Dead Wrong (25 page)

“Say, what’s going on? They have a robbery over there?”

“No, no, we’ve never had a robbery in this neighborhood.”

“Then what’s with the cops?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Maybe a problem with her alarm system.”

She bent over to pick up the second flat of flowers, and it occurred to him how very easy it would be to reach down and break her neck. It could be done quietly, discreetly. He wouldn’t have to worry that she would remember him later, would be able to describe him. And he could stay in her house, keep an eye on the police. No one would know he was there.

He started to lean forward just slightly.

All he had to do was reach down. . . .

“Let me carry this out to your car for you.” She smiled at him as she lifted the flat. “Then let me give you a bottle of water and a little something for your trouble.”

“No, no, that’s all right, Mrs. West. No need.”

“It’s not a problem, son.”

She set the flat in the trunk of his car and he followed with the second.

“I’ll be right back with your water. Can’t have too many fluids on a warm day like this one.”

He put the third flat into the car, then returned to the yard. She stood on the top of the steps, looking down, holding a quart bottle of water.

“This is the only size I have,” she said as she offered it to him.

“This is very kind of you. Thank you.” He opened it and took a long drink. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. “Thank you. It just hit the spot.”

He looked around her yard as if admiring her flower beds while he scoped out the yards that bordered hers. “You have a really beautiful garden, Mrs. West.”

“Why, thank you. The beds all look best in the late spring, though. You’ll have to stop back in about a month.”

“Maybe I’ll do that.”

His eyes rested on the grape arbor and the tangle of vines that ran along the back of her garage. He stared at it for a long minute, remembering . . .

“Son? Are you all right?” she asked, real concern in her voice.

“What? Oh, just the heat, as you said. Guess I didn’t realize just how dehydrated I was.” He looked back at the arbor and said, “We had one of those, in the house where I grew up.”

“And did your mother make jam from the grapes?”

“Actually, she did. Every summer. When I was in high school, I used to pick the ones from the top vines for her. She was a little lady, much like you, and she couldn’t reach.”

“That was nice of you.” Mrs. West nodded. “I wish I’d had a boy like you. My husband and I never did have children.”

He wasn’t sure she’d have wanted a boy like him, he thought as he finished the bottle of water.

From inside, her phone began to ring.

“Well, you run along and get that phone. I’ll take these back and I just won’t mention that someone made a mistake. I’m sure Mr. Walsh would be upset if he knew we messed up where such a good customer was concerned.”

She reached for the empty water bottle, and he handed it over. “My lips are sealed.” She waved and retreated into her house, dropping the bottle into a small trash container that stood near the back door.

For a moment he stood there in the shade cast by the end of the garage, thinking how vaguely familiar the scene was. The vines twisted around the old grape arbor, the colorful flower beds, the crisply painted black shutters on white clapboard. The pots of house plants set outside the back door to catch the late afternoon sun . . .

He closed his eyes, his nostrils recalling the scent of the overripened fruit that clung to the topmost vines at the end of summer.

“Leave them for the birds,”
she’d tell him.
“We won’t be making any more jam this summer.”

And then she’d ask him to sit with her on the back porch, deep in the shade, and watch the blue jays steal those last grapes from the arbor. . . .

He inhaled deeply, wanting to take the scent of it with him. Remembering that time—that only time—when life was good and someone had honestly cared for him and he had almost believed that he could be just like everyone else . . .

The recollection had caught him unaware. He almost never permitted himself to think of those days anymore. There was so much pain, so much he’d had to leave behind. . . .

Silently he saluted Mrs. West.

He whistled on his way to the car, glad that he hadn’t broken her neck when he had the chance.

Back in his room, he sat on the bed, the remnants of his dinner in a bag on the desk. His mind was too busy to watch television, and it was too early for sleep. He had figured out what he needed to do—he needed to get inside the house of the M. Douglas who lived next door to Mrs. West and do what had to be done. How to get the police to vacate the premises so that he could take care of business?

When it came to him, the solution was so simple he was almost embarrassed that it had taken him so long to figure it out. He dressed quickly and left the room, heading for a bar across town he’d gone to one night after work with one of the kitchen crew. The clientele had been a questionable crowd—most of the friends of his friend seemed more than a little shady—and that was just what the doctor ordered for the job at hand.

He entered the bar through the back door from the parking lot, and stood for a long moment looking around the room. Three or four tired-looking couples sat at tables here and there along one side, and two men were playing a loud game of pool at a table that had clearly seen better days. Most of the bar stools were filled. He studied the patrons sitting at the bar for a while before walking through the thick veil of cigarette smoke to take a place beside a short balding man wearing a shabby blue sweater and dirty jeans.

“Say, aren’t you Carl’s friend?” Channing slid onto the bar stool, the seat of which had once been red leather but now was worn down in places to the tan backing. “Give me a minute, I’ll remember your name.”

Not bothering to turn his head, the man shook his head. “Don’t have no friend named Carl.”

“Sure you do. Wait, now, it’ll come to me.” Channing signaled to the bartender. “I’ll have a draft. And pour another one for my friend here.”

