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Authors: Michael Craft

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BOOK: Bitch Slap
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Mulling my predicament, I sat and watched the traffic, scanning the avenue for tan sedans.
It seemed I was there for hours.
T
he imagined hours on the park bench were no more than fifteen or twenty minutes. The amount of time I sat there was irrelevant—it brought me no nearer to solving my quandary. Though Roxanne had seconded Neil's decision to remain mum, I simply didn't agree with either of them.
Neil had played a role in Gillian Reece's death, and although that role was not intended, he was nonetheless accountable for his actions. The extent of his responsibility for Gillian's death was a complicated matter of law and public interest. It was
not
a matter for Neil or Roxanne to dismiss as a hassle best avoided. And while the consequences of Neil's actions were his dilemma, complicity in the cover-up was mine. It was apparent I could not convince him to level with Doug Pierce. Failing that, was it then
my
responsibility to set things right—and tattle on my own lover? The very notion sickened me. My instincts told me to play along and hope for the best. But my intellect told me that I could not abandon my principles and integrity—the very benchmarks that had defined not only my career, but even my sense of self.
These onerous thoughts dominated the remainder of the afternoon, which I spent at my desk behind a closed door, insulated from the newsroom and from the world beyond. I had asked Connie to screen
my calls, fending off all but Doug or Neil. When it was nearly five, I had heard from neither of them, so I lifted the receiver and dialed Neil at his office.
“Oh, Mark,” he answered, “I was just about to call you.”
Unable to judge the tone of his voice, I asked, “You've, uh, heard from Doug?”
“No. I heard from
Todd
, about dinner. He finished at the Reece house for the day and offered to make a run for groceries.”
“Oh, jeez, I nearly forgot—and
I'm
the one who was so quick with the invitation. Too much on my mind, I guess.”
“Tell
me. Anyway, he's shopping as we speak.”
“The perfect houseguest.” With a touch of humor, I added, “If the curtain biz falls flat, maybe he'd be interested in a … position. With Barb gone, we could use some extra help.”
Neil laughed. “Fat chance. Todd's got a waiting list of clients
this
long.”
“Good for him.” I laughed as well, and it felt good. My spectrum of emotions that day had ranged from anxiety at the one end to depression at the other.
“Uh, Mark?” asked Neil. “Have
you
heard from Doug?”
I exhaled loudly. “Not a peep. He's surely finished in Green Bay by now if he intends to be at the house by seven.”
“Then no news is good news, I guess.”
“I guess.” But I knew it wasn't that simple. If the old shopkeeper had provided a dead-on description of Neil as the buyer of the vintage Royal, I doubted if Doug would phone to say, Brace yourself, Mark—I'm locking up your boyfriend. No, he'd deliver such news in person, and by my calculation, he was now in his car, speeding our way.
Neil asked, “What time will you be home?”
“I've had a tough time clearing my desk, but I'll be there by six. This ‘party' was my idea—I ought to pitch in in the kitchen.”
“We'll be waiting for you.” Before ringing off, Neil added, “But if you hear anything from Doug, let me know.”
“Count on it.”
 
 
Around six, I arrived home, still having heard nothing from Doug. Parking in the garage, I entered the house through the back door, finding Neil and Todd already hard at work, preparing dinner. Something hissed in a skillet, filling the room with warm, inviting smells. I felt instantly hungry as I closed the door on the chilly dusk.
“Hey, Mark! Welcome home,” said Todd, turning from the countertop where he was mincing vegetables—onions, I think—on a cutting board. He sounded chipper with anticipation of the night that lay ahead.
“Hi, Mark,” echoed Neil, sounding not at all chipper as he wiped his hands and stepped to the door to give me a kiss.
Slipping out of my sport coat, I offered, “Need an extra pair of hands?”
Todd and Neil looked at each other and exchanged a shrug. “Nah,” said Neil, “everything's under control. Relax.” Easier said than done, I thought.
Todd said, “I bought some oranges, Mark. If you're looking for something to do, how 'bout a drink? I don't know about you guys, but I could sure use something.”
Neither Neil nor I needed convincing. We too needed a drink, though our nervousness was rooted in something decidedly more ponderous than Todd's date jitters. Without further prompting, I set about pouring us a round of our usual evening cocktail—Japanese vodka on ice, twist of orange peel.
Todd and Neil were so busy with their culinary chores, they barely paused to skoal with me. “Wish me luck tonight,” said Todd, raising his glass.
Under his breath, Neil said, “Wish
me
luck tonight.”
“Hm?” asked Todd.
I fudged, “Neil always tenses up before dinner guests arrive.”
Neil and Todd turned to resume their preparations. Neil was so distracted, he didn't even protest when I offered to set the table, a task in which he took particular pride, not normally entrusting it to me.
I was glad to have something to do. Moving to the dining room, I worked on the table like a man on a mission. Napery, cutlery, china,
crystal—I set each item with dogged, eyeball precision, resisting (but just barely) the temptation to get a ruler. Candles were already placed on the table, and I moved from the sideboard a bowl of flowers that Todd had arranged.
Finishing my task, feeling mentally exhausted by it (to say nothing of the accumulated strains of the day), I dashed upstairs, took off my tie, splashed water on my face, and changed into a fresh shirt—starched, of course—rolling up the sleeves a couple of turns for an evening at home. By the time I returned downstairs, it was seven o'clock.
Strolling into the kitchen, checking my watch, I asked, “No sign of our guest?”
Neil gave a feeble shake of his head while chomping an ice cube from the bottom of his cocktail glass.
