The Popsicle Tree (24 page)

“I told you, he's my kid and I want him!” he interrupted.

I paused a second before saying, “This isn't about Kelly. It's about Carlene and who killed her.”

That got his attention.

“What the hell has that got to do with me?”

Now, there are some people—most people, actually—with whom tact and diplomacy are very effective tools. And there are some people who can't even spell “tact” or “diplomacy,” let alone know what they mean, with whom no-nonsense monosyllables appear to work better. Roy D'Angelo, I sensed, was one of the latter. I hadn't had any intention of a confrontation, especially over the phone, but there was something about this joker's attitude that got me.

“Well look, Roy, here's the way it is. Carlene's death was no accident.” I still didn't know that for an absolute fact, but what the hell? “The police know who was driving the van that killed her, but they haven't found him yet. The guy's a known hit man, so that means somebody wanted Carlene dead.”

I paused a moment, but D'Angelo remained quiet, so I continued. “Now, I've been looking into the case, and I've come up with some pretty interesting facts which I'm going to be taking to the police. The only loose end right now is you.”

“Me?”
he said incredulously. “Why drag me into it? I haven't had any contact with that lesbo bitch for five years, and I sure as hell didn't have anything at all to do with her death!”

Other than the use of the pejoratives, I wondered how he knew Carlene was lesbian if he hadn't had any contact with her since their affair.

“Well, then, you shouldn't mind answering some questions for me. It would be nice, when I talk to the police, to be able to rule you out as a suspect and keep them from bothering you.”

There was a long pause while he mulled that one over. “What kind of questions?”

“I'd just as soon not go into them over the phone. Could we get together privately either sometime today or tomorrow? I'll be coming out to the track for the races Saturday anyway, and maybe…”

“No, that won't work. I'm with my team, and we've got a lot of work to do before the race. But I suppose I can get away for a few minutes Sunday morning before I head back home. I can meet you at The Finish Line around noon.”

I gathered The Finish Line was a bar probably not too far from the track…I could look up the address.

“Noon it is. See you there.”

I hung up without saying good-bye.

You think he'll actually show up?
one of my mind-voices asked.

He'd better,
I answered.

*

Having already made plans with Tim and Phil to join us at the races, I couldn't very well cancel just because I wouldn't be talking to Roy D'Angelo afterwards. It was probably just as well to meet him privately on Sunday, anyway.

If he shows up,
the mind-voice said.

You made your point.
But I was fairly sure he would…if not because he wondered what I might have on him, then to keep me from siccing the police on him.

*

Actually, the races were kind of fun, and everyone had a good time, especially Joshua, even though he kept his hands over his ears a lot. He wasn't used to being in large, enthusiastic crowds, let alone the roar of the cars zooming. There were a couple of dramatic spinouts and one major pile-up—caused, interestingly, by car #38, Roy D'Angelo's car, clipping another while attempting to pass. It didn't look accidental, but the crowd loved it. That delayed the race for about ten minutes while they hauled off four cars, but Roy went on to win one other heat.

I wished we were a little closer to the track so I could get a good look at Roy in person. But of course he was wearing his helmet anyway, so….

Phil, Tim, and I had a couple of beers during the races, so Jonathan drove while Joshua fell asleep in my lap. We didn't get back to the apartment until about eleven thirty. We managed to get Joshua to bed, which was an interesting experience in that, as he'd done when we'd left him with Tim and Phil the week before, he managed to sleep through most of the changing-into-his-pajamas ritual. It was rather like trying to undress and dress a very large rag doll.

When we went into our own room and closed the door, Jonathan moved a chair in front of it. He then came over to me with a wicked grin—God, it was good to have the old Jonathan back—and he pushed me down on the bed.

“How about a game of The Race Car Driver and the Pit Chief?” he whispered, unbuckling my belt. “I think we both could use a lube job and an oil change.”

Great idea—and he was right, as usual.

*

Ah, and another observation about having a four-year-old in your life: don't count on sleeping in on Sundays. Or ever. I woke to the gentle tapping of something soft on my nose, and opened my eyes to see it was Bunny, whom Joshua was using to subtly get my attention. The chair had been moved away from the door in the course of my trip to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

“We're hungry,” Joshua announced in a semi-whisper.

“Why didn't you go wake up Uncle Jonathan?”

“He's sleeping.”

I resisted the temptation to point out that I had been sleeping, too, until he woke me.

“Okay,” I said, speaking softly so as not to wake Jonathan. “You and Bunny go into the kitchen and I'll be right there.”

“Okay,” he said, and ran out the door. Luckily, I'd put my robe on the chair within reach of the bed, and I was able to slide out of bed and into the robe in practically one motion. Joshua had pulled a chair over to the counter and was in the process of opening the cupboard where the cereal was kept. He wasn't in danger of falling, so I said, “Okay, you get the cereal and I'll get the bowl.”

“Two bowls!” Joshua insisted, taking down the box of Rice Krispies.

“I'll eat a little later, when Uncle Jonathan gets up.”

“No,” Joshua said, climbing down from the chair and taking the cereal box to the table, “…a bowl for me and a bowl for Bunny.”

“Bunny doesn't eat Rice Krispies.”

He looked at me with mild exasperation. “He
pretends
does,” he said.

So I got two bowls, two napkins, and two spoons. I drew the line at pouring milk in Bunny's bowl, however.

