The Accidental Pallbearer Page 5

  He’d always known Millicent Robinson as a woman of subtle indirection, but she’d made it almost crudely clear. After all my Italophilic husband has done for you, whether you believe our story or not, you owe us and let’s not ever pretend you ride a white horse. Add Coca to the filth you swim in. Do it for Tony, if you love him.

  Michael C is not a rapist, he’s convinced, but then what exactly has he done to make himself so threatening to the Robinsons that Antonio wouldn’t reveal it to his brother-in-all-but-blood, whom he’d asked to take Coca “out of play”? Whatever that means. How had he put it before going off to High Mass? Ram the fear of Our fuckin’ Lord hard up his ass. Whatever that means. Should he confront Antonio? Or play along?

  For Eliot Conte, time seems never to pass or (greatest of all blessings) disappear, except at the opera. (Sex too, formerly.) His practice consists mainly of repetitively sordid cases of adultery. Of background checks that rarely turn up anything surprising. Of runaway kids he sometimes locates and retrieves, but mostly doesn’t. Of hours of butt-numbing surveillance, sitting in his car, pissing in an empty coffee cup, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and, if he’s lucky, at the end of it all, snapping a compromising picture with a telephoto lens. So much for doing good for Utica.

  He’ll play along, why not, and maybe become the lead character, the tragically flawed but essentially decent guy, as he fancies himself, in a story whose end lay hidden, like those time-killing Scandinavian detective thrillers he’d been reading lately one after another as fast as he could. The very sorts of novels that the author of a UCLA Master’s thesis on Melville and Faulkner used to scorn – well-wrought pulp, elegant trash, and altogether mind-blowing (like the opera always, like sex once was) and a total cure while the books lasted. The treacherous hard stuff that he abuses, usually alone on Saturday nights, in order to obliterate time and thought, only hurls him deeper into depression and the dead time of boredom that seems never to pass.

  They would play him for a fool. Okay. He’ll play the fool. Meanwhile, on yet another lonely, time-crawling Sunday afternoon, Jed Kinter awaits his attention.

  He’s leaning low over the sink – hoping futilely for a buzz in the brain.

  Castellano’s Artistic Flowers, at the corner of Rutger and Culver, has a front entrance on Rutger and a side entrance on Culver. The two-family house where Castellano occupies the first floor and the Kinters the second is just around the corner on Culver. Conte calls ahead and tells Castellano that he’d like to meet him at the shop.

  Castellano says, “It’s Sunday, for God sakes. Come to the house.”

  Conte responds, “Do me the favor of meeting me at the shop.”

  Castellano says, “I’ll see you at the side entrance.”

  Conte responds, “Indulge me, Tom. I need to come to the front entrance.”

  “Quick, Eliot,” Castellano ushers him to the back room, “because I don’t want people to formulate ideas that on a Sunday – coffee?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I’ll pour you one anyway, just in case.”

  “Okay, Tom.”

  “Have one of these,” Castellano pushing a plate of six biscotti before him. Conte takes one, but doesn’t eat.

  “So hush-hush, Eliot, like a private dick, you’re here all of a sudden after how many years? You should know I personally made those biscotti. They don’t come from Ricky’s. My so-called brother.”

  Tom Castellano had been Conte’s first case twenty years back. He’d just married when his wife, the former Candace Bowles, started to step out on him four days after the honeymoon – in the open at the most popular restaurants and bars. When Castellano confronts her, she tells him, “No problem, I get half the shop regardless.” Artistic Flowers was Utica’s most lucrative and had been Tom’s grandfather’s and father’s pride.

  So Conte shows her a photo. She yells, “You’re crazy, I never did that. You somehow created that disgusting picture.” Conte replies in his characteristic soft monotone, “Yes, I did, and I’m going to nail it to every telephone pole in this town and mail one to your blueblood father unless you legally renounce your rights in the shop.” She says, “I’ll sue.” He says, “A lawyer acquaintance of mine will see you tomorrow with the proper documents, lacking only your signature. Keep in mind, Candace, that a psychiatrist, who happens to be an acquaintance, at the proceedings – should it come to that – will recommend Marcy State Hospital for what this photo shows. Marcy State, Candace.” She makes a last attempt: “You want a blowjob, Conte? Is that what this is all about?” Tom had said to Conte at the outset, “I’m not a fag, you know. Because I know what they say about me as a flower person. Believe you me, I got her good on the honeymoon, every which way. I even used devices.”

