It wasn't your usual invitation, and it
wasn't gift wrapped. Still, Celtics tickets professionally torn in half don't
appear under my door every day, and since the evening's options had narrowed
to staring at my Molson Ale in the long-neck, amber bottle or doing nothing,
the game had some appeal. A little stale air couldn't hurt.
I read my digital watch. A short read. I
blinked. No luck. Sometimes when I did that it would pass a minute. I also
liked digital watches because they never let you look back or ahead. It was
always now, now. Who was it who said that those who lived in the perpetual
present were granted a form of immortality?
"Wittgenstein," came a familiar
voice. I looked around, half expecting to see someone.
It was six p.m. in my perpetual present;
time to check my messages and count my mail. Happy hour. The pile hadn't
changed any since I last stared at it—people offering me something or wanting
something; people trying to do me a favor or do me a harm. "People,"
I thought aloud to myself.
"Who you talking to?" It was me
again, asking a rhetorical question. I shrugged it off.
There would be people at the Garden.
There always were, during games. I would go.
As I stepped out of my office I passed a
couple dozen would-be clients waiting with varying degrees of patience. They
had made it through another day, they could come back tomorrow. Let some other
gumshoe tend to their needs, find their missing spouses, postpone their
fates—disappoint them. It ain't me, babe.
No time for clients.
No time for sergeants.
I had stared at my Molson Golden Ale,
opened an envelope containing half a Celtics ticket (If you haven't got a
ticket, a ha'ticket will do) and checked my messages on a Panasonic,
microprocessor controlled answering machine. I could see the article in Detective
Quarterly: "Supersleuth — Where Does He Find the Time?"
"What th' hell you doin' in there
all day, Prust?" growled one of those I pegged as less patient (Did you
get that, Detective Quarterly?), slowly uncoiling from his corner of
the waiting room floor. He was pushing seven feet, and I didn't see seven feet
pushing back. His brand name sports jacket had been discounted at a Marathon
Sale-a-Thon. The Greek Passion. His jacket was several sizes too small for
him, so either he was badly served or he was still growing. In either case he
would be cranky.
These thoughts jockeyed for position in
that part of my brain not reserved for Shellye. A very small part. A very small
jockey.
What was I doing in there all day?
I decided to ask what he was doing
in my waiting room, when he suddenly grabbed as much of my arm as he could,
which wasn't very much. My arms are smaller than most tree trunks, but only
most. Not that I had done much with them lately. Not since the loss...
The loss ... I felt a fever rise through
the knotted muscles in the back of my neck.
I spun around, taking much of the room with me. Fully extended, the
Impatient One was about my height, but roughly one-third my weight. Less
filling. I grabbed him by the collar with one hand and the stomach with the
other. My face was inches from the beads of sweat that formed on his upper lip.
"It's 'Proust.'" I said.
"Not 'Prust.'"
He couldn't see it. Probably never would.
I left him standing there with his mouth opening and closing but no words
coming out. The sounds of silence.
His jacket fit, now.
* *
* *
I decided to do a little explore before
the game started. The office down the hall always let me use their pay phone. I
had never been able to figure out what they did in there, but the men wore
suspenders and stripped shirts. The women had that forced gaiety and gentle
mocking quality expected of career women in their homes away from home as they
provided hard nosed competence yet remained mother surrogates for wounded
males. Mary Richards! Mary Richards! As I watched them play out this bastardization
of the female role, I thought once again that offices were like extended families,
all of whose members believed theirs to be uniquely strange, involuted and
womb-like. Nearly everyone I knew referred to offices other than their own as
'the real world.' Shellye had a theory about that.
I dialed the number I knew by heart. When
the voice came, I told her what I needed and she gave it to me, thanking me
again for using New England Telephone.
Based on what I learned, I was able to phone direct to the main number
of the Boston Celtics. I could have used the phone book, but I liked to keep in
practice. Hone your skills, my horoscope suggested.
But first, sustenance. No horoscope needed.
* *
* *
It's called Steve's, but it hasn't been
for years. Steve passed it along to Joey who sold out to a multinational by
the folksy name of Integrated Resources whose corporate slogan is,
"Because there's money to be made." I kid you not. Still, the ice
cream was as cold as the ambiance. It fit my mood.
I brushed past the pickets and made my
way inside. Fellow name of Melville worked the counters. He'd seen it
change.
There was a time when the ice cream was
made on premises. Now they kept the original machine as a nod to their more
modest past but trucked the ice cream in from some factory where the labor was
even cheaper. Super freezed to prevent premature thawing. Shellye! Shellye! Shellye!
There was a time when it was called Oreo, not Cookieo. Cookieo.
High-dee-ho, Big Bird, let's have some Cookieo! There was a time when if you
were foolhardy enough to ask for frozen yogurt—they'd look at you
funny. It was tougher then, but it was real.
The crowd had changed, too. Used to be
regular guys would hang out there, hoping to cop the toppings that fell off
the cones. Now it was just the swells:
Camb-ridge types holding up the line by demanding samples of different
tastes — putting a spoonful on the end of their tongues and making chipmunk
type smacking noises with their tight little mouths as their eyes rolled around
their perfectly shaped heads and their eyebrows knitted. And then asking for
combinations of flavors that weren't available. And then giving the used spoon
back to the counter person as though he was a personal servant to this
smart-ass lisping suburban mall-rat. It was better before they built it.
Melville had seen it all, and I had seen
it all with him. We had a special bond.
"Evening, Proust," he sang out,
"Long time no seamen!"
Special bond or not, he never liked me.
The muscles in the back of my neck tightened again. I took a deep breath,
inhaling a fair number of the toppings they set out on the counter. Bittersweet.
"Relax, pal," Melville boomed. "Shellye told me in confidence."
I hadn't thought of Shellye since the
ticket was slipped under my door. Could there be a connection? If so, what was
it between?
"What'll it be tonight, pal?"
Melville asked, snapping me out of my reverie.
"Surprise me," I answered, and
he did.
* *
* *
I had no idea that yogurt could get so
cold and stay so soft. Ah, wilderness. I blew Melville a kiss on my way out
and bumped into a scrawny, pimply student who was drugged out of his mind. He
was missing a couple of teeth but wasn't the sort to look for them.
"You're stoned." I pointed out.
I was feeling the yogurt.
"How'd you guess, man?" he
replied, his head falling down and then whipping up again, as though snapped by
a powerful wind.
"I'm a private investigator. I know
these things."
"That's really cool, man" he
said sarcastically, trying to push me aside. Not easy for someone under the influence
and barely a welterweight. Not easy, indeed.
"I guess that's why they call it
'dope,'" I smiled, trying not to touch him or the flies that found him
even more attractive than other flies.
"I guess that's why they call you
guys 'dicks,'" he smiled back.
That cost him the rest of his teeth.
Long time, no seaman.
Why the ticket? And why now?
* *
* *
I decided to follow a hunch, though I
didn't know whose it was, and double back to my office. Retracing my steps
wasn't a problem. I'd found my office before. You can go home again. The
tricky part was not arousing the suspicion of those would-be clients. My car
could serve as an office until I got a better handle on what was going down. I
remembered when we would say 'going on,' rather than 'going down,' but then, I
remembered a lot of things.
