Hardware (15 page)

The air splint was a plastic contraption fitted with a beach-ball-type valve. Keith raised the gizmo to his lips and blew. After rolling up his shirtsleeves, he disappeared into the kitchen. I could hear water running in the sink.

“Checking for leaks,” he called.

“Good idea,” I said.

He came back, fastened the splint loosely around my ankle, puffed up his cheeks, and added more air.

“How's that?”

“Weird.”

“Wear a loose shoe, an unlaced sneaker or something. You should be able to walk, but don't overdo it,” he said.

I placed my foot on the floor and applied pressure. “Feels great.”

“It won't if you spend the night standing on it. If your ankle's badly swollen when you take it off, call me. Anytime.”

“I didn't realize psychiatrists made so many house calls.”

“Jeez, Keith,” Roz said, doing an about-face and flouncing upstairs. “If you're planning a long chat, don't let me keep you.”

He blushed to the roots of his blond hair. God, he looked young.

Lowering his voice, he murmured in my ear, “This Roz business, it, um, got a little out of control. Sort of
totally
out of control.”

I approved of his aftershave, cologne, possibly his shampoo. He smelled faintly of lemon—tangy, spicy. “She's intense, huh?” I said.

“And you're unavailable.”

“I was,” I said.

“Past tense,” he said.

I bit my lip, twined a strand of hair around my finger, and yanked. “I'm not entirely sure it's past,” I said.

“Who's ever sure?” he asked lightly. “Things happen. Like Roz, for instance. There I was, panting at your feet, fascinated, eager to learn more about you—”

“Odd methodology, Doctor,” I said. “These intimate research sessions with my assistant.” It was easy to whisper, our lips were so close.

“It's not permanent, me and her.”

“Glad you realize it,” I said. “The lady in black breaks many hearts.”

“And you?” he inquired.

“Keith,” came Roz's plaintive wail. She sounded like a cat in heat. “Either make it fast or don't bother.”

“I could come by and massage your foot later,” he murmured.

“You won't have the energy,” I replied unkindly.

After a moment's hesitation, he called upstairs. “Roz,” he said, staring me straight in the eye. “I can't make it tonight. Sorry and all, but something else has come up.”

I concentrated on keeping a straight face till he closed the door behind him. Far overhead, I thought I heard one of Roz's shoes bang the wall. I hoped she'd removed it from her foot first. The lath and plaster in these old houses isn't that strong.

SEVENTEEN

I gulped a breath and stumbled to the foyer, abandoning the makeshift ice pack to melt in a wastebasket. As I buttoned my coat, my ankle muttered:
Why not wait till morning?
Because by morning the Haitians might be on the run. Might be driving to New York, might be flying home. When I was a cop, I waited till morning once and found my potential witness hanging from a meat hook in a restaurant kitchen. It left an indelible impression.

On the way to Dorchester I learned that you should never drive with a splint on one ankle. Even if it's your left leg, and you lay off the clutch as much as possible. Potholes don't play favorites.

I'd wedged my crutches across the backseat, but once I'd scoped the area around the target address, I knew I couldn't use them. Neighborhood like that, crutches attract muggers; I remember when crutches earned you a seat on the subway.

Louis and Jean's dwelling was basically awful—a tumbledown shell of maimed Victoriana—but someone had made an effort with the trimmings. A gallant stand of rosebushes was staked behind a barbed wire fence. The clipped hedge threatened to give the term
flophouse
a good name. Near the curbside, two scraggy holly bushes poked through the hard dirt.

A foil-wrapped poinsettia plant decorated the front stoop. No one had gotten around to stealing it yet.

Security was not included in the rent. I entered the foyer past a row of metal mailboxes so small that all the marketing circulars lay strewn on the floor.

Guided by a faded label, I marched upstairs to Room 35 and banged the door. “Marched” is a bit vigorous, but I tried not to put all my weight on the handrail. I'd have liked to—my ankle alternately flamed and ached—but the flimsy railing might have cracked. After waiting a twenty count in front of Room 35, balancing on my right leg, I pressed my ear to the door, heard the blare of a television or radio, and knocked louder.

