Goldilocks (31 page)

He tapped out the number and began clearing his desk while waiting for an answer. A pen dropped to the floor. As he leaned over to retrieve it a man’s voice came on the line, surprising him. “Is this Mrs. Goss’s residence?” he asked.

“Yes, it is.”

“Who is this?” he asked, for the voice was familiar in a haunting way.

“Her nephew. Who’s this?”

Cole sat erect. “What the hell are you doing there, Henry?”

There was a short silence, and then Henry said, “I thought it was you, Mr. Cole, but I wasn’t sure. I’m doing odd jobs for Mrs. Goss, like I did for you. She’s a real nice lady.”

“Let me speak to her.”

“She can’t come to the phone right now. She was out in the sun and the heat got her.”

Cole shot to his feet. “I’m coming over!”

FOURTEEN

H
ENRY WITLO
swung open the front door and gave Barney Cole a chill. Gory bits of toilet tissue hung from his face. When he smiled, a thread of blood unraveled at the corner of his mouth. His whole head seemed uneven until Cole realized that one of the sideburns was gone. “I hurt my hand,” Henry said, and exhibited the dark deep wound in the palm. The wound looked both fresh and old at the same time. “I sliced it on glass fixing something for Mrs. Goss,” he said with an air of martyrdom. “I don’t think it’s healing right, do you?”

“I’m not a doctor, Henry.” Overhead, birds were piping in the heat, their notes shrill like warnings. “What happened to your face?”

“Shaving with my left hand — a hard thing to do, Mr. Cole. I wouldn’t advise it for everybody.”

“Are you going to let me in?”

“Sure.” He jerked to one side, waited, and then closed the door after Cole. “But like I told you, she’s not feeling good. If you don’t have to disturb her, it’d be better you don’t.” He smiled again. “Something you want to know, maybe I can tell you.”

Cole said, “You’re bleeding at the mouth.”

“Yeah, I can feel it. Guess I’ve sprung a leak.”

“Why did you say you were her nephew?”

“She treats me like one.”

“I don’t think I understand, Henry.”

“I don’t think you should try, Mr. Cole. No offense.”

Cole strained his eyes for a deeper look into the house, for clues of mayhem. “Do you work anywhere else or just here?”

“Just here.”

“I want to see Mrs. Goss.”

“If you think you should, OK,” Henry said. “This way, Mr. Cole.”

Cole hesitated, his head fuming with a fearsome image of a deathblow, of his own body lying limp on the floor. “No, after you,” he said and followed Henry into the kitchen, where for a split second he did not recognize the woman sitting at the far end of the table. Her cinnamon hair was brushed back hard, her violet eyes were circled, and her face, slimmer than he remembered, had a scrubbed look, as if a layer of skin had been removed. He pegged her smile. “How are you, Mrs. Goss?”

“Pretty good.” Her voice was dull. Her head tilted out of a nondescript housedress that was too loose for her. He looked for marks on her and saw none. “Is there something I didn’t sign?” she asked.

“No,” he said, still scrutinizing her. “I just stopped by to see how you are.”

A folded newspaper lay on the table. She fumbled with it. “Would you like a cold drink?”

“Maybe he’d like some of those fresh strawberries we got,” Henry said, drawing closer to Cole. “We got all the fixings for a shortcake.”

Cole stood still, his eyes planted on Mrs. Goss. “I understand Henry’s doing odd jobs for you.”

Her answer came slowly. “He does little things.”

“Not so little,” Henry protested, experimenting with his posture, loose-limbed and unconcerned in one pose, commanding in another. “Remember how I got cut?”

“He hasn’t fixed the screens yet.”

“I told you, Mrs. Goss, they can’t be fixed. They got to be replaced. She’s talking about the breezeway, Mr. Cole. We had some vandalism.”

“Did you report it?” Cole asked.

“I wanted to, Mr. Cole, but she said no. That’s the way she is. Doesn’t like to cause a fuss.”

Cole’s eyes were flitting from one to the other. He said to Henry, “Where are you living now?”

“Here.”

Cole peered at Mrs. Goss, whose face took on a faint blush. “It’s temporary,” she said.

“Is there anything you’d like to tell me?” Cole asked, stepping nearer, leaving Henry behind him.

“I can’t think of anything,” she said as if the effort exhausted her. She drew the newspaper closer to her.

