Alibi (49 page)

David said nothing, merely lifted the drink to his lips and took several deep swallows, allowing the cold amber liquid to cool his parched throat. He drained the glass within seconds before placing the empty tumbler back on the tray, nodding to the waiter in thanks and turning to Katz.

“You’re an asshole, Roger,” he said, after which he pulled back his arm and closed his fist, his punch connecting with Katz’s right cheek before the Kat even knew what hit him.

And then he turned to Katz’s assistant, totally disregarding the now flailing ADA who lay in a heap on the worn hallway floor.

“Shelley,” said David, rubbing his fist. “Thanks for the invite. It’s been a pleasure.”

“Any time,” said Shelley with a smile, diverting her eyes from her “beloved” boss to the man who stood triumphant before her.

“I’m sorry, H. Edgar,” said Alison Westinghouse. “But I am sure I heard him correctly. He said he was going to visit his best friend and clear the air. Now, I know that you are his closest friend, so I just assumed you two had had some sort of spat, which is completely understandable given the pressure you poor boys have been under, and that he was going to meet you to make amends.

“Perhaps he is stuck in traffic,” Alison Westinghouse went on. “Although I assumed he was meeting you at home so he should be there by now. Do you think we should be concerned?”

“No,” snapped Simpson, his brain now working double-time. “I mean, I am sure he is fine, Mrs. Westinghouse. It must be the traffic. The Red Sox are playing at Fenway so . . .”

“Oh, I see.”

“You’re right,” he lied. “We did have a disagreement. Nothing huge. Like you said, this has been a stressful time and well . . . Heath has been a rock, Mrs. Westinghouse. I am lucky to call him my friend.”

“And he thinks the same way about you, H. Edgar. You two must stick together now given . . .”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Simpson, now desperate to get off the phone. “I’ll see you then.”

“Of course, H. Edgar. You know you are welcome any time.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Westinghouse.” And then he hung up the phone. H. Edgar stood stock-still in the hallway of his parents’ grandiose Chestnut Hill mansion, the Persian rug thick beneath his feet, the corridor walls covered in original landscapes, and the only heir to this monstrous Brahman haul now fearing that life as he knew it was over—or at least in its agonizing death throes.

No,
he said to himself, realizing what his friend was about to do.
“No,”
he said aloud, knowing that if he did not act, his brilliant strategy of damage control would be sabotaged before it even got a chance to get off the ground.

He took a breath, closed his eyes and opened them again, now looking up to see the keys to his mother’s BMW X5 hanging on a hook above the marble-topped side table. He leapt forward, snatching them off the wall before running for the door and, once outside, turning left toward the estate’s expansive six-car garage.

He looked at his Rolex. 1:52 p.m. Westinghouse was at least twenty minutes ahead of him so there was no time to waste. He unlocked the SUV and jumped up into the leather upholstered driver’s seat before turning on the ignition, releasing the hand brake and screeching down the circular drive, kicking up a tornado of polished white pebbles in his wake.

Heath Westinghouse was sick to his stomach. In fact, he had felt the nausea rise in his esophagus the minute he walked into Suffolk County Jail. Everything about this place said “puke.” The smell was so sickly he swore he could see the airborne germs bumping heads with the chemically toxic antiseptics that saturated the air like napalm. The guards were so fat that the guns in their belts looked like leather-holstered penises, standing at attention to their bulbous waists. The walls were so white he felt sure they were painted daily, with years of in-ground grime left to fester underneath. And the population was so black that he . . . well, needless to say, this was
not
a scenario he was used to.

Heath closed his eyes and shook his head rapidly from side to side as if attempting to rid it of all the concerns (prejudices) and worries (fears) that were forcing their way to the forefront of his brain. He was here to see James, to sort things out, clear the air, apologize for being responsible for their sending him to this fucking hole that . . . But one quick reminder of the significance of his surroundings and the wave was back again, this time rising as far as his throat, forcing him to swallow his very own vomit. And then he felt it—a welcome sigh of relief—at the sound of the doorknob twisting before him. His friend was here—James, his smart as all hell, athletically gifted friend who, in the very least, would appreciate his discomfort.

“Fuck,” he said as James entered the room. “Jesus fucking Christ, man. Shit! What did they do to you? You look like . . . Shit. Jesus. Fuck!”

James said nothing, just moved in slowly to take the seat across from him in the small, white, cinder block room.

“I am so sorry, man,” said Heath, shaking his head, diverting his eyes, looking everywhere, anywhere but at the distorted human being before him.

“I am not supposed to be talking to you,” said a weary James.

“I . . .” Heath began. “I know. I mean, we are obviously supposed to be the enemy. But James, we never thought it would come to this. H. Edgar told me you were cool, and the money was split and . . . Why did you lie about Barbara?”

“So this is why you are here?” said James, shaking his head ever so slightly.

Heath winced at the sight of his friend’s swollen black eye, which puckered as his head moved from side to side.

“You want to bang me up for lying about getting laid?” asked James. “Well, I’m sorry, Westinghouse, but as you can see, somebody already beat you to it.”

Heath nodded. He had not cried in years, but that was what he was doing now—slowly, silently, the tears tracking down his smooth, tanned cheeks.

“James,” he began. “I don’t understand any of this, man. H. Edgar says you are guilty.”

