Old School Bones (20 page)

“WHAT the hell did you tell him, Ronnie?” She feels her hand tightening around the pay phone receiver.

Sweat oozes from her palms as she looks around to see if someone is following her. Or listening. Like Gracie who is heading out the door, up the street for her morning coffee and sugar fix.

The lobby of the ferry terminal in Vineyard Haven is almost empty. Just the folks behind the ticket windows. A mother and two young kids playing with stuffed bunnies. A young vagrant sleeping off a rough night, face under an open copy of a Vineyard newspaper.

“Nothing.” His voice sounds small, childish.

“Bullshit. He’s acting like … I don’t know. Some kind of spaz, some kind of Man In Jumping Hurry. He says he has to go to Beacon Hill. Like today. Beacon Hill. Does he want to see the governor?”

“I told him about Aaserah.”

“Everything?”

“He doesn’t know about what happened later after.”

“God, Ronnie. Why?!”

“Are you going to lecture me? He’s my lawyer. He’s trying to help you. Maybe save your life, you know?”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, sure, that’s why you just lost your job, why you’ve been hiding in a bait shack in Aquinnah for days.”

“I can’t believe this. Are you trying to start a—”

“I don’t know … I’m just worried about you.”

“Wow … There’s a new twist.”

“Hey, Sis. Come on. Stop! Look around. Can’t you see the fins closing in on you? Everyone around you has been taking hits since you started on this mission to find that Liberty girl’s killer.”

She pulls the receiver away from her ear, almost hangs it up.

“The sharks are circling.”

“Damn it, Ronnie. Don’t give me that Jimmy Buffett crap.”

“I’m serious. Right before I got busted by the cops, I saw something.”

“What?”

“Like for two or three days leading up to when the cops took me down, there was this car. Kind of parked off the landing.”

“What do you mean
kind of?”

“Pulled over on the side of the road. But not really in one of the spaces in the lot.”

“I don’t see what—”

“It was a silver Murano.”

“A what?”

“A Murano. One of those fancy sort of SUV/station wagon crossovers.”

“You lost me.” Her free hand starts to claw the hair on the side of her head. Jesus, she needs a shampoo, a bath.

“What the hell was this yuppie car doing at the landing, you know? Two or three fucking days. Parked there with all the fishermen’s pick-ups.”

“You’re so paranoid you notice that kind of thing?”

“Not paranoid, Awasha, Indian … and ADD, you know? My mind is a sponge for details. Relevant and irrelevant.”

She’s watching the door, the sidewalk beyond.
Where the hell is Gracie? She should be back with my coffee by now … “
So what makes you think this one is relevant?”

“Michael Decastro.”

“He’s wigging out.”

“He says the car that ran him off the road could have been a silver SUV. Maybe a Murano.”

“He also said it might have been a white truck. I’ve heard both versions.”

“He says he knows some sketchy kid who drives a silver Murano.”

Something is tearing, the sound of ripping Spandex or nylon deep in her head. “There was a teenage boy in the car? Tall? Messy, curly brown hair? Blue eyes, very anglo? Very preppie?”

“I saw someone. I don’t remember the look.”

“Jesus, Ronnie. Don’t wimp out on me now.”

“That’s pretty much what Michael said.”

“Well. Shit!”

“Who is this kid?”

“Liberty Baker’s boyfriend.”

“The girl who died?”

“One of them.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind … Yeah, the girl who died.”

“You think he killed her?”

Searching the sidewalk for Gracie, sucking on the inside of her cheeks, releasing. “I don’t know.”

“Michael doesn’t like this kid.”

“He was selling drugs to my girls.”

“Like cocaine?”

She’s silent for a long time.

“I don’t see what any of this has to do with Beacon Hill.”

He clears his throat. “I don’t know, Sis. All that cola they found in my boat had to come from somewhere. Maybe this kid has a Beacon Hill connection.”

Her gaze wanders around the terminal. Gracie’s still not back.
Damn that girl.
The young vagrant’s red eyes lock on hers. Blank, solar. “I wish you hadn’t told him about Aaserah. He doesn’t need to know everything about us. About her.”

“I get lonely.”

“Take these off.” She’s talking about his boots now, his pants, not his helmet. It’s lying next to the green sofa out in the living room, next to his M-16, his ammo belt, his Kevlar vest, his shirt, the roses he brought. Her sandals. And her black
abaya.
The pale blue
hijab
drapes from the arm of the couch, a silk cascade.