“Would you prefer to talk to me alone?” he asked.

“You want me to leave, I’ll leave,” Henry said helpfully. “I got work to do anyway.”

Mrs. Goss shook her head wearily, as if choosing between the lesser of discomforts. Cole, leaning toward her, had the distinct impression that she was scattered and unable or unwilling to pull the pieces back together. When he reached for her hand, she withdrew it.

“Things aren’t the same with Harold gone,” she said. “You understand.”

Henry walked him to the door, more of a strut now in Henry’s stride, though his right shoulder listed. Cole dropped easily back as Henry opened the door, letting in heat and sound from the street. “Heat doesn’t bother me like it does her, Mr. Cole. I got used to it in Nam.” Children scampered by on the sidewalk. “You’re welcome back, you know. Anytime.”

Cole lingered. “Nothing bothers you, does it, Henry?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You prey on people. That’s unforgivable.”

“Make you feel better, Mr. Cole, send a policeman over. I got nothing to hide.” The voice was assured and somewhat aggressive. “Lot of people live together now for different reasons. Mrs. Goss needs a man, I need a home. It works. There’s nothing more to it than that.”

Cole’s eyes smarted from looking at him so hard. “Is it that simple?”

“The woman likes me, no surprise, lot of women do.” Henry leaned forward confidentially. “Want to hear the kicker, Mr. Cole? I like her. What do you think of that?”

Cole stepped out into the heat and glanced back a last time. “You’d better do something about your face.”

“It’ll heal.”

“How about your hand? It looks infected.”

Henry, with effort, turned over his palm and examined it. “That’s the only thing that worries me.”

“Pretend you’re in Nam, no medics available.”

“That’s what I do, Mr. Cole, when I can’t sleep.”

• • •

John Rozzi was summoned to the Springfield police station for questioning. While being escorted to an interrogation room, he noticed two well-groomed men, one black, standing near a desk, and guessed right away that they were either state or federal, certainly not local. He ignored them and they ignored him. The detective in the interrogation room was bald and had a plump jovial face that looked as if it might easily be baked and served with the tongue out. He said, “Sit down, John. Make yourself at home.”

John sat at a small table, and the detective sat away from it. A small two-way mirror was in one of the walls, and John stared at it lazily, without concern. He said, “Who are those two guys I saw — feds?”

“Could be, John.”

He jerked a thumb at the mirror. “Where are they now — there?”

“I wouldn’t discount it.”

For nearly a half hour the detective questioned John on the disappearance of his friend Sal Botello. The air conditioner was operating only at half speed, and both men were sweating. John loosened his necktie and finally removed his jacket. The detective ran a pudgy finger inside the throat of his collared polo shirt. The blunt points of the collar stood straight up. John said, “How about some water?”

“You don’t want any water. Sweating’s good for us. You and me, we’ll lose some weight.” The detective sat back with his knees spread, the top of his fly unzipped. “So you got no idea where Sal is?”

“I’m not his keeper.”

“But you’re his pal.”

“I know him.”

“Know him, or
knew
him?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We think he’s dead.”

John laughed in a kind of grunt. “Sal ain’t around, it’s because he don’t want to be. Check Atlantic City. Vegas. Check the golf course at Palm Springs. He ain’t there, he’s somewhere else, probably with a broad.”

“What broad? Anybody I know?”

“He’s got all kinds of broads. The guy spends four-fifths of his time pumping.”

“Yeah, Sal had a good life. You and me, John, we’re lucky we can find our socks in the morning. We got too much in common. Have you noticed, we both got pig noses.”

John said, “Yeah, I noticed.”

“Me, I’m never going to make sergeant. Years ago I didn’t make the right moves, politically speaking. Guys give me good advice, I don’t take it. Shit comes flying my way, I don’t know enough to duck.”

“You got an interesting life history,” John said.

“You too, John. We’re two pigs in a pod.”

“Peas is the expression.”

“Peas is what we got for brains.” The detective scratched the flab of his upper arm. “But you were right about those two guys. They’re feds. They’re after big people, but the kind of net they use scoops up the little ones too. Know what I’m saying, John?”

“I got a little brain. What are you saying?”

“I’m giving you good advice. You talk nice to these guys, maybe you can cut a deal.”

“I’d rather cut my mother up, eat her for supper,” John said.

