Extreme Justice (9 page)

Against his better judgment, Ben decided to be honest. “Not really.”

Mike nodded. “Of course not. Thomas Wolfe was right, my friend. You can’t go home again. You can only go forward. Take it from me. I spent years rehashing those blissful days when I was married to your sister. Actually, they were only blissful in retrospect, but memory plays tricks. I’d sit around all day thinking, Poor me, I lost the only woman I ever loved and we never had the child we dreamed about. But living in the past doesn’t do anybody any good. Took years, but I’ve finally put her behind me. I hardly even think about Julia anymore.”

“Is that right.”

“Here’s to the future. That’s my motto.” Mike clapped Ben on the shoulder. “Sorry to hassle you, kemo sabe. I realize you’ve had a hell of a night.”

“It’s been a nightmare,” Ben agreed. “They don’t get much worse.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Mike said. “It could probably be worse.”

“No way. Not possible.”

“You shouldn’t say that, Ben. You never know.”

“Believe me,” Ben said emphatically. “Nothing on earth could possibly make this night any worse.”

Mike smiled. “Your mother is here.”

Ben dragged himself to the backstage green room, dreading every moment. Not that he minded seeing his mother, exactly, but it seemed about par for the course that she would come the night a corpse dropped onto his face.

He found her in the green room, sitting on the piano bench beside Scat. Ben’s eyes widened with amazement, and for more than one reason. For starters, he didn’t know Scat played the piano. And for another—his mother was singing!

“ ‘It had to be you …’ ”

Could this really be his mother? Her voice was sweet and smooth, like a swan sailing across a pond. She nurtured every syllable of every word, giving each phrase a twist that was both affecting and—Ben blanched at the thought—seductive.

Ben couldn’t believe it. He had never heard his mother sing, except for long-ago lullabies and car songs. He didn’t even know she could sing. But she could. Boy, could she ever.

Well, he couldn’t see interrupting. The cops were leaving them alone; so would he. He found a chair and sat quietly.

“ ‘It had to be … you.’ ” She drew out the last syllable for about a million beats, finally letting it dwindle to nothing as Scat laid his fingers down on the last rippled chord.

Ben stood and burst into applause. Scat and his mother both whirled around.

“Benjamin!” Her hand rose to her mouth. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt. I guess you two have already met.”

“Aww, Benji, Benji, Benji.” Scat pushed his shades up his nose. “Your sweet mama and I go way back.”

“You do?”

“ ’Course we do. How come you never told me your mama is Lillian Kincaid?”

Ben’s expression seemed frozen in place. “You—know my mother?”

Mrs. Kincaid raised an eyebrow. “Do you find that so shocking?”

“No. I just didn’t know when … when … you would’ve had …”

She tapped her long fingernails. “We’re waiting.”

“… had an opportunity to meet… a musician. Yes, that’s it. A musician.”

“Hell, Ben, don’t you know nothin’ about your own mama? She used to be the best singer in Oklahoma City.”

“
My
mother?”

Scat looked at him as if he had just crawled out from under a rock. “Where do you think you got the beat, son?”

“Well, now, let’s give Edward some credit. He was a musician, too.”

Ben’s expression did not change. “
My
mother?”

Mrs. Kincaid gave Scat a long look. “Did you ever have any children?”

“Cain’t say that I ever had the pleasure.”

“Pleasure. That would be one word for it.” She directed her attention back to Ben. “Yes, Benjamin, your mother used to sing. For a living.”

“You never should’ve left the circuit, Lillian,” Scat said. “No one sings the blues like you. Before or since.”

She shrugged. “Well, Edward felt that someone had to make a home. I sang part-time at first, but then Junior here”—she nodded toward Ben—“showed up in the first year. And of course, after that, everything changed.”

Ben remained flabbergasted. “You gave up a career—I never knew—”

“That was a long time ago.”

Ben stared, unable to utter a word.

It was Scat who broke the silence. “Well, you ain’t lost the touch, Lillian. You still give me chills.”

She smiled. “You’re kind, Scat, but I was never that good, and I’m well past my prime now.” She gave him a gentle shove. “Give me a minute to talk to my son, okay?”

