Winter and Night (16 page)

"It was you and her?"

"One time. But shit, man, she was up and partying when I left."

"Shut up, Randy!" came the hoarse command from his father. One arm wrapping his stomach, he pulled himself up on his car's bumper. Randy looked again uncertainly from him to me. He made no move to help his father up.

I asked, "Was Gary there?"

"Shut the fuck up, Randy!" Macpherson shouted. "How stupid are you? They're trying to do to you what they did to me. You!" His arm stretched out, fingers reaching for me, but he stayed back. His voice was ragged with rage. "You motherfucker. I'll tear your balls off. I'll shove you under a pile of shit. Do you know who I am?"

"No," I said. "But you don't have much of a right hook."

"You're dead. You're fucking dead, asshole. Your PI license, your car, every fucking thing you own, it's mine."

Headlights swept into the drive, brakes squealed on the other side of my car. Red and blue circling lights pulsed in the night.

"Well," I said, "if you want to start legal proceedings, now's a good time."

Four doors opened, two on each newly arrived car. Looking into the glare of their headlights I couldn't see anything, but the voice that shouted, "Goddammit, Smith, is that you?" was Jim Sullivan's.

"Yeah," I said, lifting my hands so everyone could see they were empty. "I have some fugitives for you."

"This your fucking car? What are you talking about?" Sullivan and two other men, one of them Burke, the young cop, and the other a cop in a uniform different from theirs, strode around my car to stand with Randy Macpherson, his father, and me. A fourth man stayed behind, standing at the driver's door of the lead car, ready to call it in if things got ugly.

"If you're here you must have gotten warrants," I said. "I assume one of them is for him."

Sullivan shifted his eyes to Randy. He looked to Macpherson senior for a few moments, then spoke to the guy next to him, the cop in a Plaindale uniform. "Randy Macpherson."

The Plaindale cop took out a pair of handcuffs, started to explain to Randy that he had a warrant for his arrest on charges of malicious mischief, destruction of property, leaving the scene of a crime.

"You sons of bitches, just hold on!" Macpherson shouted, stepping between them. "You can't—"

"Calm down," Sullivan said, "Maybe we don't have to."

"What?"

"The only way to get these boys out of Hamlin's is with warrants," said Sullivan, shooting a glance at me. "But you took Randy out already." He turned back to the son. "I want to ask some questions and I want some serious answers. If you cooperate I might not have to arrest you."

"Fuck off, Sullivan. You touch my boy and I'll have your badge. Come on, Randy."

"I'm sorry, sir." That was the Plaindale cop, and he had his gun out.

Everyone stopped. The gun's barrel glinted in the headlights of the cars on either side of mine.

"I have a warrant for this boy's arrest," the cop said, as if that would make a boy's father step aside, let him be handcuffed and led away.

"Let him talk to us, Macpherson," Sullivan said.

Macpherson fixed Sullivan with a look that would have chilled a colder night than this. "Randy," he said, "don't say a word. I'm calling Erickson. My lawyer," he said pointedly to Sullivan.

Macpherson turned from the rest of us, took out a cell phone. Sullivan nodded to the Plaindale cop, who put his gun away, handcuffed Randy, recited his rights as he led him to the patrol car.

"I don't have a warrant for you," Sullivan said to me, "but I don't need one. Obstruction of justice. Hamlin'll probably go for trespassing if I ask him to. What the hell is your problem, Smith? Am I hard to understand?"

"I was leaving," I said. "I saw Macpherson coming back. I wanted to talk to Randy and I knew you did, too."

In Sullivan's long silence the door on the Plaindale car slammed behind Randy. Burke shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Sullivan stared out over the high sodium lights lining the driveway to Hamlin's.

"Plaindale's pissed off already, the overtime they're going to have to pay to process the six kids I'm pulling out of here," he said to me. "You have a good lawyer, would spring you if I took you in?"

"Yes."

He nodded. "I figured. Macpherson! Back your car up. Now! Smith, get the hell out of here. And Smith: no more warnings."

"I get it," I said. "I'm gone. But can I ask you something?"

"Goddammit—" he started, then took a breath. "What?"

"Before you got here, Macpherson said to Randy, 'They're trying to do to you what they did to me.' Do you know what that means?"