I took a detour through the Public
Gardens, drove over Beacon Hill and round the State House, passed Louisberg
Square and drove over the Charles River. I ventured up Mount Vernon Street,
waived to the traffic cop who was whistling hysterically from his booth, turned
into Charles Street and found myself facing right on into the Public Garden
again. Eventually, this detour would lead me to Kupel's Bakery on Harvard
Street. Bagels in the key of minor. I found a hydrant to park by, entered the
crowded shop and took two numbers. I was hungry.
"Another stakeout, Mr. Sleuth?"
It was Mrs. Freedman, never far from the store, her smile frozen in the
position of a delicate lady who has just cleaned a toilet.
"How'd you guess, Suze?" First
name basis with the owner. One of the perks. I made a siren sound, like I
imagined the Nazi SS made back then. It was a little joke between us.
"You go now," she whispered, packing me off with two dozen
free bagels, her hands shaking in appreciation.
By the time I got back to the vicinity of
my office in the part of town you didn't dress up for, I had gone through most
of the bagels. I was using an onion bagel as a napkin and wishing I had ordered
something to go with my catch. A little cream cheese, some whitefish salad.
Something.
* *
* *
I was still wishing I had ordered
something to go with them when the limo pulled up next to what was left of my
car. It had a traditional mansard roof and Fieldstone siding. Painted pink.
The limo took up most of the city block and wasn't about to give it back. I
didn't figure to be talking to the driver.
Two outsized members of what I guessed
were my species uncoiled themselves and ambled over. Each was about two
inches taller than the other, and both were sporting toothpicks.
"Boss want to see you," recited
Toothpick One while Toothpick Two let me see his .38 caliber bulge.
"Is that a gun, or are you just glad
to see me?" I asked sweetly. The reaction was swifter and more violent
than expected. Toothpick One's eyes widened and his jaw opened, displaying a
rather nasty set of teeth, while Toothpick Two went into a karate crouch,
virtually doubling over with silent mirth. Toothpick One began laughing and
sucking for air and coughing at the same time so the effect was like someone
laughing, sucking and coughing at the same time. His partner kept laughing,
though not so silently, now. If this kept up, they'd blow my cover. Tears
streamed down both their cheeks on both of their faces. Toothpick Two recovered
enough to gasp, "Listen, Proust..." but then he fell into it again,
his chest heaving, his nostrils flailing as he attempted to fill his lungs with
air that contained the stench of ethnic cooking. They leaned on each other and
sighed, as enforcers do after a good laugh. Toothpick One recovered sufficiently
to remind me that "the Boss"—presumably his—wanted me in the limo.
"No problema," I said.
This convulsed them even further, so I
accompanied myself to the front entrance, looked in, and saw an old
friend.
I joined him.
* * * *
To call "Bo" Langston an old
friend is like calling a persistent case of herpes an old friend. Familiar,
yes, but you sought a cure. Put another way—
"Well, well," Langston
interrupted, looking up from his newspaper "if it isn't Boston
Angst."
"The pleasure be mine, Boston
Blackie," I said, using the female spelling and affecting an English
accent I had overheard in Harvard Square. Move over, George Plimpton. His face
lightened. "I see you met the boys." He could have been talking about
a congenial meeting of gentlemen at the club.
"We set to conversing." I said.
"It seems I underestimated you,
Proust."
"Word," I smiled. That was
street talk for, 'right on.' And he knew it.
He opened his tight little mouth enough to reveal the monogram on his left
incisor. Class act. He claimed to own a
chain of small but serviceable sea food restaurants, but I could guess how
he made his money. His rings make a joyous sound as the car went over bumps.
"Mr. 'Bo' jangles," I observed. He glowered at me. The rest of the
drive was less eventful.
We pulled into the hydrant in front of
"his" place. Uncle T's was a favorite nightspot of the hip and
would-be hip, in the part of town you dressed up for. As we walked inside, a
young black man sized me up, paying special attention to my gym bag and size 9
sneakers.
"Hey, fella, wanna race?" me
said.
"No thanks," came my reply.
"I already got one."
Langston's glower became a wide-eyed
stare. Couldn't believe I'd fit in so easily.
Uncle T's featured supper and wall pictures
of Langston with famous celebrities.
The people working there greeted Langston, who busied himself with the
apparent details of running the business. All the trappings of ownership, I
thought.
A
sleek black woman appeared at our table with an order of New York style clam
chowder and a side of crab sauce. Langston sat back in his custom built swivel
chair, pleased with himself and with things in general. Was there no one he
missed? Had he no depth?
The woman's face remained impassive, her
eyes smaller than they were in what could have passed for her youth. What had
she sacrificed to be here?
"Proust," he began, ignoring
her completely, "you have a little
something — half a little something, to
be exact, — that is mine."
He sat as far back as was physically
possible without actually lying down. He had practiced.
"Our, uh, friendship would be
greatly improved, as would your chances of walking out of here alive, were you
to lay it on me."
"Were I to lay it on
you?" I repeated. "The 'bro be crossing cultural lines be he?"
"Listen, Proust." His one good eye narrowed to a mere slit
while his other good eye opened as wide as a saucer. This wasn't going the way
he wanted. "I control all the black restaurants from Dorchester to Mattapan,
and no two-bit, penny ante—"
"Mixed metaphor!" I said.
"What?" he exploded.
"'Penny ante' and 'two-bit' mean
different..."
"They're Not Metaphors—They're
Expressions!" he
bellowed, his voice rising an octave with each word. Diatonic, but effective. The
waitress remained impassive, her eyes aimed in our direction but focused on
something long ago and far away. "They are casual but acceptable ways to
impugn the stature of one who has little to start with."
"Yo!" I said, standing
corrected, stalling for time.
"Siddown, Proust," Langston
snapped. "I'm going to ask you this once and once only." I could hear
him breathe. I had no choice. "Will you give me the ticket, yes or
no?"
"That twice." I said.
There was a pause as palpable as the way
Shellye showed her love for me.
"Proust," he sighed, shaking
his head slowly, "I've been truly patient, but you leave me little choice.
Would you like to meet Nero Mattes?"
"I'll pass," I said, giving
Langston a long, significant look.
I knew people did it. But until that
moment, I had never actually heard someone count to ten out loud. When he was
done, he was shaking so hard I had to help him push a hidden button. As it
turned out, that's when Nero Mattes appeared.
Nero Mattes's traceably human feature was
that someone had named him. In fact, his parents had only given him a nickname
before hastily abandoning him at an address that didn't exist.
There he stood; all muscle and no moral
code whatsoever. Did He who made the lamb make thee? I wondered idly. Before
I found out, I was kissing the business end of a .45 Magnum. No more Shellye
for me.
"Say goodbye, Proust." It was a
prepared speech.
"Goodbye," I said.
Did not compute. No one had ever taken
him at his word and actually said "goodbye." His eyes rolled around
his massive head, searching for a niche in which to fit my words. Springing
from my seat and using my bib as a makeshift whip,
I snapped the gun from his oversized
hand. We stood there, facing each other. Even without a bib, he was fearsome.
