Old school bones, p.19
Old School Bones, page 19
She can feel him take a deep breath, his flanks shiver.
“The problem is who are THEY? Kevin Singleton? His brother? His father? Your dear old headmaster? Other members of Red Tooth? Or those four guys who started the Club Tropical? And … and where does the good dean Denise Pasteur fit in?”
She gulps the tea. Her cheeks are boiling now, palms on fire. She knows he feels her sweat as he takes her hand, tries to deflect the attention. “We need a plan.”
“You guys ever heard of dogfish?”
“What?”
They’re little sharks, he says. Like two-feet long. Bottom feeders. Scavengers. Not much in the way of teeth. But when you get them in a net there’s hell to pay. They can get in there by the hundreds in just a minute or two. And when you haul back, they will be stuck in every bit of mesh.
“I don’t see what you’re getting at.”
“You can’t get them out sometimes. You’re better off just cutting loose the net. Kissing thousands of dollars away. Starting fresh. Like take your boat and go somewhere else to look for cod fish. Where the dogfish can’t find you.”
“You want to do that?”
“Haven’t we already started?”
“Yeah but now what? We can’t really stay here forever.” He sighs. “Can you guys just sit tight here for a day or so?”
“What? Why?”
“Maybe it’s time to go on the offense. But first, I think I need to talk to Lou.”
“Who?” Gracie asks.
“His cop friend.” She feels the heat rising in her skin again, a stinging in her brain stem. Pulls her hand away. “But what do we do while you’re off playing Batman and Robin? Bake cookies?”
He tosses off the comforter, stands up. “I don’t know, Awasha. I really don’t. But it was your idea to hide here. Isn’t this some kind of holy place? Maybe you could come up with something spiritual and Indian to do. Or maybe you guys could start by trying to reach Gracie’s parents. Trying to get her on a plane back to Hong Kong … and away from this mess, you know?!”
Suddenly she’s remembering why she thought women might be a better match for her.
“Hey,” Gracie says. “Stop it you two! Like united we stand, divided we fall right? I’m in this to the end. The fucking dogfish killed my friend.”
“It’s really cold, Doc!”
“I’m sorry. But this is the only blanket.”
They are lying on the floor of the bait shack, middle of the night, pressed as close to the sputtering oven as they dare. The moldy comforter folding them together into what she thinks of as a sort of a human taco. Gracie closest to the fire. Awasha lying a bit farther off.
“Maybe if you put your arms around me.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She imagines Danny’s breath on her chest, her stomach, tries to push the urge for tenderness out of her veins. The need to melt away the fear. The quivering.
“I wouldn’t mind.”
“Just try to sleep.”
49
“YOU look like shit.” Lou Votolatto pours a cascade of sugar into his coffee cup. The last of the breakfast crowd at the Fishmonger’s Café in Woods Hole is queuing up at the register to pay their checks. Now it’s just the cop, eyeing the bum dropping down next to him at the counter. His jeans, flannel shirt, blue fleece vest are rumpled, speckled with lint and car crumbs. Cheeks dark with two-day growth, hair spiking in six directions.
“I slept in my car last night.”
“The old Portagee hotel, huh? She throw you out?”
“Knock it off, OK? I’m worried.”
The cop leans back on his stool. “Finally.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The shit’s really starting to hit the fan, isn’t it?”
“What kind of a person takes a club to a girl when she’s sleeping?”
“The same kind that drugs a kid before he slits her wrists … or disguises a chick as a boy before he stashes her body in an attic. Kind of the same M.O.”
“Who are we looking for, Lou?”
“A coward. A planner. A cold-blooded killer.”
“What about the guy who ran me off the road?”
“I don’t know. Doesn’t fit the profile. You’re probably dealing with more than one vampire here, don’t you think?”
“You sure are a comfort.”
“Just telling it like it is, Rambo. You see your squaw last night, or is that someone else’s lipstick on your neck?”
“It’s not what you think. She’s hiding on the Vineyard. Gracie’s with her.”
