The Barkeep (37 page)

“But how would he even know there was a bird there?”

“You knew,” she said flatly, and saw Justin wince at the accusation that it all might be a fraud that he himself set up.
“But what I’m trying to figure out, Justin, is what you’re doing here. Mrs. Moss’s apparent suicide seems favorable to your father’s cause. His attorney has already called, asking if we’re ready to dismiss the case and release him.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I laughed, but it was more out of reflex than conviction. The way things stand, your father’s motion for a new trial looks pretty solid. But now you’ve just given us the possibility that Mrs. Moss didn’t kill herself out of guilt and regret, but that she was helped along. Which throws everything into doubt.”

“Maybe she hired him originally,” said Justin, “because my mother was having an affair with her husband, and then, six years later, he killed her for the exact reason he said, to extort money from me.”

“Well, you see, Justin, the second part might be true no matter who did what six years ago. This Birdie Grackle might have seen an opening, conned you into thinking he had killed your mother, and then killed Mrs. Moss for the ten thousand he wants from you. Meaning he might actually be a murderous son of a bitch, which, if true, would ruin the whole suicide-out-of-guilt theory and leave your father smack in jail. Which leaves me again wondering why you’re here.”

“I just want to tell the truth.”

She looked at Justin and then at Detective Scott, who seemed strangely content with that answer, and then back at Justin. It was such a simple response—the boy just wanted to tell the truth—but it left Mia again feeling that he was manipulating her for some reason of his own.

“Thank you, Justin. We both appreciate you coming. We’ll have the…the thing in the box tested and then we’ll get back to you.”

“Which means you’re not going to do anything,” said Justin.

“We’re going to do what we can,” said Mia.

“He said if I didn’t pay him the money, he was going to kill someone else. Maybe my brother.”

“Then maybe your brother should take precautions,” said Mia.

Justin stood up and nodded, as if he were trying to control some emotion roiling beneath his placid surface. “Thanks for your all your concern,” he said before walking out of the office, closing the door behind him a little too loudly.

“You were pretty cold,” said Scott.

“Just living up to my rep. Wouldn’t want to disappoint Kingstree. Keep your eye on him. There’s something about him I don’t trust.”

“I think the kid was telling the truth, Mia. I could sense he was holding back something before and I guess this Birdie was it. He maybe mentioned something about it outside the prison, but it didn’t really register.”

“Why was he holding it back?”

“Because he didn’t believe the old man.”

“Then why this meeting?”

“Maybe because now he does.”

“And he gets to screw over his father at the same time, which is a nice daily double. With this kid there always seems to be a hidden agenda.”

“It’s not so hidden.”

“No?”

“Whoever it was who killed his mother, he wants that son of a bitch to burn.”

55.

MORE WILD TURKEY

W
hen his brother Frank saw Justin standing in the doorway of the house, he lunged at him, grabbed him tight, hugged him like he was a long-lost brother suddenly found.

“I talked to Dad,” said Frank, still hugging away.

“I bet you did.”

“You’re amazing. You did it.”

“I didn’t do anything,” said Justin, “and we’ll see what happens.”

“It’s a chance,” said Frank, letting go and stepping back to get a look at his little brother. “You gave him a chance.”

“It wasn’t me, really.”

“Do you think the lady who killed herself really was responsible for what happened to Mom?”

“I don’t know.”

“We’ll never find out for sure now, will we?”

“No,” said Justin. “No, we won’t.”

“Let’s celebrate,” said Frank, backing into the foyer. He called up the stairs. “Cindy. Justin’s here. We’re having a drink.” He turned to Justin. “Let’s go into the library.”

Justin stepped into the foyer and once again couldn’t help but look down at the floor. Still impossibly spotless. He didn’t
want to be here, in his father’s house, which still stunk of death to him, even though he knew it truly smelled more of potpourri and Lysol, but he didn’t see he had much choice. His attempt to turn in Birdie Grackle had not only failed, but it had hurt his father’s chances of getting out of jail. Nice move, Justin. Now he was trying to avoid the third and final option for dealing with Birdie Grackle.