“Your wish is my command, Lillian.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek, then sauntered off toward the stage.

Once he was gone, Ben’s mother folded her hands in her lap and smiled. “I stopped by Christina’s place on my way over.”

During her last visit, Ben’s mother had forged a friendship with Christina, a union Ben wouldn’t have bet on in a thousand years.

“She wanted to go shopping, but I insisted on attending your performance. She’s a sweet girl—Christina.” To Ben’s surprise, she winked. “I’m surprised you haven’t married her yet.”

“Mother, I told you before, we’re just friends. We work together. Did, anyway.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What, you don’t agree?”

“I agree that you’ve told me that before. Doesn’t mean I have to believe it.” She patted the empty space on the piano bench. Ben awkwardly crossed the room and sat down beside her. “Christina doesn’t think you’ll stick with this gig much longer. She thinks you’ll end up practicing law again.”

“Well, she’s wrong. I’m really connecting with this combo. In fact, when Earl closes down the club for his summer break, we’re planning to go on tour. Hit the southwest summer jazz circuit.”

His mother nodded. “Christina has a high regard for you. She thinks the law is your calling. She thinks it’s your way of helping other people. She even called you an angel. Can you believe that? My Benjamin, an angel.”

“Christina could put a spiritual spin on a train wreck.”

“Well, what she actually said was, you’re an angel on vacation. But eventually you’ll get back to your true
vo
cation.”

“Please, mother. I’m not giving up music.”

His mother tossed her head back. “I can certainly understand the desire to perform, to make melodies. To lose yourself in the purity of music. I had that dream myself. But still …”

“You don’t think I can cut it as a musician.”

She scowled. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re a Kincaid. You can cut it as anything you want to cut it as. But is this”—she looked around the green room—“who you really are?”

“You’ve spent too much time with Christina.”

She patted his hand. “Well, you do what you have to do.”

They both fell silent.

The awkwardness of the moment enveloped Ben. “I’m sorry you came tonight. I mean, considering what happened.”

“I’m just sorry I didn’t get to hear you play.”

He fidgeted. “Anyway … thanks for coming down.”

“It was my pleasure. I’d best be going now.”

He touched her arm. “Do you have to?”

“It’s late. I should get home.”

“Wait.” Ben tugged her gently back to the bench. “I was wondering …”

“Yes?”

“Well, all those years I struggled through piano lessons with Mrs. Thomas, playing stripped-down versions of bad pop tunes—how come you never came in and sang?”

She smiled. “I didn’t want to crowd you, Benjamin. If I had made playing the piano seem like something
I
wanted you to do—well, you’d probably never have done it.”

Ben couldn’t argue with that logic. “Well then, how about now?”

A broad beatific smile spread across her face. “Why, Benjamin Kincaid. I’d be honored. What song?”

He raised his eyebrows. “
The
song.” Which they both knew meant,
his
song—Ben’s father’s favorite song.

Ben started with a slow bluesy intro, lots of tinkling in the high registers, and his mother knew exactly where to come in. “ ‘A country dance … was being held in a garden …’ ”

Ben couldn’t resist smiling as he played. It was the sweetest music he’d heard all night.

T
HE INSTANT THE LED
on his digital clock read 12:00, Jones logged onto the Net. An instant later, he booted up his chat software and created a private room on Channel 365.

And waited. And waited.

Where was she? he began to wonder. Was it all a mistake? Or perhaps some cruel joke?

The minutes on his digital clock continued to click past. Five minutes past, then ten. Jones stared at the blank computer screen, overwhelmed with disappointment. Half an hour past, then an hour …

Panic began to set in. He had never asked where she lived. He had assumed she lived in Tulsa, but it wasn’t necessarily so. What if she lived in a different time zone? If she lived in California, she wouldn’t expect to keep a midnight appointment for two more hours. Or—

Chills radiated down his spine. If she lived in New York, she would have logged on an hour ago, expecting to find him, but instead finding nothing. Thinking she had been stood up. Thinking he was just another jerk after all, no better than Cobblepot or PilotBob.

