The Juror (9 page)

He smiles. “This is perhaps too philosophical for my taste.”

“I’m just asking you! He’s guilty! Isn’t he? He killed lots of people. He—”

“He’s in the mob, Annie. He’s been blamed for some murders, yes. But his so-called victims, they were vermin themselves.”

“Not that
child
.”

“The boy was an accident. Even Louie Boffano wouldn’t deliberately kill a child. As for the old man, you want to weep for
him
? You want to weep for a stone killer like Salvadore Riggio? Because, Annie, I assure you, Salvadore Riggio never wept for—”

The telephone goes off. It sends a shock of panic up her spine.

“What, what do I do?”

He hands her a handkerchief.

“Wipe your tears. Answer it. It’s probably your child.”

“What do I say?”

“Whatever you like. Say that you’re upset. Say that your date turned out to be a creep.”

He offers his hand to help her up. She waves him away, stands on her own. She stumbles to the corner of the studio and picks
up the phone.

“Yeah.”

“Mom?”

“Yeah.”

“You all right?”

“Yes.”

“Mom, what’s the matter?”

She sniffs. “Nothing. I didn’t have a good time. With this guy. I’m all right.”

“What’d he do, Mom?”

She draws a breath and says, “He didn’t do anything, he just—How are
you
doing, Oliver?”

“You said you’d call.”

“I’m sorry. So, so are you being polite to Jesse’s mom?”

“Yeah.”

“So. OK.”

“Mom, you sound really weird. Is the guy still gonna buy your boxes?”

“It doesn’t matter. Get a good sleep, OK? See you tomorrow. See you after school. OK?” She hangs up.

After a moment he tells her, “By the way, I
am
going to buy your boxes. The three at the gallery, of course. And these also—if we can work out a fair price.”

“Forget it,” she says. “I don’t, I’d rather—”

“I insist. I want to do something for you. I realize that placed beside the fear you’re feeling now, this can’t amount to
much, but still.”

He rises. “Annie, I’m sorry about the fear. If I had any choice, any choice… I know this is going to be a scary time for you.
And lonely. But please don’t breathe a word of this. To
anyone
. Because anyone you tell, you’re putting their lives at risk. Do you follow that?”

She gazes at nothing. Finally she sniffs, and he takes it for assent.

“When I need to see you I’ll send for you. Someone will say to you, ‘I met you at the bakery.’ Do what he tells you. Now what
will he say to you?”

“I met you at the bakery.”

“Annie, this will all be over before you know it. And after that our paths will never cross.”

He goes to the door. When he opens it, the air that eddies in is sharp, cold. The three candle flames dip and then crane their
necks and dip again.

He shuts the door behind him.

The candles steady themselves and she hears his car start. She hears the Vivaldi start up midstrain, instantly exultant. Proud,
willful, dominant by virtue of its design. Not a note that hasn’t been called for, prepared for, not a note out of place,
those towering scales of discipline, and then the music and the engine-purr fade and leave her to this room full of silence,
to her own raw crude weak and shadowy sculptures, the beating of her heart, and not a single thought in her head that’s of
any use to her.

S
LAVKO CZERNYK
hunkers down tonight in this old clawfoot bathtub because his tightass landlord still hasn’t turned on the heat and this
is the only way to get warm. He lifts his foot out of the water and gets a toe-grip on the H knob. Twists it.

Treats the tub to a nice scalding pick-me-up.

He’s chewing a Nicorette and smoking a Lucky Strike at the same time. A cupful of Jim Beam (with a drop of honey) rests on
the tub sill. He’s holding a book above the waterline. The book is called
The Essential Derek Walcott
. He owns this book because once a woman told him that Derek Walcott was the
greatest poet ever, oh my god
. He was in love with this woman. He still is. So he keeps the book at all times in this bathroom across from his office,
and whenever he takes a crap or a bath he opens
The Essential Derek Walcott
and makes a stab at civilizing himself.

He glares at a poem.

The poem taunts him.

The poem says things like

… and read until the lamplit page revolves

to a white stasis whose detachment shines

like a propeller’s rainbowed radiance.