“You have to get them out of there.”
“Why?”
“You remember what happened to her brother?”
“You’re saying there’s a connection?”
“You didn’t hear that from me.”
“Who have you been talking to?”
“Pocahontas’ twin, your client, who else? One of her other boy toys?”
Suddenly he remembers her odd remark. She said Danny when she meant Denise. A slip of the tongue. As if they were one and same. As if Denise Pasteur had been her …
“Why am I always the last person to find shit out? Jesus Christ!”
“I don’t know, kid. But maybe you better have a chat with Brother Ronnie, Nippe Maske, Water Bear. Or whatever he calls himself. Sooner rather than later. Know what I mean?”
The big man in the green chamois shirt and stained khakis smells of bourbon. He holds open the screen door to the tiny cottage on the cranberry bog in Yarmouth, welcomes Michael in with the sweep of his arm. Past the muddy deep-waders lying on their sides, the stretched-out moccasins, a paper bag full of Cheetos, Gatorade, cigarettes, and packaged lunchmeats that have not yet made it to the kitchen. The 30.30 rifle leaning against the door jamb.
“Imagine this. Johnny Cochran paying me a house call.”
The sky outside has turned gray, drizzly. Inside, the weather seems the same, except for the violet light of a TV. Oprah doing her thing.
“We need to talk, Ronnie.”
“Now what is the white man trying to blame me for?” His broad, tan cheeks are flushed. Eyes dewy. Black hair, having been cut short for his court appearance, is unwashed, speckled with dandruff. Clothes giving off the scent of sweat and ass. Hard to believe he’s Awasha’s twin. Or Indian. He looks like a brother.
“I don’t think this is about what you did. Maybe not even about you. It’s about your sister. You know she got fired?”
“Those bastards.” He eases himself down into the only armchair in the living room. Motions for Michael to take the couch.
“Yeah.”
“I heard about that girl who died. Liberty. Somebody killed her, huh?”
“Looks that way.”
“And my sister won’t let it go.”
He nods.
“That’s the thing about us.”
“What?”
“We never know to quit when we’re ahead.” The Indian scoops his Winstons off the floor, shakes out a butt, lights it with a Bic. “We always have to go the distance.”
“That can be a good thing.”
“Not when you don’t really know the rules.”
He straightens up on the edge of the couch. “I don’t understand.”
“You want a drink?” Ronnie shifts his weight, seems ready to get up out of his chair. “I got some Jack and Coke in the—”
“Come on. Talk to me, Ronnie. What rules?”
“You know. The fucking Ten Commandments of Whitey’s World.”
“And what would those be?”
“That’s what I’m saying. You got to ask Whitey. And he ain’t saying. Just slaps us dark folk down when we cross the line. You’re Portagee, you know what I mean.”
“Like Thou shalt not look in the white man’s closets.”
Water Bear jumps to his feet. “I need a little Jack in my glass … if we’re going down this road.”
Midmorning, a Monday, late Spring. He brings her flowers. His second attempt, hiding them in his rucksack so that he looks just like every other G.I. out on patrol. The air buzzing with the sound of children playing street soccer. The scent of figs, dates, oranges. The blood of freshly butchered lambs from the cart vendors mixing with the fumes of Humvees growling along Haifa St.
“I came back,” he says in a shaky voice when she opens the door.
“And you are most welcome.” Her cheeks flush as she takes the roses from him. “Come in, Nippe Maske. Have some coffee and tell me about the life of my savior. Praise, Allah, my mourning period is finished.”
He feels his breath stop. The light in her big eyes, the fine curve of her nose, the full bow of her lips may be the most beautiful things he has ever seen. Aaserah, in her black abaya. The curves of her hips showing as she cradles the flowers to her breasts. The pale blue hijab framing her face. He still remembers her long, braided, brown hair, almost as dark as his sister’s. Saw it when he burst in on her so many months ago. Pictures that hair now trailing down her back.
And maybe she is picturing him beneath the battle gear, because she sets the flowers on a chair, and reaches for his face.