From the corner of my eye I noticed that Langston had slipped out. Executive
privilege. I'd deal with him later. If there was a later.
I heard a noise just off to my left. I
dropped to the floor and spun around only to find the waitress fidgeting with
my order of New York style clam chowder. She didn't make eye contact.
"There's no sense in fighting.
Langston'll kill you sooner or latter," she said. It was neither a
question nor a statement. I didn't know what it was.
"Yo, homegirl," I said to her as
Mattes began his inevitable assault, "I ain't fronting, and I don't mean
to bust a move on you, but don't you want to break?" Mattes' strategy was
to find the shortest distance between two points, one of which was him, and
to lumber along it until he made contact with the other point, in this case,
me. If legend was to be believed, this strategy served him well. From where I
stood, legend looked believable enough.
She sighed. "What are my options? I
mean, working here is not what I thought I'd end up doing. The pay's nothing to
write home about, though the tip's are good, and the hours—" I wasn't listening, but I assumed hers was a
familiar story of baleful, beaten women forced to sell their bodies to callous
and kinky Johns. I had to concentrate on the task at hand. The task was coming
my way.
Mattes was about twenty pounds heavier
than me but only an inch or two taller. He was used to dishing out punishment
but probably never took any. I would have to test his limits like a child tests
a parent's limits. Only this child was set to kill me. Where was T. Berry Brazelton when I needed
him?
I faked left, shuffled my feet a little
to the right and landed the best bolo punch ever seen in that portion of the
restaurant. It had an impact, but not a big one. Mattes was startled, more for
the affrontry shown than for the impact of the blow itself. I had scored a
psychological point, but it was pearls before swine. He backed off for a
moment and then came at me with renewed fury. Was it something I said?
"Langston don't care Jack about
you." I told her between breaths. "In a few years, he be dissing
you." She just stared at me, open eyed. Innocent.
Mattes lunged at my midsection. Mistake.
It put him slightly off balance and made my counterpunch all the more effective.
"That's not true." protested
the victim. I assumed that tears were coming from her closing eyes—eyes that
had seen too much, too soon, too early. "He thinks I have a future with
his organization. He respects me."
"He got a funny way o' showing it
den, don't he?" I said. Shellye had a funny way of showing her respect for
me, too. Palpable, yet funny.
Mattes and I had settled into a rhythm
where he would lunge for my stomach and I would counter with a looping punch
to his head. Over and over went this dance of war, until I was aware of nothing
save the dull ping of my fist on his massive skull and his grunt as I knocked
the wind out of him. Lunge! Ping! Grunt!
Lunge! Ping! Grunt! His breathing was becoming labored. I was working up a
slight bead of sweat on my forehead and felt the frozen yogurt melting away.
Still, I had gotten only two hours of sleep and was feeling it. Three months
ago I wouldn't have felt it. Three months ago I got a good night's sleep. And I
wasn't alone, either. Shellye slept the whole night through. I woke up every
now and then to stare at her, to make sure she was still there. With me. The
room was secured. She wouldn't leave.
Lunge! Ping! Grunt! Lunge! Ping! Grunt!
went our bloody ballet. Whoever it was who wrote Time Must Have an End,
never did the warrior waltz with Mattes.
"Aldous Huxley," came the familiar
voice, as though I didn't know.
I wasn't sure what Langston had planned
for me when he returned. My only hope was to get the laconic black woman to
talk.
"Yo, honey—" I began.
"—You mind I call you honey?"
She gave me a strange look. I was getting
a lot of those lately, but that didn't make it any easier.
"'Honey' is fine," she said at
last, her eyes boring into mine with the trace of a smirk. Progress.
Lunge! Ping! Grunt! No progress.
"It not my nevermind how you got
here." I said. "All I know is what that I be able to get you out. I
got a 'sheen that clean, and I'm mean!"
I
made a mental note to tell her that she was beautiful when she was angry. Mattes's breathing was becoming even more
labored. I managed to wrap my left leg around his right arm and to jam my left
arm under his knee while enveloping his torso with my elbow so that I had
locked us in a clench of death. Pure of heart, the strength of ten, and the
weight of one. One big one. Locked into place like a bleeding jigsaw puzzle,
the two of us careened around the dining room. Lunge! Ping! Grunt! The blood
he spat mixed with the beads of sweat that had formed on my forehead. And
Shellye said I didn't have any class. If only she could see me now.
Honey was ready to talk. "I can
trust you, can't I, Proust?" She didn't wait for an answer, and I didn't
have one for her, so she didn't miss anything.
"Langston's right on the verge of
closing his largest restaurant deal and someone you know—"
Her speech was interrupted by Mattes who
crashed into her at that moment. He wiped the blood off his face and muttered,
"Watch out, bitch!"
Whatever Code I was operating under;
whatever self-imposed restrictions had limited me, were henceforth null and
void. I lost my temper.
"All black women are whores to you?
Is that it, Mattes?" I said between clenched teeth, putting every last bit
of strength and training into my punches. "Is that it?" I yelled
again, as he staggered back towards the wall.
I
had had enough. Aiming my .45 Magnum, I told him to say goodbye. Never too late
for a speech lesson.
"Goodbye," he said. The
sincerest form of flattery.
"That's the last thing I expected
you to say, Mattes..."
He snickered. I emptied the Magnum's
contents into his face.
"...the very last thing."
By the time the bullets emerged from the
back of his skull, Mattes had died his single death. Had he been a tree in a
forest you would have heard him fall.
Any forest.
"I win." I said
"You lose," Langston said,
reappearing with a police special I knew he shouldn't have. Honey's eyes
closed up again; she stood perfectly still, without life or list.
"I didn't tell him about your big
deal!" she cried, frightened.
"Oh, right," I said,
sarcastically. Why would she lie?
"Your indiscretion could cost you,
girl," Langston said.
"'Woman,' sucker!" I corrected
him. Shellye always said my feminism would get me killed someday.
"Moot," said Langston, readying
his gun.
"Moot, moot", came a familiar
voice. It was Speare. I would never know where he came from or how he knew I
was there. I would never ask. All I knew was that my odds had improved
considerably. It wasn't just the outsized Magnum Speare held weightlessly in his
hand, though there was that. It was his entire demeanor. His head was perfectly
round and perfectly bald; his sunglasses wrapped around his entire
skull. Such was the force of his
personality that few could look directly at his face. Hoods who had promised
not to backshoot him were often fatally surprised to find that he was facing
them all along. The animal purity of his motions allowed him to glide gently
above the surface, creating the impression of a black hovercraft—an Afrobot
whose moral code featured retaliatory violence and canine loyalty. I knew
nothing about him, really, but I would have done the same if our situations
were reversed.
"Since when you a grammarian?"
I said
"Any time a sister's denigrated,
we're all denigrated." He replied. "Besides, she's too old to
be a 'girl.'"
"So dig, you thought I needed
help?" I said. I didn't need no help three months ago.
"Babe, it's part of life to
need," Speare said simply,
manipulating two toothpicks in his mouth. I didn't ask where he got them.
