Authors: Jack O'Connell
He tries a third ploy. He says, “You're a stunning woman.”
Lenore says, “Yeah, I'm a real piece of work.”
Woo picks up his tuna melt, takes a tiny bite, puts it back on his plate, and wipes his mouth with the paper napkin. They're both quiet, sizing up the situation. Then Woo says, “What I mean is that you're correct. I thought I was telling the truth about the nature of your feelings toward the outsiders at this morning's meeting. I honestly did. But, more importantly, that was secondary to my hopes of seducing you ⦔
“Seducing you,” Lenore repeats, too loud. “God, listen to how you talk. You're a real winner, Freddy.”
“Fred,” he says. “Just Fred, please.”
She ignores him, spears a water chestnut and a pepper with her fork.
Woo takes a breath and goes on. “But what I find thrilling, right now, exciting, significant, is the fact that you intuited the actual intention, the hidden meanings, behind my words. You peeled back the first layer, what you wish to think of as a facade, though, again, I promise you it was an honest opinion on my part, but you stripped it away to expose the primary meaning of my message, the core of what I was attempting to communicate. You're a natural, Detective Thomas.”
“My head is just growing by the minute.”
“What I mean to say is you're the perfect person for this case. You appear to have a highly evolved sense of what I would call semantic intuitiveness, or, maybe, semiotic intuition, or ⦔
She cuts him off. “Look, Fred, whatever you think, I'm not a very intuitive person ⦔
“I beg to differ ⦔
“I'm just not, okay. I'm the ultimate pragmatist. That's why I'm great at my job, if you want to know the truth. I find the easiest, most effective way of getting something done, then I just carry that out, follow it down the line. It seems simple to me and I don't really understand why everyone doesn't behave in this manner. Right now, what we've got to get straight is that fate has thrown us together. Well, fate and Mayor Victor Welby. Now, I don't know why. Standard procedure would be that you leave us your phone number and we call you up when we've got a question. Maybe you make an appearance at a progress briefing. But Miskewitz made it clear that the mayor has other ideas. He wants you and me together on this. He doesn't share his reasoning with me. So now I've got Mr. Ph.D. taking a field trip to Bangkok Park, with me as the tour guide. And there's nothing I can do about it. I just have to deal with it, figure out what might be the best, most efficient way to achieve our mutual end. Our end is to find out if this Lingo shit has found its way to my street, and if it has, to neutralize its effect on the local environment. You agree with that?”
Woo smiles, pushes his sandwich away. “I like the way you talk. I like the rhythms of your natural speech.”
Lenore shakes her head. “Jesus Christ, you don't catch on, do you? You know, in your own way you're a real moron.”
“No, no, Detective,” he says. “I'm very clear on the fact that, from a romantic avenue, you've shut me down ⦔
“A romantic avenue,” Lenore repeats. “Jesus.”
“But from your side of things, you have to try to keep in mind that my life revolves around language. So when I make the statement that I love the way you speak, I'm commenting on a professional level.”
“I'm sure.”
“Now, as to your summation of our mutual problem, yes, I agree.”
“You agree?”
“That our first step is to determine the presence of the drug, to find out if there was any mass production or marketing. Let me ask you. It's known I consulted with the Swanns while they were still at the Institute. Why aren't I a suspect?”
“Don't worry, you are.”
“Then let me say, here at the start, that my contact with them was very brief. We met three or four times at the most. I simply gave them my opinion on certain theoretical questions. If need be, Detective, I can certainly account for my whereabouts at the time of their deaths.”
“Yeah, well, believe me, Freddy, you're a long shot right now. I'm more inclined to start piecing things together from the distribution end. Down in the Park.”
“Bangkok Park?”
“You ever been?”
“I'm afraid not,” Woo says.
“Not even a drive-through? Little tourist peek?”
“My time is fully claimed, I'm afraid.”
“Yeah, mine too.”
“I've heard many of the stories, of course ⦔
“Of course,” Lenore mumbles.
“Younger colleagues who've ventured down ⦔
“A little excitement, a little spice, little break from the scholarly grind.”