The detective hefted himself out of his chair and tugged at his polo shirt, which had risen over his paunch. “Better get yourself a lot of napkins, John.”

John stayed seated, his gaze shifting to the mirror and then back to the detective. “That it?”

“That’s it,” the detective said in a way that seemed to tighten the air between them. “You change your mind, it ain’t too late, come back and see me.”

John’s car was parked a block from the station. Before climbing in, he stripped off his tie and jacket and glanced around. After sealing the windows and flicking on the air conditioner, he eased into traffic with an eye glued to the rearview. He drove through city streets for a good twenty minutes, making random turns, timing traffic signals and shooting through them. When satisfied that no one was on his tail, he sped to a gasoline station in a derelict neighborhood. The mechanic, a monkey of a man with dirt on his nose, hoisted the car on a lift and checked it for a tracking device.

“It’s clean, John,” the man pronounced, lowering the lift.

“Good,” John said. “Gimme gas.”

As the man filled the tank, John switched the license plate and breathed deeply. He enjoyed the red reek of gasoline as much as he savored the aroma of his mother’s tomato sauce. The man racked up the hose, wiped his hands on his coveralls, and said, “That’ll be twelve-fifty.” John paid him with a fifty-dollar bill, no change expected, and climbed back into his car. “Going on a little trip, John?”

John looked out at him. “What did you say?”

“I didn’t say nothing,” the man said, and quickly closed the door for him.

• • •

Louise Baker and Chick Ryan met at Memorial Hall Library in Andover. Louise arrived first, picked up a magazine, and sat at a corner reading table, under which she placed a briefcase. It was a time of day when few other tables were taken. Chick arrived minutes later, hairy arms bulging out of a yellow jersey, sunglasses hooked to the breast pocket. He sat across from her, dropping his elbows on the table. The chunk of gray in his hair stood out like a block of granite. “I was just a little worried,” he said with a smile. “I hadn’t heard from you for so long, I was afraid you were holding out on me.”

“Foolish fear,” she said.

“I agree.” They were keeping their voices low, and Chick leaned forward on his elbows to hear better. He said, “Is that it under the table?”

“That’s it,” she said. “Before you take it we’ve got more business to do.”

His eyes glittered. “More money?”

“No, just more business.” Her voice was strangely flat, though there was heat in her heart, a vibration in her chest. “I know it was you who set me up,” she said.

Chick’s jaw dropped slightly. Then a smile took up too much of his face. “You’re crazy.”

“You want to argue?”

Each went silent as a patron of the library, an elderly man with dimples and a book in his hand, approached a nearby table and then suddenly, because of a look Chick gave him, veered off to a cushioned chair much farther away. The silence grew as Chick seemed to mull much over and come to a decision. The lines in his brow were deep and ugly, as if he had dug them himself. He said, “That slob Rozzi been telling you stories?”

“I figured it out for myself. Wasn’t hard.”

He slid back a little on his elbows. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing, Chick.” She turned a page of her magazine and scanned the pictures. “You’re lucking out for a couple of reasons. The first is I’m getting out of the business, retiring.” She lifted her eyes. “That means you’re ceasing to be a factor in my life.”

“All’s forgiven, I’m supposed to believe that?”

“Nothing’s forgiven,” she said in a voice free of emotion. “And you can believe what you want.”

He viewed her closely with wondering eyes. “What’s the other reason?”

“A negligible one. For better or worse, you’re part of my childhood. It wasn’t a particularly great one, but it’s the only one I’ve got.”

He grinned slowly. “I’m sitting here, I’m supposed to be scared, right?”

“No, Chick, what you’re supposed to be is smart. You’re getting a break from me; I don’t think you even know it.”

“Is that what I’m getting?”

“Depends on you.”

Raising an elbow, he kneaded the back of his neck and then gave the end of his nose a pull. “Like they say in the movies, Lou, it wasn’t personal. Sal made an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

“Said he’d bring you into the business, right?”

“It was an offer you never made.”

“With reason,” she said. “I never trusted you.”

“But you trusted Sal.”

“I paid the price, didn’t I?”

They fell silent again when a library worker, a pretty blond woman with a flimsy authoritative air ready to blow away, returned newspapers to their rightful places on a rack. Louise peeled the magazine to a color spread of summer finery worn by high-hipped fashion models. Chick whispered, “Nice to know I’m off the hook.”