The Juror (27 page)

She steps away abruptly from the railing. Goes back into her room and draws her curtains closed.

Then E.R. himself, after lingering a moment on his balcony, savoring the last moments of another soulful day, no doubt, turns
and goes in.

Both balconies are dark.

In his logbook Slavko writes:

2:50. E.R. on balcony Rm 318 talks to neighbor

Rm 316? Same woman as at reservoir. 8 min.

They never even touched.

So what kind of lovers’ rendezvous was that?

Or could it have been a drug deal? But nothing changed hands, neither money nor merchandise. And there was a sheriff’s deputy
waiting outside her door. Why would they, why would they…

Come on, Think, Slavko. Concentrate.

But the moment he tells himself to concentrate he gets an image of Juliet from that day they rented a boat and went up to
Bannerman’s Island on the Hudson and fucked all day on the pine needles—but later she seemed restless and said something about
how always the men she was attracted to were so focused, so
concentrated
. Now what did she mean by that exactly? Did she mean Slavko was too… distracted? Dissipated? But that’s bullshit, Juliet
was always full of such bullshit—

Cut it out, you moony clod. Do some work. Do a lick of goddamn work. Figure this goddamn conundrum.

OK.

Maybe the woman met E.R. on the balcony because she didn’t want that sheriff’s deputy to see them. Maybe the deputy wouldn’t
have let her meet E.R.. But why? Why wouldn’t the deputy want her to—

Could she be under some kind of quarantine? Some kind of special cloistering or…

A tumble in Slavko’s thoughts, a single stone shifting.

Sequestered?

Like a juror?

A trial juror? Could she be a juror? The Caruso sometimes rents rooms for sequestering jurors—

The tumbling turns into a landslide of mud and sludge and revelation, and instantly Slavko is wide awake and ten years younger.

Juror.

He straightens up.

He swings open the car door and gets out and walks across the lot into the lobby. Feels like he’s floating. His walk feels
like the brisk purposeful walk of a young man, a young sober man.

In his vitals blood vessels are opening up that haven’t been used for years.

She’s a
juror
.

“Right?” he asks Jerome, as he reaches over the counter for the registration card file box.

“I thought you were gone!” cries Jerome. Poor put-upon Jerome. “Slavko, you can’t look at those!”

Jerome grabs for the box, but Slavko has only to skitter back a bit from the counter and he’s out of the whiny creep’s reach.

He flips through to room 316.

“Holy holy.”

Room 316 has been rented by the Westchester Superior Court. So has room 315 and room 314 and room 313 and room 312 and room
311…

Jerome comes around from behind the desk and he’s hopping mad, and his round face is flushed and shiny. He wants that file
box. Slavko cheerfully surrenders it. He considers asking Jerome which trial these jurors are serving on, but why bother?
There’s no question which trial. There’s only one big jury trial in the county these days.

The trial of Louie Boffano.

Slavko heads for the door. Jerome is right behind him, berating him, threatening to summon management, to call the police,
to bring down the vengeance of the archangel Gabriel, who knows what this pumpkin-headed idiot is raving about? And who cares?

Slavko turns at the door and blows Jerome a kiss.

Back in his car, he pulls out his little black log. He gives it a cursory account of his latest discoveries. He underlines
the word
juror
.

He wonders, What are you threatening her with, E.R.? She’s lovely, how the fuck could you do something like this? And how
much is Boffano paying you to do it? And how much do you think your sweet Sari is gonna like all those long drives to Attica
to visit her lonesome locked-up loverboy?

Lonesome locked-up-for-a-long-time lover. Ha!

Once I get clicking, Sari & Juliet, am I not an amazing poet?

The night air is coming into the car and he loads up his lungs with it. It occurs to him that living is a simpler business
than he had thought. Living—yes, living well, doing your work, rescuing some lovely scared creature from the clutches of a
fiend (in fact two lovely scared creatures—Sari and that juror both), living successfully, nobly and victoriously… yes. It’s
easy.

“Yes it
is
,” he says out loud.

A voice at his right ear says, “Nah. It ain’t.”

Slavko drops the log book. It bounces off his thigh onto the floorboards. He half turns, and comes face to face with the black
unblinking gaze of a pistol barrel.