“I know,” said James at last, his own tears now leaking from the corner of his one good eye. “And to be honest with you, I am almost past caring.” James stopped there, as Heath leaned in across the table, desperate to comfort his close friend but unsure as to how, given James’ horrendous injuries and the oversized asshole standing guard by the door.

“You know,” James went on, now mere inches from his friend, “sometimes, at night, I imagine what it would be like to join them. To let go, to give in. And then I close my eyes and shut out the world, and then I see them, Heath. I see Jess and my son, smiling, relieved,
grateful
that I have finally worked out exactly where I belong.”

“No,”
said Heath, now gripping James’ wrist, causing the overweight uniform to take a step forward. “Enough is enough, James. You cannot forget what you had and what you
will
have again. Jessica is gone, and that is a really awful thing, but if she loved you like you say she did, she would not want this for you. I will talk to H. Edgar. I will . . .”

H. Edgar saw the guard tap on the door and push it open, revealing the two young forms seated at the small metallic table in the middle of the tiny windowless room.

“Seems you’re popular today, Matheson,” said the guard. “Visitor number two which means Mr. Baywatch here has gotta hit the road. Only one visitor at a time, them’s the rules.”

H. Edgar entered to see Westinghouse’s mouth agape—his blue eyes shot with blood, his complexion flush, his cheeks wet. And then the other inhabitant, almost unrecognizable in his red, shapeless prison garb, turned to face H. Edgar, eye to eye. Simpson gasped, the very sight of his “genetically perfect” friend, sending a strange intense heat through his entire body and squeezing his heart in a vice. But then he took a breath, collecting himself, controlling his thoughts and reminding himself why he was here. This was all about survival,
his
survival, nothing more, nothing less.

“H. Edgar,” said Westinghouse, rising quickly from his chair, its metal legs screeching in protest as it scraped across the cold, polished floor. “We need to do something, man. Look at him. We need to . . .”

“One of you has got to take a hike,” interrupted the guard. “You have exactly three minutes before visiting time is over.”

“Westinghouse,” said H. Edgar calmly, “I need to speak with James.”

“Not unless you promise to . . .” Heath began.

“It’s okay,” interrupted James, turning back to his fair-haired friend. “Give him his minute.”

And Westinghouse nodded, standing to maneuver his way out of the now crowded room. “I’ve got your back, James,” he said to James before facing H. Edgar at the door. “You’d better be here to make this right,” he added.

But H. Edgar said nothing, just stared at his tall friend as he passed by and into the corridor beyond.

And so there they stood.

Two of the inseparable band of three.

Two feet and a million miles apart.

“You did this to yourself,” said H. Edgar at last.

“Fuck you, H. Edgar,” said James. “You know exactly how this went down and from what I hear, you are about to give the ADA another nail to hammer into my coffin.”

H. Edgar took a breath, wondering how James could possibly know about his new piece of so-called evidence. “It wasn’t meant to happen like this.”

“Really?” asked James. “Are you trying to tell me you screwed up because if that’s the case then why am I the one wearing the red cotton clown suit?”

“You know who I am, James,” said H. Edgar. “I have never professed to be anything different.”

“And I cannot help who I fall in love with.”

H. Edgar felt that now familiar rush of heat again, and waited for it to subside—the two of them standing there, saying nothing, but knowing that no matter what happened, they would never be friends again. And then Simpson took the slightest of steps forward, his shoes squeaking loudly against the gray concrete floor.

“Stay away from me,” said James, the back of his legs now flush against the square metallic table. And H. Edgar stopped, realizing just how much damage had been done.

“All right,” he said, “I’m leaving, but I want you to remember that what I am about to do has nothing to do with you. I am a rare beast, James, who will always survive against the odds. So when this is over, I do not want your thanks.”

“I do not want your help, H. Edgar.”

“Maybe not, but you need it.”

“Then I choose to refuse your fucking generous offer.”

“Then I choose to refuse your refusal.”

James said nothing, and so H. Edgar turned to leave.

“You know your problem, Simpson?” said James at last. “You can’t see past your own fucking nose. The world does not live or die by the beat of H. Edgar Simpson’s drum.”

“Perhaps not, but as I am about to save your skin, Matheson, I suggest you swallow your goddamned pride and allow me to do exactly what I do best.”

Three weeks later—Thanksgiving

 

They were only three hours into a five-and-a-half-hour drive and already they were running two hours late. Sara had taken an early “Happy Thanksgiving” call from Sawyer who had just happened to mention that his parents were on some skiing vacation in Canada and that he planned a quiet day, on his own, sitting in his dorm, eating turkey takeout from the Deane cafeteria.

“He is all alone,” Sara had said at 8 a.m. just as they were getting into the car. “I mean, turkey takeout . . . ?”

“Turkey is turkey, Sara,” David had replied.

But then she gave him that smile—that wide-eyed, innocent, impossible to refuse expression that had inevitably resulted in them driving to Wellesley to meet Sawyer for a cafeteria-cooked Thanksgiving breakfast of processed turkey and a too-dry cranberry sauce on two burned pieces of rye. And it was as if the kid, who Sara had grown increasingly fond of over the past month (which wasn’t such a stretch considering Sawyer seemed to spend every spare moment either at the office or popping into their apartment), had been treated to the breakfast of kings—his bright face alight with an expression of pure joy and appreciation.