20
Someone is shaking him gently, the way you shake a heavy sleeper. And, Hodges realizes, he almost has been asleep. Or hypnotized by recollection.
It’s Elaine, the DeMasio’s hostess, and she’s looking at him with concern. “Detective Hodges? Are you all right?”
“Fine. But it’s just Mr. Hodges now, Elaine. I’m retired.”
He sees concern in her eyes, and something more. Something worse. He’s the only patron left in the restaurant. He observes the waiters clustered around the doorway to the kitchen, and suddenly sees himself as they and Elaine must be seeing him, an old fellow who’s been sitting here long after his dining companion (and everyone else) has left. An old overweight fellow who sucked the last of his cake off his fork like a child sucking a lollipop and then just stared out the window.
They’re wondering if I’m riding into the Kingdom of Dementia on the Alzheimer’s Express, he thinks.
He smiles at Elaine—his number one, wide and charming. “Pete and I were talking about old cases. I was thinking about one. Kind of replaying it. Sorry. I’ll clear out now.”
But when he gets up he staggers and bumps the table, knocking over the half-empty water glass. Elaine grabs his shoulder to steady him, looking more concerned than ever.
“Detective . . . Mr. Hodges, are you okay to drive?”
“Sure,” he says, too heartily. Pins and needles are doing windsprints from his ankles to his crotch and then back down to his ankles again. “Just had two glasses of beer. Pete drank the rest. My legs went to sleep, that’s all.”
“Oh. Are you better now?”
“Fine,” he says, and his legs really are better. Thank God. He remembers reading somewhere that older men, especially older overweight men, should not sit too long. A blood clot can form behind the knee. You get up, the released clot does its own lethal windsprint up to the heart, and it’s angel, angel, down we go.
She walks with him to the door. Hodges finds himself thinking of the private nurse whose job it was to watch over Mrs. T.’s mother. What was her name? Harris? No, Harris was the housekeeper. The nurse was Greene. When Mrs. Wharton wanted to go into the living room, or visit the jakes, did Mrs. Greene escort her the way Elaine is escorting him now? Of course she did.
“Elaine, I’m fine,” he says. “Really. Sober mind. Body in balance.” He holds his arms out to demonstrate.
“All right,” she says. “Come see us again, and next time don’t wait so long.”
“It’s a promise.”
He looks at his watch as he pushes out into the bright sunshine. Past two. He’s missing his afternoon shows, and doesn’t mind a bit. The lady judge and the Nazi psychologist can go fuck themselves. Or each other.
21
He walks slowly into the parking lot, where the only cars left, other than his, likely belong to the restaurant staff. He takes his keys out and jingles them on his palm. Unlike Mrs. T.’s, the key to his Toyota is on a ring. And yes, there’s a fob—a rectangle of plastic with a picture of his daughter beneath. Allie at seventeen, smiling and wearing her City High lacrosse uni.
In the matter of the Mercedes key, Mrs. Trelawney never recanted. Through all the interviews, she continued to insist she’d only ever had the one. Even after Pete Huntley showed her the invoice, with PRIMARY KEYS (2) on the list of items that went with her new car when she took possession back in 2004, she continued to insist. She said the invoice was mistaken. Hodges remembers the iron certainty in her voice.
Pete would say that she copped to it in the end. There was no need of a note; suicide is a confession by its very nature. Her wall of denial finally crumbled. Like when the guy who hit and ran finally gets it off his chest. Yes, okay, it was a kid, not a dog. It was a kid and I was looking at my cell phone to see whose call I missed and I killed him.
Hodges remembers how their subsequent interviews with Mrs. T. had produced a weird kind of amplifying effect. The more she denied, the more they disliked. Not just Hodges and Huntley but the whole squad. And the more they disliked, the more stridently she denied. Because she knew how they felt. Oh yes. She was self-involved, but not stu—
Hodges stops, one hand on the sun-warmed doorhandle of his car, the other shading his eyes. He’s looking into the shadows beneath the turnpike overpass. It’s almost mid-afternoon, and the denizens of Lowtown have begun to rise from their crypts. Four of them are in those shadows. Three big ’uns and one little ’un. The big ’uns appear to be pushing the little ’un around. The little ’un is wearing a pack, and as Hodges watches, one of the big ’uns rips it from his back. This provokes a burst of troll-like laughter.