In the library, Frank went right to the bar and picked up a bottle. “A nip?”

“You know I don’t drink,” said Justin.

“But this is a special occasion,” said Frank, putting some ice from the bucket into a glass. “We’re getting our father back. If that doesn’t put a drink in your hand, I don’t know what will.”

“It’s not a sure thing that he’s getting out.”

“He thinks it is. Oh, and he wanted you to talk to his attorney.”

“I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“He’ll be pleased. I wonder what it will be like, the moment he gets free,” said Frank, lost in reverie. He twisted the top off the bottle and started pouring. “We’ll be waiting in the rain, the cleansing rain, like in a movie, and out he’ll step. And everything will start again. Do you think it will be just like it was?”

“It can’t be,” said Justin. “Not without Mom. I need money.”

Frank stopped pouring, looked up at Justin for a moment, his expression turning from lost to found in an instant, and then put another shot and a half into the glass. He took a long sip before walking slowly to the desk. He sat down, leaned back like a banker, looked at his glass as he rubbed his thumb along the rim. “How much?”

“Ten thousand dollars.”

“I don’t have that kind of money in the house.”

“But you can get it quickly.”

“The company has been struggling lately. We lost our best salesman when we lost Dad. I don’t know.”

“I need it right away.”

“Can I ask why?”

“No.”

“How much trouble are you in?”

“It’s not me that’s in trouble.”

“Then who?”

Justin was looking at Frank, unsure of what to say, when there was a knock on the library door. The brothers turned their heads quickly, as if they had been caught at something. And there was Cindy, standing in the doorway in a pleated fifties dress, as if expecting company all along.

“Congratulations, Justin,” she said without an ounce of cheer.

“There’s nothing to celebrate yet.”

“No? Because Frank’s been celebrating since he came back from the prison. He’s going to celebrate himself to death.”

“I just had a few,” said Frank.

“He’s very excited about his father getting out of jail, as he should be,” said Cindy. “As are we all. Do you happen to know of any houses for rent in your area? We’re suddenly looking.”

“I’m sure you won’t have to leave.”

“You don’t think your father will want his house back? He already mentioned that Overmeyer woman to Frank. He expects her to move in here with him. And it won’t be long until he reclaims the corner office that Frank has been using to keep the company alive. I think he wants everything just the way it was.”

“Five years in jail will change anyone,” said Justin. “I’m sure he’s different.”

“You’re suddenly sure about a lot of things, Justin. How did that happen?”

“Maybe you’ll join the company after Dad gets out,” said Frank. “That was always his dream, his two boys working for him. You could take the bar, be our corporate counsel.”

“No, thank you,” said Justin. “I might have been a law student before, but now I pour drinks. Unless Dad wants me to work the occasional cocktail party for him, I’ll go my own way.”

“That’s so noble of you,” said Cindy. “So now, only Frank has to deal with him.”

“Cindy, if you’ll excuse us,” said Frank, raising his glass in dismissal, “we’re conducting some family business here.”

“Oh dear, I wouldn’t want to interrupt that. I just wanted to say thank you to Justin. Thank you, Justin.”

“You’re welcome.”

“He’s the hero of the day, all right,” said Frank.

“And we’re all so happy,” said Cindy.

Justin looked around, saw not an ounce of happiness on either face, and knew there was none on his own. Cindy gave Justin a final bitter look before leaving the room and shutting the door behind her.

“She’s not so enthused about the new way of things,” said Frank.

“And you?”

“He’s my father. I have no choice but to be enthused. What was it you needed, ten thousand?”

“Yes.”

“In cash?”

“Yes.”

“This isn’t—”

“No.”

“And you really, really—”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then. I’ll juggle some firm accounts and take it out tomorrow. I’ll call it a fee for investigative services.”

“Thank you.”

“Anything else?”

“Don’t tell Dad.”

“That was assumed.”

“And stop drinking so damn much.”

“Why should I? It’s a celebration, isn’t it? We’re going to have to put up banners.” Frank lifted his glass. “Daddy’s coming home.”

56.

