Текст книги "Night passage"

Автор книги: Robert B. Parker

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Chapter 12

Lou Burke sat with Hasty Hathaway on the bench outside the meeting house on the town common. Hathaway had a bag of popcorn which he was feeding to some pigeons that had gathered.

“You got any pets, Lou?” Hathaway said.

“No.”

“I’d like to have some animals, but Cissy . . .” He shook his head and held out a piece of popcorn on his upturned palm. A pigeon circled it, hesitated, feinted once, then darted in and grabbed the corn. “I guess Ciss just isn’t an animal person.”

“Sure,” Burke said. “They’re not for everybody, I guess.”

“You know Ciss, used to having her house just so. God knows what she’d have been like if we’d had kids.”

“Easy to get set in your ways,” Burke said.

The common was a small green triangle at the intersection of three streets. There was a white eighteenth-century meeting house set on it, where at Christmas, the women’s auxiliary of something or other, Burke had never really known what, sold greens and fruitcake and handmade satin bows.

“So what do you think of Stone?” Hathaway said.

He took a handful of the popcorn and scattered it on the grass in front of the bench.

Burke was silent a moment, watching the pigeons hop and flutter after the popcorn.

“Well,” Burke said finally, “it’s too soon to say, I guess.”

“I realize that, but what’s your impression.”

“He might not be the answer,” Burke said.

“Really?” Hathaway seemed surprised. “Why do you say so?”

“I don’t know exactly, there’s just something . . . he’s got more iron in him than I was expecting.”

“Lou, he’s a lush,” Hathaway said. “He was fired for drinking on duty. His personnel file said he was unfit for police work.”

“Yeah, I know,” Burke said. “But he doesn’t give me that feeling. He was a homicide cop in L.A., remember.”

“And he was half gassed when we interviewed him in Chicago,” Hathaway said.

Burke shrugged.

“Well, let’s keep our eyes open,” Hathaway said. “What we don’t want is some born-again straight arrow poking his sober nose in where it shouldn’t go.”

Burke nodded.

“I still don’t see why you wouldn’t take the job, Lou,” Hathaway said. “It would have worked out so well.”

“No,” Burke said. “I’m a lot more effective if I’m not in charge. I’m the chief and things go bad, everybody lands on me. I’m just a cop following orders and no one pays me much attention. I know as much as I would being chief, and I’m a lot less visible. I do us more good where I am.”

“Things aren’t going to go bad, Lou.”

“I like to plan for what’s possible, not what’s likely,” Burke said.

“Sure, Lou, I understand, just would have been nice if we’d been clearer on this before Tom left.”

“He’d have had to leave anyway.”

“Yes, I guess so,” Hathaway said.

The pigeons still fluttered and strutted, their heads bobbing like mechanical contrivances around him, but the popcorn was gone.

“And maybe I’m wrong,” Burke said.

Hathaway nodded enthusiastically.

“Yes,” he said. “I think you probably are. He seems pretty harmless to me.”

Chapter 13

Jesse was renting a condo in a waterfront development called Colonial Landing. It was a series of contiguous town houses painted gray with white shutters. Jesse’s had a living room, kitchen with dining area, and a half bath on the first floor, two bedrooms and a full bath on the second. The living room faced the ocean and there were wall-width sliding doors that led out onto a small deck over the water. The place was new and had an unused quality to it which Jesse felt worked with his circumstances. He stood on the little deck and drank scotch on the rocks and watched the brisk chop of the Atlantic prancing in against the rust-colored stone below him. It had been a month yesterday since he’d leaned on the railing in Santa Monica late at night and watched the black Pacific and said goodbye.

His glass was empty. He went back in to add some ice and splash in some more Black Label when the phone rang. His short-nosed Smith & Wesson in its black holster lay on the table beside the phone.

“Jesse?”

“Yeah, Jenn.”

“You didn’t give me a number,” Jennifer said. “I had to call information.”

“Here I am,” Jesse said.

“You didn’t say goodbye.”

“No.”

“You don’t sound glad to hear from me.”

“I guess I don’t.”

Jesse took a drink of scotch.

“You miss me?”

“Less.”

“I don’t know if I like you missing me less, Jesse.”

“I’m trying not to worry too much about that.”

“Whether I like something?”

“Yeah.”

“You all right?”

“Sooner or later,” Jesse said.

“You like the new place?”

“Too soon to say.”

“You meet anybody?”

“Met a lot of people.”

“No,” Jennifer said, “you know what I mean. You ought to get out more, Jesse, you ought to date, make friends. You met any nice girls?”

