Tango Key (27 page)

"Now let's wander back to your little drive, Mr. Cooper," said Frederick. "Why don't you just tell us the truth about where you were."

"Alan was at the house with me, and he doesn't wanna tell ya' that, Chief Frederick, because he assaulted me."

Aline whirled around. Eve Cooper stood in the doorway, a nasty bruise spreading down the side of one cheek to her neck. And behind her, slightly to the left, was Murphy. Dobbs brought up the rear. They stepped into the room. The door sighed shut behind them. For a moment, no one spoke.

"And she's filing charges, buddy," said Murphy.

Cooper sat up straight. His eyes narrowed to slits. And then, his voice quavering, he spat, "She killed my old man and you fucking idiots are sitting around with your thumbs up your ass while this two-bit whore's got every goddamn one of you convinced that she's the Grieving Widow and—"

At the corner of Aline's vision, something blurred. The something was Murphy, lunging past her toward Cooper. He caught him by the front of the shirt, yanked him to his feet, and threw him against the wall. His fist slammed into Cooper's jaw. He started pummeling him around the face, the neck, the back, his punches wild and fast and deadly. Frederick tried to pull Murphy away, but Murphy was taller, heavier, and blind with rage. He spun around and sank his fist into Frederick's gut. The chief, gasping, doubled over, stumbled back.

Dobbs, who'd been frozen with astonishment, suddenly lunged toward Murphy and punched him in the stomach. He crumpled to his knees, groaning, and didn't move. Cooper was bleeding on the floor. Frederick, his face bright red, was still clutching himself when he shouted, "Get her outa here!"

Aline took Eve by the arm and didn't let go until they were out in the hall. "I think you'd better wait in the staff kitchen."

Eve was ghost white. She didn't move. She looked anxiously toward the door, ran her hands over her jeans, bit at her lower lip. Frederick's stentorian voice slammed against the quiet in the hallway, shredding it.

"C'mon, Eve," Aline said. "I really think you'd better wait down here."

They went into the kitchen, where the air smelled of smoke and burned coffee. Eve sank onto the couch and buried her face in her hands. Aline helped herself to a cup of coffee and glanced at the clock. Four A.M. Swell.

"Alan's gonna get him for assault." Eve's hands dropped from her face. She sniffled and sat back, gazing at Aline as she sank into a chair at the table. "I know he will."

"Murphy can count himself lucky if he gets off with assault rather than assault with intent to kill. Why the hell didn't you press charges earlier, Eve?"

"I don't know." She looked down at her hands, flat against her thighs, those many rings gleaming and dancing in the buzz of fluorescent lights overhead.

"Why don't you tell me what really happened, Eve?"

She looked up. "What's that s'posed to mean? You were standing there. You heard me. That's what happened."

"No, I don't think so. Alan came by the house with a little coke, right, Eve? He came by the house and you two did a couple of snorts and the coke set Alan off and he started beating up on you, accusing you of killing Doug. Then later, Murphy showed up, and you sure couldn't tell him about the coke, now could you? So you made up the story about Alan coming in the sliding glass door. What other things have you made up, Eve?"

Aline didn't realize she had gotten up from the chair until she found herself standing in front of Eve, leaning toward her, their faces inches apart, so close that Aline could smell the shampoo scent of Eve's hair, and her perfume, tinged faintly with sweat. She could see the lighter flecks of blue in steel. This face, even with the ugly bruise oozing down one cheek, Aline thought, redefined the word gorgeous. It was a face that drew you in, a magical face that somehow corresponded to whatever your deepest need was, your deepest hope. That was what Kincaid had really been saying.

Now those eyes widened a little with alarm. The lovely hands darted out, touching Aline's shoulders, pushing her back. "I'm going home." She started to get up.

"Sure you are, Eve." Aline shoved her back onto the couch. "In case you're interested, Murphy is probably in there getting fired, not to mention being booked for assault, and the way I see it, it's your fault. I don't think Alan assaulted you, Eve. I think you provoked him. I think you said, 'C'mon, Alan, hurt me. Hurt me with the belt.' Is that what you said to him, Eve? Is that what's warped Murphy?"

