A Farewell to Legs (31 page)

The cops cut us loose. I told them about the money
in my jacket, that it was a bribe meant to keep us quiet, and they
took it for evidence. I made sure it all went into a plastic bag,
and was counted before it was marked. I didn’t want anyone to think
I’d taken a dime.

It did make me wonder about Gail Rayburn, though.
Here, someone had asked me to compromise my values, and offered me
a good deal of money to do it. I had given serious thought to
keeping my mouth shut about it, and Mahoney would have backed me
up.

Ten grand is a lot of money in my neighborhood. But
the thought of having ten thousand of Legs Gibson’s dollars paying
for my son’s summer camp just didn’t feel right.

We got home about five, and Abby made both Mahoney
and me tell the whole story out of the kids’ earshot. This was
easy, since Ethan was in his room playing video games and Leah was
at Melissa’s house, handing over E-
LIZ
-abeth, whom she
decided scared Warren too much. Warren had, in fact, refused to
walk into Leah’s room, causing her much mental anguish. So the
lizard went to live across the street, with another of its own
kind. Those worms didn’t stand a chance.

“You two really are a pair of detectives,” she said
with great sarcasm. “If Ms. Cleavage and her husband hadn’t decided
to let you live, I’d be explaining to the kids how their Daddy
would not be coming home anymore.” She actually got a little moist
in the eye at that suggestion, and she clenched her teeth with
anger at our foolhardy actions. Then, being a Jewish woman, she
began cooking. She started water boiling for pasta.

“We had a backup plan,” I said. “I was going to be
so witty and charming that she’d fall in love with me and ditch
Legs.”

“But she liked me better,” boasted Mahoney.

“Nice plan,” said my wife.

“What can I tell you, Abby?” I said. “I relied on my
feelings. I never really thought that we were in danger. They were
much more intent on showing us how superior they were than in
killing us. And they’ve gotten everything they wanted.”

She thought about that. “Yeah, you and your keen
sense of human nature,” Abby snarled. “You kept insisting Stephanie
did-n’t kill her husband.”

“Well, she didn’t.”

“So she killed her brother-in-law. That’s a minor
distinction,” said my wife. The water was close to boiling, and she
started creating an Alfredo sauce that would cause me to expand by
a belt notch or two.

“Actually, we never really did establish which one
of them killed Lester,” I pointed out. “They were both there. They
both knew the plan. It could have been either one of them.”

Abby turned and gave me a “give me a break” look.
“You know perfectly well that Louis wasn’t strong enough mentally
to do that to his brother. You know that it was Stephanie’s plan
from the beginning. You know, deep down in your heart, that she
killed Lester Gibson without so much as a second thought.”

“I don’t know that at all,” I said. Off her look, I
added, “I might
suspect
it. . .”

While Mahoney called his wife, Abby started the
pasta in the water and finished the sauce. I sidled up to her while
she was stirring something, and put my arm around her waist.

“You really do love me as much as I love you, don’t
you?” I said.

She turned and studied my face. “Of course I do, you
idiot,” she said, and we fell together into a very enjoyable
embrace, which was spoiled by a lump digging into my left side.
Abby looked at me strangely, until I removed the tape recorder from
my inside jacket pocket.

“Did you have that on the whole time they were
telling you about their evil scheme?” my wife asked, amazed at my
deviousness.

“Naturally,” I said. “If I got shot, I wanted you to
hear about how I wasn’t interested in sleeping with Stephanie.”

“You know,” she said, “while you were out, I
finished reading your script.”

“No kidding.”

“No, no kidding,” said my wife.

“
And
?”

“And, it’s very good.” Ah, the moment I live
for.

Mahoney didn’t want to stay for dinner, so I had
twice as much fettuccine Alfredo as I should have, but that didn’t
seem very important at the time. I spent most of dinner gazing at
my wife and children, and wondering how I could have been stupid
enough to put my life on the line for a measly ten grand.

That said, I still had the five thousand words to
write on Legs and how he hadn’t actually been murdered, but had
instead killed his brother and stolen his toupee, committing crimes
against both society and good taste. After the kids went to bed,
which was quite late, I started writing.