He’s lying back-down on her bed, the satin sheets growing damp beneath his bare back. She’s beside him, kissing his neck, his chest. Her tongue hot, sticky. The fingers of one hand tracing his cheekbone, jawline. The other hand easing down his fly, pushing the pants below his hips.

His own hands massaging her shoulders. Those amber thighs. The delta of fine hair. Swamp Iris skin.

Suddenly she bolts upright. Stares into his eyes. Her brows rising with a thousand questions. Dark locks covering her breasts.

“Aaserah?”

“Have you ever been so lonely you want to die?”

“For about twenty years.”

“After this we can never go back … Our bodies seal our fate.”

“You want me to leave?”

“I want you to cross the Tigris, Water Bear … I want you to love me. Like there is no sunrise. No East, no West.”

Her hand feels for him, feels for what he calls his totem pole. Expert fingers. This widow of a warrior, this doctor’s daughter. This Baghdad student of the law. Fellow traveler through the carnage. Woman with a thousand and one tales of the Arabian nights. Who most surely cannot be his enemy. Word.

“JESUS. Somebody does fucking brain surgery in one of these old Beacon Hill houses?!” Gracie’s head is swiveling left, right, staring up at the cornices of the colonial and federal brick townhouses on Pinkney St. at Louisburg Square.

“We’re looking for a doctor’s office. Not a hospital. And, hey, if you can’t stop dropping the F-bomb, we can put you on this afternoon’s flight to Hong Kong … As we promised your parents.”

His voice cracks, warbles. The lack of sleep really getting to him. The nights curled in the front seat of the jeep, the tramping through the Vineyard moors at all hours. Those shots of Jack Daniels with Ronnie Patterson.
Cristo!
And now his sinuses clogging, a cold coming on.

“Fuck off, Michael. You need me.”

Awasha nudges him with her elbow. “Stick to the script, OK?”

The three of them huddle together, the popped collars of their best spring topcoats shrouding their faces, backs to the east wind wafting down Beacon Hill. The daffodils in the little private park on the square dipping, juking, in the breeze.

“That’s the place!” He points to a brass plaque next to a doorway on Pinkney.

Awasha takes his hand, Gracie’s too. Says something softly in another language—Wampanoag maybe.

Nooshun kesukqut

Wuneetupantamunak kooswesuonk

Peyaumooutch kooswesuonk …

It sounds like the start of the Lord’s Prayer.

“What’s that, Doc?”

“War paint on, warriors!”

“You’re here about Becca?” Dr. Marcus Snyder, celebrated neurosurgeon, T-C class of ‘75, ushers the trio into his examination room, cheeks flushing. He’s in a white lab coat. “Is she alright?”

“We’re not sure, Doctor.” Awasha’s voice flat, guarded.

Gracie pops up onto the examination table, adjusts her red suede skirt and black pantyhose with outstretched fingers.

Michael stuffs his hands in his pockets, speaks. “Gracie, here, has some concerns.”

“I don’t understand. I just talked to Becca two days ago, and everything seemed to be going fine. I mean—”

“Sometimes kids at boarding school don’t tell their parents everything.”

“What’s going on?”

“We thought that maybe if we came here, talked, we could keep things off the record. You know, stay clear of the discipline system and the campus rumor mill?” Awasha takes off her camel hair coat, folds it over her arms in front of her, settles into a chair.

“Tell me who you are again?”

She pushes her shoulders back, the blood of warriors swelling in her chest, the invisible paint on her cheeks. And now she starts to lay her trap, starts to lie.

“I’m director of minority affairs. Gracie was on the swim team with Becca. She came to me worried about your daughter.”

The doctor—lanky, longish charcoal hair, a fuzzy beard—closes the door behind him, falls back against it. His eyes searching the ceiling.

“What worries?”

Gracie’s fingers straighten invisible kinks in her skirt. “Maybe you heard about the girl who died in February.”

The doctor’s face suddenly waxy-looking.

“Her name was Liberty Baker.” The sound of his own voice surprises Michael. He told himself he would say nothing, try to act like Lou. Just watch the drama unfold, look for
tells
from Snyder as the females tighten the screws. But,
shit,
now he’s in it. Man In Jumping Hurry. Both Awasha and Gracie are looking at him like
what up, dude?

And he’s in the doctor’s sights. “You work at Tolchie, too?”

Now what? Another lie? Or the Truth? Quick! “
I’m a detective.”

A jolt passes over Snyder’s face. He fishes in his pants pocket for his phone. “I think I want my lawyer here.”

