The Barkeep (28 page)

“I thought about it.”

“But if you were so happy with Mom then, why?”

“Because I wasn’t happy with myself. What do men feel when they spy a woman that attracts them? Not just someone to screw, although yes, that of course. But also someone who offers a different kind of life. Bohemian maybe, or literary, or earnest and political, or sybaritic. You see her, maybe across the table, or the room, or the street, and you wonder. What would you be with her? How would she perfect you? And it is that, more than the swell of a young breast, that clenches the gut. I knew what I was with your mother, and I wasn’t sure I liked that person very much. Maybe I hoped I’d be someone different with Annie.”

“What exactly did you want to become?”

“Younger, optimistic, full of energy and plans. A man with a future. What I was before.”

“So it was pure narcissism.”

“I won’t deny it. Isn’t everything?”

“Did you ever tell Mom about her?”

“No. Not specifically. I didn’t know how to. When I introduced you to her, I thought you would tell her. But you never did.”

“No.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want to hurt her. I thought she was the dutiful, pining wife and mother.”

“Yes, well, self-deception is humanity’s most universal trait. I had just about resolved to tell your mother myself, not just about the affair but that it was getting more serious than I intended, when she was murdered.”

“And you were conveniently free, without the headache of splitting the fortune and paying out alimony.”

“Do you think I would kill your mother so as not to pay alimony?”

“I don’t know, Dad. Why didn’t you tell any of this at the trial?”

“It wouldn’t have helped. And I didn’t want to drag her reputation into the mire with mine.”

“Noble.”

“Is that why you came, to berate me more than you already did through your testimony at the trial and then by your absence? Consider me berated. Are we through?”

“Austin Moss,” said Justin.

His father stared at him and blinked.

“He’s the A of the letters,” said Justin. “He was the one having an affair with Mom.”

“Austin Moss? I know that name. Your mother was going out with him when I started dating her. Austin Moss? I never thought much of him, he seemed weak to me. Never a threat. I don’t think he could be it.”

“I checked it out with his widow. I showed her the letters and she identified the handwriting. He’s A.”

“You checked it out?”

“She must have been the woman who called you.”

“That’s a hell of a thing. Austin Moss.”

“But there’s more.”

“Justin, what have you been doing?”

“On my last visit, you dared me to test my truths. So I did.”

“You actually listened to something I said?”

“Hard to believe, isn’t it? And this is what I found, Dad. This Mrs. Moss, the one who probably called you, is mixed up with some smarmy handyman named Eddie Nicosia, who has insinuated himself deep into her life. She pays him a monthly stipend that he cashes, along with her Social Security widow’s check, at a bar each month. In exchange he runs her errands, warns off anyone who is crowding her, fills her prescriptions and stashes the pills in his own little medicine cabinet, doling them bit by bit to keep her on his string. But the drugs aren’t his only mother’s little helper. His nickname is the Snake, which he gave to himself in honor of his favorite tool. And I have it on good authority that we’re not talking about a little garter snake here, more like an anaconda.”

Justin’s father sat back and looked at Justin with a puzzlement creasing his features, like he was trying to stare down an optical illusion.

“It’s time, Mac,” said one of the guards, who suddenly appeared over Mackenzie Chase’s shoulder.

“Give me a minute, please,” said Justin’s father. “Just a minute more.”

Justin waited until the guard nodded and backed away. Then he leaned forward and continued in a soft voice.

“Mrs. Moss isn’t this Eddie Nicosia’s only meal ticket. He has a veritable stable. He uses his pet to insinuate himself with lonely women. They keep hiring him to take care of their houses.
And to run their errands. And to make their lives a little less lonely, not to mention the sage financial advice he can give due to his years of experience in bankruptcy court. And after a long day of servicing his clients, he goes to a bar to blow off steam and brag about his conquests. Sometimes when he blows off steam, he does so by picking a fight with some hapless bystander. But this one time, when the hapless bystander turned out not to be so hapless and the thing got out of hand, our friend Eddie started with the threats. ‘Watch your step, punk. I could have you killed quick as a snap. I done it, too. More than once. You want to be next?’”