"I could see that you couldn't handle Mattes without help. You've got
issues."
"Jesus Christ." It was Honey
again, with new found hopelessness, as two armed thugs made their entrance
through the service door. Langston's silent alarm? To this day, I don't really
know.
"You kill us, we kill your
boss." Speare said to them simply. "You planning to work for his
corpse?"
"They're bluffing!" snapped
Langston. "Take 'em out!"
The thugs shared a moment of confusion
until they spotted the remains of Mattes.
"Holy cow!"
stammered one of them.
"Formerly 'holy shit,'" I
added, as they fled on their own. I got in the last word.
"Look like we got a little standoff,
'Bo.'" I said. He wasn't fond of
his nickname, either.
"Of course I be thinking about Shellye," I said to Speare. "But a man does what a
man do."
"You're reaching," was all
Speare would say.
"You're reaching," was all he
would repeat.
"What's to stop me from killing you
right now, Proust?" said Langston, his face striped with rage.
"You got asbestos underwear?"
Speare answered quietly. He was whistling the Flight of the Bumblebee under
his breath. I had to put my ears next to his head a couple of times, it was
that imperceptible. Langston never heard it. You had to spend a lot of time
with Speare to know what he was whistling and what it meant. I still didn't
know.
"Look, Nigger—" Langston began,
looking at Speare.
"You should talk!" I cut
in.
They wisely ignored me.
"I've got no beef with you—"
"Nor I wi' ye'" Speare cut in.
Plimpton redux.
In the micro second that it took Langston
to change cultural gears, Speare floated over and relieved him of his clearly
illegal firearm.
Langston's eyes met and locked with where
he alone instinctively knew Speare's eyes to be. They spoke softly and only
to each other, even though I was, next to Speare, the largest living person
there. What I could make of it sounded like this:
"Yo, bro'..."
"Wha' fo, mo?"
"Sho/lo, ho!"
Speare picked up his gym bag and turned
to me.
"He says he underestimated you and
that you're free to leave."
"We dis his main enforcer and his
hired hands, and we 'free' to leave?" I said, incredulously.
"Good a time as any," Speare
pointed out, so we departed, leaving Honey leaning out for love. She would
lean that way forever. While Speare held the mirror.
We felt an even number of eyes boring
into our backs as we emerged from the restaurant. We turned around to see
Langston and his retinue pile into his massive car. The mighty engines fired up, and Langston's
traveling empire took off in a huff. "Don't go away mad."
I shouted at them as they passed.
The car skidded to a surprisingly
graceful stop and came careening back towards us. I whipped out my .45 magnum. Big game.
Langston's taut face appeared at the
window. His eyes were slits.
"What did you say?" He hissed.
"I forget," I lied.
He shook his head audibly, as once again
the traveling empire spun off. This time it left rubber.
I had begun with questions and no
answers, and all I had to show for it were more questions. I was left, therefore,
with more questions than answers. The
syllogism of despair.
* *
* *
Speare and I walked along in silence.
Whatever part of Boston we were in was always especially nice at that time of
year.
"'Nor I'?" I said, laughing.
"'Wi' ye'?" he said,
laughing.
"'Nor I wi' ye'?" we both said,
laughing.
"I got something interesting
today—" I broke in.
"Figured you might have, babe,"
Speare said, showing me the other half of the Celtics ticket.
Nor I wi' ye'.
Shellye!
But first a trip to the Garden.
* *
* *
My gym bag and height got me to the outer
office of the Celtic's President and Resident Legend without attracting
attention. Most picketers didn't carry gym bags and weren't as tall as I was.
I could smell the cigar smoke as I neared
his office. Shellye said she always felt ambivalent about cigar smoke; something
about deep smells from her deep past that were deeply hidden or something. I
never knew how far the involuted paths of her self awareness went. All I knew
was that I wanted to be there with her as she endlessly explored them.
"Can I help you?"
It was the Receptionist.
Generous of the New York Public Library
to let one of its guard lions do a little moonlighting.
She looked briefly in my direction, let
her eyes flutter in annoyance and boredom (practice makes perfect), took in a
large draught of air and went back to her work on the comic section of the Boston
Herald. Heady stuff.
"If I were to give you a million
dollars," I began hopefully, "would you let me see Mr.
Auerbach?"
Her double take peeled away the crust of
years.
"Of course, not," she replied,
looking me over and over. "But you are an original. Now, out." Back
to the Herald.
"Dick Tracy in trouble again?"
I clucked, demurely.
Silence.
"What if I were to tell you," I
grinned, "that I'm a player."
Her head nodded so imperceptibly I didn't
notice it.
"In that case, Mr. Auerbach will see
you now."
She pushed a hidden button and motioned
me towards the inner office.
It was that simple.
But it shouldn't have been.
* *
* *
In this case, the stuff of legends meant
the stuff that Mr. Legend had strewn around his cramped though immodest
office. All of it testified to his undeniable and unprecedented success:
pictures of "Red" in paternal poses with his various charges, and
pictures of the Great Man meeting other Great Men, each of them thinking he got
the better of the picture. Among the multitude of posters and team photos was
one small, yellowing picture of the former redhead with his biological family;
a wife and young girl. The walls were covered with news clippings of past victories,
stolen draft choices, trophies—
"What's with the goddamned
inventory?" exploded the Roller of Cigars. "I'm not making a goddamned
insurance claim, for Chrissake!"
"No offense, your won-ness," I
bowed, letting him see my half of the ticket,
"but I wonder what sort of claim you are making."
His eye landed on the ticket and didn't
take off. He must have pushed a hidden button, for there is no other way to
explain the sudden emergence of two of Boston's finest. Unless it was a
coincidence.
I knew Lieutenants Lockridge (no
relation) from an earlier, more idealistic time. They were both good cops—the best, really—but
they had very different ways of going about things: Lockridge, a second generation Boston cop,
was a stickler for the rules. He had short red hair and a temper to match. I
saw him yell at a guy once, really go after him, screaming and everything.
With his thick wrists and rolling local accent, he was a real type. Lockridge, for his part, knew the rules, but
he knew when to bend them. He figured there would always be bad guys, so his
pension was safe. Still, he cared. When he came into a room, all he needed was
one look around and he knew exactly where he was. They accepted one another grudgingly but
never made peace with their shared last name. I tried not to help.
"This is getting us nowhere!"
shouted Auerbach angrily, though we hadn't begun, and I, for one, had no idea
where we were supposed to be going. Still, I was impressed with his desire for
results.
"Perhaps—" I began,
"Look, Proust," said Lockridge,
his face flushed and his eyes, fists and teeth clenched, "We've taken just
about enough of your lip—"
"Just about enough?" I asked
sweetly. "Or enough. I ask merely for information."
He glowered at me, restrained from
physical assault by the thin veneer of civilization I counted on when Speare
wasn't around. With Speare there, the veneer was thick.
Lockridge laid an experienced hand on his
partner's shoulder, guiding him away from me. Lockridge continued his glower.
Suddenly, Auerbach started shaking.
