All Our Yesterdays (31 page)

“Yes,” Grace said. “I like Gus, but why doesn’t he stuff a sock down that woman’s throat.”

“Peggy?” Laura said.

“Yes.”

“I gather she’s difficult.”

“Difficult? She’s hideous.”

“Must have been hard having her for a mother.”

“Probably was,” Grace said. “But, at least for the moment, that’s his problem. I hope he solves it.”

“A
nd the rage,” Grace said. “What have you done with the rage?”

“Well, first I thought about killing that guy you went to New York with.”

Grace nodded.

“And me?” she said.

“No. I never thought about killing you.”

She looked at me for a while in silence, holding the big mug of tea at a level with her mouth. Only her eyes showed above the rim of it, resting on me. Then she nodded as if to herself. Outside the window the thunder and lightning came almost at the same moment, the fluorescent flash underscored immediately by the looming rumble.

“I believe that,” she said.

“If you didn’t,” I said, “you took a hell of a chance having me come here tonight.”

“I had to know,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said. “And now you do.”

“So, what did you do with the rage?”

“I took Flaherty’s job,” I said.

“And now?”

“Now I know that I can do things without triggering the rage.”

“That’s a good thing to know,” Grace said. “What about me?”

“Or perhaps, what about us,” I said.

“I need to know how you feel about me. You have to be angry.”

“Yeah, probably, but I know also that you did what you had to do. If you hadn’t left, we’d have stayed in the strangled disaster we were in.”

“You know that intellectually,” Grace said.

“Last year I didn’t know it at all,” I said.

“So it’s a start,” Grace said.

“Get ’em by the head; the soul will follow.”

“I hope so,” Grace said.

“Consider,” I said. “Last year I couldn’t marry you and couldn’t leave you.”

“And this year?”

“I can do either,” I said.

B
utchie O’Brien and Pat Malloy were sitting quietly on straight chairs in a small room off the side entrance in the Area D station on Warren Avenue, when Chris walked in with Billy Callahan. John Cassidy, neat clothes, hair slicked back, round glasses, sat behind a yellowed maple table. His hands were folded on the table.

Chris went behind the table beside Cassidy and remained standing. Billy Callahan leaned widely against the door.

“I wish to call my attorney,” Butchie said.

“Of course,” Chris said.

“Me too,” Pat Malloy said.

“Certainly,” Chris said. “Anyone facing arrest has the right to an attorney.”

Nobody moved. Nobody said anything. Pat Malloy glanced at the closed door against which Billy Callahan was leaning. Billy’s arms were folded and his upper arms seemed to stretch the weave of his coat. Chris smiled at both of them. He looked at Cassidy.

“Did you place these men under arrest, Sergeant Cassidy?”

Cassidy shook his head.

“So we’re free to go,” Butchie said.

“Sure.”

Billy Callahan continued to lean on the door. Everybody looked at him. He smiled.

“Cut the bullshit,” Pat Malloy said. “Whaddya want?”

“I want the killing stopped,” Chris said. “I know you two are in charge. I know if you say stop, it stops.”

“You got any proof?” Pat said.

“Not a bit,” Chris said. “That’s why we need to talk.”

Butchie and Pat looked at each other. Butchie smiled softly.

“So talk,” Pat said.

“We are all over you,” Chris said. “And I know it is hard to do business when the cops are all over you. Sooner or later we will get something and then one or both of you will be down at Cedar Junction looking out.”

“I do land development,” Butchie said.

“Yeah, sure,” Chris said. “And Pat does import-export. And I’m a fucking movie star. What I’m saying is that we can end this now, before more of your people get killed. You’re about even up with each other in the body count. Each of you give me one guy to take the jump, and we call it a wash.”

“You want me to designate an employee to go to jail?” Butchie said with a small smile.

“Somebody’s gotta go in for all the homicides,” Chris said. “Can’t be helped.”

“You’re as bad as your old man,” Pat said. “He’s fucking crazy. You’re fucking crazy.”

Butchie’s eyes drifted aimlessly around the room. Chris saw it.

“It’s not bugged,” he said.

Butchie smiled at him and shrugged.