Red flushed her cheeks. She stammered, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh? Really? And I don't suppose you're screwing Murphy, either, huh, Eve? I don't suppose that was part of your little scheme, was it? To use Murphy as a buffer? And, hey, too bad if he loses his job. Those are the breaks. As long as your neck is saved, what the fuck, right?"

"Knock it off, Al."

She whirled around. Dobbs had entered the room and closed the door. His khaki hair looked windblown. His eyes were so bloodshot they seemed to glow bright red. "Excuse me, Jack? I don't think I heard you correctly."

"I said knock it the fuck off. The lady's been through enough tonight, all right?"

"She's been through enough? What about what Murphy's been through? Tell me that."

"Murphy just got canned. And Cooper said that if Eve drops the assault charge against him, he'd drop the charge against Murphy. It won't get his job back, but it's better than sitting in jail." He looked at Eve. "What d'you say, Mrs. Cooper? You willing to drop the charges against Alan?"

One of her lovely hands touched her bruised cheek. Then, very softly, she said, "Yes."

"How magnanimous, Eve," Aline snapped, and marched toward the door, threw it open, and slammed it as hard as she could behind her. She got halfway down the hall before tears leaped into her eyes. What'd she have to cry about? She pressed up against the wall, rubbing her temples, squeezing her eyes shut, waiting for the wave of truculence to sweep through her.

I'm dead tired. I'm getting my period. I have a headache. I'm hungry. I'm confused. I'm depressed. I shouldn't be here. I hate Eve Cooper.

Hate.

Never say hate, Allie
: her mother.

Hate was a bad word, a nasty word, a forbidden word. If you hated, her mother used to say, you eventually drew hate to yourself. What goes around, comes around. The supremo law of the universe.

"Allie?"

Against her better judgment, she opened her eyes. It was only Murphy, sundered from his better self, whatever that was. Murphy with his smoldering eyes, his dark hair that she wanted to run her fingers through, Murphy who had never quite made it over the hump of Monica's death. What she felt most right then was a reaving despair, a deep and penetrating sadness that she knew would taint the template of her memories forever. If she had three wishes, her first would be that Monica had never died. And if you weren't allowed to make wishes like that, then she would wish that his memories of Monica be expunged. She was at the heart of this. Monica.

"He canned me," Murphy said.

"I know. Jack's in the kitchen. With Eve."

"The fucker canned me."

He didn't even hear me
. "You punched him, Murphy. What'd you expect him to do? Pat you on the back? And you attacked Cooper."

"He shouldn't have said those things about Eve. She didn't kill Cooper. She didn't kill anyone. She . . ." Then he stopped, cognizant of what his actions, his words, implied about his relationship with Eve. "I mean . . ."

"I know you're lovers, Murphy, okay? So don't try to cover it up. Don't lie to me anymore." She spoke softly, wearily. "Don't lie, don't apologize, just don't say anything," she spat. "You're making a mistake. The biggest mistake you've ever made. She isn't Monica. Monica is dead, and you can't raise her, Murphy, not even through Eve."

Tears stood in his eyes, astonishing her. She had never, in ten years, seen Murphy cry. Not even at Monica's funeral. She had seen Murphy angry, afraid, loving, despairing. But never had she seen him weep. "She was having an affair with someone," he whispered, staring at the floor, his hands in his pockets. For a moment, Aline didn't know who he was talking about—Monica or Eve. She didn't even know if Murphy knew. "She told me about it. I lost it. I lost it bad. I hit her." He rubbed a hand over his face. "Hit her. Hit Monica. Christ." He paused, drew in a deep breath. "Then I flew outa the house, Al, and came to work, and I kept thinking about it and stewing, and I called her three dozen times and we talked and she cried and she said she was sorry, and I kept saying, 'Who? Tell me who. Tell me.' And I had to work a double shift that night, but it kept eating at me, and finally I couldn't stand it anymore and I went home and I . . . I found her."

He buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shuddered. Aline just stood in the hall for a long moment, her head throbbing, her ankle waking up now, pounding against the Ace bandage, her head swirling. She reached out and put her arms around him and pulled his head to her shoulder and he wept.

Everyone had left: Murphy and Eve, Dobbs, even the dispatcher. Aline was still in the hall, in the smell of burned coffee, waiting for something. Illumination. Answers. For her head to stop hurting.

Frederick came out into the hall, saw her, and frowned. "I thought you'd left."

"My spirit did. My body stayed."

"I know exactly what you mean." He ran a hand over his hair and sighed. Somewhere down the hall a phone rang. Neither of them moved to answer it. "On top of everything else, there was a break-in tonight at Cavello's shop."

"Couldn't happen to a nicer guy. What'd you do with Alan?"

"Eve dropped the charges. In return, he didn't press charges against Murphy. So I let him go."

"And fired Murphy."

"He didn't leave me much choice, Aline."

"Or me." She walked down the hall to the stairs and out into the hot, still dawn.

July 5, 10:05 P.M.

The lantern flickers and hisses. Its light makes everything in the room look varnished, sealed. Even his face. Most of all his face as he smiles and kneels beside the tub, watching her like a hawk.

He lied to her about the last option; he never intended to let her bathe in here alone. He lied. He wants to watch her.

This is how the old farts in the bar used to watch her when she came in sometimes looking for her father because her mother had sent her to find out if he'd spent all the money. And back then she had liked it. She had liked the feeling of power it gave her. She had liked the way their eyes peeled away her frilly blouse, her jeans, her panties. She liked the way it made her feel warm and good between her legs and how her breasts would tingle.

She does not like it now.

Eve slides low in the tub. The water covers her to the neck.

The tub is one of those ancient things with four legs and feet shaped like paws, and to slide down she has to bring her legs up so they are bent at the knees. She tries to ignore him, to pretend he isn't there. He is so quiet that it's not hard, at least not in the beginning.

She soaps herself and hums. The scent of the soap mingles with the steam and tickles her nostrils. It smells of apples. She closes her eyes, shutting him out completely. Oh yeah, the dark, the sweet dark. In the dark, all kinds of wonderful things happen. Time unrolls, time is a carpet that she walks along. There:

She is sixteen. She and Bo Thompkins are walking the rails, pretending they are going to walk right on out of Arcadia. Bo is carrying a hobo sack stuffed with food he stole from his grandma's kitchen. He's a year older than she, with broad shoulders and a rough, good-looking face and a nice body.

She especially likes his body, the way he sometimes nuzzles her neck with his cool, certain mouth. When they reach the old rail shack, he suggests they go inside and eat the sandwiches. He says he's got four cans of warm beer and a bottle of whiskey.

Inside the shack there's a bare mattress and one dirty window the light barely gets through. He sits on the edge of the mattress and pats the spot next to him. She settles beside him.

They drink half the bottle of whiskey, and by then he is kissing her, his hand is sliding up under her skirt, and she's struggling, and he keeps saying, "Aw, c 'mon, Evie, c 'mon, I know you wanna get it bad as me." She does, but not like this. He's too rough. She shoves him away, shoves him hard. His head strikes the old metal headboard, and suddenly everything in the shack is silent. Too silent.

"Bo? Bo? Wake up, Bo." She shakes him. His head falls to the side. His eyes are open. She presses her ear to his chest. She hears nothing. She leaps up and she runs and runs and the next thing she knows, she's back in front of her house.

She goes inside. She takes a bath. Stuffs her clothes in the dumpster. She starts supper. Her mother gets home. Then her father. Then they watch the news. There is nothing about Bo on the news. She waits another two days. Four. A week. On the eighth day, a police detective comes to the house and asks her some questions. He is a plump, tired-looking man who wipes at his sweaty brow with a soiled handkerchief. She knows he doesn't give a damn about some hick kid like Bo Thompkins, that he's just going through the motions. "Bo do something?" she asks him.