“I think they call them women here, Jenn.”

“Well did you?”

“Day at a time, Jenn.”

“What time is it there?”

“Eight-forty-five in the evening.”

“It’s quarter to six here.”

“That would have been my guess.”

“I got a nice audition tomorrow, new series on Fox. I think I’m just right for the part.”

“I’m sure you are,” Jesse said.

He twirled the small revolver aimlessly as he talked to her, the phone hunched between his left shoulder and his neck. With his right hand he swirled the ice in his glass for a moment, then drank some more scotch.

“You drinking, Jesse?”

“Couple.”

“You need to be careful of that.”

“Sure.”

“You still mad at me about Elliott?”

Jesse kept his voice flat.

“Elliott and everything else,” he said.

“I don’t want to lose you, Jesse.”

“You don’t show it much,” Jesse said.

“I know. It sounds crazy. I mean here I am with another man and we’re divorced and yet I don’t want to look at my life and think ‘No Jesse.’ I can’t imagine my life without you in it, Jesse.”

“Un huh.”

“Am I losing you, Jesse?”

“There’s some danger of it, Jenn.”

“Oh God, well I can’t talk now. I got to work out, I have to get my hair done. Can I call you again, soon?”

“If you want to, Jenn.”

“I do, Jesse.”

“Fine.”

After he hung up Jesse continued to stand at the table looking at the phone, slowly twirling the Smith & Wesson in its holster. Then he stopped and went back to the sideboard and made himself another drink. He carried the drink to the refrigerator and looked in. There was half of a mushroom-and-green-pepper pizza there on the second shelf, wrapped neatly in Saran Wrap, left over from Monday night’s supper. He got it out, unwrapped it, and put it in the microwave. When it was hot he slid it onto a dinner plate and took it out onto the deck and ate it, sitting in a folding chair, drinking scotch between bites, looking out at the lights across the harbor on Paradise Neck.

“I guess I don’t want to lose you either, Jenn,” Jesse said aloud, “but maybe I’ll have to.”

Chapter 14

The call came in to the dispatcher at 2:43 in the afternoon. She put it through to Jesse.

“It’s Simpson, Jesse. DeAngelo and I are at Thirteen Sylvan Road. People named Genest. Domestic dispute. I think you need to come over.”

“Do I need the siren?” Jesse said.

“I think you should get over here quick,” Simpson said.

“Here I come,” Jesse said.

The house was a big white one, back from the street and up a slight rise. It was white clapboard with dark green shutters, and a very big maple tree shaded much of the front of it. A Paradise cruiser was parked in the driveway. Jesse shut the siren off as he pulled in behind it and got out. The Chief of Police badge was pinned to his white uniform shirt. He wore pale amber Oakley sunglasses, and no hat, the short .38 on his right hip. The side door of the house stood open and he went in without knocking. In the den to his right were his two officers, a woman, and a bodybuilder with longish blond hair combed back like Kirk Douglas, and a nice tan. The woman was crying.

The bodybuilder’s name was Jo Jo Genest. The woman was Jo Jo’s ex-wife.

“For crissake,” Jo Jo said. “The chief. Nice shades, chief, very L.A.”

Jesse stared at him without any expression at all.

“Don’t we have a restraining order on you, sir?” Jesse said.

“It ain’t working too good, is it?” Jo Jo said.

“What’s the story?” Jesse said to Simpson.

Suitcase Simpson was a sturdy kid with fair skin and red cheeks. He’d been a tackle in high school. He was twenty-two. His partner was Anthony DeAngelo.

“This is Carole Genest,” Simpson said. “She called us. Alleges her husband forced his way into the house and threatened her.”

“That right, ma’am?”

She nodded. Her eyes were red, and her nose was running. She sniffed.

“The bastard,” she said in a thick voice, “is going to kill me someday.”

Jesse nodded.

“Kids?” he said.

“I sent them upstairs,” Carole said. “They’re frightened of him too.”

“Anthony,” Jesse said. “You got kids?”

DeAngelo nodded.

“Three,” he said.

“Okay, go upstairs and find the kids and do what you can to make them feel safe.”

“Hey, you got no right talking to my kids,” Jo Jo said.

Jesse paid no attention to him. He nodded at DeAngelo and DeAngelo headed for the stairs.

“Did he say he was going to kill you, ma’am?” Jesse said.

“He says that all the time. And he’s not my husband. We’re divorced.”

