Jonah Man (21 page)

In Chicago?

I had a wire act. I wasn’t top billing, but I wasn’t shut, either.

What happened?

I took a spill. There was a full house to see it.

Were you injured?

A broken leg. A lump on my skull.

And when you healed?

I never set foot on a wire again.

I see, the Inspector said.

Swain looked him over, furrowing his brow as though on the verge of forming an opinion.

See what?

There’s someplace you want to get back to, the Inspector said. I know the feeling. I started in the big city. I’m not in the big city anymore.

Swain nodded.

Which city? he asked.

The biggest city, the Inspector said. New York.

So why are you here with me?

I’ve spent a lot of nights considering it, and I’m not sure I’ve come to the same conclusion twice. There were people I didn’t get on with, though I didn’t realize it at the time. At the time, I considered myself dedicated, unyielding. My colleagues saw me as arrogant and overbearing. Not that they ever told me.

They let you go?

They set me up to fail. They gave me a high-priority case, a case that should have gone to a more senior investigator. It was a random crime. Unsolvable. When I failed to solve it, they assigned me to foot duty on a bridge in the dead of winter. The message was clear: the length of that bridge was all the police work I’d ever know.

So you left?

I started over in what you might call the hinterlands. I’ve made progress, but most days I still feel like an exile. I had something very few people have: a clear vision, a path I was supposed to follow. My life since has felt like a constant and sometimes exhausting improvisation.

Swain raised his hook:

I’d know about that, he said.

The Inspector felt a door beginning to open. Interrogating Jonson had been work: any cracks the Inspector had managed to expose in his veneer only revealed a new facade. Like Jonson, Swain lied when the questions mattered, but unlike Jonson, he appeared incapable of withholding the more intimate details of his life.

But then
, the Inspector thought,
the same could be said of me.
He looked across the table. Swain seemed to be thinking with him.

What does any of this have to do with your investigation? he asked.

Not a thing, the Inspector said. I’m taking an early break. I wanted company, and the locals aren’t as friendly as I’d like.

They never are, Swain said.

There is one thing about the case that puzzles me, the Inspector said.

What’s that?

Jonson’s son. Why did he run off?

Are you sure he did?

He attempted to board last night’s train, but the conductor wouldn’t allow him unaccompanied.

Swain appeared startled, tried to hide his expression by finishing his drink.

I’ve imagined myself in the boy’s place, the Inspector said. If my father were murdered, why would I alert no one? Why would I flee? You know him. Can you explain his mind set?

The boy is a prodigy, Swain said. Pure talent. I couldn’t say how he thinks.

Weren’t you a prodigy once?

A false prodigy. But if I had to guess, I’d say the boy had been looking to get away for a long while. His father was a hard man.

That sounds like motive.

No, Swain said. Just opportunity.

That’s what I was thinking.

I’m glad, Swain said. Now I’d best get back to work. Thank you for the drink.

The Inspector lingered outside, watching Swain walk back toward the theater. He had a stinging sense of having done wrong—of having made a confidence that he would betray. In the long run, he told himself, he would correct the mistake he’d made with Jonson. He would see that Swain was sober before setting him back on the circuit.

The shopkeeper spread the new envelopes across the counter, examined the addresses one at a time.

Sorry to disappoint, he said. But there ain’t a name here I don’t recognize.

No apology needed.

You ain’t been having much luck.

What do you mean?

That boy didn’t show last night.

No, the Inspector said. He didn’t show.

As he exited the store, he glimpsed a man on the opposite rooftop glassing the town’s surroundings through an outsized pair of binoculars. The Inspector turned as though he hadn’t noticed, walked a block toward the hotel and crossed the street. Looking back, he saw the two-tone Sports Phaeton parked a short distance from the store. He passed through an alleyway, reversed direction, climbed the fire escape to the roof where the man had been standing. When he reached the top, the man was gone, the door to the building’s stairwell locked from the inside. He crouched next to a scattering of cigarette butts, peered over the ledge and watched the Phaeton speed into the desert.

