Blowing Smoke (22 page)

I reached over and yanked her cardigan down over her shoulders. There were track marks on the insides of both her right and left arms. She flushed and pulled her sweater back up.

“I repeat. How long have you been shooting up?”

She threw me a sullen glance. “What do you care?”

“I don't, really. I'm not going to lecture you on the evils of drugs. Some of my best friends used to ... indulge.”

“Big fuckin' deal. If you're going to go into one of these look-how-cool-I-am raps, forget it.”

“Don't worry. I'm not going to bore you.” I kicked the chair against the wall over, threw the clothing on it on the sofa, and sat down next to her. “These days, I thought most people smoked it. I guess you're just an old-fashioned kind of girl.”

“I guess I am.”

“Either that or you're suicidal.”

“I'm not HIV positive, if that's what you mean,” Hillary said.

“But you will be if you keep this up.”

She shrugged. “I'm careful. I don't share needles.”

“All it takes is one time.”

“Maybe the pleasure is worth the risk. Have you ever thought of that?”

“What I'm thinking is that you're just some stone junkie, a Billie Holiday wanna-be romanticizing yourself as someone too sensitive to live in this world.”

Hillary's eyes blazed. “Fuck you,” she spat.

I leaned over. “No. Fuck you. You know why I didn't tell your boss?”

“I don't care.”

“I didn't tell him because I want you to answer my questions. And if you don't, then I'll march right down to his office and tell him you're a user, and then, if he doesn't do it, I'll pick up the phone and tell the police.”

Hillary gestured toward her dressing table. “First-time offender? I'll get off with probation.”

“You're right, you will, but the arrest will be reported in the papers, and you'll lose your teaching job. Schools don't like to let addicts teach—especially elementary-school kids.”

Hillary tried to meet my eyes but couldn't. “I'm not an addict.”

“Fine. User. Dabbler. Experimenter. Smackhead. Hype. Pick whatever word you want. Let's not do stupid on top of everything else.”

Hillary's chin came up. Her gray eyes became lighter. She studied her nails. “It would almost be worth it to see the expression on my mother's face when the neighbors start calling.”

I took out a cigarette and lit it. “You guys put the D in dysfunctional.”

“And I suppose your family is perfect.”

“As perfect as apple pie,” I lied. “Do you want to answer my questions or not?”

Hillary squared her shoulders. “Answer them. What other choice do I have?”

“None.” I looked around for an ashtray and finally settled on an empty soda can. “Now, tell me again why you hired me to investigate Pat Humphrey.”

Hillary spun her ring, a gold band with a black opal in it, around her finger. “I already told you, I hired you because I was afraid Pat Humphrey was ripping my mother off. And it wasn't just me. Louis and Amy agreed.”

“But you were the driving force.”

“I was the one that suggested it. Yes.”

“Because you didn't want to see all your money go to waste.”

Hillary glared at me. “There's nothing wrong with me looking after my assets. Our assets,” she corrected herself. “Those of my sister and brother.”

“Absolutely.” I took another puff of my cigarette and flicked the ash into the soda can as a trickle of sweat worked its way down between my breasts. A cool shower would be wonderful, but that was still a ways away. “Especially when a person has expensive habits to maintain. Incidentally, what's the going rate for a hit of heroin these days?”

Hillary clamped her lips together.

“Okay. Here's my next question. How would you feel about splitting your mother's money four ways instead of three?”

Hillary smoothed down the front of her sweater. “I don't understand what you're talking about.”

“I think you do. Your mother gave a substantial chunk of change to Pat Humphrey. I'm just wondering what you'd feel like if you found out she was legally entitled to more.”

“I still don't get it.”

“According to your mother, Pat Humphrey was your half sister.”

“I never heard anything so ridiculous,” Hillary scoffed, but her tone of voice and facial expression made it clear that contrary to what Rose had told me, I wasn't telling Hillary anything she didn't already know.

“Your mother says she had a baby and gave it up for adoption.”

“So?” Hillary leaned forward slightly. “That doesn't mean that Pat Humphrey is that child.”

“Evidently she showed her the birth certificate.”

Hillary snorted. “Which is about as credible as my mother's cat telling Pat Humphrey where she lived.”

“You're saying you believe it was forged?”

“What do you think? Look, my mother is old. My mother is lonely. My mother had a stroke. She's scared of dying alone. She'll believe anything if she thinks you care about her.”

“Which you don't.”

“We're not a Hallmark-card kind of family.” Hillary started moving her ring up and down her finger again. “I used to. She was the one who didn't care about me. She didn't care about any of us. We're all disappointments to her.”

“How do you know?”

