A Trouble of Fools (11 page)

Catholics and Jews are tied, I think, for the guilt championship of the world. Here was this old woman, beaten to a pulp, probably because of something her brother had done, blaming herself for not having the gift of second sight.

“Go on,” I said. I probably sounded a little angry. I was.

“That’s all he told me, all I know to this day, I swear. A harmless little social club, an excuse for a few drinks. It wasn’t till after Eugene disappeared that I looked in the toy chest. We used to hide things there, secret messages and such, when we were children. That’s why I looked. And when I saw what was there, all that money, I didn’t know what to do. I came to you.”

“After you visited the cab company.”

“Wouldn’t you have gone? I tried to talk to some of the men, Sean Boyle, Joe Fergus. I couldn’t find Pat—Patrick O’Grady. He might have told me something, but he was out sick. Oh, those men! Some of them I’ve known for years, and they smiled at me and said go home, don’t worry. It made me so angry I can’t even tell you. They gave the old biddy a pat on the head and said go on home, don’t trouble yourself, it’s only your one relative in the world gone missing.

It’ll all turn out fine—”

“Did you open Eugene’s locker?”

“Locker? I didn’t know—”

“Why didn’t you mention the money when you came to me?”

Silence.

“Where do you think the money came from?”

She tried to shake her head, winced with the pain of the effort, and said, “I don’t know.”

“Where do you think it’s going?”

It was a question she must have expected, but it made her hands jump as if an electric current had passed through them. She swallowed with an audible gulp. “I pray God I’m wrong, but in the old days we used to send money, the Gaelic Brotherhood Association, I mean, used to send money—to Ireland”

“The IRA,” I said flatly. Oh, shit. Deep shit.

Margaret twisted her hands together, forgetting about the IV hookup. “You don’t know how it was, Miss Carlyle.

You’re too young. I remember though, I remember. When I was still a child my mother took me to Boston Common and there must have been a hundred thousand Irish-Americans, all gathered together in protest against the British, for the Cause. It was so different back then, it was like another world. Before the troubles started again in the sixties, it was organized. The money was for food and clothes, to help the families of the men rotting in the British prisons, to help the children go to Catholic schools—”

She stopped, out of words and breath, and seemed to want me to say something. “Sure,” I said. I guess I am too young. I’ve got some respect for the Irish; I’m part Irish after all. The music and the poetry are terrific. But then you’ve got the divorce laws. And the IRA …

Margaret seemed satisfied with my one-word contribution.

She started talking again, more slowly. “The American money tapered off. The fund-raisers were desperate by ‘seventy-five.

Noraid contributions were way down because of

the horror stories in the newspapers. Children maimed. Husbands shot in front of their wives. It was too much, too much, and there was no end to it. And the trickle of money still coming stopped dead on Saint Patrick’s Day in ‘seventy-seven, when the Four Horsemen said, ‘No more.’”

“Four horsemen?”

“Teddy Kennedy, and Moynihan, and Tip O’Neill, and Governor Carey. They spoke out against the IRA, and we listened.

The groups were disbanded. The GBA stopped meeting.

The churches preached against the violence. It ended.”

She closed her eyes and I could tell by her pallor that I’d have to stop soon.

“Did it end for your brother?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice was flat and toneless. “I thought so then. He didn’t have much money to give, and if he’d given to the Provos, he wouldn’t have mentioned it to me. Terrorists, I call them now, even if some of them are my own people.”

“Do you have family in Ireland?”

“Not anymore. Not that I know of.”

“If somebody said your brother went to Ireland, would you believe him?”

“Not Eugene. He might have talked about going now and again. But he was like the rest of the old men at Green and White, all talk.”

“He didn’t think life might be better there?”

She tried to smile, battered lips and all. “One of the things my brother believed, with all his heart and soul, was that the Irish were a terrible people, if you left them in Ireland.

It was his joke, that the Irish weren’t so bad once you got them away from the old sod. He used to say the trouble with Ireland is they’ve got too many Irish there.”