Nobody else joined him. Looking at me without the penetrating lasers he had
used to successfully bully the League for decades, he was just a pitiful, aging
man.
"I got a problem even I can't
solve," he rasped.
A pitiful, aging, arrogant man.
"I understand that you are what is
known as a 'wise-guy.'" he said slowly, pointing his cigar at me, the
smoke describing the arc of a parabola.
"I've been associated with some very
special people over my career. And let me tell you something." He pointed
at me. "All the great ones are wise-guys."
I basked in the sphere of his glowing
cigar.
"Some wise-guys," he continued,
"are just assholes, like yourself."
Lockridge was beside himself. Lockridge
shot him a look, but he was enjoying himself as well. Well, why not, I thought
to myself; might as well party. This
can't last.
* *
* *
"We've had some losses," began
the very famous man.
"I'm in shape," I smiled,
"but I haven't touched a basketball in years."
He looked at me and shook his head.
"No, no," he said gesturing. "Different kinds of losses, every
bit as important as basketball games."
He leaned back in his chair. His cigar
had gone out. In the distance I could hear a tea kettle whistling. I wondered
if he heard it, too.
The way the sun came through the windows
accentuated his many awards. Nice effect.
"What I am about to tell you,"
Auerbach began, his voice shaking and unsteady. "is grave and ... very personal.
Only you and the officers here know about it."
"Can I tell my friends?" I
asked.
Auerbach slowly leaned forward, palms up
on the desk. A non-alcoholic flush on his face.
"My daughter and my best player have
been kidnapped." he said, barely above a whisper.
There was a stunned silence. An
embarrassingly long silence.
Looking at Auerbach as he slumped in his
chair, it was hard to believe he had ever hobnobbed with America's version of
royalty.
Dead silence.
"I assume you mean Larry Bird as
your best player." I said at last.
Dead silence.
"He is clearly the best all-around
player," I continued, "though you can't win without a dominant
center."
"Yes..." Auerbach replied, sadly,
"I know."
* *
* *
Auerbach said he knew of no reason for
anyone to steal Larry Bird; he was, after all, retired; there had been no
ransom note, only an anonymous phone call claiming responsibility and
complaining about things "moving too fast." When pressed about his
daughter, he admitted he had no proof that she was kidnapped; he simply hadn't
seen her for years and wanted to give her the childhood she deserved.
I told El Legend that I would do what I
could to find his player and his daughter, but that I would keep my half of the
ticket. His eyes followed it hungrily as I put it back in my pocket.
Lieutenants Lockridge told me to keep the hell out of their way and that the
full resources of the Police Department were at my disposal.
It didn't add up, and I didn't have many
clues, all of which meant that I had an excuse to see Shellye. I bathed, just
in case, and changed gym bags, just in case.
I arranged with Speare to meet her at the
S&S Deli, in Inman Square, Cambridge, MA 02139. Their literature claims
that "S&S" is a corruption of the Yiddish "Ess und Ess"
(eat and eat) which the Benevolent Founding Grandmother wanted as the theme
of her New World restaurant. I saw no reason to disbelieve that heart-warming
story.
I got there early and mingled with the
shorter but sincere pickets outside.
The S&S had evolved from its sawdust on the floor roots to mauve
walls and new age, totalitarian pillars. It obviously bothered some people. I
recognized some of them as picketers of Steve's and the Boston Garden. One of
them muttered something about "things moving too fast," but I didn't
pay too much attention. I preferred it the way it used to be as well. But
Shellye liked it just fine, now.
I glanced out and was fortunate enough to
see Shellye and Speare gliding down the street, so close they could have been
hand in hand. People would cross the street to be near Shellye, only to catch a
glimpse of Speare and recoil in fear. Whenever they walked together they
created a pulsating mob. They made their own waves.
The pickets surged and parted as they
approached. Timing their arrival as Mexican divers gauge the waves, they cut
through the pickets while the tide was out and joined me effortlessly at table.
For a while I didn't see Speare, despite the fact that he was wearing the skins
of five different African Yaks. Had I seen him I wouldn't have asked where he
got them. Indeed, I might have noticed him and his, but Shellye chose that very
moment to sit down across from me as naturally as if she had been doing it all
her life. There was no restaurant then, no kidnapping, no missing daughter, no
pickets. Just a hint of her fragrance (she wouldn't tell me what it was), and
her eyes.
And then, after what seemed a while,
there was more.
There were her fine, sharp features,
features you could shave with; her eyes fashionably close together; her
knitted eyebrows; the layers of clothing she carried on her back like a
warrior; and finally—her essence, which was to her, alone, born.
She was frighteningly beautiful.
In time, she let her eyes meet mine with
a look that was more genuine than real.
I didn't know how much more of this I could take. I saw my chest move up
and down, but I couldn't feel myself breathe. If I were a bell...
She was hideously beautiful.
"What happened to your face?"
she asked. All this, and words, too.
"Nothing," I replied,
truthfully. "Just the ravages of time."
"It shows," she said
supportively.
Speare chatted up the owner in Yiddish
while a battery of waiters served exotic rolled pancakes.
"I love your relation to food,"
I smiled, breaking the ice.
"You don't know the half of
it," she said, during mouthfuls. She was a professional nutritional
consultant, and partial to the S.& S. Deli, across the street from New
Words Bookstore, in Cambridge.
"What have you got for me?" she
asked at last. Whenever she said 'me,' she was referring to herself. It was
just something unspoken between us.
I told her about my meeting with
Auerbach, his missing personnel, the pickets, Langston, my fears and dreams.
She took it all in, missing nothing.
Infinity. By Shellye. Speare moved only imperceptibly to stab at the food. I
never saw him swallow.
"So, how far do you think this
Hourbuck would go to get his player and daughter back?" she asked.
Perfect, that she couldn't get Auerbach's name right.
"Hard to say," I nonetheless
said, "but he has a reputation for getting what he wants."
"Sometimes," Shellye said, as
though nothing had changed between us, "a man can get what he wants
without getting what he needs."
"Wanting's not the same as
needing," Speare agreed.
"How the heart approaches what it
yearns," said Shellye, looking intensely, but not at me. I hated it when
she did that.
"What a man needs..." Shellye
began.
"...or has..." Speare
continued.
"...or wants..." Shellye went
on, nodding.
"...or eats..." I guessed. They
stopped, looked at me, at each other, and then at the table. There was a moment
of silence. I could hear them sigh. We were a team.
"From what you've told me,"
Shellye began again, fully into her professional mode. "Outbeck's
relation to his team is that of father figure. Larry Bird would be his chosen
son. It's interesting, is it not, that Averbeak chose to seek out his daughter
only when his surrogate son was abducted."
"Sublimated guilt," suggested
Speare.
"Yes," said Shellye.
"Yes?" I said.
"Yes," said Speare.
"But," I asked, "who would
steal a former professional basketball player. Especially such a visible one
as Bird?"
The pickets had become louder and more
vocal. "The More Things Change, The Worse They Get!" shouted some.
"Hands Off Our Past!" shouted others. "...Moving Too Fast..."
mumbled still others.
"We know that the Boston Garden is
slated for demolition and that these good citizens object," said Speare.