  She renounces, they’re quietly divorced, but the grapevine was intense for months and Castellano’s humiliation was beyond description and repair. Conte stayed away because he didn’t want to be yet another reminder, and he never told Tom how he’d convinced his wife to be reasonable – never showed him what it pleased Eliot to think of as “ocular proof.”

  Conte takes a bite out of the biscotto, dunks it in the coffee, and finishes it off. Takes another one. Same routine.

  Castellano says, “Good, huh?”

  “They are. They really are.”

  “So what’s the story, Eliot?”

  “Your next-door tenants.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Ever hear any screaming coming from the apartment? Constant baby crying? Like last night?”

  “Screaming? You serious? You’re shitting me, right? The baby cries, they all do, though I don’t have any first-hand experience, thanks to that cunt I should’ve killed with my bare hands. Constant crying? No. You’re thinking spousal abuse?”

  “I presume you checked with his previous landlord before he signed the lease.”

  “Everything was up to snuff. I called down to the paper, by the way. No problems there, either.”

  “There was a landlord previous to that, too.”

  “News to me, Eliot.”

  “See anything out of the ordinary last night or this morning?”

  “Definitely. Last night on TBS I saw Psycho for the first time.”

  “Nice, Tom.”

  “I have to confess, when she gets stabbed in the shower? I got turned on. I wanted to fuck Janet when she was getting stabbed. Especially then. I was almost hard. Tell me the truth, Eliot. How abnormal am I?”

  “My guess is that many men share your feelings.”

  “Including yourself?”

  “Anything is possible.”

  It crosses Conte’s mind that Candace Bowles may have had her reasons.

  “He took out the garbage last night, pretty late. That out of the ordinary?”

  “Does he usually take out the garbage late at night?”

  “Sometimes. Don’t we all?”

  “Nothing of interest to tell me?”

  “Come to think, he took the garbage out again this morning. A little odd, no?”

  “Do you always wear your hearing aid, Tom?”

  “Not always. I put this fuckin’ thing in your ear, you’ll find out.”

  “Did you wear it last night watching Psycho?”

  “Never when I watch TV. I turn up the volume. Okay, I get your drift.”

  “Kinter complains about the volume?”

  “No. He’s an ideal renter.”

  “How loud, Tom?”

  “Loud. Maybe I wouldn’t have heard anything, okay, which I doubt there was anything to hear.”

  “In the house, you never wear it?”

  “I live alone. What’s the point?”

  “Do me a favor. Knock on the door – see if anyone responds.”

  “And if they do, then what?”

  “You’re a shrewd guy. Invent something.”

  “Hey! I saw Rear Window.”

  “Nice, Tom.”

  “Only because I owe you big time, Eli
ot.” He leaves and when he returns, “No one home unless there’s a corpse up there. In case you’re wondering, I knocked very obnoxiously many times. Jesus Christ, Eliot, you’re pretty extreme.”

  “Okay. Call.”

  Castellano calls. The answering machine.

  Conte takes another biscotto.

  “Tom,” chewing, “I need to borrow your key to their apartment.”

  “That’s an illegal act, as if you didn’t know.”

  “Not if you put the key in and come in with me.”

  Conte knocks heavily and repeatedly for thirty seconds. Nothing. They enter. Walk around. Nothing remarkable. Conte inspects the bathroom with care. The tub. Asks Castellano to fetch a screwdriver. Castellano throws up his hands, “Madon’, Eliot!” When he returns with the screwdriver, Conte opens the tub’s strainer, puts his finger in, and circles it around. Clean. Takes a wooden spoon from the kitchen, wraps its long handle with tissue paper, which he secures with the vaginal lubricant he finds in the medicine cabinet, inserts in the drain and twists it around. Pulls it out. Nothing. Thinks, Kinter could have run hot water a long time. Or maybe used one of those powerful chemicals that clear drains. Castellano says, “What’s it all about, Alfie?”