The knock on the door startled me enough to bring me to my feet. It announced the entrance of an earnest young woman, who declared it time for Miss Devens to accompany her down to X-ray. A name tag was pinned to her white cardigan. Before she had a chance to continue her set speech, I said, “Nurse Hanover, mis patient is a witness in a police case, and she tells me she’s been bothered by unwanted visitors.”

“Visiting hours aren’t till seven o’clock—”

“I know when visiting hours begin. I suggest you phone the Police Department, Area D, speak to Lieutenant Mooney, and ask him to provide a guard for Miss Devens s door.”

“If you think that would be best—”

“Take care of it immediately. Personally. And until the police arrive, alert the nurse at the station to be extremely careful about who enters this room. People dressed in white tend to look alike.” I pushed back my sleeve, checked my watch, made a notation on my clipboard, and nodded a quick farewell to Margaret.

I’m not sure, what with the state of her eyes, but I think she winked at me.

I need more time,” I said.

“Let me get this straight.” The voice on the line was the same gruff bellow I’d heard the last time, belonging to “our Mr. Andrews.” I had a lot less trouble getting through to him this time. Either his name moved mountains, or I was finally getting my just reward for my charm school manners. I wolfed a bite of tuna sandwich while he summed up the situation.

“You haven’t been able to reach your husband.”

“That’s right,” I replied truthfully enough. “I’ve left messages,”

I added, less truthfully.

“And he hasn’t gotten back to you.”

No doubt about it. This man had a grip on reality. I shooed fluffy Red Emma away from my potato chips. She adores potato chips, but then she has to drink about a gallon of water because she gets salted out.

“Er,” the gruff voice sounded oddly hesitant. “Er, I don’t quite know how to put this, but are you and your husband having any difficulties?”

I swallowed. “Difficulties?”

“Of an, er, marital sort? You’re not separated, are you?”

“Would that disqualify us?”

“Oh, er, no. Not at all. As long as he, uh, as long as both of you show up to claim your prize.”

“Well, like I said, I’ll keep trying.”

“Where exactly is your husband?”

“Why?”

His voice got all smooth and jovial. “Oh, I just thought we might be able to phone him. Cedar Wash has operators on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”

“Thomas hates to be bothered by strangers,” I said, which was an out-and-out lie. T.C. will rub up against any stranger, any time, any place. “I’ll get through. I just need time.”

“Can you call me back in two days?”

“Sure. No problem. Don’t give the money away till then.”

I held the phone to my ear long after he’d hung up, because I could swear I’d heard an extra click at the beginning of our conversation. It made me wonder if someone didn’t know wiretapping was illegal.

They’ve got this bug detector in the Sharper Image catalog, this monthly bulletin of trendy gadgetry that I get through the mail due to some computer error. Anyhow, this item only costs forty-nine bucks plus two-fifty postage, “thanks to a breakthrough in microcircuit technology.” And it only weighs two ounces, so I could keep it in my shoulder bag.

Roz picked that moment to enter the kitchen. At least I thought it was Roz. Her hair was a bizarre shade of pink, and I wondered if she had done it on purpose or if this was the end result of all that dye. She yanked open the refrigerator.

The seat of her skintight black stirrup pants looked like the scat of Roz’s skintight black stirrup pants. When she turned around, a jar of peanut butter in one hand, I knew beyond a doubt that it was Roz and that she, at least, thought her hair had turned out fine. She had a dreamy, faraway smile on her lips, in anticipation of the peanut butter, which she adores for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and she was wearing one of her signature Tshirts.

Roz is a sweet kid, honestly, underneath the fake eyelashes, the pouty makeup, the garish jewelry, and the tough gal, heavy-metal image. She has a fake leopard skin coat.

She’s only about five two, and she’s really thin, except for these incredible breasts, which may be why she has the best T-shirt collection in the world. The messages range from “McGovern ‘72” to “Tofu Is Gross” to “Stamp Out Smurfs.”

Today she wore one of my favorites, a copy of the classic crimson T, with Psychotic U. emblazoned where Harvard ought to be. My absolute favorite comes from a shop in Harvard Square and is a wild shade of purple, imprinted with the following verse:

Roses are red

Violets are blue

I’m schizophrenic

And so am I

I never comment on Roz’s appearance.