Behind the barrel is Mr. Ugly-As-Sin, E.R.’s number one flunky. Sitting calmly in the backseat and saying:

“Nah, you fucked up again, Sure-Knack. What
is
the matter with you? Eyes forward. Hands on the wheel.”

The barrel tickles Slavko’s scalp just behind his ear.

Says Ugly-As-Sin, “I never in my life, I never seen nobody screws up as much as you. You got a death wish? ’Cause if you got
a death wish, then congratulations, I’m your fairy fuckin godmother.”

Slavko hears the guy tapping out a phone number. He hears a faint buzz and a voice on the other end: “Yes?”

“I got a surprise for you,” says Ugly-As-Sin into the phone.

And dimly, the reply: “What’s the matter, Eddie?”

His name, good.

Or come to think of it—not good, since the more Slavko knows about these guys, the less merciful they’re likely to prove.

But there can’t be any margin for mercy left anyway, so why worry about it?

Says Ugly-As-Sin Eddie: “I’m sitting here with an old friend. Mr. Sure-Knack, you remember him?”

Slavko hears the voice on the other end: “Where?”

Says Eddie: “Parking lot of the Caruso.”

“You’re kidding.”

Eddie chuckles. “Come on out and have a look.”

E.R. appears on his balcony with phone in hand. His eyes search the lot.

Says Eddie, “No, we’re a little more to the left. See us? Rusted-out piece-a-shit Ford Granada? Yeah, that’s us. Wave to him,
Sure-Knack. I said,
wave
.”

Slavko waves.

But E.R. doesn’t wave back.

“What do you want to do?” says Eddie.

With a gun at one’s neck, Slavko learns, time passes slowly.

At last E.R. says, “I’d like to talk to him. Take him to Frankie’s house. I’ll meet you there.”

Eddie hangs up the phone. “OK,” he says. “We’re going to take a drive.
You’re
gonna drive. But we’re going to take it real easy, yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Slavko.

“No games, no kamikaze shit, nothing. You speed up, I kill you dead. All right? Where’s the key?”

“Jacket pocket.”

“Left or right?”

“Don’t know.”

Eddie reaches over the seat back, fumbles in Slavko’s pockets, finds the keys.

“Take one hand off the wheel, take these keys, start your car.”

Slavko does.

“Let’s go.”

They move out of the lot.

Says Eddie, “Slow now, cocksucker. Slow and easy.”

A left. Half a mile, then another left.

But what if I don’t go slow? Slavko wonders. What if I slam down on the pedal right here, where Wine Avenue drops down this
long hill, just slam it and aim for that big tree down there, kill us both?

Would there be any satisfaction in that?

Slavko can’t find any.

After all, E.R. would live on. E.R. would crush Sari. E.R. would crush the juror. While Slavko would be fuming and fidgeting
in his coffin and wrestling with worms. Doesn’t seem satisfying in the least.

“Hey,” says Eddie. “Turn here.”

Onto Oak Avenue. Leafy old neighborhood. A leaf-scarecrow sitting in an apple tree. What can I do? I’ve got to get the word
out about E.R. But how am I going to do that when I’m dead?

Maybe I won’t be dead? Maybe they’ll let me go if I tell them I’m so so so sorry for any inconvenience I may have caused them,
and actually I was working at the Caruso tonight on an
unrelated
matter—

But all they have to do is read the log book.

By the way, where is that thing?

He remembers dropping it on the floor when Eddie surprised him. Now, while driving, he tries to look for it without shifting
his head. He lowers his eyes. Can’t see a damn thing down there.

Moving his left foot cautiously, he gropes for it.

His heel touches something. He raises that heel, slides it over an inch and sets it down. Something underneath. He checks
the thing out with his foot. It
is
the log.

So now what? Slide it under the seat? But likely when we get to Frankie’s they’ll tear the car up and find it.

Slavko has a better idea.

He starts to move the notebook with his toe. Nudging it toward that hole where the floor is all rusted out, where the road-wind
is whooshing in.

It’s a small hole. But then it’s a small notebook.

Says Eddie, “You gonna fuck up again?”

“What?”

“Slow
down
, fuckhead.”

Slavko does.

They pass the Methodist church. A sign for something called Alice’s Wonderland. Victorian houses. Slavko manages to get the
log book right up to the hole in the floor, but it won’t go through. It’s sticking at one corner.

He pushes it with the side of his foot. It still won’t go through.