“She's told us. An infinite number of times. She wanted Louis to go to law school. He barely made it through high school, let alone graduating college. And then he goes and joins the postal service. And me! She wanted me to be the wife of... I don't know . . . someone famous . . . someone rich. She wanted a daughter she could brag on at the country club, not a teacher, not someone who sings”—Hillary swept her hand around her—“in a place like this. And as for Amy . . .”

“What about her?”

Hillary wiped the corner of her eye with the back of her hand, smudging her makeup even more. “Well, you know what she looks like. You've seen my mother. Imagine what she's had to say about that.”

I didn't have to imagine. I could hear Rose's voice in my head telling me. “And then along comes Pat Humphrey . . .” I let my voice trail away.

“So neat. So cool looking.” Hillary's voice shook with indignation. “She played my mother. I don't know how she did it, but she knew what my mother wanted to hear, and she gave it to her.” Hillary took a deep breath.

“So then you didn't shoot her?”

Hillary glared at me. “I don't like guns.”

“That doesn't mean you can't use them.”

“Anyone can use one, for God's sake. It's not terribly difficult.”

“It sounds as if you know how.”

“My father and mother used to go hunting in Africa before he got sick. Of course I know about guns. Everyone in my family does. We have them all over the place.”

“Including Geoff,” I murmured, thinking of how he'd greeted me.

“You'll have to ask him about that.”

“I will. So where were you when Pat Humphrey was shot?”

“I've already been through this with the police. I was at my house.” Hillary smiled unpleasantly. “The neighbors saw me. Not that that means anything. I understand these days you can pay a couple of thousand to have someone kill someone else.”

“Did you?”

“No. But if I find out who the shooter is, I'll give them a reward.”

A phone rang, and Hillary burrowed into her bag to get it. “Where are you?” she said, turning away from me. “Well, come as soon as you can.”

I got up, accidentally dislodging a magazine and sending it onto the floor.

“No,” Hillary replied to the person on the other end of the line. “I just knocked something over. There's no one here.” Then she turned off the phone.

“Your friend get held up?”

“You have to go.”

“Do I?”

She plucked at her sleeve with long, skinny fingers. “Please.”

I studied her. Hillary had crossed her arms over her chest and was kneading her shoulders with her hands. A phrase my grandmother used to use popped into my head. She used to say of someone that they looked as if they were held together with safety pins. The phrase seemed to fit Hillary.

“Don't worry,” I said. “I'm leaving.”

“Are you going to tell my mother about me?”

“That's what you want, isn't it?”

Hillary swallowed and turned her head away. When I left, she was sitting with her back to the door, her face buried in her hands.

I walked out of the bar, got into my car, and waited to see who was going to put in an appearance. It didn't take long.

Thirty minutes to be exact.

I
sat in my car, licking the last three squares of the old, melted chocolate bar I'd scrounged out of the glove compartment off its foil wrapper, watched the moon, and contemplated Hillary's relationship with her mother. Talk about fucked-up. Hillary was willing to jump over the cliff as long as her mother was watching. But then, who was I to say anything? Mine wasn't all that much better.

What had the last fight we'd had been about, anyway? That fight in the hospital room crammed with orchids and roses. And me, dumb schmuck, standing there with my get-better bunch of carnations clutched in my hand. I crumpled the foil wrapper up into a tight little ball, tossed it out of the car window, and wiped my fingers off on the front page of yesterday's newspaper.

Had we fought about my hair being so messy or the dress I was wearing or why I was walking around on shoes with run-down heels? That's what we usually argued about. Only, of course, it never was about that at all. It was about everything else. The man I was seeing and later married. The fact that I wasn't living my life the way she wanted me to. I'd stormed out of the room, and that had been that. A week of not calling had turned into a month and then six and then a year. My mother had come up for Murphy's funeral. And gone home the next day. Both of us stiffly polite. Both of us wanting to say things and not being able to.

I watched an old, rusted-out Honda Civic chug by. I should call. I knew I should. I should call before it was too late. I'd told myself that before, but this time I actually took my cell phone out of my backpack, and before I had time to think, punched in the old, familiar number, but the moment I heard my mother's voice on the line, I pressed the disconnect button and called Manuel on his cell instead. I guess I was scared. At least that's what the therapist I used to go to would have said.

“Speak to me,” Manuel said.

“I am, moron. You got anything for me on Debbie Wright yet?”

“I do. I do.”

“Well,” I said after a moment had gone by.

“I think this might be worth more than a hundred bucks . . .”

“Manuel, I am not in a good mood,” I told him as I fished around in my backpack for my cigarettes. I took one out, then put it back. I'd been smoking way too much lately.

