Goldilocks (19 page)

Cole smiled, more at himself than at her. “Did you write letters to him?”

“Yes, sir. Long ones.”

“And what did you add at the end of every letter?”

“ ‘You are never absent.’ ”

“That’s poetic. Is it something you read?”

“No, sir.” Her eyes dimmed. “It was how I felt.”

Cole moved to the table where he had deposited his briefcase. “Did anything unusual occur the day your husband was released?”

“Yes, sir.”

Cole extracted a paper from his briefcase. “Please tell the court what happened.”

“Tommy hit me. He punched me hard in the stomach.”

“Why?”

“He said it was in case I was pregnant.”

“Were you?”

She raised her chin. “No, sir.”

“Did he have reason to think you were?” Cole glanced at the judge, who rubbed an ear and opened an eye.

“He had no reason at all,” she said with sudden force.

“Did you require medical attention?”

“Yes, sir. At Lawrence General Hospital.”

Cole passed a copy of the hospital report to the clerk to give to the judge, who accepted it without scrutiny. “And are you still under a doctor’s care, Mary Jane?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where are you living now?”

She pointed. “With my mother.”

The mother, too old for her blond tresses, later approached the stand with the same depleted look as her daughter and gave corroborating testimony in an identical low voice. Afterward Cole thanked the court, drew a nod from the judge, and escorted the two women out of the building and into the sunshine. They crossed the street cautiously and entered the common, where the sun enriched what was left of the grass, bathed trampled flower beds, and increased the value of shade trees. The trees whispered. The three of them sat on a bench, and Cole, placing his briefcase between his feet, glanced past the mother to the daughter.

“How do you feel, Mary Jane?”

Her smile was paltry. “I’m glad it’s over.”

“Is it?” the mother said suspiciously, as if she had put money down on something that might not be received. “The judge took it under advisement.”

“That’s a formality,” Cole said, watching two men come into the common and sit on a nearby bench.

“I wasn’t sure he was listening.”

“That’s his way.”

“Do you think Mary Jane wore too much lipstick?”

“She looked fine,” Cole said, nodding to the two men.

“More lawyers?” the mother asked.

“Sort of,” he said, and switched his eyes over to Mary Jane. “Everything’s fresh now,” he said to her. “A different life ahead of you.”

“I just wish I hadn’t lied.”

“Hush,” her mother said.

Cole, surprised, said, “What did you lie about?”

Her voice receded. “Those words I wrote at the end of the letters. I got them from
Reader’s Digest.
“

“God understands,” her mother said. “Don’t you think so, Mr. Cole?”

“I’m sure She does,” Cole said with a wink.

They all rose, the mother brushing off the seat of her dress. Cole offered to take them for coffee, but the mother, with a shake of her head, said she thought Mary Jane had had enough excitement. Cole kissed the young woman on the cheek and said, “Good luck.”

“Don’t I get one?”

“Of course,” he said, and kissed the mother.

He watched them plod across the grass and was amazed how quickly they faded into the shade of the trees. Then he loosened his necktie, ran a finger inside his collar, and picked up his briefcase. He ambled over to the two men. Agent Cruickshank said, “We watched you in court. My wife ever wants to divorce me, I’ll tell her who to see.”

“I didn’t realize you guys were there.”

Agent Blue, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses, said, “How did you miss me?”

Louise Baker sipped a Pepsi from the can and said, “Why did you pick this place?”

“You said you wanted a quiet place,” Chick Ryan said. “Nothing quieter than this. Besides, I own it.”

“You’re kidding,” she said.

“Nothing’s on paper, but it’s mine.”

It was a tawdry little sandwich shop, pinchbeck with its walls of coated plastic paneling and paper brick. A ceiling fan worked sluggishly, each lugubrious whirl seemingly its last. Louise and Chick sat at a corner table, the only customers except for a shabby man with a cough who was seated at the counter. The woman who ran the place lifted the protective dome from a cake and gave the man a slice.

Chick said, “I also own the empty store next door. Valuable properties. The whole block’s going to be taken for public housing.” He stretched a leg. He was in mufti except for his heavy-duty police shoes, which had once broken a suspect’s ribs and injured his spleen. “People look at Lawrence,” he said, “they think it’s been plucked clean. No way. Plenty of stuff going on here.”