Says Eddie, “You know what, Sure-Knack? You remind me a that kid in school, whole class had to write some bullshit a hundred
times ’cause one kid was a wiseguy, you remember that kid?”

Damn, thinks Slavko. Square notebook, round hole—what did you expect? Finally he lifts his heel, stamps down on it.

“What the
fuck
?” says Eddie. “What’re you doin?”

Slavko feels the notebook bend—and suddenly it’s gone. Left behind on Oak Avenue.

He tells Eddie, “I’m stamping my foot, that’s all.”

“Why are you doing that?”

“I’m stamping in frustration at my own stupidity.”

Where are we? he wonders. Oak and, what’s that sign say? Holly. Can you remember that, Slavko? Oak and Holly? On the off chance,
the
unchance
, that you ever get out of this alive, can you remember that you left your logbook at the corner of Oak and Holly?

T
HE TEACHER
, in Frankie’s kitchen, pays close attention to Mr. Czernyk. The Teacher is mindful that ugliness and suffering are woven
into the warp of our lives, and that the sage embraces these things. So he watches with equanimity as Mr. Czernyk is restrained
with cuffs. He watches with equanimity as Frankie and Eddie pommel the man with their fists, with their knees, with a chair
leg. Behind his gag Mr. Czernyk is a portrait of pain. The Teacher watches from his chair. Despite his discomfort, he leans
close and watches and hopes to learn.

But what he’s learning, principally, is that these crude persuasions don’t persuade. When the gag is removed, when cold water
is splashed on Mr. Czernyk’s face, a twinkle returns to the man’s eyes. A sort of nothing-left-to-lose twinkle. He tilts his
head slightly. He keeps uncannily some measure of remove from his own suffering.

The Teacher frowns and says, “OK, let me ask you again. What do you know about me?”

“What I told you.”

“How did you find me at that hotel?”

“I followed you.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like you.”

“You’re not still working for Sari?”

“No. She fired me.”

“Then what did you hope to accomplish?”

“Find out something about you maybe. Something I could hurt you with.”

“Why?”

“No reason.”

“For vengeance?”

“That’s right.”

“To get even?”

“That’s right.”

“You’ve got nothing better to do with your time, Mr. Czernyk?”

“Better than what?”

“Better than seeking vengeance.”

“There
is
nothing better.”

“Who was the woman I was talking to tonight?”

“Same woman you talked to at the reservoir.”

“And what do you know about her?”

“Big eyes.”

“What else?”

“Nightgown, sweater.”

“What else?”

“I dunno. Brown hair.”

“What else?”

“Nothing.”

The Teacher squints at him. “You’re lying about that.”

“You think?”

“I’m certain. The art of dissembling is among the many gifts you lack. But what I’m not quite sure of is
why
you’re lying.”

“Yeah. That’s a good question. Why would I lie to you? I’m not an imbecile.”

Young Frankie chortles. “You
sure
, Sure-Knack?”

“OK, maybe I am. An imbecile. But I still wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Why wouldn’t you lie to me?”

“You’re too scary.”

“No, I’m not,” says the Teacher. “Not yet. But soon.”

The Teacher rises and opens the door to the garage. Frankie follows him.

“What have we got here, Frankie?”

Frankie seems amazed that the Teacher has deigned to show his face to him—that he has come without his mask. Frankie seems
honored. Perhaps a bit dazzled. As the Teacher’s eyes sweep over the jumbled shelves of the garage, taking in the tiers of
junk, Frankie
tsks
and says, “I really gotta clean this place out. I mean I been kinda busy lately—”

The Teacher is scarcely listening. He murmurs, “What have we got that we can play with?”

“Nothin,” says Frankie. “This is just stuff. I gotta get rid a this shit.”

The Teacher stands on tiptoe. He tugs at the lip of an old cardboard box so he can see in. “What’s this? Trains? Toy trains?”

“Yeah, I don’t know if none of em still work—”

“But the transformer—do you have that?”

“I guess.”

“Also we’ll need a car battery. And let me see. A curling iron?”

“I doubt it.”

“Electric toothbrush?”

“Yeah. I think Mom left one.”

Ten minutes later the Teacher has cleared out a workspace on the tool bench, and he’s cobbling together an elaborate device
using the car battery, the transformer, the gutted electric toothbrush and a coil of copper wiring. Frankie watches him. The
Teacher muses out loud as he works.