The Dead Past (8 page)

"Yeah," he said. "Who're you?"

I told him my name and my reason for being here; I did it without moving my lips and put Edgar
Bergan
to shame. The story was strange and involving, and explaining it to Tons was like making my lists again, coming up short with limited information. I edited the bit about the sheriff holding back the scrap of paper. I didn't want to start a war unless I knew which side I should be on. Somewhere in there I mentioned how sorry I was that his brother was dead; he nodded and looked me in the eye as if searching for lies.

"Can I move now?" I asked.

"You carry a gun or a knife?"

"No."

"You ought to. Every man ought to." Tons slapped his thigh and the dogs ran in circles at his feet, then he petted them and yelled, "Go on. Go, get." They darted off in the direction they'd originally come.

"I recognize your name," he said. "You're the one who helped out the
Degrase
family last year, right? Helped the cops find the kid?"

I nodded. "That's right."

"Goddamn cops can't do shit."

I nodded more. I thought it was best to show a man who was six inches taller than me that we were of similar minds.

"And now you're looking out for your grandmother?"

"Yeah."

"I can understand that," he said. "But I'll tell you, Richie didn't kill the flower lady." Tons kicked at the snow and planted his feet firmly. "Believe me, my brother couldn't hurt nobody, and I mean nobody. He was a good kid, but more than that, he didn't have the guts for it. He could be a real jerk, too, but mostly 'cause he was young." He stared somewhere over my left shoulder. "We used to go fishing. I don't even know why he broke into the lady's house for a lousy
coupla
bucks."

"Did he mention it to you?"

"Not a word."

"Did he have a partner?"

"For what?" Tons said. "He never really did anything. He went for a joyride or two, but I wouldn't consider that even
stealin
' a car. He never kept any, didn't chop 'em and sell 'em for parts."

"What about the drugs?"

He grunted. "Everybody does a little now and then. Richie liked coke, but he never did enough to kill himself. It was a set-up. Somebody poisoned him."

"Why?”

"If I knew that they'd be dead."

"Was he hanging around with anybody in particular? New buddies? Some rougher types?"

"Roughest Richie ever saw was me, and I taught him to stay away from my type." He was proud of that fact and proffered a grin.

"A girlfriend?"

"Nah," he said, but after a pause added, "I mean, he could've had a girl on the side. He liked to stay out late and kept his trap shut on where he'd been, but Richie was… he was kinda scared of women. Shy, really, when you get down to it. A quiet kid, he kept to himself." He spoke slowly, remembering his younger brother. "Too much, I think. That's what got him into… trouble." The final word fell out of his mouth with a thud, too hollow a word to express his grief. "He didn't do much. We liked to go fishing." He licked his lips and crossed his arms and spat on the ground. When he looked at me again I could see he was a man who could cage his emotions like dogs and let them out one at a time. Vengeance burned. I knew the feeling. "I want the bastard who murdered my brother. Richie had a long ways to go, but he would've learned. He would've learned."

"Do you know if—"

A woman's high-pitched shout cut off my question. "Honey!"

"Yeah!" he called back without turning.

Harraday's
wife—the girl who Lowell said had settled Tons down—stood in the doorway of the house holding a blanket-wrapped infant in her arms. She couldn't have been much older than twenty, with unnaturally scarlet hair that wafted around her shoulders. Her nose was too long, lips crooked and cheeks too high, but her dark eyes overshadowed the slight imperfections and made the rest of her face appealing. She had an energy about her. She glanced at and dismissed me in the same second. The baby started crying.

"Come in and eat."

"Please, Deena, I'm talking out here. I'll be there in a minute."

"I've got to go to work," she said.

"I know, babe. Just give me a
coupla
seconds, all right?"

"It's your supper. I don't have time to change her so you'll have to do it." She let the door slam.

"You through?" Tons asked.

"I've got a few more questions."

"Yeah, well, I got some of my own." He tried to figure my angle, deciding whether or not I could be trusted. Maybe he thought I had something to do with Richie's murder. "
Whyn't
you meet me at
Raimi's
tonight."

"Who's
Raimi
?" I asked.

"
Raimi's
Pub. It's out by the Turnpike on Crane Avenue, right over the tracks. Know where that is?”

“Yeah."

"I'll see you there around ten. That okay?"

"Fine."

I got back to the Jeep without seeing the Dobermans and threw it into Drive. I became overly aware of the scar tissue above my kidneys. Six years ago
Raimi's
had a different name. It had been Jackals then. I hadn't stepped foot inside the place since the day I was shot.

I took a ride past the flower shop, but Katie had a sign on the door that read BACK AT and showed a little clock when she'd return. I couldn't make out the time and decided to visit early tomorrow.

In the morgue parking lot I spotted Anna's van. I pulled over a few spaces down and decided to wait outside rather than walk into Wallace's office and put him even more on the spot.