  “I’m looking for blood and tissue.”

  “Christ, these are normal people.”

  Technicians from the police would need to get into the trap, but there is no reasonable cause for suspicion that a crime has been committed, unless Antonio would do him a favor. Bone fragments? Teeth? In the trap? Conte says, “Let’s check the garbage cans.”

  “We should’ve checked those first before looking for evidence of a slaughter. If we’re talking crazy.”

  Downstairs, at the cans, “Those are my bags,” removing the lids, “and his real big ones I don’t see and neither do you, Sherlock.” Castellano adds that he saw Kinter head to the backyard that morning, but his view doesn’t permit him a sight of the garbage cans and even if it did he doesn’t make it a habit to watch his tenant throw out the garbage.

  Conte says, “Maybe he put the bags in his car. Does he park back here?”

  “My aching balls!”

  “Can you see his car from your back window?”

  “You mean my rear window?” Laughs. “Just the front. The angle is off to see the trunk. You’re thinking chopped-off body parts, stuffed in garbage bags, that were stuffed in the trunk, which the car is not here, so he disposed somewhere, for Chrissakes? You know this Jed Kinter? Is that it? You wanted to come in the front entrance of the shop because you don’t want to be seen from his apartment? Is that it? That why?”

  “Yes, to all your questions.”

  “You on one of these new medications or something?”

  “You’re an interesting man, Tom. Does he have a storage place?”

  “The attic.”

  Conte looks for suitcases. Finds only one. It bears Kinter’s identification tag. He says, “Thanks for your time, Tom. Do me one more favor, please.”

  “You’re insatiable.”

  “Say nothing to anyone about my visit, including your brother Ricky.”

  “Ricky doesn’t talk to me anymore.”

  “Very sorry to hear that.”

  “On one condition. You tell me now how you persuaded my ex.”

  “Fair enough. I showed her a color picture of herself on all fours with a dog. The dog’s fire-engine-red penis is in full evidence, ready for action. The dog’s tongue hangs out. There are suspiciously colored smears on her cheeks. Her tongue is buried in the dog’s ass.”

  Extended silence.

  “What type of dog?”

  “A Chihuahua – named Lyle.”

  Extended silence.

  They return to the shop’s back room.

  The coffee. The biscotti.

  Castellano finally speaks. His voice atremble. “Tell me you doctored that thing. Tell me it never happened. My judgment with her was off. Granted. Tell me it wasn’t that off.”

  “The photo is authentic. Unbeknownst to you, you married a dangerously sick woman, capable of anything. Thank God, Tom, you didn’t have children with her.”

  “Thank God,” Castellano making the sign of the cross. “Don’t be a stranger, Eliot. Come over once in a while for coffee.”

  “I promise, and if you think of anything, no matter how trivial it may seem, call me immediately. May I take the rest of the biscotti?”

  The light is flashing on Conte’s answering machine. Hits play: You have two new messages. First message, left today at 2:16 P.M.

  El, Robby. Turn on your fuckin’ cell. Your father expressed heavy sadness in the company of Father Gustavo that he rarely sees you. Father Gustavo recommended patience, but Silvio is really up there in the years. What else can I say? I’d like to see you in the next day or two concerning you know what. Call me.

  Second message, left today at 3:26 P.M.

  Hello, Eliot. This is Joan Whittier. You may remember me as Joan Dearborn, a long time ago. Our kids used to have play dates at each other’s houses. I read about what happened in Laguna Beach and I am so sorry … oh, God … this is terribly awkward. I have information for you that came to light a month ago when Christine, my daughter … do you recall her? She’s been in therapy for many years, can’t hold down a job, and has struggled with an eating disorder … it came out that … you may remember that Bunny and Ralph Norwald had daughters we all occasionally exchanged play dates with? Ralph sometimes babysat. Christine had a memory of Ralph, she says he molested her when she was at his house to play with Cindy and Judy Norwald. I don’t put much stock in this recovered-memory idea, but it made me remember that once when I was going to take Chrissy to the Norwalds’ she balked and kicked out a window in our apartment. Another time she bit me so hard she drew blood. I don’t know what to say except I know that after he divorced Bunny, Ralph married Nancy when your girls were quite young. I also know that Chrissy was in touch with your girls in recent years. She says they didn’t have jobs and were both bulimic like her and living at home … like Chrissy is. If you want to talk my cell is –

  The call is dropped.