“Let me see you.” Her fingers trace the chin strap under his jaw. Soft as the wings of a tiny bird, they brush his lips. Snap the strap free with a loud pop.
“Hey!”
“Take this off. Please.”
“You fell for her, this Aaserah?”
Ronnie rises from his armchair and again heads for the kitchen table, the bottle of bourbon. Pours himself three more fingers of Jack. “I told Awasha never to … Why the hell am I talking about Baghdad? I must be fucking wasted.”
“Maybe, like you said before, you have to go the distance. Relive the pain to let it go. I don’t know. Maybe that’s your way. Maybe mine, too. Like in our genes or something.”
“You’re a philosopher now?”
He says he’s sorry. Really sorry. Ronnie doesn’t have to talk about Iraq. He just came here looking for answers that might put an end to all this hell. Might find some justice for Liberty Baker. Might help him work through some of his own shit. He thought maybe Ronnie could tell him something about his bust that …
“Like what?”
“You were set up. Somebody planted that cocaine on your boat … then called the DEA.”
“Hey man, we already know this. I told you and that dick Voto-whoever about twenty times. Dog, is this not our defense?”
“Yeah, but maybe you left something out when you told me. Lou said—”
“You’ve been talking to the cops?”
He feels his back teeth grinding. Shit. “He just told me maybe I should go over the circumstances of the bust again with you. He said I might find something I missed before.”
“Awh, Jesus.”
“You ever think you could be taking the hit for your sister?”
“Like somebody dropped a dime on me to mess with Awasha?”
“Something like that.”
“Why? Somebody wants to fuck with her, put her off all this Liberty Baker stuff at that boarding school, why not just get on with it? Cap her.”
He winces at the image: Awasha’s face a wreckage of blood, flesh, hair. “Maybe that’s not Whitey’s style.”
“Fuck Whitey.”
“Maybe Whitey knows your sister. Knows it’s your pain that pushes her over the edge … not her own.”
Ronnie stares across the room, seems to fixate on the grocery sack, the bag of Cheetos, the carton of Winstons poking out of the top.
“Man … that would be Awasha. You know what I used to call her when we were kids?”
“What?”
“Mother Teresa.”
“Talk to me.”
50
“WHAT the hell did you tell him, Ronnie?” She feels her hand tightening around the pay phone receiver.
Sweat oozes from her palms as she looks around to see if someone is following her. Or listening. Like Gracie who is heading out the door, up the street for her morning coffee and sugar fix.
The lobby of the ferry terminal in Vineyard Haven is almost empty. Just the folks behind the ticket windows. A mother and two young kids playing with stuffed bunnies. A young vagrant sleeping off a rough night, face under an open copy of a Vineyard newspaper.
“Nothing.” His voice sounds small, childish.
“Bullshit. He’s acting like … I don’t know. Some kind of spaz, some kind of Man In Jumping Hurry. He says he has to go to Beacon Hill. Like today. Beacon Hill. Does he want to see the governor?”
“I told him about Aaserah.”
“Everything?”
“He doesn’t know about what happened later after.”
“God, Ronnie. Why?!”
“Are you going to lecture me? He’s my lawyer. He’s trying to help you. Maybe save your life, you know?”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Yeah, sure, that’s why you just lost your job, why you’ve been hiding in a bait shack in Aquinnah for days.”
“I can’t believe this. Are you trying to start a—”
“I don’t know … I’m just worried about you.”
“Wow … There’s a new twist.”
“Hey, Sis. Come on. Stop! Look around. Can’t you see the fins closing in on you? Everyone around you has been taking hits since you started on this mission to find that Liberty girl’s killer.”
She pulls the receiver away from her ear, almost hangs it up.
“The sharks are circling.”
“Damn it, Ronnie. Don’t give me that Jimmy Buffett crap.”
“I’m serious. Right before I got busted by the cops, I saw something.”
“What?”
“Like for two or three days leading up to when the cops took me down, there was this car. Kind of parked off the landing.”