"But kidnapping's not their style. They more the letter to the Editor
type."
We nodded.
Suddenly, Shellye was all eyes, and our
race the richer for it, as she noticed the picketers seemingly for the first
time. She took a complete visual inventory of one of the more fashionable
women. "Easy virtue," she said at last, under her breath. We all laughed. Shellye understood other
women in ways that I could never hope to.
I ordered coffee and dessert. I put in
some Nutrasweet, which was neither, and thought about the case.
"We don't know who gave me and
Speare the tickets," I summarized, "how Langston knew about them or
why he thought they belonged to him, or who would order the kidnapping of a 6'
10" public figure. We don't know what, if any, relation there was between
Auerbach's sudden desire to see his daughter again and Bird's disappearance."
Shellye hadn't looked directly at me in
minutes. I'd initiated all the conversations, made all the jokes, done all
the laughing. The pit in my stomach was returning. A little voice was saying,
'Proust, oh, Proust! Here, Proust!' but I didn't want to go. Shellye was slowing down, but
it would be a while before she was done, and I wanted to be alone to sort
things out. I excused myself and left them arguing the fine points of Old
Testament ontology.
I'd said what I had to say on the
subject, anyway.
* *
* *
I got back to my office the only way I
knew how. Once there, I climbed the outside fire escape and broke into my back
door. Using a specially modified credit card (don't break in without it), I was
able to slip unnoticed into my office. Nothing had changed since the last time
nothing had changed. If anything, things were exactly the same.
Outside I could see a man and a woman
hugging. Or was it a mugging? There were ways to tell. I heated up some water
in a potboiler given to me by a woman I wish I had known. I watched it. It
boiled. Sometimes I amaze myself. It was 4:53.
Seven minutes too early for Jack Daniels. I passed the time with
Canadian Club.
If Langston was involved, that could
only mean that Infanti was covering for him.
And Infanti never did anything without an O.K. from Lumbargi. But what
was the motive? What was the Celtics tie in? How did Auerbach's relation with his
players and his daughter figure into all this? Was he Connected?
I spoke to the picture on my wall. It
spoke back. I wondered which is worse, speaking to a picture or hearing it
speak back. "Not liking what it say." It was Speare, breaking and
entering. Mentally.
Since nobody was around, I used the phone
book to find the number of a paralegal who claimed she owed me a favor. It was
cheaper than calling information, and a paralegal was cheaper than a legal.
Her voice was willing. I told her I wanted inside information about any real
estate deals that involved preservationists and the Boston Celtics. I also
needed all the dirt she could dig up on Auerbach specifically and father-daughter
relations generally. She was happy as a pup to be of help. She wasn't two
years out of school and was just feeling her way around. She liked my suggestion
that I help her with the feeling around part.
"You know, of course," I told
her just before she hung up, "that this is technically illegal."
"Jesus, you're right!" she said
suddenly, and hung up. So much for youthful enthusiasm. Shellye often said
that my youthful enthusiasm distinguished me from other people and even from
other life forms. It was that important.
I decided to call a reporter who had to
give me what I wanted—perhaps, though, not what I needed, I mused bitterly.
What a man needs... ...what a man
wants...Old Testament ontology...
"Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah!, I've got
an insight!" I chanted mockingly.
How the heart approaches what it yearns.
"Greenberg, here," came the
phone. I could just see his 1940's hat balanced precariously on his 1920's
head.
"Proust, here," I countered,
and filled him in on what I needed. And wanted.
No difference. No difference, at all.
He asked what was in it for him, and I
said I'd let him dial the number when we called out for pizza. He accepted that
with cynical grace and told me to wait for his call at the public phone booth
at Steve's.
That gave me an idea.
The idea was to go to Steve's.
* *
* *
I took the Red Line to Davis Square and
heard portions of three string quartets and one embittered folk song. The
Bartok was strained. I wondered why they didn't put rubber wheels on
American subways. We had managed to get rubber on the wheels of our cars and
busses, but there was still the sense of being punished when one took the
subway. Purgatory or bad urban planning? I knew of three articles being
cranked out on the subject at that very moment. They didn't need a fourth. I
exited the Red Line going north on Holland Street, past the Somerville Theater,
when I stopped, nodded my head as though satisfied with a completed task,
turned around and walked south on Holland Street, past the Somerville Theater,
towards Steve's.
The pickets had grown in numbers. They
were shouting about preservation while they marched with grim purpose. I
spotted two young women marching together, one of whom had a button on her
fatigue jacket that said, "Hi! I'm Lenore, a Lesbian." Daughters of Sappho, I perceived. Fine with
me. It would be a while before Greenburg called with the information I had ordered,
so I decided to strike up a conversation with the odd couple.
I stepped in line next to them, tipped
what would have been my hat, and clucked sensitively about Holly Near. Nothing.
I was too big to be ignored, yet they weren't buying any. One of them looked
away in what would have been disinterest had there been enough interest to
generate it. Their clothes were faded;
probably the result of the very public pre-concert hugs Boston Lesbians
give one another. I had warned them of the consequences. They could never
understand what business it was of mine.
Lenore's partner shot me a tentative
look. A chink in the armor? It was all I needed. Grabbing her by the wrist, I
told her why I was there.
She looked up at me searchingly, tears
coming, and asked, "Have you ever spoken to a woman without grabbing her
wrists?"
We marched on in silence.
Suddenly, She of the Wrist starting
speaking.
"Damn! that really hurt," she
said
Her confession was interrupted by the man
with the tweed jacket that almost matched his brown pants and Rocksport shoes
with heels as soft as his arms. The lush sweater his first wife bought him was
wrapped around his neck, its arms hanging down over his soft stomach. He wore
a scarf in summer and carried a hardback copy of What Color is Your Volvo?
He had a lot of character in his eyes, but most of it was from reading. I knew
who he was but enjoyed asking him anyway.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"The Faculty Advisor," he
responded with impunity. He must have known who I was, because he didn't ask.
"And I insist that you stop bothering my people."
"'My people?'" I said,
my face inches from his, my neck stretched to its limit, my body bent forward,
my shoes untied, I noticed.
"You know what I mean!" he
blustered, fingering his scarfs. "It's just that—"
"I'll talk to him," said my new
friend, the Wrist Giver. "Alone."
The Faculty Advisor started to protest,
but just one of my 14" forearms was enough to give him pause. As I walked
her inside Steve's, I turned to Lenore and said nothing.
She managed to look at me without smiling
and resumed her long march.
*
* * *
We found a quiet corner, away from the
ads for vegetarian roommates, guitar lessons and used Volkswagens. I sat and
gently played the piano while she tried to open and close her fingers. Neither
of us ordered. Melville understood.
"I didn't know you played the
piano," she began.
"How could you have?" I said.
* *
* *
In time, she told me about the Radical
Preservationists, their goal of Zero Change and how important their work was.
The Faculty Advisor was their leader, and he demanded strict adherence to his
principles. He was fair, though.