The morgue had been designed to be a morgue and you'd never think it was anything else; the front of the place was slate and stone, giving it the elemental look of rock, freezing and dire and fundamental as death. It wasn't eerie, just ugly.

I listened to the radio, hearing songs that are tired everywhere else, but, remarkably enough, in Felicity Grove they still had a bit of life left to them. I couldn't have stomached the like of Meatloaf's "Two Out of Three Ain't Bad" if I didn't have snow on the ground and the heavy scent of pine to remind me of a time when girls used to bring their AM radios to the park and watch us play football in the mud.

It was either that or think about the note, and whenever I thought of the scrap of paper
Broghin
had snatched off Richie
Harraday's
body, of what it might explain or threaten or demand, of what he was hiding and denying, my nerves started to crawl.

For fifteen minutes I tapped the steering wheel in time with other such classics as "Staying Alive" and "The
Pina
Colada Song," until the building's metal doors swung open with a jarring screech. Keaton Wallace pushed my grandmother in her wheelchair, the two of them speaking
animately
. Wallace had difficulty getting the smaller front tires over the single step out front, but with a little careful maneuvering, rolling backwards and sideways until the wheels aligned, they managed. Anna said something and Wallace stopped to lift his head and give out with a couple throaty guffaws as they came down the long walkway to the curb.

In his mid-fifties, Wallace was buoyant with a childish quality that didn't go with the barbershop quartet haircut and bristly peppered mustache that made him look like Teddy Roosevelt. He grinned too much because his dentures didn't fit correctly, and he could fool you with his charm into thinking he wasn't a complex man. The truth was that he had more sides to him than you could ever be sure of: he'd had a serious mean streak until his wife left him a decade ago, and I hadn't heard him raise his voice since he remarried a woman half his age; he'd been in AA with my father for years, and hadn't only fallen off the wagon a few times, but hijacked the sucker straight to a couple of winery tours.

Maybe I should've said hello to him, but I was afraid he might feel under the gun, with me waiting for the two of them like this. I slunk lower in my seat and caught the tail end of their conversation as Wallace helped Anna into the van's lift. He was saying: ". . . and don't let the trouble with Timmons bring you down. He's a selfish, cantankerous fool who cares more about the dollar than he does his own kids, but he'll have to comply with city ordinances."

She nodded. "Thank you again, Keaton. I appreciate your taking the time to speak with me."

"Oh, knock it off. I was only in the middle of—”

“Please. I'd prefer not to know who or what was under that sheet."

Wallace laughed. "I really do enjoy seeing you, Anna. I just wish for once we could get together under different circumstances."

"I do, as well, and I hope when I pass on you don't insult my memory by covering me over with linen from the JC Penny's Catalogue."

"You'll outlive me, my sweet," he said. "And while you're offering prayers and crying your eyes out, make sure that dog of yours doesn't piddle on my grave."

"I would say we have a mutual understanding then."

He kissed her on the cheek as she rose on the lift. "You should drop by the house more often, Anna. Come over anytime you like. In fact, maybe you, Vera, and I can go to a movie or take in a show. She's dying to see
Les
Miserables
. Only thing is it's touring in Toronto."

"That's more than a four-hour drive. You may as well go to Manhattan. Broadway is nearly as close."

"But with the pain in the ass traffic and parking and the damn subways at night, I'd prefer Toronto. At least I won't have to put a ‘No Radio' sign in the back window of the wagon." Wallace dropped back a step and stared at his feet, a surefire sign he was about to change the subject. "After all these years I think I'm actually beginning to accept your ...''—he took his time coming up with the right word—“inclinations into such matters."

My grandmother made a
pshaaww
gesture. "I doubt that's entirely true, my friend, but thank you for saying it."

"Just don't tell the Sheriff I let you see the file. That's all I need is for him to start parading around, moaning and breaking my chops."

"My lips are sealed, even under threat of torture."

He grew concerned. "Trust me on this then. Listen to me for once, will you? Don't let that grandson of yours get in over his head, searching for clues and villains and conspiracies that don't exist."

"And if they do?"

"Then that's even more reason to get him to back off. But I'm telling you that that boy's body being found on your lawn was just a fluke; it had nothing to do with you personally."

"I certainly do hope it wasn't personal. However, we have no way of knowing whether it was merely a fluke. Not yet."

"The police will have this matter resolved shortly.”

“The case will be solved, yes," she said. "Once again, Keaton, thank you."

Wallace turned and reentered the morgue, the door slamming home behind him. Anna started the van and began to pull away before she saw me coming. I got in beside her, waiting for the engine to warm because the heater in the Jeep didn't work and most of my blood had congealed.

"What trouble?" I asked.

She waved me off. "You shouldn't eavesdrop, Jonathan. Goodness, your nose is burning red. How long have you been hovering in the shadows?"

"What trouble?"