Void in Hearts (4 page)

She chatted compulsively along the way. The doctors had been so honest with her, the nurses so thoughtful, the chair she dozed in so uncomfortable. I murmured at the right places. If it hadn’t been for the way she kept digging her fingernails into the palms of her hands, she might have fooled me. That plus the fact that she avoided mention of Les.

I got a salad in a plastic-topped container with a little aluminum foil envelope of Thousand Island dressing and a cup of coffee. Becca took a chicken salad sandwich and tea. We transported them on tin trays to a corner table.

Doctors and nurses dominated a group of tables near the middle of the large cafeteria. They talked loudly and laughed often and were constantly coming and going. A bored female voice summoned them periodically over an invisible speaker. Here and there around the perimeter huddled citizens like Becca and me, mostly in pairs, picking absentmindedly at their food and whispering solemnly. They seemed to be waiting for bad news to find them.

I squeezed the dressing onto my salad. Becca tore the cellophane off her sandwich. She lifted it to her mouth, hesitated, then put it down. She said, “Dammit.” Tears welled up in her eyes and then spilled out. She neither wiped them away nor covered her face. She cried silently but without self-consciousness, and when I started to move to her, she gestured to me to stay where I was.

It probably didn’t last more than a minute. To me it seemed much longer. Then she fumbled a tissue from her bag and wiped her face.

She smiled wanly at me. “That’s been coming on for a while. Sorry.”

“You’re lucky you can cry. It’s supposed to make you feel better.”

“I’ll do it some more, no doubt.” She bit into her sandwich. “This is delicious,” she mumbled.

She wolfed down her sandwich while I ate my salad and watched her. She had once been beautiful, and perhaps she would be again. But time—or tragedy—had marked her, sucking the life from her skin and cobwebbing an intricate pattern of tiny lines onto her face. Tendons rose starkly from the backs of her hands. I wondered how she’d look after a good night’s sleep.

“We didn’t have a very good marriage,” she said abruptly. “I think Les was being kind to me by marrying me. I loved him in my simple, naive way, this brilliant, bizarre man. He was older than me. Experienced. Well traveled. Everything that I wasn’t. He had been married once before. Lester was not a conventional man. He liked to make his own rules. I never really got to understand him. At first it didn’t matter. Then it mattered desperately to me. He didn’t care. He never tried to help me. Oh, I think he cared for me. Or cared about me. But I didn’t really matter to him. I just wasn’t important. He knew how I felt about his—his eavesdropping, his skulking and sneaking and spying. I despised it. He didn’t care about that, either. I always knew something would happen to him. Whenever he was gone, I would wait there, waiting for what was going to happen. The other night was déjà vu. I’d seen it before. It had happened so many times in my mind already. It’s terrible to say, but I am so relieved that it won’t happen again.” She looked at me, and her smile momentarily transformed her face. “You see, Mr. Coyne, this has liberated me.”

I nodded, willing her to go on, sensing her need.

“After we got married, the magic went away. Les lost interest. I suppose I did, too, although now and then I tried to recapture it. We’ve been married six years. On our anniversary last fall, I prepared a special meal. Silly old broad. Candles, flowers on the table. I actually bought one of those Frederick’s of Hollywood things you could practically see through. Les had promised he’d be home for supper. I was going to seduce the bastard.” She smiled at me, and I wondered if she would cry again. “Of course, he didn’t show up. I guess he knew all along he wasn’t going to. I—”

“Omigod!” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“Gloria!” I don’t—”

“What time is it?”

She squinted at a clock on the wall. “Quarter of one. What’s the matter?”

I sighed heavily. “I had an appointment, that’s all. It’s okay.”

“Shouldn’t you call?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’ll call later. Finish what you were saying.”

She shook her head, denying the significance of her thoughts. “I was just feeling guilty, that’s all. I suppose it’s a natural reaction.” She picked up her napkin and dabbed at her mouth. “Thanks for listening to me.”

“Don’t you want to talk some more?”

“I don’t want to keep you.”

I reached across the table and put my hand on hers. “You aren’t keeping me.”

She looked down and gently withdrew her hand. “No, it’s all right. I do hope that you will be able to help me with…”

“Sure. When you’re ready, call me.”