“Yo, Carlotta,” Roz said. “How’re ya’ doin’?” She unscrewed the peanut butter jar and scooped a glob of yellowish goo onto a green-painted fingernail. We use the same refrigerator, but we buy separate supplies. Her attack on the peanut butter made me glad about that.

I wondered if her karate-instructor boyfriend was still lurking upstairs. Roz calls him Lemon. I’m not sure if that’s his genuine nickname, or just Roz’s special term of endearment, but his real name is Whitfield Arthur Carstairs in, I swear, and when he’s not teaching karate, he’s a performance artist.

Some days he stands immobile, on a soapbox, for hours, in the middle of Harvard Square. I once saw him juggle four grape 83

fruits. He also does sporadic underground theater, and has one of the most gorgeous bodies I have ever seen.

“You busy today?” I asked Roz.

“Not especially,” she said. At least I think that’s what she said. Her speech was slurred by the peanut butter.

“Want to earn a few bucks?”

“Today?”

She’s sharp as a tack sometimes. I don’t hold it against her. She’s at least ten years younger than I am, and she was probably weaned on television and marijuana. When she’s cleaning the house she sings TV-commercial jingles. On the other hand, she really can paint when the mood strikes her; wild abstract oils, layered with color and energy. She also does an occasional, surprisingly delicate, watercolor.

“Yeah,” I said. “Today. You have other plans?”

“Lemon’s coming by.”

Hah, I thought, you mean Lemon’s here. I’m a detective, for crying out loud. His truck is still parked across the street.

I wondered if she thought I’d charge more rent for the two of them, or if she imagined I’d be scandalized by his overnight presence. The last thought kind of offended me. I mean, I’m not that ancient, and I’m not particularly righteous. I comforted myself by recalling the anguished and delighted grunts and groans of the night before. If Roz really wanted to keep Lemon a secret, surely she would have muted her ecstasy.

“If

he wants to earn some dough,” I said, “I can use him, too.”

“Great,” she mumbled through the peanut butter. “What’s up?”

“Wear working clothes. And you’d better bring rubber gloves.”

“Rubber gloves,” she repeated. “Is this weird?”

“The job is housecleaning. At a client’s house.”

“Time and a half for housecleaning, if it’s not this place,”

she said. She is sharp where money’s concerned.

“Okay,” I said. I had access to a lot of cash. I gave her Margaret’s address, made her write it down. She’s scatterbrained on addresses.

“Bring your camera,” I said. “And before you touch anything, take photos. For insurance, okay?”

Roz brightened. She loves photography. She converted this old root cellar in the basement into a darkroom, and sometimes she stays down there for days, coming up only for an occasional hit of peanut butter.

“No artsy-fartsy stuff, Roz,” I warned. “For a straight arrow insurance company. And the place is a real mess.

You’d better have Lemon drive his pickup so you can haul stuff away.”

“Okay.”

“And bring Hefty Bags.”

“Hefty Bags, rubber gloves, and a camera,” she said.

“Lemon’s gonna love it.”

“Leave the Wesson Oil home,” I said.

She giggled.

“Look, Roz, seriously, here’s the key to the front door, and if anybody rings the doorbell, check them out before you open it. The lady who lives there is mixed up in some heavy-duty shit, and I don’t want you taking any chances.”

“Me and Lemon—”

“I know the two of you can kick anybody’s ass around the block, Roz, but you can’t kick a gun unless they let you get close enough.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll be careful.” She returned the peanut butter jar to the fridge. Breakfast was evidently over.

I wondered what poor Lemon subsisted on. “Hey,” she said, “did I tell you that guy came by again?”

“Huh?” Sometimes I don’t catch on very fast either.

“That guy you went to school with.”

“School,” I repeated. “Where?”

“I don’t know. I thought U. Mass., probably, but he looked kinda well dressed for that.”

“You’ve seen him with me? Here?”

“No.”

“He have a name?”

“Yeah. Let’s see. Smith. Roger Smith. Didn’t you see the note on the fridge?”

We both stared at the forest of paper on the refrigerator door. Time for a little local housecleaning, I thought.