Or there was another possibility. Maybe she had stood him up. Maybe she had come to her senses, become frightened. Who could blame her? What did she know about him, anyway? For all she knew, he was just another semiliterate computer geek. Maybe she decided to go offline and see if she could have a real life …

PAULA1
>Are you there?

Jones nearly jumped out of his desk chair. She was here! She was here!

Scrambling as fast as possible, he began to type. In his panic, he screwed his message up the first time, then had to delete and try again, then messed it up again. He inhaled deeply and slowly corrected his typos.

FINGERS
>I’m here. And I’m glad you’re here with me. (meaningful pause) I see you’ve changed your online moniker.

PAULA1
>(hapless shrug) I thought it was time to come out of the closet. So to speak.

FINGERS
>
ROTFL
!(hesitant confession)I was afraid you wouldn’t come.

PAULA1
>I admit I had some second thoughts. I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of reading your online profile.

Jones felt the air rush out of his lungs. She read his profile! But he had written that months ago, the first time he ever logged into a chat room. He was just pretending, fantasizing. He had never really expected anyone to read it, much less …

FINGERS
>I hope nothing there put you off.

PAULA1
>No! It was fascinating. Especially your detective work.

Jones’s heart thudded to the bottom of his chest. What have I done?

PAULA1
>I think that sounds incredibly exciting! Cruising the mean streets, being your own boss, answering to no one and nothing but your own personal sense of justice. Is it as thrilling as it sounds?

FINGERS
>It has its moments.

PAULA1
>Tell me about some of your most exciting cases.

Jones’s mouth went dry. He’d asked for this, he supposed—pretending to be someone he wasn’t. Maybe if he came clean right now before it got any worse.

FINGERS>
Look … I don’t want to mislead you in any way.

PAULA1
>Oh, no. Don’t tell me you lied in your profile. I hate it when men do that. :(

Jones felt his head getting light. He’d been daydreaming about this chat all day, and now that it was finally here, it was slipping away from him. He couldn’t bear to blow it now. But he knew that as soon as she learned his profile was a portfolio of lies, she’d snap off her modem in a heartbeat.

FINGERS
>No, nothing like that. I just didn’t mention—I don’t work alone.

PAULA1
>You don’t?

FINGERS
>Not exactly. I work with another private investigator. And with a lawyer. Sometimes we work on cases together.

PAULA1
>That makes sense. I suppose they refer investigations to you. And you refer clients to them.

FINGERS
>Yes, that’s it. Exactly.

PAULA1
>But you’re still your own boss. That would be so wonderful! (swooning) Self-employment—that’s my dream. I’m a librarian, and unless I come into a fortune and buy my own library, I’m always going to be working for someone else.

FINGERS
>You’re a librarian!

PAULA1
>Very boring.

FINGERS
>I love librarians. They’re my favorite people.

PAULA1
>Really! :)

FINGERS
>Yes. Always have been. Always will be.

PAULA1
>You must love books, too. I know you’re very well read. That was what first caught my attention.

FINGERS
>But how did you know?

PAULA1
>Because you quoted both Lao-Tzu and Lord Byron when you were chatting with those morons on the Wild Side.

FINGERS
>You noticed?

PAULA1
>Of course I noticed. I noticed everything.

After that, there was no stopping them. They spent the next hour discussing their favorite books, poets, films. Paula favored Emily Dickinson and, after a brief childhood flirtation with Rod McKuen, W. H. Auden. Jones preferred Walt Whitman and, nowadays, W. S. Merwin. It seemed they had read all the same books, and loved or hated them in precise correspondence. They agreed on everything.

Around two
A.M.
Jones decided to take the plunge.

FINGERS
>Paula … I want you to know how much I’ve really really enjoyed talking to you.

Almost a minute elapsed before her answer appeared. Jones felt the panic rippling up his back, felt the burning sensation under his collar. Had he pushed too hard? Gotten too forward too fast? His fingers trembled as he waited for her response.

PAULA1
>I’ve really enjoyed talking to you too, Fingers.