Invasion of Privacy - Jeremiah Healy (11 page)

Kira seemed to be my best bet so far. "You've
talked with Mr. Dees some, then?"

"Some. He's kind of quiet. Nobody around here is
exactly into partying hard, you understand. But he never seems to do
much except get up, go to work, and come home. I figure he could use
some
Short Attention Span Theater
you know?"

"
Short Attention . .
."

". . .
Span Theater
.
It was on the cable, until we couldn't afford that anymore. This
coolest dude, Marc Maron, he looks kind of like a photo I saw of one
of the Beatles guys. Not Paul—the guy who got assassinated, you
know?"

"John Lennon?"

"Yeah, like this old photo I saw from somewhere
in the seventies of John Lennon, with the hair and the glasses.
Anyways, this show was so cool, it had these little clips, couple
minutes each, of Gary Shandling—I think he is just a-dor-able—and
then Saturday Night Live with a bunch of dudes I didn't know, and
then this British thing, Monty Python—something, and then this soap
called Soap, but I didn't get it because it was supposed to be funny
and soaps are, like, a scream, but they're not trying to be funny,
you know?"

I was losing ground. "And you thought Andrew
Dees would benefit from that kind of show."

"Or something, anything, just to get his heart
started. Then he started showing up with this executive-fox type, and
I think his heart's not the only thing pumping, you know what I
mean?"

"He ever talk with you about where he was from?"

"From? Like, who cures?"

"How about where he might have worked before the
photocopy shop?"

Kira frowned, the nostril ring doing something that
made her nose itself wiggle. "What does that have to do with
Boyce's company doing a righteous job?"

Good question. "I got the impression from your
father that you have to go next door sometimes about the Robinettes'
music noise."

A shrug, but this time with some theatricality to it.
"Oh, that's totally nothing. Daddy, he's super hypersensitive to
noise. So when Jamey cranks it up on the boom box, I go over and tell
him to, like, cool it. No problem. He's a good kid, and his mom's
nice too."

"They don't mind you telling them to turn things
down?"

"From never. They understand, and they know that
even I got to hear my sounds over this thing," jiggling the
Walkman, “which is just as well, now that we don't have a stereo
rack anymore."

"What happened to it?"

"The sound system? My friend Jude—you saw her
with me at the pub today?—Jude took me down to this extremely
disgusto pawnshop, and we got money for it."

"You hocked the stereo?"

Kira seemed to bristle. "Hey, man, ever try to
eat a cassette? Daddy's been out of work, like, unto years, and
things are pretty tight."

"I'm sorry."

She eased off a bit. "Used to be, I'd go to the
mall and actually buy something? These days, only time I'm there is
to earn some bread, handing out fliers and stuff, like 'Three for
two, How about you, come to Papa Gino's'—you know?"

I nodded. "Back in high school, I had to work
part-time jobs. Not an easy way to get through."

"Hey, it could be worse. I could be on drugs,
or, like, virtually married the way Jude and some of the other
juniors are. Or even flunking out, I suppose. But I'm not really a
junior because I'm not in school this year, and I'm not in danger of
flunking out because I already am out, you know? My dad's sick, and
he needs me. I know he can get around better than he lets on, with
the braces and all, but he still needs me. And after my mom pulled
the ripcord, I needed him so bad, I can give him some time now.
Besides, it's like I told Jude today when she drove me back."

"What did you say?"

"Well, Jude's doing this dance on me, how I
shouldn't be letting my father run my life, he's the one who's sick.
So I say to her, 'Hey, Jude'—wait." Kira stared at me. "That's
just so totally weird. Here we're talking about the Beatles like two
seconds ago, and I know that's one of their old songs, right?"

"Right."

"Wow. The powers of the occult." The
flapping shrug. "Anyways, I say to Jude, 'You really want me to
trip you out, here's my view of life to-tal. You got to live for the
moment, because tomorrow's only hours away, and it's bound to be so
much worse.' "

"Not very optimistic?

Kira Elmendorf made a gesture with her hands that
took in all around her. "Hey, man, you can tell me about it as
they're throwing us out of here and onto the street, okay?"
 

=7=

As Kira Elmendorf closed up behind me, I could hear
rap music coming faintly from the Robinette unit. I walked over,
thinking I still hadn't learned very much about Andrew Dees, even
with his neighbors telling me what they knew of him. Hope springing
eternal, I pushed the button at number 43. The voice of the rapper
jumped a few decibels, though still not very loud, when a young black
guy swung open the door.

He looked to be a little over both sixteen and six
feet, in baggy basketball shorts, a baggy T-shirt, and a Miami
Dolphins cap worn Yogi-style. A proud, handsome face framed steady
brown eyes, not much hair showing under the cap. It would be a while
before the flesh filled in the spaces around all the angular bones,
though, and in the outfit he was wearing, a strong wind might have
given him some difficulty.
 

"Help you with something?"

"My name's John Cuddy. I'd like to speak to your
mother if she's around."

Just the steady eyes before over the shoulder with a
loud, "Yo, Mom?"

"What is it?"

"Man here to see you."

"Jamey, I cannot hear you."

He punched his own voice above the rapper's. "I
said there's a man here to see you."

"One minute."

I smiled politely at Jamey Robinette, but evidently
he didn't think that merited an invitation to enter. Ten seconds
later a woman came to the door. About five-seven and slightly
overweight, it was as though she were hoarding a dozen extra pounds
in case her son decided he could use them. She wore aquamarine pants
and a white blouse with a small scarf tied under the collar, like 
a cowboy's bandanna. Her skin was a few shades lighter than Jamey's,
and you could see where he got his features. But her most striking
aspect was the hair, almost an orange, yet somehow not unnatural.

