The Last Coin (39 page)

That’s what he’d done, it turned out, just as Andrew had suspected. Pickett had driven off late last night with Andrew’s Toledo address in his pocket, and just for sport he’d parked in Naples and walked to the right. It fronted the water and backed up onto an alley. There’d been an unlocked door, as if it were an invitation. Pickett had sneaked in, crept downstairs and into a basement, knowing he was an idiot for doing it, but fired up with his successes at the library. The basement was a laboratory, full of books and what seemed almost to be alchemical apparatus. A great carp lay flayed upon a table, laid open with a scalpel, but with its heart still beating, weirdly, as if Pickett had just that moment interrupted some half-finished experiment.

Which, of course, he had. They’d stepped out of the shadows and cut off his retreat, almost as if they’d been waiting for him. He’d sat tied to a chair for hours, waiting almost until dawn, unable to sleep. The man wielding the scalpel—an old Chinese who looked like Fu Manchu with goldfish earrings—had been friendly, although not out of compassion, but out of the certainty, it seemed, that Pickett was a dead man and so posed no threat and could be talked to with impunity.

Three hundred years old; that had been the man’s age, or so he said. Pickett believed him. Why not? He looked it, certainly, in some vague and undefinable way—as if he’d seen at least three hundred years worth of tumult and mystery and wonder. He excised a little gland from the carp, a gland from which, he said, he generated the elixir that Pennyman guarded so jealously. It was a longevity serum, a way to circumvent the ruinous effects of possessing the coins. “Mr. Pennyman needs the elixir very badly,” the old man had said, shaking his head as if it made him sad. “Very badly. He came to me in a sedan chair, a mummy, unable to walk, barely able to swallow. And now …” He shrugged, as if Pickett could see for himself. “He is a good customer. A very good customer.”

Grinning, Han Koi had offered Pickett an ounce of the elixir, mixed in orange juice, thinking, maybe, that it was funny to offer a man something in the way of immortality one moment, knowing that the man’s life would be snatched away the next.

One thing that Pickett became sure of before they hauled him away to the Bamboo Paradise was that Pennyman was merely a customer of Han Koi, an old and treasured customer, but not a partner. Pennyman paid well for the elixir—as the check stub testified—well enough so that Han Koi was happy to do Pennyman the favor of holding on to the snooping Pickett for a few hours, until dawn, until Pennyman had finished his sleep and would want to ask a few delicate questions.

Pickett sipped his coffee and shook his head, remembering. It had been a long night. They had driven him to the restaurant and led him inside, untied—very sure of themselves. They’d dead-bolted the street door and pocketed the key, going into the kitchen to brew tea. Pickett had lunged for the pay phone, dialing Andrew’s number, barely able to get a sentence out before they were onto him. They locked him in the bathroom then, and there he’d sat, thinking that the first person he’d see when the door opened would be Pennyman. But there was Andrew …

“It was a pretty spectacular escape, wasn’t it?”

Pickett nodded.

“And how about the parrots? If it hadn’t been for the parrots …”

Pickett drew a finger across his throat, illustrating what would have become of them if it hadn’t been for the parrots.

They ate in silence, both of them nervously watching the door. “What do we do about Pennyman?” asked Andrew.

“Nothing,” said Pickett.

“Nothing? We let him get away with this? How about that garbage business. You don’t think that he was …”

“I think that explains the filth in the drawer, doesn’t it? Some men clip out pornographic pictures, some …”

“Good God,” gasped Andrew. “He’s twice the monster I had him pegged for. I can’t allow him to stay in the house. He
won’t
, I bet. For my money we won’t see him again. He’ll send for his things.”

“Nope,” said Pickett. “He’ll be back looking sleek and happy and full of flattery. And you’ll have to let him stay. The treasure hunt is two days away. The pot is on the burner, and we’ve got to let it boil. This isn’t something that can be stopped; it’s something that will
come to pass
, like it or not. And for your sake and Rose’s sake and the sake of the inn, we better let it play itself out with as little mess as possible. If Pennyman tries to brass it out, we’ll outbrass him, that’s all.”