I took one of my cards from my wallet and gave it to her. She put it into her purse without looking at it. “I suppose,” she said, “we ought to discuss your fee.”

“That’s all taken care of. Les paid me a retainer.”

She smiled. “That’s uncharacteristic, I can tell you that.”

We walked out together into the sharp winter afternoon. I hailed a cab for Becca Katz. Then I walked back to my office. I took my time. I wasn’t eager to find the message I was sure Gloria had left for me.

J
ULIE WAS ON TIPTOES,
rummaging through the top drawer of a file cabinet when I got in. I paused for a moment to admire her calf muscles. I cleared my throat. She didn’t turn around.

“I’m back,” I announced.

“So I see.”

“Aha,” I said. “I’ll bet Gloria called.”

Julie shoved in the drawer, turned, tilted up her chin, and strode to her desk. She picked up some papers and made a show of examining them. I went to her and leaned both hands on her desk. She turned the back of her shoulder to me.

“Am I right?” I said. “Gloria called, right?”

She flapped the papers. “I’m trying to work.”

I straightened up. “Good,” I said. “That’s what you’re paid for.”

I went into my office and kicked the door shut behind me. It made a satisfyingly loud noise. I sat behind my desk and lit a cigarette, trying to savor my childish display of temper.

It didn’t work. I ground out the butt and went back to the reception area. Julie was still hunched over the sheaf of papers on her desk.

“Look,” I began.

She turned to face me. “My fault,” she said. “It’s none of my business.”

“You care. I’m glad you do.”

“She was awfully upset.”

“I can imagine.”

“I tried to cover for you. I told her you had an emergency. She said she understood perfectly, that it was fine. She might’ve been crying.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Not Gloria.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I guess I should call her.”

She nodded. “Was it?”

“Huh?”

“An emergency? Where you went so fast?”

“Yes, it was. But no excuse. I should have at least asked you to call Gloria. I could have done that. I didn’t think.”

“That’s exactly what she said. She said you weren’t bad. You just didn’t think sometimes.”

“She slipped my mind, actually. What can I say?”

“Explain it to Gloria, not me.”

“A friend of mine died. He wanted to talk to me. I got there too late.”

“Oh, Brady.” She reached up and touched my cheek. “Were you close?”

I shook my head. “Not that close. It was an accident. Sudden. I’ve been with his wife.”

“Not a client, then.”

“Well, yes. Lester Katz.”

Julie frowned. “We don’t have a client by that name.”

“This was a kind of informal arrangement. I never did any work for him before. He’s the private detective I’ve used a couple of times.”

She shrugged. “I don’t remember him.”

“I’ll be doing some work on his estate.”

 Julie’s eyes narrowed. “This wife. Young, not bad-looking, right?”

I smiled wearily. “Oldish, faded. Nice lady. Not what you’re implying.”

She smiled brightly. “I wasn’t implying a thing, Brady Coyne. Not me.” The smile faded. “Is she all right? This oldish, faded wife?”

I held out my hand, palm down, and wiggled it. “About what you’d expect. Les was in a coma for about thirty-six hours. Came out of it long enough to ask for me. Then I guess he died. Hit-and-run, it was, right outside their house. She found him in the street. She seems strong, resilient. I expect she’s got some tough times facing her.”

“You’ll help her.”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Good. And now that you’re back…”

“Sure. I’ll face the music. I’ll call Gloria.”

I went back to my desk and punched out Gloria’s phone number. It rang several times, and I was about to hang up when she answered.

“It’s me,” I said cheerfully.

“Oh. Hello.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey. No sweat. I really didn’t expect you anyway, I guess. You said it was dumb. I should’ve known you couldn’t handle it. Just as well, probably. You would’ve just felt you had to put on your evasive, distant performance for me.”

“I don’t do that.”

She laughed.

“Actually,” I said, “something came up.”

“Sure. I figured it did.”

“No, really. A friend of mine was in the hospital. He came out of a coma and asked for me. I had to—”

“You really don’t have to tell me, Brady. It doesn’t matter.”

“I was planning to go to the Iruña. I was looking forward to it.”