“I’m glad you’re doing well,” Louise said.

“The bookies still take care of me.”

“I’m happy for you.”

“Then you got spic dealers wearing ruts in the road driving to New York and back. Crack’s the thing. That’s what they’re all pushing.”

“You getting anything from it?” she asked.

“Not as much as I should.”

“You ought to learn to speak Spanish.”

“Yeah, that’s what one of the spics told me, knowing I wouldn’t.” An awful cough racked the man at the counter. It almost jerked him off the stool. Chick rose in the instant and flailed an arm. “Get him out of here.” The woman, broad and bandy-legged, hurried around the counter to the man, who had averted his head and was using a napkin. There did not appear to be much of him inside his clothes. The woman whispered to him and then swung around.

“He wants to know if he can finish his cake.”

“Tell him to take it with him. And put up the Closed sign. Lady and I want to talk.” Chick sank back into his chair. “I’d shut this place up for good, but I’ll get more if the property’s an operating business.”

Louise watched the man shamble out of the shop, holding the tattered piece of cake in his hand like a hurt canary. The woman latched the door and hung up the sign, a hand-printed square of cardboard that read
Ain’t Open
, the drollery of the previous owner, a bookmaker now deceased. “I’ll be back later to clean up,” the woman said, and left by the back way.

Louise said, “You should’ve let the man eat his cake.”

“Life’s hard.” He grinned. “When I helped you out a long time ago I thought you were going to take me along, let me grow with you.”

She played with the Pepsi can. “That was never a promise, not even a consideration. It was strictly a business deal, and your promotions weren’t part of it. They were personal favors. Those were big strings I pulled.”

“I’m not complaining. I’ve done all right, and I’m glad I could help you again in this trouble you’ve got. Why didn’t you come to me direct? You didn’t have to go through Barney.” His eyes confronted her. “I could’ve told you straight out nobody local would dare take a pop at you.”

“Sometimes I need a filter.”

“I did Barney a favor, you know. Well, I guess it was really for you. I checked up on that Polack from Chicopee. Nothing but a punk. Not even big enough to have a real record. Only thing going for him is he’s a stud.”

She gazed at him with noticeable reserve.

“I guess I should shut up. Maybe Barney wasn’t supposed to mention it was for you. Comes down to who you can trust, Lou. Me, you always know where you stand.”

“Yes,” she said. “You always tip your hand.”

“Because I got nothing to hide. That’s the best thing about me.”

She let her head fall back for a second, then spoke lightly. “Something about you I’ve never liked, Chick. It probably goes back to childhood.”

“Probably. That’s when you didn’t know shit from your underpants. Lucky for you I didn’t have pubic hairs then.” He grinned. “You want another Pepsi?”

“No, thank you.” Her neck and shoulder hurt her. Smiling thinly out of a face of warm moisture, she pushed her chair back and sat sideways for comfort.

“Goddamn nice legs,” he said.

“You’re OK yourself,” she replied in a tone too subtle for interpretation. “Except for that clump of gray, you haven’t changed all that much since we graduated from high school.”

He watched her dent the soda can with her thumb. “We’re talking around something, Lou. You want to tell me what?”

“Business.”

“What kind?”

“Big business.”

He drew his smile wide. “Something’s changed, Lou. You ought to know that right off the bat.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t come cheap anymore. Those days are gone.”

While Emma Goss watched from the kitchen window, Henry Witlo did business in the driveway with a man wearing a necktie and a short-sleeved shirt that had come untucked in back. The man inspected the outside of Henry’s Dodge Charger, ran a finger through the grime, squatted to examine the tread of a tire, and yanked up the hood with a signal to Henry to start the engine. Later, the hood closed, the engine off, Henry and the man stood in the sunshine and talked some more. Through the screen Emma listened to the plangency of their somber male voices without hearing a single word. She closed her eyes when the man stooped to attach a dealer’s plate to the car and opened them when she heard him slam a door and drive off. Henry thumped in with a check in his hand.

Her voice quivered. “Why did you do that?”

“No sense having two,” he said.

“You can have the Plymouth,” she said. “Take it and go.”

He wrinkled his brow. “What would Harold say?”

“He’s in hell … in heaven.” She was confused, bedeviled. “Harold’s gone.”