Saying nothing, Andrew sopped up the last of his egg yolks with a piece of toast. Maybe what Pickett said was true. The sails were furled, the ship slanting through the growing swell. There was nothing to do but ride out the storm. Someone, Andrew was sure, was at the tiller—maybe it was Uncle Arthur, maybe an unseen hand. This was no time to start throwing over ballast, to try to shift course.

After breakfast they drove to the fish market on Ocean Boulevard, watching through the rear window for a tail. Then, with two rock cod and a sheepshead in the gunnysack, they drove to Naples, where Pickett’s car was parked. Pickett drove off. He intended to be at the cafe later that afternoon, to do his part. It promised to be a curious evening.

When Andrew got home it was barely nine o’clock. He walked through the back door carrying his fish. He looked like hell, still wearing his jacket, although he’d tucked his shirt in and replaced his shoelace. Rose gave him a look.

“Catch anything much?”

“Didn’t do too bad.”

“Out on the pier?”

“Off the end.” He held up the gunnysack.

“Cold out there?”

“Not bad,” said Andrew, beginning to wonder. Rose was distant, clearly not chipper. He grinned to cheer her up.

“I wouldn’t think that old jacket would be worth much. The wind must cut right through it.”

Andrew nodded. “It
was
cold out there. But when you’re fishing …”

“KNEX called early this morning and changed the time.”

“What? To when?”

“This evening, while you’re cooking.”

Andrew grimaced. “That’s no good. I can’t actually
wear
one of these hats, not while I’m cooking. My idea was to get them in and out of here. Clear the decks, you know, before we opened up.”

Rose shrugged.

“You should have told them I was out, that you couldn’t change it. You should have told me first.”

“In fact,” said Rose, wiping the countertop with a rag, “I did more than that. I went out onto the pier looking for you, about seven.”

“Damn,” Andrew lied. “That’s when we were down at the Potholder, eating breakfast.”

“No you weren’t,” said Rose. “I looked for you there, too. The waitress said she knew the two of you and that you hadn’t been in yet. When I couldn’t find you anywhere I figured there was nothing to do but call them back and okay the time change. It seems to me that if this inn or the cafe made the least bit of difference to you …”

“Of course it does!” It looked as if she were going to cry, just out of tired desperation, sick of his sneaking around, his weird behavior. Andrew stepped toward her, thinking to take her by the shoulders, to give her a bit of a hug. Maybe he
would
explain things to her. Maybe she should know. But she wrinkled her nose and stepped aside.

“What in the world …”

“What?” said Andrew. “Nothing. Alcohol from the kelp worms we use as bait. They pickle them.” He spread his arms in a gesture of assurance, a gesture that revealed the bag and bottle in his inside pocket. The sight of it horrified him. Why hadn’t he … ? He pulled it out, gesturing more wildly now, almost frantic at what this must look like. He was innocent. He was
more
than innocent. He …

The bottle slid out of the bag onto the linoleum floor, smashing to bits. Fragments of green glass slid away. The label, with a nebula of shards glued to it, spun ‘round and ‘round like a dervish until it slowed to a stop at the door to the living room, where Aunt Naomi stood in surprise, looking on. The old lady turned and hurried away, leaving the two of them alone.

Christopher Smart
“Jubilate Agno”

A
NDREW WAS HORRIFIED.
He was empty. This had knocked the stuffing out of him. He couldn’t bring himself to grope for another lie; the kelp worm business had been bad enough. Rose very deliberately opened the cupboard in the little pantry where they kept the broom and dustpan.

“Let me do that,” said Andrew.

“No.”

“This isn’t what it looks like.”

“It looks like broken glass.”

“What I mean is …”

Rose stopped dead still and gave him a level gaze, her jaw set. “For God’s sake
don’t
start up about making paperweights out of old bottles or something. Don’t say anything at all about it. Don’t carry on. Let it alone. Go out and clean up the kitchen in the cafe. I don’t want to know what you’ve been up to this morning. I can’t imagine what it could be. I don’t
want
to imagine what it could be. Get out of here and let me clean this up. I’ve got to take Aunt Naomi in to see Dr. Garibaldi in a half hour, so please stay out of my way; that would help me more than you could guess.”