I heard her sigh. “After all these years, you don’t have to do this. Don’t try to protect me. I don’t need it. It was a silly idea.”

“It’s true, though. About my friend. It’s also true that I forgot about our—our date. I don’t know. Maybe I wouldn’t have gone anyway. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I couldn’t handle it.”

“Don’t worry about it, Brady. You’ll grow up one of these years. Thanks for calling. We’ll keep in touch.” I thought I detected a catch in her voice. She hung up before I could say anything else.

I tried to console myself with cynical thoughts about the female gender, but, as usual, that didn’t work.

A week or so later, Becca Katz called me. “You said you’d help me try to get Les’s affairs in order,” she said. “Does the offer still hold?”

“Of course. That’s what lawyers are for.”
Pro bono,
I thought. “Why don’t we make an appointment. You can bring his papers in.”

She hesitated. “The problem is…” she began. And then she stopped.

“What is it?”

“He kept his records in his office. I’m—oh, this is silly of me, I know. I went over there yesterday. I stood outside the building. I couldn’t go in. You see, I never went to his office. It was his place. Like a sanctuary for him, I guess. I mean, it’s not that Les and I had this great, romantic marriage. But—I am sad. I miss him. And going there felt like a violation. As if I were spying on him. Am I making any sense at all?”

“It’s how you feel,” I said. “We’ll go together, then.”

“Would you? Would you go with me?”

“Sure. That’s something else lawyers are for.” I agreed to pick her up at her apartment in Somerville. She gave me directions, and I drove out there that afternoon. Sooty snowbanks lined both sides of the street where Les Katz had lived with Becca. A blue Volkswagen had been plowed under for the winter. With cars lined along one side of the street, there was barely enough room for two to pass each other. Between the sidewalk and the street stood an untidy row of amputated old dead elms, the stumps of their branches stark against the gray winter sky. Squat, square houses huddled close to the street, separated from each other only by the width of a driveway. They were painted brown or gray, most of them. The screens on the porches were torn. Every third or fourth telephone pole had an old backboard nailed to it. The rims hung at broken angles, shreds of old net strings drooping like torn clothes on a scarecrow.

I climbed the steps to Becca Katz’s house. The screen door leading into the porch hung ajar. There were two front doors, and by each were two doorbells. I pushed the one marked “Katz.”

From inside came the sound of footsteps. I heard a door creak open and then thud shut. Then I heard Becca descend the stairs. She opened the door and smiled at me. She had her coat on and a purse under her arm.

“Looks like more snow,” she said as we walked to my car.

“It’s coming,” I said. “My knee aches.” I opened the door and offered my hand to help her in.

“Thank you,” she said very formally.

I went around and slid in beside her. “How are you doing?”

She shrugged. “Not that good. It takes a while, I guess.”

“You’re looking better.”

She turned and smiled at me. “Looked pretty bad the other day, huh?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean—”

She laughed. “It’s all right.”

She told me how to find Les’s office. It was near the Medford line, not far from Tufts University. I was familiar with the area.

“How long have you known Les?” she asked as I drove.

“Quite a few years. He was recommended to me. I needed some work done. He did a good job, so I used him a few other times. It was basically a business relationship.”

“He did work for you, you did work for him.”

“Like that. Yes.”

“He wasn’t always a private detective, you know.”

“Most of them aren’t,” I said.

“Originally he was a bridge pro. Did you know that?”

“He never mentioned it.”

“Take a left up there at the lights. He started in college. He was real good. Had about a million master points. He played all the tournaments on the East Coast. Rich ladies would call him, pay his expenses plus a fat fee to fly somewhere for a weekend to be their partner. Les could carry a weak partner. The ladies, they wanted those master points. And Les could win them. They were tigers, those ladies. Les used to call them LOL’s. Little old ladies. I guess they were absolutely pitiless at the bridge table. Les spent more time playing bridge than he did going to classes when he was in college. Of course, he could get away with that. He was awfully smart. He spent a year at Harvard after graduation, going after a Ph.D. But he figured, who needed a degree?”

She paused, so I said, “I really didn’t know Les that well.”

“Funny he would ask for you when he came out of his coma.”