In turn, I told her about Bird, Auerbach
and his daughter. Surprisingly, she seemed to know something about it all,
especially about the Celtics' struggle to demolish their historic stadium to
make way for a new one. As we spoke, she seemed to loosen up. Was it something
I played? Her breasts became more prominent, her hair longer and more flowing.
As she poured out her heart, she revealed a gentle, vulnerable side I had only
guessed at on the picket line. And as she spoke, she shifted ever so
imperceptibly in her seat, revealing more and more thigh. She had makeup,
now, and her shoes were fashionably confining. She was desperate to please
and hopelessly dependent on my opinions and strength.
"Who are you working for—" she
purred.
"I'm sorry, little one," I
interrupted, gently taking her hand in mind, placing it on my knee and then
removing it. "But my code prohibits me from taking advantage of women who
are vulnerable. I'm not sure you're ready—"
Ready or not, here they came, the Five
Townies, led by scarf face himself.
Faculty Advisor removed one of his
scarfs, leaving the others intact. Power disrobing. "You will leave,
now," he warned. "or something—" he pointed to his thugs,
"—untoward might occur."
The townies, all local boys I grew up
with, folded their respective arms for greater effect. They squinted for much
the same reason. Probably everything they did was to achieve that effect. And
it worked.
"There's five of them," my
friend pointed out, all smiles.
"Don't worry," I said. "I
get paid to even things up."
"By whom?" she lisped,
demurely. But I didn't hear her. Reaching into my gym bag, I got just the
right amount of nylon twine, tied my hands together and let each one of the
punks punch me as hard as he could. I felt my teeth rattle in my head and my
vision get blurry. Struggling to get my hands free, I noticed Faculty Advisor
manfully reading the wall menus, pretending not to be involved (Steve's
in-house ACLU observer) but I knew which side he was on.
By the time I had worked my hands free,
the only sounds were those of labored breathing; beads of sweat being formed
and Boss Tweed's lips moving as he pretended to read the menu. My friend had
rejoined Lenore on the picket line—in more ways than one. Something about
the women. But what?
Winsome, lose some.
I hadn't thought about Shellye for some
time, I noticed. But not for lack of trying.
Since they didn't know what it meant, the
boys were unable to take advantage of their numerical superiority. I held them
off, but my heart wasn't fully in it. These were mere football players and body
builders. Not a fighter among them.
"Hey, Don We Now Our Gay
Apparel!" smirked one of them, pointing to Lenore and my friend on the
picket line.
"Guys," I pointed out. "Lesbians are women who either
were born with or developed a psycho-sexual affinity for other women. They not
only have rights, they have reasons for their lives, and if you are threatened
by their independence, that is your problem, not theirs."
I tried to make the total number of words
come out to a multiple of five, since I was punching each of them flush in the
face with each word of my speech, so strongly did I believe it. By the time I
was finished, so were they. Then it was me, alone with Faculty Advisor, and he
didn't like the odds.
I blinked hard at him. He flinched.
"I can arrange to have you
killed!" he screamed with that pathetic resonance peculiar to male
academics.
"I have connections. I know people!
Tenured people!"
"Your sweater," I said,
disparagingly. He cocked his head and let his soft lips drop; his scarfs
dangled impotently from his clean little neck.
I left medical instruction with Melville
for the treatment of the boys I had hurt. If he planned to make use of it, he
didn't let on.
I walked outside to answer the phone.
Greenburg. As I waited for him to switch to a secure line, several Cambridge
types tried to use the phone. I flashed them a picture of Speare; my way of
thanking them for respecting my privacy.
Greenburg told me that I wasn't going to
like his news. An understatement. The part about developers being in a battle
with the Celtics over the parcel adjacent to the Garden was not the problem.
The fact that the Radical Preservationists were militantly trying to stop
the Celtics from building a new Garden was not the problem. The problem was
that the person behind this group wasn't the Faculty Advisor. It was Shellye.
That was the problem.
* *
* *
After a workout that featured a grunting
pushup for every level of my soul searched (the sound of one man snapping), I
set up a meet at Blade and Boards, the Boston Garden's very, very club.
At the Garden, I flashed my half-ticket
to one of the grey-haired, caucasians who manned the turnstiles. Blacks stood
only a slightly better chance of playing for the Celtics than taking tickets
for them. Shame they couldn't find qualified applicants.
The circular table had all the players;
Auerbach, Shellye, Langston, the Lockridges and Faculty Advisor. They were
nervous, but hungry. Speare was nowhere in sight. Comforting.
I ordered for everybody who didn't order
for themselves. Lockridge asked me if I was going to order for myself.
"Very funny," I said. But in fact, it was a good question.
I told the waiter we'd all have steak,
medium, and the House Gin. "Will you be having that with the meal?"
he asked obsequiously. "No," I replied. "You can bring the steak
now."
The waiter piously brought out the
appetizers. "Scampi," grumbled Auerbach, exhausting his quota of
small talk. I put some food in my mouth. I chewed. I swallowed. I could get
used to this.
Who was it, I mused, who proved that
music was the food of life?
"Shakespeare." It was a
familiar voice.
"Who the hell you talking to,
Proust?" came Auerbach.
"No one" I said, quickly.
"Just working on a hunch."
We were silent as the waiter went about
his business, setting down our plates in the order that we had entered the
restaurant. Justice du jour.
"And a barf bag for your
Jewess?" he asked, indicating Shellye.
I started to go after him, but Auerbach
motioned me down. "I'll take care of him later," he growled ominously.
No tip, I suspected.
I looked at Shellye for as long as I
could. I didn't deserve her. "There are questions," I said, to her
silence.
"Issues," I corrected myself.
She liked that word.
"Why," I persisted, "if
you control the Radical Preservationists, did you pretend not to know who Auerbach
was?"
"That's it?" she asked after a beat.
Her voice had that tired quality it had when she was tired.
"This is complex," she began—the
consummate professional. "But I want you to think of Auerbach's image as
a father figure."
I recalled the team photos, his arms
protectively around his players. "I understand," I said. "He
has clearly played a fatherly role to many Bostonians over the years—"
"Your understanding of the fatherly
role is too shallow," she corrected. We were on familiar ground as far as
my understanding of something being too shallow was concerned.
"Simply put," she continued
chewing, "he is my father."
"Jesus, Joseph and Mary!" said
the Lockridges.
Langston shrugged. Auerbach turned his
outsized knuckles down and his palms up. Faculty Advisor shrugged. Langston
turned his palms up. Auerbach shrugged. Lockridge whistled through his teeth.
Faculty Advisor nodded. Lockridge shrugged. I wondered what Speare was
doing.
From our table at Blades and Board, I
could see past the banners (the Bruins hung Divisional Championships, while
the Celtics only hung World Championships) all the way down to the parquet
floor; its fabled dead spots and live memories. Speare was sharing the pre-game
practice with some of the Celtics.
There is no more graceful, no more fully
demanding sport than basketball, and here was a collection of the world's
finest. They moved with an economy of motion, an understated purpose that was
the envy of dancers. Speare was better than all of them, of course, except a
couple of the new Mormons and one blond—Bird!
"Bird!" I screamed.
"Another hunch?" smirked
Auerbach, smiling in a mean sort of way.