“Not yet,” said Todd. “Wonder what he's up to.”
My thought exactly.
Neil whirled a hand, asking me, “Do you suppose we should call him?”
“No point in
asking
for trouble.”
“Huh?” said Todd.
“I mean, he'd let us know if his plans got fouled up. Let's give him a few minutes.” Then we all fell silent, busying ourselves with tasks already done. I returned to the dining room and refolded the napkins—just so.
Several minutes later, while I was making a mess of the flowers Todd had so artfully arranged, headlights flashed through the windows of the front hall. “He's here!” I called.
Todd and Neil rushed from the kitchen, and we all made our way to the door. Switching on the porch light, Todd peeked from the curtain at a side window like a high school princess awaiting the football hero to pick her up for the prom. A car door slammed. “Oooh,” said Todd, “he's wearing a tweedy green blazer tonight—I
love
that on him.”
I agreed, “I've always liked that jacket.”
Neil gave me a quizzical look. I wondered how he could possibly have never noticed how attractive Doug looked in that coat. And posing the question seemed to supply the answer—Neil simply didn't harbor sexual feelings for Doug.
Footfalls sounded on the porch steps, and a moment later, the doorbell chimed, just as Todd swung the door open, admitting a cold gust of October night air along with our local sheriff. “Hi, everyone,” he greeted us, closing the door behind him. “Getting nippy out there.”
“Almost Halloween,” I noted, feeling inane.
“Everything okay, Doug?” Neil tapped his watch. “We were ready to send out the dogs.”
“Sorry. I know how picky you guys are about wine, so I took my time shopping for it.” Handing me the bag he carried, he added, “Hope it measures up.”
Barely glancing inside—I couldn't even read the labels—I said, “Aww, you shouldn't have, Doug. You're too generous.”
“I didn't know what you'd be serving, so I brought a red and a white.”
“Perfect.” I handed the bag to Neil, who took it to the kitchen.
Todd offered, “Drink, Doug?”
He thought a moment. “Sure, why not? Scotch, rocks.”
“Comin' right up.” Todd darted to the kitchen.
Alone with Doug in the hall, I asked, pointedly, “Not on duty tonight?”
With a wry expression I couldn't interpret, he answered, “I'm
always
on duty, Mark, but a man needs a drink now and then.”
Cutting the small talk, I leaned close to ask, “What happened in Green Bay?”
He blew a silent whistle. “Soon enough, Mark.”
“Hey, Doug,” called Neil from the kitchen doorway. “Todd wants to know if you want a twist with your Scotch.”
“If it's handy.” Doug went to the kitchen, but paused in the doorway, turning back to me. “Join the party, Mark.”
Though wary of where the party was headed, I didn't want to miss anything, so I scampered through the dining room and joined the others in the kitchen.
“Fresh one, Mark?” asked Neil as I entered, hoisting an empty cocktail glass.
“Uh, sure.”
As Neil poured another round of vodka, Todd handed Doug his Scotch. It was a stiff one—the ice didn't take up much room in the glass.
When all four of us had a glass in hand, we made a toast to friendship. Doug added, “Life's not much without it—friendship—especially when the going gets rough.”
What did
that
mean? I slurped the vodka, watching Doug over the rim of my glass. He looked as troubled as his words had sounded.
“Hey,” said Neil, “let's not stand around the kitchen. Let's get civilized—in the living room.”
“How about the den?” I suggested, preferring the more intimate setting.
“Fine,” everyone agreed. “Sure.” Then we gathered a few plates of appetizers and trekked across the hall together to my uncle Edwin's woody lair.
I offered, “Care for a fire?” Silly question. So I went to work at the hearth while the others seated themselves around the low table. Neil made sure Doug and Todd ended up together, facing the fireplace from the chesterfield love seat. Its leather squeaked as they settled in, practically hip to hip.
When I had the fire going, I took the remaining chair, across from Neil's, near Todd's end of the love seat. Reaching to lift my glass from the table, I breathed a weary sigh. “Long day.”
Doug, who didn't look at all fatigued, turned to face Todd, telling him, “Long
week.
I guess you found more than you bargained for in Dumont.”
“
I'll
say.” The lilt of Todd's voice was clear enough—what he hadn't expected to find in Dumont was Douglas Pierce.
Doug laughed. “I meant, your curtain job at the Reece house didn't go exactly as planned.”
“The curtains did,” Todd assured him. “The client didn't.”
Neil said, “Yeah, poor Gillian.
Her
week didn't go as planned.”
“Under the circumstances,” said Todd, “you're more sympathetic to the woman than
I'd
be. After all, she could have screwed you and Mark out of a fortune, so it's a good thing her week did get fouled up.”
Flatly, Doug noted, “All a matter of perspective.”
Todd swirled his drink, nodding. He asked idly, “Any news on the case?”
Neil and I both went on alert. Too eagerly, I asked, “Yeah, Doug—Green Bay?”
With a tiny shake of his head, he told me, “Not now, Mark. Let's try to enjoy the evening.” Patting Todd's knee, he added, “With such pleasant company, why dwell on disappointing topics?”
What, I wondered, was his plan? Did he want to eat first—
then
lower the boom?
Neil gave me a questioning look that seemed to ask, Now what?
I wanted to take him aside and tell him, This is your last chance. Do what needs to be done. Don't force me into the god-awful position of making the right decision
for
you.
“Uh,” said Doug, clearing his throat, “this is sort of awkward, but there's something I really need to say.”
Through a skeptical squint, Todd said, “I thought you didn't want to dwell on the heavy stuff.”
BOOK: Bitch Slap
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