Water from Stone - a Novel (22 page)

Jack shrugs. “He’s thinking of retiring but doesn’t want to close his practice. I’m thinking of going out there and running it for him.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Venco is finally settled, I’m swamped at the office, but nothing that I can’t step away from, hand off to someone else. If I’m going to go, now would be the time.”

“So you gotta go out there, save a few more farms from foreclosure?”

“Something like that.”

“Goddamn, Jack. When are you gonna get over the guilt? Lindsey, Mia, this little girl, what’s her name, Cassidy? Man, you gotta let it go.”

At the mention of Lindsey’s name, Jack’s throat begins to burn. It is an entirely psychosomatic response, he knows that. Still, it burns. He ignores it and decides he shouldn’t have even brought this up. Not now. Not until he’s fully made up his mind. “Anyway, it’s just an idea, nothing I’m committed to at this point.”

Jack can see that John wants to continue the conversation. He can see the questions in his eyes. And he appreciates MJ even more for backing down, for holding his tongue. Truth be told,  Jack still feels the weight of Lindsey’s death heavily on his shoulders, a weight that he will never be able to put down and that can only be relieved, if barely, by finding their daughter and bringing her safely home. He waves to the waitress to bring two more beers.

“So, how’s old DJ doing?” John asks after an awkward pause.

“DeJon?” Jack finally smiles. “He’s good. He likes his new school, though you won’t get him to admit it.”

“Kid was always too smart for that old neighborhood, though pretty soon he’ll be sporting a blazer and cravat and there’ll be no dealing with his uppity ass.”

“He’s still working up at Father Mac’s twice a week.”

“No one better’n Malcolm for keeping things in perspective.”

“Anyway, his mom looks like she’s finally going to let me adopt him. I think he’s relieved. He wants some stability and he’ll still get to see her.”

“Unless you put him out to pasture, make him the local target practice.”

Jack looks up sharply. “It’s not that bad. There are black people in the Midwest.”

“Picking the crops.”

“Goddammit, John! I told you, it’s only a possibility. Of course I’m thinking about him, too, what’s good for him.”

“Shit, of course you are. I’m sorry, man,” he smiles sheepishly. “I’m just wondering if you’re thinking about me? What’m I gonna do without you?”

And that, Jack knows, is the crux of the matter, and he appreciates John’s ability to say so. “Like I said, it’s not final. Just a thought.”

“’Course,” John brightens, “they gotta have dead people out there, too. Maybe I can open me a local office.”

Forty-Seven

Sy.

The day Sy goes back to work is cold and dreary. His shoulder throbs under the weight of his winter coat. The sling gets in the way and he can’t even button the damn thing up properly, his arm all tucked in underneath, the sleeve hanging like he is an amputee.

Everyone is waiting for him when he comes in, Dora, Sam, Jonesy, the three other investigators. There are flowers and balloons, all of them waiting around to greet him on his first day back. It is kind of nice, really, but after the donuts and coffee, he can tell they are ready to get on with it, get back to their own work. He is ready to move on, see what’s up.

“You sure you’re OK, Sy?” Dora asks when he moves to go to his office.

“Yeah, Dora, thanks. Thanks for all this, for all the time you spent in the hospital and at the apartment taking care of me. That was really good of you.”

“Hey, Sy? That’s what friends are for. I’m just glad they aren’t gonna prosecute me. I don’t know what came over me, that woman with the gun, trying to kill you. I went a little nuts.” She shudders, probably remembering how it felt as the steak knife cut into the woman’s back, grateful the lady is going to live, get the psychological help she needs. “But, listen, I’m still taking my vacation. In a week or two, when you’re feeling better.”

“That’s good. Get yourself some sun, maybe win a few bucks. OK, enough of that. I gotta go see what’s up. Is there anything I should know?”

“Nah, nothing. I told you all the good stuff that’s going on. Everything else is on your desk, the reports, the mail that didn’t seem urgent. Oh yeah, hey, listen. That rug was kind of a mess. The cleaner got most of the, you know, stains out of it, but I had to move some things around in there, cover up what they couldn’t get.”

Sy shrugs, “Hey, no problem, Dora. Thanks.”

After bringing him the cup of coffee he can’t carry, Dora closes the office door, giving Sy a little privacy his first day back. He reaches for the pile of mail. It is kind of difficult opening the envelopes, pulling the papers out. He has to finally use the letter opener that has been in his drawer for years, decades even, never been used.
Ssshhhrrrrrrk!
He likes it, though, likes the sound of it.