“But you don’t know that, so you won’t admit to
anything,” Chris said. “But consider the deal. The shooting stops. We get out of your face. Your business prospers. Neither of you gets bagged. Life goes on.”

No one said anything.

“Think about it,” Chris said. “You want to talk about this, I’ll meet you anywhere you feel comfortable. You don’t want to talk about this, we up the stakes. If you think we’ve been in your way before …” Chris shook his head, speechless in wonderment at the level of harassment to come.

“You don’t have a fucking thing,” Butchie O’Brien said. “And the press is on your ass and the fucking mayor is on your ass and this is all you could think of.”

Chris took two business cards from his shirt pocket and handed them one each.

“Call me anytime,” he said.

Pat crumpled his without looking at it, and dropped it on the floor. Butchie read his, and carefully tore it in half, and put the two halves neatly on the table in front of him. Everyone sat quietly again. Then Chris looked at Billy Callaban and moved his head. Billy stepped away from the door. Pat Malloy got up, walked to the door, opened it, and went out, leaving it open behind him. Butchie remained seated for a moment.

“Do I get a ride home?” he said.

Chris shook his head. Butchie smiled slightly.

“Take care,” he said. And stood and went out.

Chris watched Butchie leave, and then went to the mesh-covered front window, and watched him enter one of two cars waiting at the curb. The cars pulled away and Chris stared after them until the red tail-lights disappeared. Then he turned back to the room.
He hunched his shoulders and spread his hands and turned his palms up in a gesture of resignation.

“Was that a threat?” he said.

“‘Take care’?” Cassidy said.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe.”

“Chris,” Billy Callahan said, “I think you oughta talk to the captain.”

Chris didn’t answer.

“It might not be a bad idea,” Cassidy said.

“Why?” Chris said.

“Captain knows a lot,” Cassidy said.

“Let’s get out of here,” Chris said.

L
aura sipped from her third cup of cappuccino. The sun had shifted westward enough so that they were in the shadow now, and the memory of March still lingered in the June shade.

“When you say you ‘tried everything,’ and perhaps this is too intimate, what do you mean?”

Grace laughed. “Positions mostly—like him on top, me on top, in a chair … you know?”

“No, actually, I’m embarrassed to admit, I don’t know. It’s why I’m asking.”

“Honest to God? You and Daddy …?” Grace shook her head. “I don’t mind, ask what you want to know.”

“We seem to have reversed roles here,” Laura said. “But your father and I come from a more constrained time. We have been, ah, quite … calm in our marital relations.”

“The old missionary position,” Grace said, smiling. Her face felt warm. She knew she was blushing. But so was her mother.

“At most,” Laura said. “How does one do this in a chair?”

“There’s a couple ways,” Grace said. Her voice sounded hoarse and she cleared it before she went on to describe the options. Her mother bent slightly toward her, watching her face, nodding frequently.

“Really,” Laura said. “And what about oral sex?”

“Mother!”

“Well, I’m sorry. I’ve heard about it but I’ve never known anyone I could ask.”

“Not even Daddy?”

“It’s not something your father would discuss,” Laura said.

“Well,” Grace said, “what about it?”

“Have you done it?”

“Sure.”

Laura was very intent now as she leaned toward her daughter.

“Both”—she made a reciprocating gesture with her hands—“I mean, you and him?”

“Sure.”

Laura continued to lean forward, staring at her daughter.

“Oh, my,” she said.

Both of them drank some coffee. Around them people at other tables were conversing reasonably about restaurants and fashion and sports and prices.

“Mother, I don’t mean this to be critical, I just don’t know how else to say it. What kind of a marriage have you had?”

Laura took another sip from her cup. She looked at the coffee and shook her head.

“I’ll never sleep, tonight,” she said.

Grace waited.

“We’ve had an uneventful marriage. Your father is orderly and very remote. He has never been unkind to me. He is committed to the business, and the family name. He is a good provider. He wants there to be a Senator Winslow. He is not interested in sex.”

“My God, Mother. What about you?”

“I was brought up in a time, and by a family, which
believed that sex was something women provided in return for home, family, financial security. Women did not initiate sex, they lay still and accepted it, as was their responsibility.”

“But, I mean you haven’t been in a vacuum. You know there’s another way to think about it.”