“No, he’s not.” Henry pointed. “He’s standing there!”

Her head snapped around.

“No,
there
!” He pointed in another direction.

She staggered against the table, unstrung by the spin and play of his voice. It was like the time she was a child and an older boy full of moods pushed her higher and higher on a schoolyard swing, not to please her but to terrify her.

An arm squeezed her. “I was only fooling,” he said. His finger came at her, took a tear away. He fluttered the check and tried to make her read the figures, but she averted her eyes. “It’s for us, Mrs. Goss. I want to pay my keep.”

“Are you never going to leave?”

He did not answer right away. His hand was fixing her hair, the palm smoothing it as she stood quite still and composed, faintly breathing and screaming to herself. “If I left, who would take care of you?” he said. His jaw came closer. “Who does the cooking? Not you, Mrs. Goss. You burn things. Cut yourself. Look at your fingers.”

Worse were her nails, chewed as if in a kind of ritual mutilation. She felt dog-eared and overly thumbed, like the pulp pages of lurid magazines boys in her class had passed around.

“Who makes sure you shower?” he said. “Look at your dress. It’s not clean.” His hands passed over her. “You’ve got to change it,” he said. “And your breath is a little bad. You’ve got to brush your teeth.”

She had no choice, no stamina, no will to resist the direction in which he was pushing her. For a second she feared they might bump into Harold.

“Watch your step, Mrs. Goss.”

In the bathroom she used a damp pink towel to ease the heat in her face. A warm breeze blew in on her. She picked up a toothbrush, not the green one, which was his, or Harold’s. She was not sure. The Colgate tube lacked a cap and was squeezed in the middle. She brushed her teeth vigorously, almost savagely.

From the doorway he said, “Gargle good.”

In the bedroom he chose the dress he wanted her to wear, but when she put it on he stepped back and grimaced. He did not like the fall of it. He selected another and said, “Thought we might go to the movies tonight.” When she looked away, he said, “Or maybe just for a ride.” He did not like the second dress either. Patterned with roses, it made her look like a floral offering, and he told her to take it off. Pawing through the closet, more of Harold’s clothes in there than hers, he said, “You don’t have a hell of a lot to pick from. We got to do some shopping sometime.”

She stood in a partial state of insensibility, with a ladder in her pantyhose. He had another dress in his hand, but he soon tossed it aside and slowly circled her with critical eyes. A smile emerged, and his voice lifted. “It’s not the dress, Mrs. Goss, it’s you. You’ve lost weight.” His eyes danced. “Everything about you is better, I’m not kidding. More shape to you now. Nicer titties, honest.” He swallowed hard. “Even the dark circles make you different.”

“Pig,” she murmured.

“Beg pardon?”

Her voice was arid. “You’re going to do it again, aren’t you?”

“It’s on my mind, Mrs. Goss.”

“Then get it over with,” she said coldly.

Barney Cole got home a little before three and changed into casual clothes while Kit Fletcher, wearing a white shirt and chino shorts, stuck a chilled bottle of wine and hastily wrapped sandwiches into a basket. While she was poking into a cupboard for paper cups, Cole lifted her hair and kissed the back of her neck. When his arms started to go around her, she pushed him back with the point of an elbow. “If you start that,” she said, “we’ll never leave.”

A short time later they drove down Wildwood Road to Route
125
and within minutes penetrated Harold Parker State Forest. Cole parked the Cutlass off the road near Field’s Pond, where a number of Hispanic women from Lawrence were fishing off the bank, some sitting on boulders and dangling their feet in the limpid water. Their bare-chested children dawdled nearby. Kit climbed out of the car and stretched her legs. Looking at the women, she said, “What do they hope to catch?”

“Bass, perch, I’m not sure,” Cole said, joining her. “The pond’s man-made. The state stocks it.”

“I can see they’re not doing it for sport,” Kit said, her eye gradually shifting from the women to the children, scrawny little beauties.

Cole took the basket from her and they followed a footpath into pinewoods lit only by the sun’s ability to hurl knives through the thick branches. The air was spicy and green and without grit from the road. The path meandered but never far from the pond’s jagged edge, where skeletal stumps lurked in the water and blueberry bushes grew mammoth with the promise of fruit. Cole, who led the way, soon strayed from the path.