“Exactly.”
“They lose a week's pay and their Blaupunkts and they think it's worth it.”
“I wouldn't know.”
“I would. Middle-class tourists in the Park piss me off.”
“Of course.”
“Place is a cesspool. Tell your people to stay in the Canal Zone with all the bohemians. They can get their kicks hitting on teenage lesbians with purple-dyed hair and snake tattoos.”
“Now, the Canal Zone I've been to ⦔ Woo begins.
“I bet. Listen, Fred, the Zone isn't the Park. The Zone is all these kids playing artist in the run-down factories that their grandfathers broke their backs in. And that's fine, that's okay, I don't care. If they want to pretend that the Zone is loaded up with truth and danger, great. As far as I can see they're not hurting anyone. They play zipperhead music and write bonehead plays ⦔
“Actually, I've seen some of the performance pieces and ⦔
“And read dirty poetry. Super. Have a ball. But Bangkok Park isn't the Canal Zone. It's a whole different world. You know that the mortality rate in the Park is four times greater than any other square-mile area in the county? Probably in the whole goddamn state. Are you aware there's an entire economy that's completely independent from the rest of Quinsigamond and I'd bet its own little GNP works out at about ten times the city's total budget? You can't imagine the kind of cult crap that goes on in there. There's just a whole culture, a whole different set of ⦠I don't know. You just have to taste it, you know. Words aren't going to do it.”
Woo sits back. He folds his arms like he's the one who's made some point, waits a beat before quashing an almost condescending smile, leans forward, right in line with Lenore's face, and says, “That's always the case, isn't it?”
Chapter Eight
A
ll right, now just calm down, take a breath, you feel faint? You look a little green, you want to put your head down? Just try to relax for a second, you're just a little queasy. It happens.”
Eva closes the door to her office and pulls a battered green shade down over the window. Ike sits in the dull-metal straight-back chair, the weight of his upper body resting on his forearms, which rest against his thighs. He's breathing heavily.
Eva moves behind the chair, puts her hands on his shoulders, lets them rest there for a second, then begins to rub them in small circles down to the shoulder blades, then back in close to the neck.
Ike mutters, “I'm really sorry about this. I just got a little nauseous.”
Eva repeats, “It happens.”
Ike clears his throat. “What should I do? Should I head downtown, tell the postmaster?”
Eva stays silent. She walks to her desk, looks down into the small package laid open for inspection on top of yesterday's newspaper. She looks at the package's contents dispassionately, maybe even a little bored, as if she were an aging pathologist and the contents were just one more in a series of autopsies she's run through year after year. The smell, however, is difficult to ignore.
“My job right now,” she says, “is to be brutally honest with you.”
Ike comes upright in his chair, nods, and says, “I understand that.”
“What you did in opening that package is a big offense. We both know this. Procedure would have been for you to bring it to me. To let me make the determination. You acted on impulse and that surprises me.”
Eva pulls a long black-handled scissors from her pencil cup and makes one slow, deliberate poke at the mess in the center of her desk.
“Still, we're dealing with a very unusual set of circumstances here. And experience has taught us all that it can be quite costly to march to the letter of the law. We all remember Shipley.”
Ike nods, staring at the floor. He doesn't actually remember Shipley, but he knows the story that gradually, as time goes by, is being upgraded to legend. It goes back maybe twenty years now, when Quinsigamond was caught in an unusual wave of civil unrest. Shipley was a nighttime sorter down the main station who came across a suspicious package that was making a ticking noise. He was a by-the-book guy and as he walked the long corridor to the supervisor's office, the bomb went off and Shipley lost his hands.
Though Ike doesn't know it, Eva has always hoped for a day when Shipley's common face would grace a commemorative, a sad and noble set to the eyes and two hook arms crossed over the chest.
Eva sits down slowly in her chair, her eyes on Ike the whole time. “I'll level with you,” she says. “I've got a tough call to make here, Ike, and I've always found in situations like this that it's wise to allow a good bit of intuition into the weighing process. Now, nothing I say here goes outside that door, agreed?”
Ike lifts his head and gives a series of fast, short nods.