The mail is mostly junk, some Get Well cards, information on trade shows, sales at spy stores, that kind of thing. When he is mostly through the pile, he comes to a postcard, has a big palm tree on it, kind of dirty around the edges.
Welcome to Miami!
it says in gold, the ocean a kind of reddish color with the sinking sun behind it, bringing out the shadows. He turns it over, his heart stopping in his chest. “Dear Mr. Colomanos, Elie finally wrote me. In case you still want to talk to her, call me and I’ll give you her number. Sincerely, Esther Burrows.”

“Oh, shit,” he gasps, looking at the post date. “Hey, Dora! Dora? Can you come in here a minute?” he yells, not bothering with the intercom thing on the phone.

The door flies open, Dora a little panicked, probably thinking he is hurt or something. “What’s wrong? You OK?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Hey, Dora, when’d this postcard come in? Do you know anything about it?”

“Oh, that,” she relaxes. “Yeah, I found it when they were taking out the carpet. It was stuck in between the file cabinets, way in the back there. Why? What’s up? Is it important?”

“Shit. It’s been there more’n a year. Oh, fuck me. Man, man, man. Listen, Dora, call the airlines. I gotta get the first plane down to Miami.”

“Miami? You sure? You sure you’re up to it?”

“Yeah, yeah, I am. I gotta be.”

Forty-Eight

Sy.

Sy drives south, using his right arm to drive, everything. Grateful the damn thing has electric windows, not even pissed he has to pay extra for it, get a bigger car because he can’t work the handle thing with his left arm, can’t reach around far enough with his right. He is so goddamned royally pissed at himself in general, that he doesn’t mind the fucking money, would’ve paid double, triple even, just to get the first car available.

This time the trip to Homestead takes much longer. Probably because he is so anxious to get there. Maybe because he is ready to scream, his arm hurting him so much. He’d banged it up some getting in the cab back in New York, but forgot to bring his pain pills when he’d hurried out of the office, Dora going ‘why don’t you just call? Wouldn’t that be easier?’ Not getting it, not realizing he just has to follow up on this personally. Has to see the lady in person, maybe jolt her memory, pick up the postcard from her daughter. Shit, he doesn’t even know if she’ll be home, if she is even alive anymore. It’s been a long time, anything coulda happened.

When he finally gets there, Sunshine Streams is looking about how he remembers it, stupid little deer, come up to maybe his knee, forever grazing in someone’s yard. A teddy bear, a few flamingos, pinwheels. Taiwan making a killing on this neighborhood alone.

Pulling into the cul-de-sac where she used to live, going
please please please
under his breath. Stopping the car and struggling to get out, all caught up in the seat belt. Finally getting out and noticing that the same Christmas decorations from the last time are still up, only they’ve multiplied, had multi-colored little offspring, a few little Santa babies, a coupla new reindeer, some strung-out chili pepper lights. Hoping it is still Esther Burrows living here, not someone else who kept old Esther’s shit, added some of their own.

Sy rings the bell, same old song, only it sounds like it needs new batteries, not as fa-la-la as a coupla years ago.

The door opens and Sy’s knees go week, he feels like his bladder is gonna go. “Oh, thank god!” he says seeing Esther Burrows there, right in front of him.

“Yes? Can I help you?” she asks, looking through the screen door at him. “Well, my goodness! Is that you? Aren’t you that detective?”

“Sy, Sy Colomanos. Yes, it’s me. I am so glad you’re home.”

Forty-Nine

Sy.

Sy had had to overnight in Miami and is feeling sore and dirty. By the time the small commuter plane touches down in Asheville, North Carolina, it is mid-afternoon. Elie is expecting him between 5:00 and 5:30. He pushes up the speed. With his anxiety to get there, just freaking get there, find out what happened to Lindsey’s baby, he misses his exit and has to backtrack five miles, cursing all the way.

Sy glances at the notes he’s jotted down. At the third BP, just before Brush Creek Middle School, he takes a right, just like Elie had told him to. Follows it around and immediately finds himself in the country. Just like that. The blacktop turns to gravel and the road starts to wind around. On his left is a mountain and, down to the right, fields.

The mile-long drive up the mountain is excruciating, every bump in the dirt and gravel road shooting knives of pain through Sy’s shoulder. By the time he reaches the top, his teeth are clenched to keep the tears away.

As he gets out of the car and moves toward the front door of the single story, wood-sided home, wild barking begins behind him. He turns just as the largest goddamned dog he’s ever seen comes bounding up to him, pushes its nose right into his crotch and sends him sprawling back against the car. It is the most intimate inspection of his private parts since his last prostrate exam.