I won’t bore you with all five thousand words (and
besides, you should pick up a copy of
Snapdragon
and read
all about it), but it began:

Everyone was agreed on one thing: Louis Gibson was
an asshole.

The problem is: the use of the word “was” in that
last sentence is premature. The fact is, Louis Gibson is still an
ass-hole, a living, breathing one, and he is in all likelihood
enjoying himself immensely on an exclusive nude beach as you read
this, spending some of the thirteen million dollars he stole from
private citizens right before he killed his own brother and robbed
him of his toupee.

See? He really is an asshole.

I went on to explain the whole sick, twisted tale,
in the most journalistic of terms. Included were interviews with
Stephanie and Legs, Cherie Braxton, Louise, Junior and Jason, Mason
Abrams (although he was quoted as “police sources” only) and
Madeline Crosby. I left out Estéban Suarez, because it occurred to
me he’d think the whole piece was about him. I wrote well into the
night, then emailed the whole piece to Lydia at
Snapdragon
and waited.

The next morning, which was Sunday, I slept in for a
change. When I woke up, after ten, the house was in full swing.
Abby had made waffles for the kids, as she does every Sunday
morning, and the dog had already been walked, after the rug in my
office was cleaned up of Warren’s nocturnal activities. Leah was
already at Melissa’s house and Ethan was deep into the latest
episode of
Butt Ugly Martians
, a cartoon show aimed directly
between his eyes.

From behind, I embraced my wife, who was still at
the stove, and she turned to kiss me, still happy that I wasn’t, in
truth, dead. I looked at the stove, where she was making
pancakes.

“Are those for me?” I asked.

Abby nodded. “I thought you might like a special
breakfast after you worked so hard on this story.”

“I am hopelessly in love with you,” I said.

“Don’t be,” she answered. “Be hopefully in love with
me.” I got myself a plate and she actually flipped two pancakes
onto it for me. I got the syrup and what passes for butter in my
house (some concoction made with yogurt, it doesn’t taste half bad)
from the refrigerator, then sat down and took a bite.

“Mmmmm,” I appreciated. “You make a mean pancake, my
love.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll try to make a kinder
one next time.”

“Someday I must pay for you to take a course in
receiving a compliment,” I suggested. “You know what I mean. These
are terrific.”

“Thank you.”

“You have a secret ingredient, don’t you? There’s
something in here even the International House of Pancakes hasn’t
thought of yet, isn’t there?” “That, my friend, is none of your
business.” Just to be funny, she said it “busy-ness.”

I stopped in mid-forkful. That was it. The way the
word “business” was pronounced—I knew I’d heard it before. I stood
up and kissed Abby again.

“What’s that all about?” she asked. “Sit down and
eat before they get cold.”

I did, because they were really good pancakes. “I
have to go out right after breakfast,” I said. “Do we need
anything?”

“Milk,” she said.

“Perfect,” I answered.

A half hour later, I was walking through the front
door of the Kwik ‘N EZ. I strode in, went directly to the
refrigerated cases where the milk is kept, and sought out the
no-growth-hormone one-percent. Knowing the way the Kwik ‘N EZ
operates, I reached far back onto the shelf to get a newer gallon,
and sure enough, came up with one whose expiration date was six
days after the one at the front of the shelf.

Feeling chipper, I also picked up a Nestle Crunch
bar for Leah, a package of Oreos for Ethan, and a copy of
Rolling Stone
for myself. Abigail couldn’t possibly want
anything they sold at the Kwik ‘N EZ, so I got her a pack of Devil
Dogs.

Mr. Rebinow was at the counter, but tried to pass me
off to his associate, a younger man with blond highlights and a
baseball cap bearing the logo of no team I’d ever encountered. I
shook my head when he came over to take my order.

“No,” I said. “Only Mr. Rebinow can help me.” The
young man looked confused, and turned to Mr. Rebinow. There was no
one else in the store. Rebinow shrugged, and walked over to the
cash register.

“Go check the stock on the Ring Dings,” he told the
younger man. “I think we’re low.” The younger man seemed about to
dispute that claim, but saw the look on his boss’ face, and decided
to do exactly as he was told.