“Okay,” Eva says. “Then I don't think there's any reason to go downtown on this one. It was a freak, a onetime occurrence. Let's learn from it and move on. I don't think I need to mention, though, that if it had been Wilson or Rourke, the paperwork would already be in the typewriter. You're clear on that, right, Ike? I'm letting your past record and your general character carry the day here. You're aware of my reasons for this decision?”
“I'm aware,” Ike says.
“Now, it might be a little sticky tying up loose ends, but I've handled worse. First of all, let's get the log and see who's the tenant of box nine.”
She rises out of her seat with a visible burst of energy. Ike is pleased to see her in good spirits, all upbeat and ready to move ahead. He knows that Eva likes him, but he's also had a small suspicion that she had this weird thing, sort of a fetish maybe, for discipline, for the idea that if you act out of line, there are absolute consequences that must be paid.
Eva pulls a small gunmetal drawer from the index file cabinet that rests on top of the battered green bookcase. It's identical to the card catalogue file in a library, but the post office uses it to record all the box tenants and their rent payments. Eva lays the box down next to the decimated fish remains and starts to flip through the first cards in the drawer. She stops, grabs a pencil, and writes something down on an old envelope, then she replaces the drawer in the cabinet and sinks back into her chair.
Ike wishes she'd say something, but she just raises her eyebrows, grabs the receiver off the phone, and punches in a number. While she waits for an answer, she tosses the envelope to Ike. It readsâ
Loftus Funeral Home
388-3757
and somehow, to Ike, the dead fish in the package makes a little more sense. He thinks up possible answers: some family member displeased with the appearance of their deceased relative, some former embalmer who got fired â¦
“Hello,” Eva says, in a voice that sounds older than it is. “This is Supervisor Barnes at the Sapir Street Postal Station. May I speak with Mr. Loftus, please?⦠I see, well, either one, whoever handles the mail ⦠Thank you ⦔
She puts a palm flat over the phone and says to Ike, “You know that place?”
He nods. “My parents were both buried out of there.”
She pulls her palm away. “Yes, Mr. Loftus, this is Supervisor Barnes, Sapir Street Station, how are you this morning?⦠That's great. I'm sorry to bother you, but I was just doing the monthly review of our files here and I just noticed that there's no notice of rent paid on your post office box since last year ⦠Oh, I see ⦠Would you know the exact date on that by any chance? A ballpark guess ⦠Is that right? Well, again, I'm sorry to bother you. You can imagine how the bookkeeping can get from time to time, clerical errors and ⦠Yes, sir. And how is your service now? Any problems with your carrier?⦠Very good, then ⦠All right, then. You give me a call if we can be of any assistance ⦠Sorry to disturb you ⦠All right, thanks again ⦠Goodbye.”
She hangs up the phone. Ike wishes she'd get rid of the fish. The smell is filling the office and who knows what kind of parasites might be crawling onto the desk.
“They canceled box nine over a year ago, just like it says on the card.”
Ike doesn't want to hear this. The idea of a twisted, disgruntled ex-employee was helping to clear everything up for him.
“Who's got the box now?” he asks.
Eva shakes her head. “Unless there's a mistake, the box was never rented out again. According to the log, it's been empty since Loftus Funeral Home let it lapse. I suppose it could still be intended for them. Sent by someone who didn't know they'd canceled.”
Ike says, “I guess.”
“But it's odd it's not addressed to them. It was addressed to the box. There's no mention of Loftus anywhere on the package.”
They're silent for a minute, then Ike says, “Lot of messed-up people out there.”
“In here too,” Eva says without any hesitation.
Ike thinks she must be making a reference to Wilson and Rourke and maybe even Bromberg. He thinks she's really hung up on these people, really a little overconcerned. He's disappointed to think Eva's perspective could be so biased or obsessive. He wouldn't have thought she'd be someone to waste a lot of time thinking about the likes of Wilson and Rourke. They're small concerns, little aggravations. They're like a pothole in the street you live onâyou just learn to navigate around them. Pretty soon it just comes naturally, reflexively, no thinking involved.