Justin’s father listened to all this with rapt attention. Justin could see him work it out, the implications. And suddenly he could see something else press itself onto the surface of his father’s hard face, something bright and painful all at once, like a snake within a field of desiccated stalks.

“You said Mrs. Moss is a widow,” said Justin’s father. “How did this Austin die?”

“He was run over by a car,” said Justin. “Or run down, one or the other.”

“When?”

“A couple years after Mom died.”

“How long has this handyman been wrapping himself into this Mrs. Moss’s life? Was he there before your mother was killed?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“You don’t think…”

“I don’t know what to think,” said Justin. “But she told me how she thought she had a chance to save her marriage after Mom died. I just thought this was something you should know.”

“My God,” said Justin’s father. “It is what we’ve been looking for. It is better than Timmy. What to do about it, that is the question.”

“Time, Mac,” said the guard by the door. “Your son has to go.”

Justin’s father stood, and Justin stood with him. They stared at each for a moment, unsure of what to do with their arms, their hands.

“I think I should tell the police,” said Justin finally.

“The police? Don’t be a fool. They’ll just bury it.”

“There’s a detective I’ve grown to trust a little bit. I’m going to tell him.”

“And be done with it yourself.”

“That’s right.”

“Okay, then. You deserve the peace. But to keep them honest, I’ll tell my lawyer too. If she has it, they’ll know they have to keep digging. Do you have anything concrete to give her? Evidence?”

“Nothing, except for the letters.”

“She already has those. Witnesses?”

“Not really.”

“Well then, we have no choice but to trust the police just a bit. My God, Justin. I would never have thought. You of all people. Never. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Maybe that’s because you never thanked me for anything before in my life.”

“I’m going to have to learn.”

“It might not be anything,” said Justin. “It might be all wrong.”

“It’s something,” said Justin’s father. “It’s a possibility. And in here, that’s everything.”

They stood there a bit longer, even as the guard came over for a third and final time.

“Okay, then,” said Justin’s father before hesitantly and stiffly reaching out a hand.

Justin stared at the hand for a moment, and then took hold of it and gave it a little shake. It was an awkward moment, over in a flash, the tiniest of gestures. But it was also the first time he had touched his father since he had found his mother dead on the floor. And somehow, for some reason, it made his heart sing.

A song of hope.

42.

CHAMOMILE

T
he car parked on the edge of Fitler Square was boxy and brown, with the familiar squat figure sitting inside, drinking coffee and writing on a folded newspaper. Justin hadn’t seen the car when he went out for his run, but it was there when he came back. His habits had become so regular that a guy like Detective Scott could set his watch by Justin’s running times. He couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but for some reason it made him think of Annie Overmeyer.

He shook her out of his head as he ran over to the car. It was a cool morning, the sky congealing with clouds for a rain that was coming. While jogging in place, he knocked on the roof to get Scott’s attention.

“Nice morning, Detective,” he said, in a series of breath-catching syllables.

“’Tis all of that,” said Scott.

“I was actually looking for you when I went out.”

“Something came up.”

“A Starbucks?”

“Their lemon squares are quite tasty. A little expensive for a cop, but I have so few other joys in this life.”

“Sitting in a car all day, drinking coffee,” said Justin, shaking his head. “I bet you have to pee something awful.”

“At my age, the only time I don’t have to pee is when I’m peeing.”

“I have a bathroom in my house. You’re welcome to use it.”

“Thanks for the offer, truly, but I’ll just keep my eye on you from out here.”

“And if you want I’ll brew us up a fresh cup of chamomile to calm down the nerves frazzled by all that caffeine.”

“Drinking tea is like kissing your dog. It’s warm and wet, sure, but where’s the kick? If I need to, I’ll just pick up another Venti at the Starbucks and use the bathroom there.”

Justin stopped the jogging and leaned forward, putting his hands on the windowsill. “Come on in and have the tea. I don’t have any lemon bars to go with it, but I do have a story you might want to hear.”

43.