“Okay. Okay. She's moved out of her family's house and is livin' over on Catherine Street. She works at one of those toy stores in the mall part-time and deals dope on the side. Nothing big. Some pills, a little E, pot, dabbles in smack once in a while. Strictly amateur night.”

“This is not a big surprise.”

“What?” he squawked. “You know how long it took me to get this info?”

“Knowing you as I do, you probably knew it already.”

“Come on, Robin. Don't be cheap.”

“Don't tell me you've been out to the casino again.”

Manuel was suddenly silent.

“You've got to stay away from there.”

“I know. I know. You know what else Debbie told me?”

“What?” I asked as I eyed the street.

“She said that Bethany's dad is shipping her off next week and that he's got her under house arrest.”

“Manuel, what did you expect? Hold on a second. Debbie's boyfriend is here.”

“The weirdo?”

“That's so politically incorrect.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Never mind.”

Louis was walking up the other side of North State Street. His height and weight made him impossible to miss. He would have stood out in the middle of a crowd in Times Square on New Year's Eve. Not that that was a problem, since at the moment there was no one else on the street.

“Man, I don't get it. Debbie, she wouldn't give me anything, but she's hooked up with this guy who wears dresses.”

“Maybe she gets off on making him up.”

As I watched Louis enter the club, I began to feel sorry for Rose Taylor despite myself. She'd asked me to tell her what I found out about her children. The way things were looking, she was going to get way more than she bargained for. I asked Manuel to go to my house and walk Zsa Zsa and hung up.

The wind had died down. Everything was still. A man wheeling a shopping cart filled with dirty clothes walked down the middle of the street talking to himself as I studied the marquee. I realized that someone had made a mistake and put an apostrophe between the n and the s. I wondered if I should say something as I locked up and went back inside.

It took a minute for my eyes to readjust to the dim lighting. I glanced around the room and spotted Louis sitting at the bar. Which surprised me. I'd expected him to go directly to his sister's dressing room. Or maybe he already had. Maybe he'd made his delivery and come straight back out. In any case, he was sitting opposite the door, watching something outside my range of vision, off to the left. When I walked in, Russell had just finished putting a beer down in front of him. I went over and said hello.

“My, this is a coincidence,” I chirped, slipping onto the bar stool next to Louis's.

He turned around to face me.

“I almost didn't recognize you dressed like this.”

He looked down at his polo shirt and khaki shorts, then back up at me. “Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?”

“No. How was the party?”

“I never got to go.”

“I hope you're not blaming me for that.”

Louis grunted.

“You'll be happy to hear my jaw is fine.”

He took a sip of his beer. I couldn't take my eyes off his hands. They were so large, they nearly hid the glass. No wonder my jaw still ached. I was lucky it wasn't wired shut.

“I wasn't worried.”

“That's not what Debbie said.”

He grimaced. “Debbie doesn't know shit. I told you I used to box pro. You shoulda listened. What are you doing here, anyway?”

“I came to hear your sister sing.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Oh. I was thinking you might have come for another reason.”

Louis's eyes narrowed. “Such as?”

“You might have brought her something she needs.”

He tapped the counter with his fingertips. “And what, pray tell, would that be?”

“I don't know. Throat spray. Lozenges.”

Louis gazed at me for a few seconds, assessing me, his face expressionless, before turning back to his drink. “She takes care of those things herself.” He took another sip of beer. As I watched him, I could hear one of the guys at a table near us telling his friends what a dead place Syracuse was. “Hillary is good,” Louis added.

“So I've been told,” I agreed.

“Too good for here,” Louis observed. He picked up his napkin and began shredding it. Then he took the shreds and placed them in the ashtray next to him.

“So how come she is here?”

He shrugged. “I'm not sure. I think she owes the owner a favor.”

I thought back to the scene I'd witnessed between Hillary and Johnny Q. Somehow that wasn't the impression I'd come away with.

“It's amazing this place is still open.” His eyes took in the surroundings. “It reminds me of a factory.”

I didn't tell him that was the whole idea.

“Why anyone would want to come here is beyond me.”

“It doesn't look as if many people have.”

He gave me a half-smile. “I keep telling Hillary she should get out of here and go down to New York City.”

“Why doesn't she?”

Louis shook his head. “She went down when she was younger. Something happened—I don't know what—and she never went back.”

“Is anyone else in your family musical?”

“My mother is. She has a very good voice. Amy and I can't carry a tune.” He took another sip of his beer and lifted his glass. “Hey, let me buy you one of these.”

“Thanks, but I think I'll pass.”

“I insist. To make up for your jaw.” He called to Russell, who'd been talking to someone down at the other end of the bar. “Bring her whatever she wants,” he said to him when he came over.