“I see you’ve given up on the stink bombs,” I said,
pointing to the spot on the counter where the offending items used
to dwell.

He decided to play indifferent. “Too many complaints
from the parents,” he said. “My sales in milk and bread started
suffering. It wasn’t worth it. Now, what do you want?”

“It was you,” I said. “You were the one who was
making the phone calls, and you were the one who threw the rock
through my front window.”

“You’re crazy.” But he was already sweating.

“No, I’m not. You said the same thing on the phone
that you said that day in the store. Except in the store, you said,
‘that’s their bus-i-ness,’ three syllables, and on the phone you
said, ‘it’s none of your bus-i-ness,’ the same way. I always
remember things like that, and you’re the only person I know who
pronounces the word like that.”

Mr. Rebinow stared at me for close to a half minute.
In his eyes, you could see him consider any number of possible
responses, and discard them all. Again, he decided that nonchalance
was the way to go.

“So?” he asked. “You ruined my business for two
days, and I broke a window. So what?”

“What I did falls into the area of a prank, and what
you did falls into the area of terroristic threats, destruction of
property and, if I want to get nasty, attempted assault. Another
five feet to the left, and you’d have beaned me with that
rock.”

“Oh, bullshit,” he said. “I waited for the lights to
go out before I threw the rock.”

I pulled the tape recorder out of my jacket pocket,
and he turned a little green. He didn’t know I hadn’t turned it
on.

“Now I’ve got you on tape confessing to the act,
Rebinow. So it’s time for us to start talking about how to solve
this problem.”

Mr. Rebinow’s eyes darted back and forth a few times
from the cassette recorder to my eyes, to the counter, to the front
door, to the window. He had no idea how to respond, and being too
cool for his own good wasn’t working. So he started to cry.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just. . . I
was so mad when the cops wouldn’t do anything to you, and I just
wanted to scare you. And then, when I was going to stop, you
started coming in here again, and I thought you knew I’d been doing
it.”

“We can work it out,” I said, inadvertently quoting
the Beatles. “We can reach an agreement that satisfies everybody
and we don’t have to involve the police at all.”

“How?” he asked, eyes wide.

“The first thing we’re going to do,” I said, “is get
in touch with a sign painter.”

Lydia from
Snapdragon
called me Monday
morning, and told me the editors all liked what I’d written, which
was a relief. The next issue of the magazine had a picture of Legs
on its cover, with a detachable toupee, and a line indicating the
International Symbol for “no” through his face. The headline read:
“Louis Gibson Isn’t Dead, But He Is An A**hole.” There’s nothing
like the discretion of the American free press.

Of course, all the daily papers and the broadcast
media got the story first. I talked to Mason Abrams on Sunday,
thanked him for his help, and filled him in on what I’d discovered.
I duped a copy of the cassette with Legs and Stephanie’s
confession, and FedEx’ed it to him on Monday, for Tuesday
delivery.

By Wednesday, Fax McCloskey’s daily bulletin was
announcing the good news/bad news scenario Fax had to report: “We
know who killed Louis Gibson—nobody. We know who killed Lester
Gibson, but, um, they kind of got away.”

Naturally, the press coverage was tremendous, but
Fax had failed to mention that
Snapdragon
Magazine had
broken the story, so nobody reported on it until Lydia started
calling the major news outlets and telling them her reporter had
done the reporting. My phone started ringing Wednesday night, and
didn’t stop again until Saturday.

Once things started to calm down, I attended a
special ceremony at the convenience store. It had taken almost two
weeks, but a new, red, blue and yellow sign proclaiming “Quick And
Easy” was being hoisted above the front door. Mr. Rebinow, thrilled
that he’d gotten off so cheap, beamed at me and offered me a free
cup of coffee, which I declined. I did, however, accept a free Diet
Coke.

Barry Dutton asked me once or twice about the
window, but I told him we were better off forgetting about such
things, since the damage had been repaired, and the threatening
phone calls, amazingly enough, had stopped. Barry sounded a bit
skeptical on the phone, but he had enough to worry about, and
turned his mind to other matters, like how to keep Detective
Westbrook in his office and away from the lunchtime buffet at
All-You-Can-Eat.