“Maybe you’re divorced, slut, I’m not,” Jo Jo said. “You’re my wife until I say you’re not.”

“Can’t you people do anything about him?” Carole said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Jesse said. “We can. Did he hit you or otherwise assault you?”

“Not this time. I called the cops the minute he showed up.”

“Did you invite him in?”

“No fucking way,” Carole said. “I tried to lock him out but he’s still got a key.”

“It’s my house,” Jo Jo said. He was smiling like a man patiently indulging some children. “It’s my wife. I’ll come and go as I fucking please.”

“Did he force his way in?”

“Yes. I tried to hold the door, but he’s—look at him—what am I supposed to do against him?”

“You did what you should have done, ma’am,” Jesse said.

“How about you, Slim?” Jo Jo said to Jesse. “What are you supposed to do against me?”

“But he didn’t assault you?”

“Not this time. He didn’t have time. He beat the shit out of me last time he came. He raped me once. I shoulda gone to the cops then, but we weren’t divorced yet, and . . . you know conjugal rights . . . and the kids . . . I mean how do they feel, everybody talking about how their father raped their mother?”

Her voice trailed off.

“There was no rape and you know it, a husband can’t rape his wife,” Jo Jo said. “You didn’t go to the cops because you loved it.”

As they argued, Jesse nodded, almost absently, as if he were thinking of something else.

“We probably don’t have an assault charge here,” Jesse said to Simpson. “We might get forced entry, even though he had a key. We obviously have him for violating the restraining order.”

Jo Jo laughed.

“Big fucking deal,” he said. “Restraining orders don’t mean shit and you know it.”

“Yes, sir,” Jesse said. “I know.”

“I go to court with my lawyer. They issue a new restraining order. I walk out of court twenty minutes later.”

“That’s how it usually works, sir,” Jesse said pleasantly, “especially if you’ve got some money.”

“Which I do,” Jo Jo said. “And some clout and I can come in here and grab her crotch, or whatever else I want to grab, anytime I goddamned want to.”

“Is that right?” Carole said to Jesse.

Jesse shook his head.

“Oh?” Jo Jo said. “You just admitted you couldn’t do shit about it.”

“No, sir,” Jesse said. “I said the restraining order probably wouldn’t work.”

“Same thing,” Jo Jo said.

“Not really,” Jesse said, and kicked Jo Jo in the groin.

The movement seemed casual. But it was a very quick movement. And hard. Jo Jo gasped and doubled up and fell over and lay on the pale blue flowered carpet of the den and moaned. Jesse bent over him with a look of blank disinterest and grasped Jo Jo’s hair with his left hand and held his head up and put his face very close to Jo Jo’s and spoke to him.

“You’re all mouth and show muscle,” Jesse said gently. “If you come near this woman again, or if anything happens to her or her kids, no matter what, and no matter whose fault it is, I will kick you around town until you look like roadkill. And if you are annoying, like you were today, maybe I’ll shoot you.” Jesse tapped Jo Jo on the bridge of the nose with the muzzle of his revolver. “Right here . . . capeesh?”

Jo Jo was still moaning.

“Answer me, Jo Jo,” Jesse said. “Or I will kick you in the balls again. Capeesh?”

Jo Jo squeezed the word “capeesh” out between moans.

Jesse let Jo Jo’s head go and it thumped on the rug. Jesse stood up.

“Suitcase, you and Anthony stay here until Mr. Genest has gone,” Jesse said. “Ma’am, you should probably get those kids to a shrink.”

Carole’s eyes were wide and bright. There was a flush of color on her cheekbones, as if she had a fever.

“What if he comes back,” she said.

“I don’t think he’ll come back,” Jesse said.

He turned and walked out of the house and down the driveway to his car.

Behind him he heard Suitcase Simpson say, “Jesus Christ!”

Chapter 15

Jesse sat in his office in the early evening with Abby Taylor.

“The selectmen have asked me to talk with you,” she said.

“Good,” Jesse said.

She was wearing a black suit with a long jacket and a short skirt. At least she didn’t have on one of those frilly neck pieces that some professional women wore like a pretend necktie; her white blouse was open at the neck. Her briefcase was on the floor leaning against the leg of her chair. She wore black high-heeled shoes. Jesse thought her ankles were very nice.

“I’m speaking now as town counsel,” Abby Taylor said carefully.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“May I call you Jesse?”

“Of course, Abby.”

She smiled automatically.

“Now, I know,” she said, “that you are new not only to this job, but to this environment.”

Jesse smiled helpfully.