At first he didn't answer, and I thought he might not, just tell me again to get the hell gone. But finally he said, "Twenty-three years ago, the hero linebacker they arrested for the rape? It was him."

He turned, headed for his car. Macpherson did the same, and I did, too. A little jockeying got me rolling down the driveway, toward the road. The police cars, red and blue lights circling, headed the other way, to collect five more boys from football camp and take them to jail.

Ten

From the expressway, driving toward New York, I called Lydia.

"Anything?" I asked.

"No. You? Was I right? Did Mr. Macpherson come back?"

"Of course you were right. When were you ever not right?"

"What happened?"

"He threatened to kill me and sue me and Sullivan threatened to arrest me."

"He was there too?"

"He got his warrants."

"Why didn't they? Kill you and sue you and arrest you?"

"He didn't kill me because he's rusty and his timing's off. He probably will sue me. And Sullivan didn't arrest me because he's out of his jurisdiction and he's making enough trouble for the locals as it is."

I told Lydia about my roadblock, the abbreviated fight, the arrival of the police. "It's going to be a long night in Plaindale," I said.

"Will Detective Sullivan tell you if any of them knows anything?"

"Right now I don't think he'd tell me if they knew there was a bomb under my bed."

"I wonder what they do know," Lydia said. "I wonder if any of them know anything about Gary." Her voice was soft. I realized that the one piece of good news from this night was something she hadn't heard yet.

"I do," I said. "It looks like he wasn't there." I told her what Sullivan had said, and Stacie Phillips.

"Oh, Bill," she said. "Oh, that's great."

"Well, it's looking better," I admitted. "But he's still in trouble, and he's still missing. Listen, have you had dinner?"

"No."

"Want to meet me at Shorty's? I should be there in half an hour."

"Sounds good."

It did sound good. I folded the phone and put it away. Hands light on the wheel, I drove easily and fast, threading through the traffic, timing my moves to the speed of the cars around me, pulling away, cutting around. We wove a pattern, all working toward the same goal, though not known to one another. I listened to the Bach the whole way back to the city.

Almost there, I pulled a card from my pocket, made one more call.

"Stacie Phillips."

"Stacie, Bill Smith."

"You found him?"

"No. I want a favor."

"Ah," she said. "But what do I get?"

"Who taught you to think like that?"

"It's just something I heard."

"Okay," I said, "Point taken. And I don't know. But something interesting's come up. It might not mean anything. But I need it checked out."

"I thought detectives checked things out themselves."

"Actually, we call people. Sources."

"It may be a conflict of interest for a reporter to be a source."

"It'll broaden your base of experience to see how the other half lives."

"Yeah, right. So if I said yes, what would I be saying yes to?"

"You have access to the Tri-Town Gazette morgue?"

"Of course I do. What's in there you want?"

"Warrenstown's big scandal. The rape and suicide? I want to know who, what, where, when, why."

"That was before I was born," she pointed out.

"I know. And though nothing important could possibly have happened that long ago, still, humor me?"

"You better call me when you find Gary."

"You're on my speed-dial. Look, I'm heading into the tunnel. Fax me whatever you find."

I cruised into Manhattan, stashed the car in the lot I use and got to Shorty's before Lydia did.

I pushed through the etched glass doors, glad for the warmth, the quiet sounds, the welcoming smells of food and liquor. The bar was in the back and Shorty O'Donnell, as usual, was behind it; also as usual, he was watching the door, watching the whole place, everyone's moves, though you'd never see him do it. I made my way back there, exchanging nods, hellos, wisecracks with the other regulars. I'd lived two floors above this bar for sixteen years. Shorty had owned the building and the bar twice as long as that, and almost nothing had changed over those years: the green glass shades on the lamps, the faded prints of New York and of Ireland in equal numbers on the walls, the smell of burgers and beer. The conversations were the same, too, the quiet talk of men who knew each other, maybe not well, but long, who came here as much for the talk as the beer, to discuss the Yankees' chances this season, or the Giants' or the Knicks', and agree the mayor was a bum, every season, every year.