“Maybe I do remember a Carl. He stay in one of the shelters?” The man turned his attention to the newcomer. Anyone who was willing to buy him a beer, well, it was worth a little white lie.

“Yeah. You seen him lately?”

“No. I ain’t been up to the shelters in a while.”

“Where you been staying?”

“Got a room over on Twenty-third Street. Just till I get on my feet, you know how it is.”

“I sure do.”

“What you say your name was?” the man asked as the bartender delivered their beers and turned to ring up the sale from the twenty Channing had laid on the bar.

“Calvin,” Channing told him, taking his cue from the label on the back of the bartender’s jeans.

“Right, right, I remember now.” The man sipped at his beer. “So what have you been up to since I last seen you, Calvin?”

“Well, a little of this, a little of that. Moved last weekend—that was a bitch. Had to, though. The wife kicked me out, didn’t have much choice.”

“Say, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, it’s really been hard on me.” Channing caught the bartender’s eye. “Can I have a shot here? And one for my friend.”

“Say, thanks, Calvin.”

“Hey, don’t mention it. I hate to drink alone.”

“I know what you mean.”

The bartender served the shots, and Channing’s new buddy raised his glass. “To you, Calvin.”

“And to you . . . damn, but I can’t remember your name.”

“Tommy Mulholland.”

“Of course. Tommy Mulholland. I did know that.” Channing tipped the shot glass in Tommy’s direction. “Here’s to better days for both of us, eh?”

Tommy happily downed the shot, knowing instinctively that if he played his cards right with his generous friend, there’d be another—and a few more beers—before the night was over.

“Yeah, the wife wanted me out.” Channing shook his head slowly. “And the thing of it is, I know we could have worked things out. We were this close, you know?”

“What happened? ‘Nother guy moving in?”

“Worse.” Channing made a sour face. “Her mother.”

“Oh, boy.” Mulholland nodded knowingly. “I know all about that.”

“Woman is miserable in her own life, she has to ruin everyone else’s.” Channing forced a tear to form. “And it’s too late, you know what I mean? She’s got Lisa—that’s my wife—convinced that she’s better off without me.”

“Jeez, that’s tough, Calvin.”

Channing waved to the bartender to refill Mulholland’s glass.

“Another round of shots, gentlemen?” the bartender asked.

“Sure, sure.” Channing nodded.

“Thanks, Cal. ‘Preciate it.” Mulholland threw back the shot.

“I wish I could—”

“You wish you could what, buddy?” Mulholland draped a friendly arm around Channing’s shoulder.

“Aw, it’s stupid.”

“What’s that?”

“I just wish I could do something to sort of get back at her.”

“Your wife?”

“My mother-in-law. I know it’s dumb, it’s childish. But I just wish I could do something that would . . . shit, even just something that would scare her bad, you know?”

“Don’t blame you.” Mulholland nodded. “No one would blame you.”

“I’d pay someone to do it, you know, not to hurt her, but maybe just to do something that would give her a scare.”

“Like what are you thinking?”

“Like . . . oh, I don’t know, maybe just break into her house and make some noise. Just to scare her into thinking that something bad was going to happen to her.”

Mulholland started to laugh. “That’d be really funny, you know?”

Channing joined in the laughter. “Yeah, it’s harmless, but still, I’d love to see the look on her face when she first hears the noise. Just try to picture it. First she won’t be sure she’s really hearing anything, that maybe it isn’t just her imagination. She’ll keep listening, and then she’ll hear a little something more. . . . Scare the shit out of her, that’s what it would do. She’d be thinking there’s some bad dude in her house.”

“Calvin, you sure you ain’t a writer? You got some imagination.”

“Oh, I’ve thought about it often enough. What to do that could scare her, I mean. Not hurt her—I’d never hurt nobody, even her.” Channing took a long, slow sip of beer. “Man, I’d pay a hundred bucks, I could get someone to do that for me.”

“A hundred bucks just to scare an old lady?”

“Yeah. Definitely. Be worth every penny.”

“Why don’t you do it yourself?”

“Man, I’d be the first person she’d accuse. But if I was someplace else at the time—like here, for instance, in plain view of the bartender—well, then, she couldn’t very well blame me, could she?”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s good, Calvin. Smart.”

“Yeah, I thought so. And I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna find someone and I’m gonna pay ’em—” Channing dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. He pretended to count them. “—one hundred dollars. I got it right here. Bet one of those boys back there at the pool table would jump at the chance.”

A dim light went on behind Mulholland’s dull brown eyes. “Hey, Calvin, you know what? You been a buddy to me tonight. I’ll do it.”

“Are you serious? You’d do that for me?”

“Sure, man. Sure.” Mulholland’s eyes never left the roll of bills that Channing held in his hand. “But what if she calls 911?”

“You don’t need to worry about that. See, what you do is you pick the lock on the back door. The lock is loose anyway—she’s too cheap to get a new one. Then you go inside. Knock a few things over, make a little noise. Then you go right out the back door, leave it open. She won’t find anyone when she comes looking, but the back door will be open and she’ll know that someone was there. She will be scared shitless, I’m telling you, just thinking about some stranger creeping around in her house.”

“She live alone? I mean, no dogs or nothin’?”