Circling like us, no comfort for their loves!…

He squints. He tries that part again. He still doesn’t get it. He turns the book upside down and reads:

… and read until the lamplit page revolves

to a white stasis whose detachment shines

like a propeller’s rainbowed radiance.

Circling like us, no comfort for their loves!…

This is never going to work. He takes a long pull from the Jim Beam, a long pull from the Lucky, and turns the page.

In his office across the hall, the phone rings.

Who have we got here? he wonders. Who’d be calling the Czernyk Detective Agency at this hour?

Probably Grassman Security. They’re on a stakeout and no relief, and Slavko, could you please hustle your ass down here? So
you can make eight bucks an hour sitting with Bill Farmer in a colder-than-shit Mercury Zephyr and keep tabs on a murky motel
door across a murky street and listen all night to Bill Farmer’s two-part snore-and-fart harmony, OK, Slavko?

All the god damn livelong night, how about
that
, Slavko?

No thanks.

Thanks but I’d rather stay here and read, read until the lamplit page revolves to a white stasis whose detachment shines like
a propeller’s rainbowed radiance, you know what I mean?

Second ring.

He lets himself sink down to his chin in the water.

Or maybe the Caruso Hotel needs me to babysit a postal carrier’s convention. Like that bunch last week. Stuck in the hall
all night on a folding metal chair. Keeping a sharp eye on the Coke machine, in case maybe it was one of those mass-murdering
postal workers in disguise.

By four in the morning he’d sort of hoped it was.

Third ring.

Forget it, guys. I don’t need the money that much. I mean, I do need the money, I’ve lost my apartment and soon I’m going
to be tossed from this rathole office, but still… when I get out of this tub I’m crawling right into beddy-bye.

His machine picks up.

He hears his own grungy growl on the tape: “You’ve reached the Czernyk Detective Agency. We’ve stepped out of the office for a moment…”

He sounds to himself like a cross between an iguana with a hangover and a haunted cellar door.

He brings the Lucky to his lips, takes a little sip of it, then holds it there between his fingers while he slides his head
under the water. But he can still hear his grunting from the machine.

And then some other voice, a liquid and whispery song of a voice, and he lurches up out of the water.

This angel-voice is leaving her name. Sari Knowles. What a beautiful name. And her number. She says:

“… I need, um, I may need your help, with something, I mean I guess it’s not an emergency and I know it’s late and I don’t
know you, really I just got your name out of the Yellow Pages but if you can—”

“Hello.”

“Hello? Mr. Sir-nik?”

“Czernyk. ‘Ch’ as in choo-choo. I, um—wait, I just got out of the tub, I was, I was across the hall, wait—”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d be there, I mean—”

“It’s OK. It’s OK.”

Freezing in here. He shuts the door to the hall. He lies down on the mattress on the floor and pulls the covers over him.
Pulls them over his head, scrunches way down. Yesterday’s newspaper, a box of Oreo cookies, and a forlorn copy of
Penthouse
are down here with him. And the telephone. “Yes, ma’am. What can I do for you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“No. Not with the law or anything, I’m, it’s…” She fades off.

“You married?”

“Uh-uh, no.”

“Boyfriend?”

She takes a breath. “Yeah.”

“Problem?”

“Mm.”

“You don’t know where he is?”

“But he’s not in any danger, it’s…”

“You think maybe he’s with someone else?”

“I don’t know
what
he’s doing.” She’s on the edge of tears. “He doesn’t tell me anymore. I mean, he’s, he’s busy. He manages a commodities fund,
and, so I don’t know, I guess he’s
busy
. He’s says he’s got this new client? This woman?”

“And you’re a little jealous.”

“Oh damn. This isn’t like me. You know? I mean I know how late it is, I should have waited till tomorrow, but I can’t, I can’t
think about anything else, I can’t sleep. I mean I should handle this better. I’m a businesswoman, I have my own travel agency.
I’m a responsible—I mean I should—”

“No, I understand. It’s tough sometimes. Can I ask you something, Ms.—”

“Sari Knowles. Sari.”

“Sari. This is kind of private and you don’t have to answer me, but are you seeing a therapist?”