“Sadie! Chico!” he hears someone yelling. “You two jes’ shet up now, y’hear?” And sure enough, right behind the big dog is a tiny little Yorkie-thing, barking up a storm, growling and otherwise threatening to tear Sy’s head off, if he’d only bend over so it can reach him.

“Sadie, Chico, now I tol’ y’all to be quiet and I spec yew ta listen. Now, git!”

The man is about six-three, must be somewhere in his sixties, early seventies, with a full head of snow-white hair combed back from his forehead and a neat little mustache to match. He wears jeans, work boots and a dress shirt rolled up to the elbows, and carries an old, battered tennis racquet in one hand. The man sticks out the biggest, roughest hand Sy has ever seen and says, “Hey, there. Yew must be that private ‘tective Elie’s bin talkin’ about. Beau Jon. Beau Jon Kincaid. Welcome, son.”

Sy’s hand is swallowed up in the giant’s paw. “Yes, hello, I’m Sy. Sy Colomanos. I’m here to see Elie.”

“Aw, well, she’s not here now. She’s off to the store but’ll be back shortly. Yew know. Heh, heh, heh. I’d’a gone down myself, but I gotta see ta mah honey bees. They’s swarmin’ today an’ pretty riled up right now. Think tha winner’s over, this heah warm weather we’ve bin havin’ ‘n’all.”

Sy can’t understand a freaking thing the guy is saying, but there sure is a lot of it. “Excuse me?”

“Well, yew bes’ come in ‘n wait. Yew want somethin’ to drink?” he asks. “Now, Sadie, I told you to GIT!”

The mammoth that has been aiming in on Sy’s crotch, slouches off, the little one yipping at its heels. “Thanks,” he says, wanting to reach down, check for damage.

“No problem,” he laughs and slaps Sy on the back. It takes every ounce of control for Sy not to scream out. “Them dogs’ll get real personal with a man if he lets ‘em.” And he turns and heads into the house, leaving Sy to wonder about that.

Shit.

“Hey there, have a seat. What kin I git yew? Yew like Moun’in Dew? Or mebe some water? Elie’s got some cola in here somewheres, I think,” Beau Jon says, looking through the refrigerator.

“No, no, water’s just fine,” Sy tells him and asks for a bathroom. He is just so thankful they have indoor plumbing, but when he lets himself out of the bathroom, the guy isn’t in the kitchen. Looking around, Sy sees him out on the back deck. The guy is swatting at the air with the racquet. Hopping around, all concentrating, looking up at the sky and hitting the hell out of the air. Sy thinks about leaving, right then and there, sort of creeping out the front door, getting back to civilization. He goes out onto the deck instead, careful not to get in the target area.

“So, um, when do you think Elie’ll be here?”

“Jes’ a minute, son. Almos’ got me one.” And the old guy takes  off down the stairs, racquet raised. Sy watches him, sees him turn the corner around the house, disappear. Doesn’t know what to do.

The man finally comes back, his face creased in a wide grin, shaking his head. “Got me two! Two’n’one! They was fightin’ or somethin’ and zoooom! got ‘em both!”

“Both what?” Sy asks.

“Bees! Got me two-n-one playin’ thar mountain tennis! I got another racquet iffen yew wanta play.”

“Uh, no, it’s OK, thanks. I’m not too good at tennis.”

“This here’s mountain tennis, son! Yew h’ain’t never played it, yew don’ know what yer missin’” And then, just then, a huge, like the size of a small bird, black thing buzzes by Sy’s head and whoosh!! the old guy knocks it out of the air, sends it flying to the deck. As soon as it hits, he pounces on it, whacks the shit out of it with the edge of the racquet, leaves a mess of ooze and goo.

“What the hell was that?” Sy asks, shaken up.

“Bees, I tell yer! Bees! They’s borer bees, which’s diffren’ ‘n ma honey bees. Eat the hell outta yer house iffen yew don’t git ‘em firs’. I jes’ sets out here, enjoy my drink, play mountain tennis an’ git ‘em afore they kin git the house! They shoulda bin gone already but with the warm spell, yew can still git one’r two. It’s a lotta fun.” He nods, clicks his teeth, smiles. “Yew should try it sometime.”

“Another time, maybe,” Sy tells him. “Right now, I kind of want to talk Elie. Do you think she’ll be back soon?”

“Aw, hell, sure she will. Jest hadda git somma those diaper things.” Whack, whack, he caroms off the porch. Haw, haw, laughs at the mess on the floor. “Gotcha!”