“Passionate sexual response frightens your father.”

They sat still, looking at each other’s face. The ambient buzz of conversation seemed at a great distance. Laura’s eyes were wet. The waiter came and asked if they needed anything else. Grace shook her head. The waiter put the check down on the table between them and went away.

“Oh,” Grace said.

“Exactly,” Laura said. “Oh.”

“Does it frighten you?”

“I don’t think so,” Laura said.

“And you never thought of looking for it elsewhere?”

“No. It was not a condition of my upbringing. I had two children to think about. And truthfully, the opportunity has not, so far, presented itself.”

“If it did,” Grace said, looking directly at her mother, “would you take it?”

“I think so,” Laura said.

T
om Winslow sat at a small table in the middle of the food court at Cityplace in the Transportation Center. A styrofoam cup of black coffee sat untouched in front of him. Across the table with two honey-dipped crullers, and a cup of his own, was Barry Levine.

Tom Winslow’s face felt frozen. His body felt stiff and clumsy. Barry Levine picked a piece of lint off his lapel and flicked it away. Nothing else marred his appearance. He was slim, tanned, tailored. He wore a double-breasted blue pinstriped suit, and a blue shirt with a white pin collar. His black shoes were Italian. His tie was scarlet with a white geometric pattern, and his display handkerchief was white. He knew he was worth money. He was Butchie O’Brien’s lawyer.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been in here,” Tom Winslow said.

“Yes, it’s a bit scruffy, but then we don’t want anyone listening in on our conversation, Tom.”

“We’ve done business in my office for years. You think someone would listen in?”

Barry Levine smiled.

“It seems prudent, Tom.”

“You think I’m under suspicion?”

“Oh, I’m sure not, Tom. Just a lawyer’s natural caution is all.”

Barry Levine took a bite of his cruller, leaning carefully
forward to make sure no crumbs fell on his shirt-front.

“Boy, I’m a sucker for these things,” Barry Levine said. “I try to eat right, exercise, stay fit. But I get near a Dunkin’ Donuts stand and I lose all resolve.”

Tom Winslow didn’t say anything. He sat stiffly and waited. The public sound system in the atrium area was playing a Frank Sinatra album over the buzz of mostly adolescent conversation and the sounds of fast food being sold.

“You sure you don’t want anything, Tom?”

Tom Winslow shook his head.

“Well, you’re a man of firmer resolve than I,” Barry Levine said.

He finished his first cruller and drank some coffee and carefully patted his lips dry with a paper napkin.

“We’ve got to do something about Gus Sheridan,” he said.

“Gus?”

“Gus. He’s the loose cannon in this whole situation. He pulled a gun on Butchie, for God’s sake.”

Barry Levine broke off a small piece of cruller and ate it over the table.

“The special prosecutor’s office can be annoying, but as long as we all remain steadfast, they can be frustrated. They can prove nothing.”

He drank coffee carefully, savoring the swallow. He touched his lips again with the napkin.

“Gus, on the other hand, knows most of our intimate secrets. And he can probably prove them.”

“Gus, my God, why would he? He’d have to incriminate himself.”

“Butchie’s theory is that Gus is crazy, and that he might do anything. He’s very supportive of his son.”

Barry Levine leaned back in his small chair and stretched, arching his back. He shook his head.

“You get older, you pay more and more for the time you put in at the health club,” he said.

“You think he would confess,” Tom Winslow said, “—implicate me, us?”

Barry Levine shrugged broadly.

“You prepare for what your enemy is able to do, not what you think he will do,” he said.

“Well, I mean, Jesus, can’t we do something to stop him?”

“Butchie was hoping you’d talk some sense to him.”

“Me? What can I say to him?”

“Butchie thinks, and I must say I agree, that what you say and how you control him is largely your problem. Butchie, and rightly, I think, simply wants him controlled.”

“But I can’t control Gus Sheridan. For God’s sake, he controls me.”

“Butchie feels that you have a long family relationship, including his son and your daughter.”

“They’re, ah, separated or whatever, right now,” Tom Winslow said.

“Shame,” Barry Levine said. “But they have been together. The point is Butchie figures that there may be some basis for you and Gus to reason together. And Butchie would like you to try.”