“But whatever the circumstances of your police work in Los Angeles, this is a town in which everyone’s civil liberties are important.”

Jesse nodded. He seemed interested.

“May I be frank with you?” Abby Taylor said.

“Sure.”

“You cannot go about beating people up,” she said. “It leaves the town vulnerable to lawsuit. I understand the provocation. And I certainly am sympathetic to Carole Genest’s situation. But we cannot permit you to take the law into your own hands. It is not only illegal. It simply is not right.”

Jesse nodded thoughtfully.

“Let me ask you a question,” he said.

“Of course.”

“You asked me if you could call me Jesse, and I said you could. But you didn’t.”

“Excuse me?”

“You never used my name.”

“What the hell has that got to do with you brutalizing Mr. Genest?”

“Just seemed odd to me,” Jesse said.

“Well, if it does, it does,” Abby Taylor said. “I’m not going to be sidetracked.”

“’Course not, Abby.”

“Do you have anything to say about the matter of your assault on Mr. Genest?”

“Not really,” Jesse said.

“I’m afraid there has to be more than that,” Abby Taylor said.

“The restraining order wasn’t working,” Jesse said. “Think of me as implementing it.”

“You really have to take this seriously,” Abby Taylor said.

“ ‘You have to take this more seriously, Jesse,’ ” he said.

Abby Taylor smiled.

“You have to take this more seriously, Jesse.”

“No I don’t, Abby.”

“You don’t make it easy . . . Jesse.”

He nodded and leaned back a little in his chair. His blue uniform shirt was tailored and carefully pressed. He had nice eyes, she noticed, with small wrinkles at the corners as if he had spent a lot of time squinting into the sun.

“Jo Jo Genest should be kicked in the balls once a day,” Jesse said. “He’s terrorizing his ex-wife. He’s frightening his children. When Anthony went up there the youngest two were under the bed. There’s a restraining order in place. He paid no attention to it. It was necessary to get his attention.”

Abby was silent for a time, frowning, as she thought about his answer. He watched her think. He liked the way the small vertical wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows when she frowned.

“The selectmen are aware of the provocation,” Abby said. “And they are prepared to go forward from here. But they would like your assurance that something like this will not occur in the future.”

“It might,” Jesse said.

“God,” Abby said. “You don’t give a damn inch, do you?”

Jesse smiled.

“Since you drew it up,” Jesse said, “you know that my contract here provides recourse to the selectmen if they are dissatisfied with my performance.”

“So, you’re saying the ball is in their court.”

“Yes.”

They looked at each other. Abby held his look, feeling challenged by it. Then she smiled.

“God, you are so much harder than you look.”

Jesse smiled again.

“And what’s my name?”

“Jesse.”

They laughed. Abby sat back in her chair and crossed her legs.

“I mean you look like a history teacher,” she said. “Who might coach tennis on the side.”

Jesse didn’t say anything. He was looking at her legs.

“And yet you handled Jo Jo Genest.”

“Experience is helpful,” Jesse said.

“Have you had that much experience with people like Genest?”

“In L.A. I worked South Central,” Jesse said. “People in South Central would keep Jo Jo for a pet.”

“No one ever confronted him before like that.”

“Guess it was time,” Jesse said.

“You won, but don’t misjudge him. He can be very dangerous.”

“Anybody can be very dangerous, Abby.”

“I believe he has mob connections.”

“ ‘Jesse.’ ”

She smiled.

“Jesse,” she said.

“Good. You married?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with the issue before us,” she said.

“Me either,” Jesse said.

“I’m happily divorced,” Abby said. “Five years.”

“Taylor your own name?”

“Yes.”

They were silent again. Outside his office he could hear the sporadic murmur of the dispatcher’s voice. The occasional sound of a door opening and closing. It was a lulling sound, it went with quiet summer nights and green space in the center of a small town. The office itself was very spare. Jesse’s desk was bare except for the phone and a pair of gold-tinted Oakley sunglasses. There was a window behind his chair which looked out at the driveway of the fire station. A green metal file cabinet stood to the right of the window. There was no rug on the floor. No pictures of anyone.

“Have you ever been married?” Abby said.

“Yes.”

“But you’re not married now.”

“No.”

“Divorced?”

“Yes.”

“Jesse, one of the rules of conversation is that when asked a question you don’t give a one-word answer.”

Jesse looked at his watch.

“Okay,” he said. “It’s suppertime, want to have dinner with me?”

Abby opened her mouth and closed it. She had come in to reprimand this man and he didn’t seem reprimanded.