Andrew nodded. “Yes. Sorry,” he said, stepping toward the door to the cafe. “I’ll be ready to go tonight. Don’t worry. I’ve got it under control.” Rose was silent, sweeping glass from under the kitchen chairs. “I’d be happy to take Aunt Naomi over …”

Rose interrupted him with a meaningful look, and he scurried away, into the sanctuary of his cafe.

He managed to keep up a cheerful front all day, as if there were nothing wrong, as if he took what Rose had said to him at face value and that the morning’s blunders had been scoured away. It was lousy for that to have happened right on top of his foiling Pennyman, though. Apparently he wasn’t meant to revel in glory.

But he knew that the cheerful front was a lie. He couldn’t get around that even for an instant. He was filled with the hollow fear that the bottle incident had caused damage that couldn’t be repaired by winking and grinning and apologizing. It was a final sort of blow. And whose fault was it? His own. He’d masterminded Pickett’s escape, but he couldn’t, it seemed, keep himself out of trouble at home. He couldn’t get through the most mundane chores around the house without everything going to bits and him looking like a jabbering clown.

Of course, part of it was Pennyman’s fault. It was important to keep that in mind. It was Pennyman who was driving the wedge.

And it was Pennyman who rolled in at noon, dapper and smiling and without the look of a man who’d been torn to bits by parrots. Andrew was struggling with a rented helium canister. It would have been worlds cheaper to haul the chef’s hats down to the gas and chemical company to have them filled, but that would require a truck with an enclosed bed to transport the full hats home in, and he didn’t want to rent one. Also, if one of the hats leaked, then he’d have to run it home again for repairs and then back down for more helium, and the day wasn’t long enough for that.

He was just levering the canister out of the trunk of the Metropolitan when Pennyman’s cab pulled in. Andrew could feel his blood race. Would there be a confrontation? Pennyman wouldn’t give him any slack at all next time. He’d strike first and talk afterward. Andrew would have to be ready for him.

But how, without starting Armageddon right there on the sidewalk? It would make a strange setting for the Last Battle.

Pennyman waved at him, very cheerfully. “Bringing in the sheaves, are you?” he called. “Give you a hand?”

“No thanks,” Andrew croaked. He cleared his throat, determined once again to outgrin him. “Just one sheaf, actually, and I’ve got a dolly here. Nothing to it, really.” The canister cooperated nicely, thunking down onto the little metal dolly and settling there. Andrew strapped it down. It wouldn’t do to have it fall and the valve be knocked off. He heaved it up over the curb and across the parkway, making away toward the rear. He ignored Pennyman entirely, although he could see out of the corner of his eye that the old man stood there watching, as if Andrew might need him after all.

What he wanted, probably, was a chance to bandy words. Andrew had best not give him that chance, not with Rose home again. It was tempting, but dangerous. Andrew might easily lose control and reveal that he possessed the spoon, and that the spoon was the coin, and then he’d be a dead man. He couldn’t take a chance on it. Uncle Arthur had advised getting out of town. Lying low was the best alternative—starting now.

Andrew would have liked to mention the parrots, though, just to see how Pennyman reacted. It would be nice to imply that Andrew hadn’t at all been surprised to see them, that he half-expected them, or perhaps that he himself had timed their arrival for just that crucial moment, that his shouting and screaming had summoned them. Pennyman would respect him then; that much was certain. He would think that Andrew wasn’t blundering along blind; he was part of an Organization, an officer in the War of the Coin, that each step he took was toward a fully anticipated destination.

But what did Andrew care for Pennyman’s respect? That had been his problem all along—wanting to be liked or respected by people he loathed. What he ought to do was simply tweak Pennyman’s nose, right there and then, on the sidewalk. But Rose was home now, along with Aunt Naomi, who was still bleeding internally. Dr. Garibaldi couldn’t grasp the ailment. It was worsening, too. Her blood was thin. He’d prescribed megadoses of vitamin K and an avocado diet. That was a tough break.