He remained there for some time trying to work out who the man was and what he had been looking for. Were the suppliers still in town, or had he been left behind to clean up? Was he searching for the boy? Or was he keeping tabs on the Inspector? Whatever the case, so long as the suppliers maintained a local presence, there was an avenue to pursue. He crossed the roof, stood surveying the visible length of rail track. There were places a body could hide, or be hidden, in the scrub and brush.

He climbed back down the fire escape, continued forward, descended the small but steep slope that led to the tracks.

Jonson’s boy, he called. If you can hear me, say so. You’re tired. You’re hungry. I’m here to help.

A few yards distant, a pair of gray, unblinking eyes stared out from a parting in the scrub. In the morning light, the tan muzzle and earth-colored fur camouflaged the animal’s head so that the eyes seemed to be pointing out of the ground itself. But as the head came into focus he saw that the snout was too long
and large to belong to a coyote or any breed of dog that lived wild in the desert. He kicked dirt at the corpse to be sure it was dead, walked on.

He climbed back up the slope, running his eyes over and under the brush. At the summit of the incline, he turned, called again to the boy.

The Inspector had anticipated a home in keeping with the manager’s personality—gruff, solid, needing repair. Instead, he found a large, well-maintained cabin, the logs stained raw umber and chinked with a pristine-looking clay. Behind the cabin, a bajada sprawled in all directions. Dried-up yarrow dotted the yard.

The manager was out front, peening dents from a car panel with a small sledge hammer. He saw the Inspector, let the panel and hammer fall.

A beautiful spot, the Inspector called.

A bit out of your way, ain’t it?

I was told you don’t have a phone.

That’s cause I don’t like talking to people.

Then I’ll make this quick. I thought I instructed you to abandon your search for the boy.

The manager rutted his brow, stepped closer.

I’m at home, ain’t I?

So you don’t know a man who drives a two-tone Sports Phaeton?

Not in this country. Why?

Because somebody is looking for the boy.

The manager snickered, seemed to be thinking it over.

They must not have faith in your abilities, he said.

Who’s that?

The people who want him found.

The Inspector ran a palm over the back of his neck.

Care to explain? he asked.

They rented the theater’s basement for storage.

Do you know who they are?

No. A real-estate man made the arrangements.

What were they storing?

Don’t know that either. The lids were nailed down, and I ain’t the type to pry.

So why do you believe they’re the ones looking for the boy?

Because you ain’t the first to come visit me. A man was here yesterday asking about the fire. Said his employer had an interest in what had been burnt.

And you turned him onto Jonson’s son?

I did.

With what proof?

I answered his questions, just like I’m answering yours.

There is a difference.

Maybe, the manager said. But if there is, it don’t tilt in your favor.

Tell me how to get in touch with this man.

He didn’t say.

You’re lying. He’d want you to notify him if the boy surfaced.

He said he’d visit again. Didn’t say when, though.

You’d best hope no one tells me otherwise.

Jonson had soiled himself during the night. He was pale, agitated. There were scabs where he’d scratched the hives.

How many times has your boy seen you like this?

Is this the shit that keeps you up at night?

Maybe. What did you spend the night thinking about? You know your son took the stage without you. I saw him. He’s talented,
but young. There are laws.

Go to hell.

The Inspector sat watching Jonson. The symptoms had set in even more quickly than he’d hoped. After a while, Jonson’s eyes closed, his head nodded forward. The Inspector set a vial on the table and left the room.

An hour later, he found Jonson awake, alert, his skin clear of hives.

Proud of yourself? Jonson asked.

It appears you’re feeling better. These past hours must have been difficult. I’m sure you won’t be anxious to suffer a relapse.

You really going to arrest my son?

If I have to. There are homes for children whose parents are incarcerated.

I’ll answer your goddamn questions.

For the remainder of the day, Jonson delivered facts without commentary, his voice churning at a single dull pitch. The supply, he said, was never replenished in the same place twice, the location never revealed more than a week in advance. Quantities and addresses were communicated in code. They could contact him, but with the exception of a twenty-four hour window surrounding his acquisition of the new supply, he had no way of contacting them.