No answer.

He tells her, “It’s only that, when you’re going through—”

“But if he’s seeing somebody else what difference would it make? You know? If I’ve lost him?” A rib of near panic running
underneath her voice. “Then what difference would it make if I’m sane or not?”

Slavko knows this tone. When he hears this tone on the telephone he knows he’s got himself a client. Do you feel the walls
trembling? Do you feel your lovelife starting to cave in all around you? Does it feel as though the walls of your lovelife
are rotten at the foundation and they’re starting to bow and bulge and crumble, and does it feel as though loneliness is about
to come rushing in?

Then dial a private investigator.

Because you’ve made up your mind that what’s really killing you is the not knowing. And you think that all you need for what
ails you is a dose of the
truth
. So you call a detective, to unearth this truth.

Of course this is a dumb move.

The
truth
is, there’s nothing a detective’s ever going to find out for anybody that anybody really wants to know.

The truth is, ma’am, that if the walls of your lovelife are crumbling and tumbling, how the hell is a private investigator
supposed to prop them up?

And if I were an honest man, I’d tell you that right off. If I were an honest man, I’d hang up on you.

Says Slavko, “So how can I help you there, Sari? How can I be of service?”

A
NNIE
’s sitting up in bed. It’s three in the morning. Her TV is on. A
Gong Show
rerun, which is the liveliest pablum she can find. She’s not watching it. She’s watching a stain on the wall above the TV,
an ancient water-seep stain. She only glances at the set when they hit the gong. She wishes they’d do that more often. The
rest of the show doesn’t reach her consciousness.

All the lights are on. Every light in the house. And she’s got the radio going, an oldtime reggae station from the city, with
the bass line, the underbeat, coming in furred by lousy reception.

When she turned the TV on, she forgot to turn the radio off.

She wonders if she can’t go fetch Oliver. No, it’s too late. She’d wake up everybody in Jesse’s house. Embarrass him in front
of his friend. Best to wait till morning. He’s OK, he’s fine. He’s OK. Wait till morning.

She has the sense that the
Gong Show
has ended and something else has come on, but she doesn’t have the energy to lower her eyes to the set to find out what.

The telephone rings.

You bastard, what did you forget? What? Some threat you didn’t make clear enough? Some new torture you want to detail for
me—

Still, it could be Oliver.

So she picks up. “Yeah?”

Crackle and snap. A little wait, then, “Hi, Annie? What’s up?”

Turtle.

He says, “You working? You on some hot date, what are you—”

“Turtle! Jesus, how are you?”

“I’m good,” she thinks she hears.

“Wait!” she cries, and she stretches to the radio and slaps it off and she reaches for the TV and turns that off too. Abruptly
the house is cast into deep silence except for the static on the telephone. The call is coming from the mountains of Guatemala.
Whenever Turtle calls he calls from the Guatel office in Huehuetenango, the nearest town of any size to the little pueblo
where he runs his clinic.

“I can’t hear you very well,” she says.

He shouts. “Can you hear me now?”

“Yes!” she cries.

She’s so glad to hear his shout she’s almost weeping.

He says, “I had to bring one of the kids down to the hospital here, and I thought about you, and we haven’t talked in… how
long?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Spring? In the spring.”

He asks her, “How are you?”

“I’m OK,” she says.

But her voice trails off.

Anyone you tell, you’re putting their lives at risk.

She can’t do this. She has to get rid of him before he says something that will let Zach Lyde know who he is, where he’s living.

Zach Lyde could be listening this moment.

Is he? Is he here right now, is he hanging over me, is his ear pressed up against the receiver—

Of course he’s listening.

So hang up.

But Turtle would call back.

Unplug the phone then.

No, she knows Turtle. If Turtle can’t get through at all he’ll start to worry. He’ll catch the next bus to Guatemala City
and then a plane up here….

“Annie, weren’t you supposed to be in a group show at that gallery of yours? Wasn’t that supposed to open last month?”

You know what you have to do.

He says, “How’d it go? Those artworld shits, they’ve cottoned on yet? They know how good you are?”

Get it over with.