“
Qui est là?
”

All my rotten Spanish, useless again! Haitians spoke French, some kind of French patois. Creole. Still, these gentlemen had passed the cabbie exam. Either they'd bribed somebody, or they had rudimentary English.

Awkwardly I bent and stuck a business card under the door. People tend to find embossed print reassuring. I also sang out a friendly
hello
, so they'd realize I was female. A woman at the door isn't so bad. She's probably not the local loan shark's muscle, for example.

A chain rattled and the door opened a crack. A cautious eye appeared in the darkened slit. “Po-lice?” a voice whispered, separating the word into two distinct syllables.

“Gloria sent me. From the cab company. I work for her.
¿Entiende usted?
”

“
Parlez français?
”

“
Solamente español,
” I replied. “
¿No inglés?
”

“
Un moment, s'il vous plaît. Louis parle l'anglais mieux que moi.
”

I understood enough to realize I must be talking to Jean.

“Could you open the door?” I asked.

It slammed before I could stick a foot in it. Not that I would have, what with the splint.

I leaned against the wall. If I'd brought one crutch, I could have used it as a battering ram.

“Good evening, Miss Carlyle,” said a light tenor voice. “You would please to come in?”

“
Merci
,” I replied, exhausting one third of my French vocabulary.

“
Je m'appelle
Louis Vertigne. You may call me Louis. My last name, it is difficult,
non
? This is Jean. As you say, John.”

I was welcomed in both English and what I took to be French, a lilting melody that rose and fell like water trickling through a rocky brook.

Scrawny little fellows they were. Gloria's been known to exaggerate, but the two of them, soaking wet, probably weighed far less than she did. They were short as well as stringy. I towered over them, which they seemed to find amusing. Less amusing was the mottled bruising on the first man's face. And the circle of burned, shredded flesh encircling his neck. I wondered if his clothing covered other wounds. Louis's face was unmarred.

They had to be close relatives, brothers I'd have said, except for the different last names. Both had similar features, skin the color of shriveled walnuts, and close, kinky hair, dark with a white sugar frosting. Both wore khaki slacks, too cool for the season, and gray hooded sweatshirts. I'd have had trouble telling them apart except for Jean's injuries.

Louis, noticing my bruises and my splint, quickly invited me to “Sit, please, sit, mademoiselle, eh? Madame, perhaps?”

In the sparsely furnished room, there weren't many choices. I got the pick of the litter, a folding card-table number whose glory was that all four legs touched the ground simultaneously. The other two, a mismatched set of wooden uprights, required balancing acts. The TV was the only visible item of any value, and it was a twelve-inch black-and-white a self-respecting thief would reject out of hand. Neither man made an effort to turn it off.

I ignored it, although I can't imagine background music less tolerable than TV whine, especially commercial crescendos. I wanted to make nice, gather information, not aggravate the tenants.

A table shrouded in a plastic cloth nestled beside the TV. On it rested a collection of small religious figures made of porcelain or some kind of paintable clay. I recognized a crucified and gory Christ, a kneeling Mary Magdalene. Mary and Joseph and the whole crèche were there too. Before and after. A vase of scrawny mums shared the surface, perhaps an offering.

Three other suffering Christs decorated the room: two painted crucifixions, one wood carving with a particularly vicious crown of thorns jammed down over His bleeding forehead.

“Your leg? The stairs were
difficile?
” Louis inquired politely.

I spoke slowly and distinctly. “Difficult. Yes. There is no elevator and I need to speak with you.”

“From Gloria?”

“No trouble,” I said as they exchanged worried glances. “I'm not here to make trouble.”

“This is good,” Louis said. He mumbled a few words to Jean, who visibly relaxed.

“I also drive for Green and White,” I said.

Louis studied my card. It's simple: name, address, phone. A gap, then
PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS
.

“You work for the cab company?” he asked.

“As a driver, like you.”