Jonathan got up shortly thereafter, and while he was making regular breakfast—pancakes and sausage—I retrieved the Sunday paper from the hall and sat down with Joshua and Bunny to read the funnies. He didn't understand most of them, of course—most funnies aren't really for kids, after all. But Joshua particularly enjoyed the ones with animals and he was pretty good at identifying them. And of course there were the usual endless questions, some because he wanted to know, and some because he just enjoyed asking questions.

*

Since I was going to be gone, Jonathan decided to take Joshua to noon services at the M.C.C. I left the apartment for The Finish Line at around 11:15. According to the address in the phone book, it was within a block of the Twilight Inn, where Roy D'Angelo was staying.

The bar's parking lot was about a quarter full, mostly with trucks with flatbed trailers behind them, and most of them carrying cars with race numbers painted on the sides. The cars, with only two exceptions, displayed obvious evidence of their battles, like old prizefighters sporting out-of-shape noses and cauliflower ears.

I did not see #38 among them. Well, I was a little early, as usual.

The bar itself, I saw when I entered, was your usual windowless square box, fairly good-sized, with metal posts holding up the flat roof, a pool table, several neon signs touting various beer brands, a small stage in one corner, and an L-shaped bar running most of the way along the opposite wall. There was a faint smell of motor oil mixed with the usual stale-beer smell I associate with a lot of less-than-classy bars.

There were maybe twenty people in the room, most of them men, including the bartender, who wore a striped shirt usually seen on referees and the guys who wave the checkered flag at auto races. There were one or two patrons who made me fleetingly wish they were gay and I was single, but no one I recognized even vaguely.

I walked over to the bar and took an empty stool two places away from where a beer bottle stood on the bar, unattended. I ordered a beer and was just taking some money out of my wallet when I saw someone coming out of the bathroom. I couldn't be absolutely positive, but I thought it might be Roy D'Angelo. He came across the room and sat at the stool in front of the unattended beer.

He didn't look in my direction; just sat with his forearms on the bar, head down, looking at nothing in particular.

When I'd given the bartender my money and picked up my beer, I turned to the guy.

“Roy D'Angelo?”

He turned his head to look at me, expressionless.

“Yeah. You the P.I.?”

I nodded. Neither of us made any attempt to shake hands.

“I didn't see your car in the lot.”

“Mike's got the truck. He'll be by shortly to pick me up, then we're outta here. So let's make this quick.”

Fine by me,
I thought. I had no idea who Mike might be…probably his mechanic…but it didn't matter.

“So how did you know Carlene was a lesbian?”

Quick he wanted it, quick he'd get it.

He scowled and his eyes darted around the bar to see if anyone had heard the dreaded “L” word.

“I just knew.”

Nothing like a definitive answer,
a bemused mind-voice said.

“Yeah, but I'm curious how you knew. Carlene didn't have her first lesbian experience until after she dumped you.” I saw him flush.

“
She
dumped
me
?” he hissed, trying to keep his voice down. “No cunt
ever
ditched Roy D'Angelo! I don't get trapped, neither. She deliberately got pregnant. I gave her money for an abortion and told her I never wanted to see her sorry ass again!”

Uh-huh.

“So how did you find out she was lesbian?” I asked again.

He scowled again. “What the fuck difference does it make how I heard? I heard, okay?”

“Do you know a Jan Houston?”

“Never heard of her.” It was obviously a lie.

“She knows you.”

There was a pause, and he looked definitely uneasy. “How?”

“She wouldn't tell me. But she knows you.”

He took a long drink of his beer, and set the bottle back on the bar. “Well, I don't know
her
and I'd like to keep it that way.”

I decided to switch track slightly. “So it was your mother who told you Carlene was dead, and that she had a son.”

He nodded. “Yeah. So?”

“I understand you and your mother aren't exactly close.”

“We get along okay,” he said, noncommittally. I was rather surprised he didn't ask me how I came across that bit of information.

“Ever heard of a Frank Santorini?”

He shook his head.

“How about Eddie Styles?”

There was a quick flash of something in his eyes—too quick for me to get an idea of what it might mean.

“Never heard of him.”

Like you never heard of Jan Houston?

I skipped to another subject. “You make pretty good money on the race circuit?”

The scowl returned for the third time. “That's none of your damned business, but yeah, I do okay. What's that got to do with anything?”

I shrugged. “I was just thinking it must cost a bundle to hire an expensive Louisville lawyer to handle your custody suit.”

“It's worth it to get my kid back.”

Again, I found the word “back” pretty ironic, since he never had Kelly to begin with, but I let it go.

“Is your mother still in town?”

He shrugged. “No idea. Why?”

“I was just curious. I was wondering how she feels about you filing for custody of Kelly.”

He glared at me.

“Look, I don't care how she feels about it! I'm my own man, and I don't need anybody's permission for anything!”

Well, that was a rather interesting non-sequitur
, I thought.

“I wasn't suggesting that you did. Do you think your mother would be willing to talk to me, if she's still in town?”

“What the hell do you want to talk to her for?”

“I was just curious as to how she could have been so sure Kelly was your kid, just reading about Carlene's death in the newspaper.”

He looked toward the door, where a man was standing holding the door open and making a “come on” gesture in our direction. He drained the rest of his beer and started to get up from his stool. “Knock yourself out. Mike's here. I gotta go.”