany. The rail was still brass. Thom was still smiling and warm. The regulars were scattered about in their usual poses. But it didn’t feel right. The stool felt hard, uncomfortable. The Scotch tasted watery. My stomach hurt.

It felt like I wasn’t in control of anything anymore.

I knew the ‘anymore’ part was illusory. I’d never been in control of anything. Certainly not Melissa. Or her Monster. Especially her Monster. Though I may have fooled myself otherwise, once. For a short time. Maybe.

My professional life had always been, would always be, in the hands of others. Even if I quit, or got quit by Warwick, I still wouldn’t be in control. Even if I opened my own shop. I’d always be at the mercy of the market. Of clients.

On top of that chilling realization, I knew that Kelly was getting to the age where, no matter how much she loved her dad – and I had no
doubts on that score – she was becoming her own, independent person. I couldn’t really tell her what to do anymore. I didn’t want to. It wasn’t right. I could no longer think of her as an extension of myself. A thing I’d probably done to a fault, in the past. Contributed to her reclusive tendencies.

Damn, it was hard being a parent.

Hal was at his usual spot, two stools down.

Hey, he said.

Hey.

Did you ever get a chance to play in Jake’s game?

I did. Twice, actually.

How was it?

It was all right. Interesting bunch of characters.

How’d you do?

The first time, I was down all night. Won the big hand at the end. Got back in the black. Next time, I was ahead all night.

Good.

Yes. I like it better that way.

Hal laughed.

I went back to my Scotch.

Hey, said Hal.

Hey.

Did you check out that thing I told you?

What thing?

The thing with his eyes.

I looked at him, raised my eyebrows.

How he looks at you like you’re not there.

No. I didn’t notice that.

Hal went back to his beer.

Hal, I said.

Rick.

You’re deeply weird.

I am?

Yes, Hal. You are.

Well, I guess I am.

Two Scotches and the
Times
crossword puzzle later, Jake came in, brushing snow off his shoulders. He was wearing a plastic raincoat. I hoped it had a lining.

Hey, Rick, he said.

Hey, Jake, I replied, looking at his eyes for signs of vacancy.

They looked pretty normal.

He sat down beside me.

You’ve got a head start on me, he said.

I guess I do, I agreed.

Give me a double, he said to Thom. Got to catch up with Rick here.

Thom laughed, poured him a double. We talked a little poker talk.

The World Series of Poker had been on TV. We talked about our favorite players. There was a whole culture of hold’em. Books, magazines, Internet chat rooms, websites. I recognized some names. The old guard. Amarillo Slim. Everyone’s heard of him. TJ Cloutier, former football player. Tough, solid, fearsome. I knew Ken Smith. He’d been a strong chess player, too. Smith had died a couple of years ago. Now there was a bunch of guys I’d never heard of. Phil Hellmuth. Arrogant, petulant, brilliant with a big stack of chips. Phil Ivey, young, imperturbable. You never knew what he had. And all the rest. Johnny Chan, Men Nguyen (say ‘Wynn’). A multicultural panoply of fearless card mavens.

About four double Scotches in, Jake asked how Melissa was.

I paused. I remembered the ache in my gut. The poker talk had taken my mind off my problems. I wasn’t too pleased to have Jake break the spell.

It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t know.

She’s fine, I said.

There must have been something insincere about how I said it. Jake gave me a quizzical look.

Let’s go smoke a joint, he said.

A joint? I laughed. I don’t know. Last time it weirded me out. I’m very sensitive to it, for some reason.

C’mon. Take a chance.

Jesus. I don’t know.

Come on. Just a toke or two.

All right. If you insist.

I’d never been very good at resisting peer pressure.

We went out back. We smoked a joint. My mind started looping in circles. Everything I said repeated itself in my head. I was a walking echo machine.

I needed a few more Scotches. To calm it down.

I started babbling. Baring my soul to my buddy Jake. At the point when you start throwing your arms indiscriminately around the shoulders of people you barely know. Sharing your darkest secrets. The alarm system shut down.

I told Jake what had happened with Melissa. How depressed I was. How much I loved my daughter, and worried about her.

Maybe it was the novelty of the guy thing. Whatever.

She’s in treatment? he asked.

Kelly? No.

No. Melissa.

In a manner of speaking.

I told him about Steiglitz. His pessimistic prognosis.

At least you have your work, he said to the back of the bar.

Hah, I said. Not a consolation.

I told him about Warwick. Probation. Stress. Anxiety. Fear of failure. Loathing of my colleagues. Most of them, anyway. I didn’t mention Dorita. Some things were sacred.

I knew I was out of control. Drunk. Stoned. But whatever. It felt good to share it with someone. He seemed to be listening, if only with one ear.

You seem preoccupied, I said.

He turned to me. His eyes were vague. He was looking through me. I glanced at Hal, down the bar. He was writing something on a napkin.