Hodges strolls down the broken sidewalk to the overpass. He doesn’t think about it and he doesn’t hurry. He stuffs his hands in his sportcoat pockets. Cars and trucks drone by on the turnpike extension, projecting their shapes on the street below in a series of shadow-shutters. He hears one of the trolls asking the little kid how much money he’s got.
“Ain’t got none,” the little kid says. “Lea me lone.”
“Turn out your pockets and we see,” Troll Two says.
The kid tries to run instead. Troll Three wraps his arms around the kid’s skinny chest from behind. Troll One grabs at the kid’s pockets and squeezes. “Yo, yo, I hear foldin money,” he says, and the little kid’s face squinches up in an effort not to cry.
“My brother finds out who you are, he bust a cap on y’asses,” he says.
“That’s a terrifyin idea,” Troll One says. “Just about make me want to pee my—”
Then he sees Hodges, ambling into the shadows to join them with his belly leading the way. His hands deep in the pockets of his old shapeless houndstooth check, the one with the patches on the elbows, the one he can’t bear to give up even though he knows it’s shot to shit.
“Whatchoo want?” Troll Three asks. He’s still hugging the kid from behind.
Hodges considers trying a John Wayne drawl, and decides not to. The only Wayne these scuzzbags would know is L’il. “I want you to leave the little man alone,” he says. “Get out of here. Right now.”
Troll One lets go of the little ’un’s pockets. He is wearing a hoodie and the obligatory Yankees cap. He puts his hands on his slim hips and cocks his head to one side, looking amused. “Fuck off, fatty.”
Hodges doesn’t waste time. There are three of them, after all. He takes the Happy Slapper from his right coat pocket, liking its old comforting weight. The Slapper is an argyle sock. The foot part is filled with ball bearings. It’s knotted at the ankle to make sure the steel balls stay in. He swings it at the side of Troll One’s neck in a tight, flat arc, careful to steer clear of the Adam’s apple; hit a guy there, you were apt to kill him, and then you were stuck in the bureaucracy.
There’s a metallic thwap. Troll One lurches sideways, his look of amusement turning to pained surprise. He stumbles off the curb and falls into the street. He rolls onto his back, gagging, clutching his neck, staring up at the underside of the overpass.
Troll Three starts forward. “Fuckin—” he begins, and then Hodges lifts his leg (pins and needles all gone, thank God) and kicks him briskly in the crotch. He hears the seat of his trousers rip and thinks, Oh you fat fuck. Troll Three lets out a yowl of pain. Under here, with the cars and trucks passing overhead, the sound is strangely flat. He doubles over.
Hodges’s left hand is still in his coat. He extends his index finger so it pokes out the pocket and points it at Troll Two. “Hey, fuckface, no need to wait for the little man’s big brother. I’ll bust a cap on your ass myself. Three-on-one pisses me off.”
“No, man, no!” Troll Two is tall, well built, maybe fifteen, but his terror regresses him to no more than twelve. “Please, man, we ’us just playin!”
“Then run, playboy,” Hodges says. “Do it now.”
Troll Two runs.
Troll One, meanwhile, has gotten on his knees. “You gonna regret this, fat ma—”
Hodges takes a step toward him, lifting the Slapper. Troll One sees it, gives a girly shriek, covers his neck.
“You better run, too,” Hodges says, “or the fat man’s going to tool up on your face. When your mama gets to the emergency room, she’ll walk right past you.” In that moment, with his adrenaline flowing and his blood pressure probably over two hundred, he absolutely means it.
Troll One gets up. Hodges makes a mock lunge at him, and Troll One jerks back most satisfyingly.