BOMBARD OF SACK

T
he insight came to him in, of all places, a lawyer’s office. It arrived like a satori, swift and devastating, a fork in the eye. And like a fork in the eye, it pierced something fragile, and afterward nothing ever looked the same again.

It wasn’t enlightenment, for in that moment of vicious perception Justin saw the raw truth that he was never about the search for enlightenment; he wouldn’t have recognized enlightenment if it approached him with a name tag and one hand clapping.
“
Hello, I am Enlightenment,
”
would say Enlightenment, and Justin’s true self would reply, “Get lost, dude. Can’t you see I’m busy?
”
And what he was busy doing was hiding. The meditation, the tatami mats and ceremonial teas, the calm words coming from an apparently calm center were all fronts. What he was really searching for was an emotional desert to call his own. Before his mother’s murder, he was a member of the human race, with all its untidy ambitions and messy emotions. After his mother’s murder, he was as good as dead, and eager to stay just that way.

But all of that was about to change.

“Tell me about yourself, Justin,” said Sarah Preston.

“There’s not much to tell,” said Justin. “I pour drinks at Zenzibar on Sixteenth Street.”

“How nice. That sounds exciting.”

“Not really.”

“Oh, I’m sure it is. You must be like Bogart in
Casablanca
.”

“Hardly,” said Justin.

They were sitting almost knee to knee in front of her office desk at her law firm on a high floor in one of the city’s office towers. The floor was a warren of little offices, each with a secretary out front, the kind of beehive that had been waiting for Justin out of law school. It gave him the creeps to be up there, as if he were in an alternative history of his life. In the office next door was probably another Justin Chase, toiling on a brief that meant either a small bump or a small dent in some huge corporation’s quarterly profits. Was the other Justin Chase happy with his high salary, his blonde wife, his shiny BMW? Most likely ecstatic, the son of a bitch.

“Well, I’m glad you came,” she said. “I’ve heard so much about you that it’s really exciting to finally meet you in the flesh.”

“You’ve heard so much about me?”

“From your father, dear. He is so proud.”

“No, he’s not.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Don’t you want to talk, like, about the case?”

“In time. I’ve heard the outlines of what happened from your father, and read the reports in the newspaper. Of course, I’m going to need the details from you before we go to court. Still, I thought it was important that we meet face-to-face and get to know each other.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re going to be spending a lot of time together.” She looked at him and pulled back a strand of hair. “On the case, I mean.”

“So you do meet-and-greets with all of your witnesses?” said Justin.

“Just the special ones.”

Sarah Preston was tall and thin, dressed quite stylishly, with just a bit too much makeup. Even the rouge, though, couldn’t hide a certain grayness, not just in her overly coiffed hair, but in her pallor. She was trying quite hard, Justin could tell, to be charming and ingratiating. Trying way too hard. As if she were coming on to him, except she wasn’t. Of course she wasn’t.

“Your father said you found this Mrs. Moss on your own,” said Sarah Preston.

“It wasn’t as hard as it might seem. My aunt was a big help, as were some others.”

“Who else?”

“Just…I don’t know.” There was something in her manner that made him hesitate to bring up Annie’s name. Eventually the lawyer was going to have to hear about her, but since everything he told her was bound to get back to his father, he wasn’t ready to go into all of that, at least not just yet.

“How well do you know my father?” he said.

She smiled brightly, and the effect was like a beam of light hitting her face. “As well as you can know someone in prison, I suppose. He’s a very intelligent man.”

“Yes, he is.”

“And very gentle.”

Justin tilted his head at that. His father was a lot of things, but gentle was not one of them.

“And you’re representing him pro bono?” said Justin.

“Our firm asks that we all do some pro bono work as part of our firm culture. It’s in that spirit that I’ve taken on your father’s case.”

“I’m a little surprised that he qualifies. We don’t really talk finances, but I thought he had plenty of money.”

“Your father’s assets are all tied up in litigation. The house, his stake in the company, all of it was transferred to Frank to keep it from creditors. Whatever cash he had went to his defense lawyers, and he never received the life insurance payout, for obvious reasons.”

“But he could get you paid if he wanted to.”