I looked around for Lydia, didn't see her, slipped onto a bar stool. Shorty pulled the Maker's Mark from the shelf, dropped ice in a glass, poured me a shot. He asked, "What's wrong?"

I sipped at the bourbon, looked up, was about to say something noncommittal, Just tired I guess, nothing's wrong, what's new with you? But I saw his face, creased now but smooth when I'd met him; his bristling eyebrows, gray where they used to be black; his dark eyes waiting. Shorty and his buddies: These men had known me since I was fifteen. Friends of my uncle Dave's, they'd been on my side, and had stayed there, though I hadn't been an easy kid to like. One or two of them, cops like Dave, had even arrested me in those years, but because Dave had never given up on me, they hadn't, either, cutting me every break they could, trying to help Dave, trying, in their ways, to help me. I'd never said thanks and I probably never would, but I couldn't look Shorty in the eye tonight and lie to him.

"Trouble," I said, lighting a cigarette. "I'm meeting Lydia, but I'll tell you about it later, if you have time."

He nodded. "Anything I can do?"

"I'm not sure."

He nodded again, went down the bar to pour someone else's drink. The etched-glass doors opened once more, and this time it was Lydia.

She got some looks as she walked through the bar, and some greetings from some of the regulars. She'd been meeting me here on and off over the last couple years, enough that she was part of the crowd now, someone the regulars would look out for, ask about if she hadn't been seen in a while. I got looks, too, every time she walked in, knowing ones from people who didn't know what they thought they did.

I stepped down from the bar stool, went to meet her, kissed her. Her skin was cold from the night air, but though our kiss was brief her lips warmed to it.

We separated; she waved to Shorty and slid into a booth. I put my drink on the scarred tabletop, sat down across from her.

"Still nothing?" I asked.

"I'm sorry."

I shook my head. "Not your fault."

"We'll find him."

I drank some bourbon, tried to believe what she'd said. I wondered, suddenly, when she'd lose that, the optimism with which she approached everything, the cheerfulness, the hope. It would be a shame, when she did.

I put down my bourbon, said, "I learned something interesting." I was about to tell her what when we were interrupted by Caitlin, Shorty's new waitress. She brought Lydia a seltzer with three limes Shorty had sent over from the bar, setting it down carefully, on its Guinness coaster, along with two sets of cutlery wrapped in napkins, one by Lydia's left hand, one by mine. Young and still learning the job, Caitlin was, wanting to make a success of it. We ordered dinner— a bacon burger for me, a Caesar salad for Lydia— and when Caitlin left, I went on.

"I told you about the rape and suicide in Warrenstown, years ago?"

She nodded.

"Well, Randy Macpherson's father was the football hero they accused, arrested, then let go after the other kid shot himself."

"This would be the Macpherson who's going to kill you and sue you?"

"That Macpherson, yes."

"He sounds dangerous."

"Well, except it seems he didn't do it. It might be why he's been in such a lousy mood all these years, though. It could explain why he exploded at the idea of someone thinking his son had been involved in a crime."

"Does that need an explanation?"

I took out a cigarette, looked at her as I put a match to it. "No," I said. "No, I guess not." I drank more bourbon, felt it start to work, felt that distance begin, that slight separation between you and everything else that drink can give you.

"Anyway," I said, "I asked Stacie Phillips— that kid from the paper— to fax me whatever she could dig up on it."

"What are you looking for?"

"I don't know. Maybe nothing. Maybe I just don't like Macpherson and I'd like to have something on him."

"But if he didn't do it, then there's nothing to have."

"Maybe I just want to see what it was about. Or maybe," I said, "maybe I'm just mad and I want to hit something."

Her black eyes met mine, and held them. Sounds in the room faded. I had my drink in one hand and my cigarette in the other and I didn't want either of them.

Then Lydia smiled. Shorty put a Sinatra CD on, someone left the bar and someone came in, and everything was as it always was.

For a while we didn't speak, just sat together in this place I knew as well as the place where I lived, this place Lydia was coming to know, too. Caitlin brought our dinner, and either Shorty's food, always good, was better than usual, or the cheese Danish on the road in front of Hamlin's hadn't done much for me.

"You never ran into my brother-in-law," I said to Lydia, finally finished, rescuing a last fry as Caitlin came to take away our plates.