“Take your friend with you and pack some ice on his balls,” Hodges says. “They’re going to swell.”
Troll One gets his arm around Troll Three, and they hobble toward the Lowtown side of the overpass. When Troll One considers himself safe, he turns back and says, “I see you again, fat man.”
“Pray to God you don’t, fuckwit,” Hodges says.
He picks up the backpack and hands it to the kid, who’s looking at him with wide mistrustful eyes. He might be ten. Hodges drops the Slapper back into his pocket. “Why aren’t you in school, little man?”
“My mama sick. I goin to get her medicine.”
This is a lie so audacious that Hodges has to grin. “No, you’re not,” he says. “You’re skipping.”
The kid says nothing. This is five-o, nobody else would step to it the way this guy did. Nobody else would have a loaded sock in his pocket, either. Safer to dummy up.
“You go skip someplace safer,” Hodges says. “There’s a playground on Eighth Avenue. Try there.”
“They sellin the rock on that playground,” the kid says.
“I know,” Hodges says, almost kindly, “but you don’t have to buy any.” He could add You don’t have to run any, either, but that would be na?ve. Down in Lowtown, most of the shorties run it. You can bust a ten-year-old for possession, but try making it stick.
He starts back to the parking lot, on the safe side of the overpass. When he glances back, the kid is still standing there and looking at him. Pack dangling from one hand.
“Little man,” Hodges says.
The kid looks at him, saying nothing.
Hodges lifts one hand and points at him. “I did something good for you just now. Before the sun goes down tonight, I want you to pass it on.”
Now the kid’s look is one of utter incomprehension, as if Hodges just lapsed into a foreign language, but that’s all right. Sometimes it seeps through, especially with the young ones.
People would be surprised, Hodges thinks. They really would.
22
Brady Hartsfield changes into his other uniform—the white one—and checks his truck, quickly going through the inventory sheet the way Mr. Loeb likes. Everything is there. He pops his head in the office to say hi to Shirley Orton. Shirley is a fat pig, all too fond of the company product, but he wants to stay on her good side. Brady wants to stay on everyone’s good side. Much safer that way. She has a crush on him, and that helps.
“Shirley, you pretty girly!” he cries, and she blushes all the way up to the hairline of her pimple-studded forehead. Little piggy, oink-oink-oink, Brady thinks. You’re so fat your cunt probably turns inside out when you sit down.
“Hi, Brady. West Side again?”
“All week, darlin. You okay?”
“Fine.” Blushing harder than ever.
“Good. Just wanted to say howdy.”
Then he’s off, obeying every speed limit even though it takes him forty fucking minutes to get into his territory driving that slow. But it has to be that way. Get caught speeding in a company truck after the schools let out for the day, you get canned. No recourse. But when he gets to the West Side—this is the good part—he’s in Hodges’s neighborhood, and with every reason to be there. Hide in plain sight, that’s the old saying, and as far as Brady is concerned, it’s a wise saying, indeed.
He turns off Spruce Street and cruises slowly down Harper Road, right past the old Det-Ret’s house. Oh look here, he thinks. The niggerkid is out front, stripped to the waist (so all the stay-at-home mommies can get a good look at his sweat-oiled sixpack, no doubt) and pushing a Lawn-Boy.
About time you got after that, Brady thinks. It was looking mighty shaggy. Not that the old Det-Ret probably took much notice. The old Det-Ret was too busy watching TV, eating Pop-Tarts, and playing with that gun he kept on the table beside his chair.
The niggerkid hears him coming even over the roar of the mower and turns to look. I know your name, niggerkid, Brady thinks. It’s Jerome Robinson. I know almost everything about the old Det-Ret. I don’t know if he’s queer for you, but I wouldn’t be surprised. It could be why he keeps you around.
From behind the wheel of his little Mr. Tastey truck, which is covered with happy kid decals and jingles with happy recorded bells, Brady waves. The niggerkid waves back and smiles. Sure he does.
Everybody likes the ice cream man.