* *
* *
It was beginning to make sense. I
realized that Auerbach had used the "kidnapping" of Bird to get my
attention. I was probably wrong for not verifying his claim with the media—the
sportswriters would have noticed if Bird was kidnapped. But I was right in
thinking that he would have been an incredibly stupid person to kidnap: too public, too tall, too well known. So far,
so good.
But why did Auerbach want me on
this case? And since when did Shellye care about preservation? Could there be
anything more about her I didn't know?
Clearly, Langston and the Faculty Advisor
were merely hired hands; working this city, then taking off when things got too
hot. I'd seen their type before. They came with the territory. Part of the
deal. Routine. Par for the course. OK, enough. But who had hired them?
I tried to face Shellye. "Why?"
I asked, remembering my question.
She actually put down her fork.
"When we fail to preserve those institutions which define
ourselves—"
"Horseshit!" broke in Auerbach,
his face at full flush. Even Lockridge was taken aback by the force of his
fury. Lockridge remained calm, having seen the old man go off before.
"She's the head of a real estate syndicate that's planning to make the
ultimate restaurant, and this is the only site big enough for her ambitions! If
she stops us from expanding, our lawyers say she can get controlling interest
in the land!"
I'd never seen Auerbach this
unhappy.
"Twenty acres, she says she needs!
And do you know what the name of the restaurant is going to be?" He paused
for emphasis. I wondered why.
"Table for One, that's
what!" He stopped. Spent.
Which one, Shellye. Which one?
"Did you kill Mattes?"
Lockridge seized the moment to ask me. "Your prints are all over his
wounds."
I looked very hard at him.
"Sorry I asked," he said,
sheepishly.
"Is this true, Shellye?" I
said. In the silence that followed, Speare appeared at the door and probably
gave me a wink. The Celtics were down a man. I was up one.
"You've got to understand,"
began Shellye, "that is, you've got to try to understand, that
there is more to you and me than you and me. We have something very
special—"
"Permanent," I said hopefully.
"—special," she continued, as
my heart soared. "And the 'me' part that is separate and yet aloof from
you cannot fully thrive, cannot be fed in the abstract..."
"Mumbo jumbo," Speare said,
approvingly.
"...without the me of us going
further inside than I've ever been or could expect you to take me or me to take
me with or without you, but especially now."
My head spun without being kicked.
Familiar ground. "What about Mattes and Langston?" I asked,
clutching.
"I set that up," said Auerbach,
his eyes twinkling at the memory of it. Any deal turned him on. "because I
knew you'd never give up once your life was threatened. Tall white guys go nuts
when you threaten them," he said shrewdly, always the street-wise
manipulator. "I used you to flush out Shellye so I could deal with her on
my own turf," he finished, menacingly.
"Well, I don't like the deal,
daddy," whined the daughter with a
gun. "And I'm tired of living in your shadow. Yes, I want my own
restaurant. And yes, I'm willing to do anything for it!" With that, she
put down her fork again and opened fire, expertly killing Langston and the
Faculty Advisor. No more co-general managing partners for Shellye!
You should have seen the look on the
Faculty Advisor's face.
She shot out the lights and raced out the
door with Auerbach, Lockridge and Lockridge close behind. I began the pursuit.
Somewhere, a baby cried.
* *
* *
One problem with chasing somebody in the
Boston Garden is that there are 15,351 somebodies to choose from. Another
problem is that I wasn't sure who to chase, Shellye or Auerbach. Both had lied
to me. Shellye had a gun, was in an emotional frenzy and had just killed two
men in cold blood; but Auerbach was truly overbearing. I decided to go after
Shellye, anyway. We needed to talk.
At first the throngs kept me from moving
quickly. I kept bumping into teenagers pretending everyone was looking at them
as they walked by, oblivious to the adulation; occasional women (none of them
deep), and the archetypical fifty year old male who stood next to me at every
sporting event, in every city, at every urinal.
As the game approached, people found
their seats. I made better time circling the ancient oval stadium, slipping
occasionally on the remains of discarded junk food.
I spotted a Steve's ice cream vendor. One
person's landmark is another person's gentrification.
Shellye was trying to establish her own
identify, to strike out for herself, I thought. The people she had killed would
only be missed by someone else who was trying to kill them. Her beef with
Auerbach was the classic death struggle between Daughter and Patriarch, and
the feminist in me rooted for her. Better him than me, I reasoned. If her pickets
put Steve's and the S&S Deli out of business, that was their lookout. I
was picking up speed, breaking a sweat. Auerbach was not in his accustomed box
seat, where for decades he had passed judgement, armed folded, stern.
Everybody had a seat.
I began to feel less clear about why I
was chasing Shellye, or where I fit in her life. Was she using my ability to
order food to advance her career as a nutritionalist? The fans seemed to mock me as I ran by, going
round and around the oval, not finding the one I sought, not finding answers to
questions I hadn't asked. One particularly
obnoxious lad kept putting out his hand so I had to give him a "high-five"
with each lap. When in Rome.
"Chief!" the crowd shouted, in
honor of Robert Parish, the Celtic's center without whom they cannot win. It
sounded like they were booing, because the fans made the sound come from the
back of their throats, like someone saying, "duh." Why was Shellye
running? Was I trying to catch her or to save her? If the latter, from what?
I kept going, faster now, as only a
handful of stragglers kept me from opening up to full speed.
The crowd gave its usual introductory
cheers to Ed Pinkney and Dee Brown. Old friends, loyal employees. I picked up
speed, the seat signs became a blur. I could only see a profusion of shirts,
too many green, as I raced by. Shellye said green wasn't my color, either.
"Lar-ry! Lar-ry!" came the
sheet of noise, as Local Hero took his seat. For a moment, I felt pride in
having rescued him. Just for a moment, though. Then, a great crushing pressure.
Where did I fit in? If Shellye got her restaurant, where did I fit in? Would she still let me order for her? Did I
really want her to get it? I began throwing out imaginary punches; felling
pimps, baleful women, lesbians, students, academics, preservationists,
lesbians, patriarchs, paralegals, lesbians, cops and robbers. Nobody could
touch me as long as I was punching. My breath came easy, now; my body tuned to
its task. The game had apparently begun—there was nobody in my way as I ran
flat out around the oval, between Stadium and Lodge.
What would I do when I found her? What
would I save her from? My lips became dry, I found it hard to breathe. I got to
the top of a breath but couldn't get release. Maybe I'd go back to my office. I
knew how to get there, the clients would be distracted by the game. I could be
alone. No one to see me be all alone. I was running as fast as I could.
Suddenly, there was silence. As if the
entire Garden had pulled in its collective breath. In the silence, I heard a
small staccato voice, saying,
"It's OK, it's OK, it's OK!"
I looked around.
It was a familiar voice.
Then, a sheet of noise, a cascading sheet
of pure animal sound as the crowd — lawyers, plumbers, children, shallow women,
men at urinals — everybody roared. They were standing, now, screaming
their approval; screaming one cacophonous shriek of approval.
"Go!
Go! Go! Go!"
I looked around.
It was a familiar voice.