VICODIN

M
ia Dalton stood behind the glass and examined the man seated alone at the table in the green interrogation room. He was wiry and hard-looking. His boots were dirty, his jaw was unshaven, his unkempt hair thick and ruffled. He sucked his crooked teeth to pass the time. Staring at the rumpled figure of Eddie Nicosia made Mia feel like an alien, not from another country but from another planet.

“I don’t get it,” she said.

“I wouldn’t think you would,” said Scott, standing by her side, holding a file and a paper bag.

“We’re each part everything if we’re honest enough to admit it. I look at plenty of guys and feel something stir. But if what you’re telling me is true, the standards for gigolos have plummeted beyond my capacity to understand.”

“You don’t think he has a certain sexual animalism?”

Eddie Nicosia stuck a finger in his ear, swirled, extracted, examined the tip.

“Like a mangy three-legged dog,” said Mia.

“They say his cock is huge.”

“Well, that explains that. When you’re done interrogating him, give him my number.”

“Any particular way you want me to play it?”

“Set him up one way and then scare the hell out of him. He won’t admit to anything, but it should be interesting to see how he reacts.”

“Will do.”

“And don’t be gentle.”

“My guess,” said Scott, “is that our boy Eddie Nicosia hears that a lot.”

Mia kept her gaze on the suspect as Scott left her side and a moment later entered the room behind the glass. Nicosia, sprawled in his chair, didn’t change his posture when the detective walked in. He simply lifted his head and followed the detective as Scott made his way to the opposite side of the table, dropped the file and bag onto the tabletop, and took a seat, all without so much as looking at the suspect.

“When can I get the hell out of here?” said Nicosia.

Scott didn’t respond, he simply opened the file, took out a stack of papers, tapped the stack on the table to neaten its edge, and began asking for Nicosia’s name, address, occupation, all things they knew already. Nicosia’s impatience showed as he spit out the answers.

“Now, just as a matter of protocol, Mr. Nicosia,” said Scott, “I’m going to read you a list of your constitutional rights and then ask you to sign a statement to indicate that these rights were read to you and that you understood them.”

“Isn’t this a bit over the damn top for a broken taillight?”

Mia watched the ritual unfold at Scott’s slow pace as he began reading the document to Nicosia. She had watched many of the detective’s interrogations and was always impressed by the simplicity of his technique. He didn’t threaten or browbeat, he didn’t lie to catch another lie. He was calm, and polite, and there was always a sense that he was a little on
the suspect’s side. All of it made Timmy Flynn’s claim that he had been forced into lying about Chase a bit far-fetched. But there were occasions when Scott seemed to take the case a bit more personally, when a child was dead or a woman in the hospital, and on these occasions he would often lose it, pounding the table with a brutal anger as he squeezed out what answers he could. Mia would always wonder which Scott would show up. It appeared to be the calm one today.

After Nicosia signed the statement, Scott carefully placed it into the file and then reached into the bag and, one by one, pulled out a series of sealed plastic bags with labels on the outside, each containing a number of orange pill bottles.

“We found these in your van, Eddie,” said Scott. “Hidden beneath a mess of screws and bolts in one of your tool cases.”

“Shit,” said Nicosia, “is that what this is all about? They don’t mean nothing.”

“Valium, OxyContin, Tylenol No. 3, Vicodin, all controlled substances under state and federal law. And your name is not the name on the labels. Were these prescribed for you?”

“Not for me, but they was prescribed. You can check it out. I just filled some prescriptions for friends of my mine.”

“Gloria Nader,” said Scott, reading now from the labels. “Miranda Holmes.”

“Call them up, they’ll tell you. These are old ladies that need help running errands. I do stuff for them, you know what I’m talking about. I also take care of their houses, their yards. You know.”

“Yeah, we know.”

“I provide services. And sometimes I fill prescriptions when they need them filled.”

“Ida Switt,” read Scott from the labels.

“I’m just helping out, being a good Sumerian. Since when is that a crime?”

“Do you keep some for your personal use, Eddie? Or to sell? Is that what this stash in your truck is all about?”