“Can't stay away,” Russell said to me.

“It's your compelling personality.”

“Oh, I thought it was the beer.”

Louis shot me a puzzled look.

“I was here a little earlier,” I explained. “I liked your sister's singing so much I decided to stay around for the next set.” I turned to Russell. “Do you have Black Label?”

Russell shook his head. “We have Johnny Walker Red.” He put both hands on the bar and leaned toward me. “You look familiar,” he said, scrutinizing my face. “Why is that?”

“Because you saw me earlier this evening?”

“No. I thought that when you came in the first time. Are you someone I should know?”

“Doubtful. I have a generic face.”

Russell snapped his fingers. “They did a story on you a while ago in the paper. You found someone's dog for them or something. You're some kind of pet detective or something weird like that . . .”

“She investigates things, for God's sake,” Louis said.

“Did Louis lose his Chihuahua?” Russell asked.

I smiled unpleasantly. “No. I'm investigating you.” What can I say? The man irritated me.

He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“And this place.”

“I thought you had to have a license to do that kind of thing.”

“I work under Paul Santini's,” I lied.

“Find out anything yet?”

“No. But I'm sure I will.”

Russell grinned. “You want a private Q & A, all you got to do is ask me.”

“I'll bear that in mind.”

He wiped his hands on the towel he'd slung over his shoulder. “So, did you say you wanted a Sex on the Beach?”

“No. I said I wanted a shot of Red Label with a glass of ice and water on the side.”

“If you insist.” And he winked at me. “But you'd like my suggestion better.”

Russell poured my drink and moved down to the other end of the bar.

“What a schmuck,” Louis muttered, nodding in Russell's direction. “He has to come on to anything that walks.”

“So how's Debbie?” I poured the scotch over the ice, then added a little water.

“Debbie's fine.” Louis pointed to the ceiling. I followed his finger. “They had a tin ceiling here, and Johnny just ripped it out and threw it away. You know how much it was worth?”

“As much as Pat Humphrey's necklace?”

Louis studied the room for a few seconds before answering. “I know I have a problem.”

“Several.”

“I'm seeing a therapist.”

“And that gives you carte blanche?”

“I didn't say that. But Pat understood.”

“That's not the impression I got.”

“She did.” Louis frowned. “I apologized. I was going to return it.” Louis took another sip of his beer. “I haven't been to Wolfe Island in years. Not since they redid the docks. Amy and I used to catch frogs there.” He took a handful of peanuts out of the bowl near him, then shook his head as if to clear it. “It's a shame what happened to Pat. I liked her.”

“Who?”

“Pat Humphrey.”

“Your sister didn't,” I told him while I watched Johnny Q come out from the back and walk over to the bar. He lifted up a hand and beckoned to Russell, who drifted over.

“You mean Hillary, I take it?” Louis said.

I nodded.

“She's a very jealous person.”

“But you're not?”

“Not of her.”

“What would you say if I told you Pat Humphrey was your half sister?” I asked him, watching his face carefully to see what his reaction was.

“I'd say wow.” He'd opened his eyes wide in a caricature of girlish astonishment, the gesture making his face look grotesque.

It was obvious Louis wasn't surprised by the news, either, even though he was trying hard to act as if he were. And if he knew, Amy probably did, too. The question was: When had the three of them found out? Before Pat Humphrey was shot or after? And how had they found out? Rose had sworn she hadn't told anyone. And I more or less believed her. At least if she had a reason to lie, I didn't know what it was. Which meant that Pat Humphrey was the one who had talked.

“I'd say you were crazy.” Louis paused for a few seconds to study my face. “You're not kidding, are you?”

“No.” I told him what I'd told Hillary as the lights in the bar dimmed even more and she and her pianist came back onstage.

Hillary looked calmer. Her brow wasn't furrowed up. Her hands weren't shaking. Obviously, she'd gotten what she needed. The question was: Had she gotten it from Louis or from someone else?

I took another sip of my drink and settled down to listen to her sing. Louis excused himself and walked toward the back, where the bathrooms were located. I noticed he stopped to chat for a minute with Russell and Johnny Q before continuing on his way. The pianist had just sat down at the piano when Johnny Q came over and sat down next to me.

“You know Louis?”

“We've met.”

Johnny Q played with the zipper of his shirt, revealing a tuft of chest hair. He shook his head and gestured toward the club. “So whaddya think?”

“I like it.”

“I'm getting tired of it myself. I think things should always be changing, you know?” He twisted the band of silver he was wearing on the upper portion of his thumb. “You got to reformat. Otherwise it gets boring. Speaking of boring, you must really like Hillary to stick around for her second set.”