  He retrieves the number, but doesn’t call. Ralph Norwald. A fleeting image. Happy face. Goofy smile. A superficial man … who became rich. Nancy was ignorant of it? She knew and didn’t know? She didn’t want to know, because she knew?

  CHAPTER 9

  He leaves a message:

  Robby, El. I’m taking a wild guess your lovely wife didn’t keep it a secret I stopped in. She made a fine lunch and we had a productive conversation. Uh … listen, I have a plan to uh … neutralize the party in question. Neutralize, shall we say, with prejudice. I’ll give you a ring tomorrow night or early Tuesday morning. Okay, that’s it, paesan. Stay out of this biblical rain.

  He thinks about calling Joan Whittier, but can’t do it. He’ll never be able to do it. Puts his head down on the desk, just to close his eyes for a minute or so as he retrieves Joan’s image from thirty years back – long-legged in shorts and movie-star beautiful, walking a two-year-old hand in hand – then opens his eyes and it’s an hour and fifteen minutes later and he has a powerful desire for a blast of his drug of choice. Conte feels it’s time to switch off for a while, cut back to something lighter in impact. Beer, cold beer. He used to drink a lot of beer in college and even more in graduate school. No beer in the house.

  On the way to purchase a Czech import, Conte considers alternatives for the meal he’ll make. It’s one of his chief pleasures, maybe number one on his life list, to envision meals to come. In detail. Driving home with twelve bottles of the Czech beer secured and looking forward to their utilization, Conte sees spaghetti al dente in a sauce of garlic and extra-virgin olive oil – sees himself not chopping but slicing, actually shaving the garlic with a razor blade into slivers so thin that they dissolve while sautéing in the hot oil – sees himself coarsely chopping the parsley, adding it, and sprinkling generously in at the end crushed red pepper and two pi
nches of salt – sees himself leaning over the pan, inhaling – how he loves the slicing and the chopping, more so even than the meal itself – and fresh from the crisper a salad of arugula and chicory to cleanse the palate in preparation for Ricky’s specialty, he’ll tackle a double serving of Ricky Castellano’s overwhelming Sicilian cassata … Ricky, the overwhelming Sicilian.

  Kills two bottles while preparing dinner, another with dinner, and two more to fortify himself for the phone call he must make to Robert Rintrona because her number was listed nowhere and the Troy Police Department, as he knew, would not give it out, though he would ask anyway. He can’t imagine calling Rintrona and opening with, “Detective Rintrona, this is Eliot Conte – I was just wondering if you might be able to give me Detective Cruz’s phone number.” Of course, whatever diversionary prelude he’d invent would be seen through. At least, though, there’d be a decent delay and his romantic interest in Catherine Cruz wouldn’t immediately be out in the open. A little cover might (might) deter Rintrona from sardonic retort. And since Rintrona, who was in awe of Silvio Conte, perhaps even in fear of him, had offered Conte assistance, if ever he needed it, he decides to ask him to run a background check on Jed Kinter through the various databases available to him as a law enforcement official, all the way up to the FBI. It couldn’t hurt to get the facts, if there were any facts of a criminal sort to get. Antonio Robinson could, of course, do him this favor, but he needed the Chief of Police to believe he was working full-time on Michael Coca. The bitter truth is that he can no longer trust his only friend.

  At Rintrona’s home, a young woman with a sparkling voice answers and says, “Daddy, it’s for you.” After the exchange of pleasantries, Conte says, “By the way, there’s a pirated Pavarotti recording of Ballo in Maschera that I happen to own. It’s astonishing – better than the Decca issue.”