“I . . . I don’t . . . certainly,” she said. “I’d love to.”

Chapter 16

Driving toward Gillette on Route 59 north of Bill, Wyoming, Tom Carson felt alien in the rolling landscape. Pronghorn antelope appeared here and there in the hills, grazing in herds, strung out along a stream drinking. Buffalo grazed too in the gently undulant pastures. They weren’t wild herds, he knew. They were ranch buffalo, healthful, destined to be slaughtered and sold in specialty stores. He’d never been anywhere very much until he moved to Wyoming. Lived all his life in Paradise, and his parents too. His mother taught seventh grade at Paradise Junior High. His father ran the Gulf station. The only gas station in the downtown area. He had no military experience. He hadn’t gone to college. He’d joined the cops after working three years for his father. The complete townie, he’d married a girl from his high-school class and lived with her in a house his parents helped him buy, near Hawthorne Park on the hill above the harbor. Along the empty roadway, he saw several mule deer, nervous and gangly as they grazed and looked up. More skittish than the pronghorns, he thought. Always looking over their shoulder. Now he was marooned here, vastly alone with his family in an emptiness of grass and rolling hills over which the huge blank sky hovered comfortless. He’d been proud to be a policeman, proud of the right to carry a gun. It hadn’t been very hard. Life in Paradise had been largely law-abiding. He had been polite to the selectmen, and firm with the high-school kids who used to congregate on the stone wall around the historic cemetery across from the common. He had taken courses in criminal justice at Northeastern University in the evening, and he had practiced regularly at the pistol range, in case he ever had to use the gun, which he hadn’t. He wasn’t spectacular, maybe, but he hadn’t done anything wrong either and when he was appointed chief he felt it an achievement which he had earned. He wasn’t much with budgets and finance, but Lou Burke was able to take care of that end of things for him, and he got along well with the men in the department. The townspeople liked him. He was genial and nonthreatening, and he looked pretty good in dress uniform at the Memorial Day parade. He liked the weekly Rotary Club meetings, where he got to fine people for various violations of Rotary procedure, and to participate in the general bonhomie. He collected the fines every week in a chamber pot. Now that was over. His wife was neither understanding nor forgiving of the move to Wyoming. His children went miserably to a regional grammar school with the children of plainsmen and miners. He could not explain to any of them why they were here and they badgered him angrily about it nearly all the time. He was ashamed to have been sent away, ashamed that he hadn’t stood firm and seen justice done. Often he thought of going to the FBI office in Cheyenne. It was the closest one. He’d looked it up in the phone book. But he was afraid to. Afraid for his wife and children, and, he had to admit it, afraid for himself. But every day here became more bitter. He missed the ocean, the faces on the evening news, the closeness of the horizons back home where you could only see as far as your neighbor’s house across the street. He missed the sense that he was enveloped by the civilization as old as the country. Out here he felt vulnerable and exposed. He felt skittish. He was afraid to act, but he hated his inaction and he hated the life he was leading. He hadn’t found a job yet in this wilderness and he was running out of the money they gave him. He didn’t dare ask them for more. There was something about the steeliness in Hasty’s prissy eyes. . . . But he couldn’t go on like this, his family miserable, all of them lonely, himself frightened in addition. He spoke aloud in the cab of the new Dodge pickup they’d provided.

“Sooner or later,” he said. “Sooner or damn later.”

He drove on toward Gillette, alone in the big prairie, no one else in sight on the narrow road. The only other car, a maroon Buick behind him, had turned off at Bill. He felt exhilarated by the thought that he might do something to change things. As long as he could think about it without actually doing it, he felt excited, and possible. He’d felt it before, but he was not introspective and he didn’t think much about the difference between thinking it and doing it, or how often he’d thought it before without doing it. When he actually began to imagine doing it, what he would say to the FBI agent in Cheyenne, what he might do if he had to go back to Paradise and testify, the bottom of himself got watery and loose, and his throat narrowed so it was difficult to swallow. But he wasn’t thinking of that now, he was thinking about how he would face the problem someday, and he was feeling as good as he was able to feel in his exile when the Dodge exploded beneath him. The hood of the truck, and part of the dashboard, and some bits of Tom Carson, went a hundred feet in the air and landed thirty yards from the roadway, sending two mule deer into a terrified run. The remainder of the truck, and of Tom Carson, was an impenetrable ball of flame in the empty roadway that burned unobserved as the deer, their white tails flashing, disappeared over the hillcrest.