“What do you mean kind of?”
“Pulled over on the side of the road. But not really in one of the spaces in the lot.”
“I don’t see what—”
“It was a silver Murano.”
“A what?”
“A Murano. One of those fancy sort of SUV/station wagon crossovers.”
“You lost me.” Her free hand starts to claw the hair on the side of her head. Jesus, she needs a shampoo, a bath.
“What the hell was this yuppie car doing at the landing, you know? Two or three fucking days. Parked there with all the fishermen’s pick-ups.”
“You’re so paranoid you notice that kind of thing?”
“Not paranoid, Awasha, Indian … and ADD, you know? My mind is a sponge for details. Relevant and irrelevant.”
She’s watching the door, the sidewalk beyond. Where the hell is Gracie? She should be back with my coffee by now … “So what makes you think this one is relevant?”
“Michael Decastro.”
“He’s wigging out.”
“He says the car that ran him off the road could have been a silver SUV. Maybe a Murano.”
“He also said it might have been a white truck. I’ve heard both versions.”
“He says he knows some sketchy kid who drives a silver Murano.”
Something is tearing, the sound of ripping Spandex or nylon deep in her head. “There was a teenage boy in the car? Tall? Messy, curly brown hair? Blue eyes, very anglo? Very preppie?”
“I saw someone. I don’t remember the look.”
“Jesus, Ronnie. Don’t wimp out on me now.”
“That’s pretty much what Michael said.”
“Well. Shit!”
“Who is this kid?”
“Liberty Baker’s boyfriend.”
“The girl who died?”
“One of them.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind … Yeah, the girl who died.”
“You think he killed her?”
Searching the sidewalk for Gracie, sucking on the inside of her cheeks, releasing. “I don’t know.”
“Michael doesn’t like this kid.”
“He was selling drugs to my girls.”
“Like cocaine?”
She’s silent for a long time.
“I don’t see what any of this has to do with Beacon Hill.”
He clears his throat. “I don’t know, Sis. All that cola they found in my boat had to come from somewhere. Maybe this kid has a Beacon Hill connection.”
Her gaze wanders around the terminal. Gracie’s still not back. Damn that girl. The young vagrant’s red eyes lock on hers. Blank, solar. “I wish you hadn’t told him about Aaserah. He doesn’t need to know everything about us. About her.”
“I get lonely.”
“Take these off.” She’s talking about his boots now, his pants, not his helmet. It’s lying next to the green sofa out in the living room, next to his M-16, his ammo belt, his Kevlar vest, his shirt, the roses he brought. Her sandals. And her black abaya. The pale blue hijab drapes from the arm of the couch, a silk cascade.
He’s lying back-down on her bed, the satin sheets growing damp beneath his bare back. She’s beside him, kissing his neck, his chest. Her tongue hot, sticky. The fingers of one hand tracing his cheekbone, jawline. The other hand easing down his fly, pushing the pants below his hips.
His own hands massaging her shoulders. Those amber thighs. The delta of fine hair. Swamp Iris skin.
Suddenly she bolts upright. Stares into his eyes. Her brows rising with a thousand questions. Dark locks covering her breasts.
“Aaserah?”
“Have you ever been so lonely you want to die?”
“For about twenty years.”
“After this we can never go back … Our bodies seal our fate.”
“You want me to leave?”
“I want you to cross the Tigris, Water Bear … I want you to love me. Like there is no sunrise. No East, no West.”
Her hand feels for him, feels for what he calls his totem pole. Expert fingers. This widow of a warrior, this doctor’s daughter. This Baghdad student of the law. Fellow traveler through the carnage. Woman with a thousand and one tales of the Arabian nights. Who most surely cannot be his enemy. Word.
51
“JESUS. Somebody does fucking brain surgery in one of these old Beacon Hill houses?!” Gracie’s head is swiveling left, right, staring up at the cornices of the colonial and federal brick townhouses on Pinkney St. at Louisburg Square.