“You should not do this ‘investigations' business,” Louis counseled in his gentle way. “Your
papa
, your
maman, votre mari
—do not they object? Is
dangereux.
”

I ignored his observation. “Why did you stop driving?”

“Look at my brother, my half brother,” he said. “Regard his face and his neck.”

“I see.”

“You do not see. He could have lost his eye. He could have lost his life. He is now much improved.”

I said, “Did you call the police?”

The word
police
was enough to bring a surge of sound from the injured Jean. The word for
immigration
sounds pretty much the same in French as it does in English.

“An accident,” Louis declared, staring at the floor. He was not a gifted liar.

“I wondered if Jean might have been attacked. Threatened. Like me.” I pointed at the splint. “By three men.”

Jean let out another torrent, accompanied by gestures and curses.

“Please,” I said to Louis, wishing I spoke his language, “I won't make trouble. I don't have anything to do with Immigration. Jean got hurt and I got hurt and somebody should pay. That's all. Not with money, but with time and pain.”

Louis exchanged heated words with his brother. I couldn't keep up with the rapid-fire delivery. “Time and pain,” Louis repeated finally. “We would like that. But we make no talk to the police.
Comprenez-vous?
”

I said, “May I record what you say? If you slip into French I could have a friend translate for me. It would help.”

“No machine,” Jean said flatly. I wondered if he understood everything I said.

“Then tell me. I'll remember.”

Louis hesitated. “Evil men beat my brother. They do more than hurt him. How should I say, they embarrass him. They break his spirit. He wants now only to go away. We come, we work, we send money home. Gloria is good to us and we regret to leave her rudely.”

“I'm sure she understands.”

“My brother says it is whites hating blacks, hating especially Haitian peoples.”

“Can he describe the men?”

There was a quick exchange. “
Les trois,
” I decided, must be the same as “
Los tres.
” The three.

I asked if this was so.

“Yes, there were three, but they blindfold him and he gives his word he will not speak about them.
Jamais.
”

Like
jamás
. Spanish for “never.”

“Did
you
give
your
word?” I asked Louis.

“I found him. And no, I did not give my word.”

Abruptly Jean rose and left the room, a torrent of sound trailing behind him.

“He is full of hate,” Louis said. “But not so angry as I am when I see him, when I smell him. My brother is a man of culture and refinement. In my country he is a teacher of botany, a man who makes flowers grow from concrete.”

“Did he plant the rosebushes?”

“He makes flowers everywhere, even here.”

“What did they do to him?”

“He is truly afraid it comes from our country, from the Tontons Macoutes. You know of them?”

“Secret police?”

“Secret torturers.”

“You speak English very well.”

“I work for Americans in Haiti. Long ago. It comes back to me. When you are young, you learn.”

“What did they do to Jean? To make you quit.”

“He has not told me all. He is like a child now. He screams in the night.”

“You found him?”

“We work always the same shift. We are partners with our own radios. Like they call walkie-talkies. We speak with each other every half hour, because something terrible may happen. You know how many of my countrymen are wounded driving cabs this year, this city? Four good men, and one shot and he lives, but with a bullet so near his spine, he may yet die. And no one is caught, no one punished.”

“I know,” I said.

“Jean and I thought this country would be different.”

“I'm sorry.”

I waited for him to speak.

“Wednesday afternoon, three-thirty, I do not hear from Jean. I know from his last call where he was to go and I also go there. I drive up and down each street until I find his cab.”

“No police?”

“Our papers are not so good.”

Gloria's lax on the Immigration Act of '86. I am too. Start hollering about America for Americans, I figure we'll all have to pack. I have no desire to reside in the slice of Poland my grandmother called home.

“His cab is empty, on a street in Dorchester. I wait a bit. Maybe he has gone to help an old one up the stairs. I hear sounds, but it takes time to know, to realize they come from the trunk. And then I have not the keys and I forget about the thing you can push inside to open the trunk and even when I remember, the doors are locked. So I smash the driver's window with a brick.