"Yes? Can I help you with something?"

Reduced to a conversational level, her voice had a
lilt and accent to it, maybe Caribbean, as Lana Stepanian had
ventured. I introduced myself and showed her my identification.

She looked up from the holder. "What is this
about?"

"I'm representing a condominium complex that's
thinking of retaining the Hendrix company as its manager, and I
wondered if I could ask you a few questions about how you've found
their services here?"

A very slight Baring of her nostrils without taking a
breath. "Yes. Yes, I believe I can do that. Please, come in."

I followed her, Jamey closing the door behind us. As
we got to the now-familiar first-door layout, he said, "So, Mom,
okay if I disappear for a while?"

"If you turn off that music first."

Jamey went by her, an affectionate hand on her
shoulder. At the home entertainment center, he toggled a key, and the
rapper stopped in mid-syllable. Over the shoulder again with, "You
want something soothing?"

"No, thank you."

Jamey turned to me. "Drink, maybe? We got iced
tea and Coke that I know of."

"Iced tea would be great, thanks."

"Mom?"

“
Coke, please."

When Jamey moved toward the kitchen, I could see a
rubber Halloween mask lying near the sound system. Pretty good
likeness of the actor Tom Cruise.

Mrs. Robinette noticed me looking at the mask. "For
a party at his school."

I nodded.

She said, "One of his Jewish friends is going as
Denzel Washington? Then a parental shrug, like a silent "Who can
understand these kids today?"

I shrugged back.

Mrs. Robinette motioned me toward one of two tweedy
chairs that matched a couch, she taking the middle of it. A dining
room set bought for a larger space stood in front of the sliding
glass doors, but I didn't see any furniture on their deck. Bookcases
held a couple of framed photos showing a younger version of Mrs.
Robinette with a broadshouldered, dark-skinned black man. One was a
casual candid, the other a posed portrait from some formal occasion.
Between them was a triptych of photos showing Jamey at roughly
five-year intervals from ages three to thirteen or so. I looked back
at the broad-shouldered man.

"My husband."

I nodded.

She said, "He died, some years ago."

I turned to her. "My wife too. I'm sorry."

The beginning of a nod from Mrs. Robinette, a pause,
then the continuation of it as Jamey brought us our drinks and went
toward the front door with the words, "Back for dinner, don't
worry."

“
Your jacket."

"It's hot out, Mom."

"Then just take it, even if you will not wear
it."

"Okay, okay."

I could hear a closet open and close before the front
door did the same.

Lifting my glass, I said, "From the little I
know about it, I'd say you've done a pretty fair job raising Jamey on
your own."

That slight flaring of the nostrils again. "You
did not have any children, then?"

The iced tea was laced with lemon and just enough
sugar. "No."

"They make a difference? She regarded me a bit
differently. "Since you know I am still alone, I assume you have
been talking to some of my neighbors."

Sharp lady. "Yes." Putting my glass down, I
took out one of the forms. "I'll be writing your responses on a
copy here, but it's sometimes helpful to have the questions in front
of you too. I can assure you that all your responses will remain
confidential with me."

Robinette looked up from her form. "Go ahead."

"FULL NAME?"

"Robinette, Tangela."

"T-A-N-G-E-L-A?"

A sip of her coke. "That is correct. My father
was from Jamaica, and when he saw my hair, he said, 'Why, she looks
just like a tangerine."

"You were born in Jamaica, then?"

"No. Haiti, Port-au-Prince."

I stopped writing. "Still have family there?"

"Some. I left so long ago, I stay informed from
CNN more than anything else, but I was glad President Clinton finally
sent in our troops. The attachés and the Fraph—that is the 'Front
for Advancement and Progress?'—are the younger brothers and older
sons of the Duvaliers' Ton-ton Macoutes, and I saw enough of them
while I still lived there."

"How long have you been in the States?"

"Since I was ten years old."

I went back to the form. "MAIDEN NAME."

"Ste. Hilaire. That's S-T-E and H-I-L-A-I-R-E."

"EDUCATION?”

“
Bachelor's degree from UMass Boston, some graduate
credits but no degree from Northeastern."

“
I'm sorry to have to ask this, but . . . your
husband?"

Robinette placed her glass carefully on a side table.
"He died before Jamey and I moved to the Willows."

We looked at each other for a second before she said,
"And therefore he could not have known anything about Hendrix
Management."

"Right, of course. How long have you lived
here?"

"About two years."

Again from the questionnaire, "PURCHASE OR
RENT?"

"Purchase."

"Based on what I've learned so far, I understand
the original developer had some problems?"

"Yes, or rather that is what I heard too. But I
bought directly from the new owners."

"The C.W. Realty Trust?"

A hesitation. "I believe that was the name. I
just send the monthly maintenance checks to the Hendrix people."

"Have any FAMILY MEMBERS visited you here?"

"Well, Jamey lives here, he does not 'visit.'
But no, no family otherwise."

"OCCUPATION?"

"Jamey is still in school."

"Here in Plymouth Mills?"

"No. He commutes as a day student to Tabor
Academy."

I'd heard of it, an expensive boarding school maybe
half an hour away, in Marion. "Impressive."

"He has always been a fine student."

I wrote on my paper. "And you?"

"I am no longer a student."

"Sorry. That next question stands for your
occupation?"