Cristo!
This is all going south.

Awasha stands up, starts to put on her coat, turns to Gracie, Michael. “OK, let’s go.”
Plan B.
“Thank you for your time, Dr. Snyder. I’m sorry this isn’t going to work out. You might want to warn Becca to watch her back … at least until we can finish this conversation.”

Snyder’s eyes squint, trying to read between the lines. “What? I don’t see how what happened to that Baker girl has anything to do with my daughter or—”

Gracie drops to her feet from the examination table. “Liberty was murdered. There’s a killer loose at T-C.”

“You think Becca’s in danger?”

“We hoped you could tell us that.”

“Me? How can I—”

“You want to talk to us about the Club Tropical?”

The three of them are stopped in the middle of the miniature suspension bridge. It spans the lagoon in the Boston Public Garden. They are taking stock in the aftermath of their close encounter with the good doctor. Wondering how long it will be before he tells his old club buddies that he ratted them out. At least, about the little pharmaceutical import business he and Jason Su set up at Club Tropical back in the Seventies.

One of the antique swan boats, the driver peddling it from his perch at the rear, glides beneath the bridge with twenty tourists aboard. All bundled up against the brisk, blue air of late April. But smiling. Inhaling the scents of forsythia blooming ashore.

On the tiny island in the lagoon a pair of swans trumpet at each other. Beat their wings. A domestic quarrel maybe, or a mating dance, sending a flurry of white down into the air, riding the breeze. Speckling Michael’s coat. Catching in Gracie’s and Awasha’s hair.

“I’m sorry, gang. I almost blew that. Jumping in.”

“Forget about it, Michael.”

“I think we were a pretty good team.” There’s a lilt in Gracie’s voice.

Awasha rolls her eyes. “Don’t say it, OK, girl?”

“What?”

“What you’re thinking.”

“What’s that, Doc P?”

“The Three Musketeers.”

“How’d you know?”

She smiles. Taps the side of her head. “Indian Princess see everything.”

“Please don’t send me back to China.”

“Why not?”

“Now you really need me.”

“How’s that?”

“Somebody has to talk to Jason Su.”

“Yeah.”

“Well … he’s my second cousin.”

“When were you going to tell us that?”

“Is the Ninja Girl still on the team?” She bats her eyes at Michael. Then at Doc P.

HIS
back molds into the cotton mattress. He feels her draw off his boots, his pants. The rest.

Feels her warm breasts as she slithers from his toes up over his knees, his thighs. She lingers. Her hard tongue on his belly. Her lips soft little fish.

Until he is more than ready.

She glides, skin skating up his sweating chest until her breasts press his own. Her mouth opens into his. Tongues melt together. His hair buzzing wire.

The air pulses from her lungs as she lowers herself on him.

And now the rush and blare of traffic, the chants of street vendors soften. Weave a harmony to the music of powwows, fancy dancers, the drums in his head. Her pet Persian coiling and uncoiling in a discarded blanket heaped on the floor. Its purring rises, falls. Percussive. Ceaseless.

When she bends to nibble his throat, his ears, her breath is rich with scents. Stewing eggplant and bell peppers. Figs. Pomegranates. An undercurrent of coriander and something like fresh mint.

He wraps her in his arms, feels for the sinew of an athlete in the web of muscles across her back, her shoulders. A toughness, the springs of flesh he has touched in the shoulders of a doe.

“Allah akbar.”
She crushes his lips.

He breathes through hers.

Nooshun kesukqut.
Our Father who art …

The tribal drums, the flutes. Dulcimers pounding.

“Nippe Maske.” Her voice more heat than sound in his ear.

“Nippe Maske?!”

Only the bear in his chest answering. Calling back to her questions, singing. Singing her name. Aaserah. Aaserah full of grace. Aaserah of the mighty Tigris. Aaserah of the Arabian nights.
Allah akbar. Nooshun kesukqut, wuneetupantamunak kooswesuonk peyaumooutch …

The drums. Dulcimers.

Suddenly she draws him to her chest, rolls him over her.

Now they fall. Surging, crashing right through the damp sheets, the bed. Belly to belly.

Shattering the slate floor, piercing the apartment beneath. Pulling down the concrete, the rebar, the plaster. Along with the sun, the stars, the moon.

And half of Baghdad.

When the drums stop pounding in his ear, the flutes silent, the cat run off to another room, he hears her whisper, “Heaven is waiting for us,
yaloog.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Wild donkey.”