Authors: George V. Higgins
“Are there any guns in the house?”
She stared at Dowd, her eyes wild.
“Nooo,”
she said,
“you can’t shoot him.”
Dowd took her firmly by her right forearm and used his right hand to capture her left forearm so that he could bring down her left hand with the pilsner glass. That caused her to concentrate on not spilling the beer as he exerted gentle force on her arms, enough to maneuver her into sitting down on the green plastic chair. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Releasing her right forearm, he used his left hand to put her right hand in her lap and then to take the glass out of her left hand and put it in the center of the blotter on her desk. There was a chunk of lime
at the bottom of the glass. He used his right hand to place her left hand in her lap. He stepped back again, this time a full pace, cocking his head and regarding her as a careful house painter might look for brush marks or drips on a panel just completed. Elsewhere in the house Ferrigno called out “Mister Sexton?” at intervals; they could hear him opening and closing doors.
“Well, he’s not in a
closet
, you know,” she said with dull resentment, hearing the clacking sound Ferrigno made opening and closing a wooden folding door. She looked up into Dowd’s face, her eyes now flat and dull, her dark pink mouth pouched sullen. “He can’t get the chair into tight spaces.”
“Well, you see, Mrs. Sexton,” Dowd said pleasantly, as though informing a child that ice cream would not be served ’til later, “we don’t know the layout of this house the way you and Mister Sexton do, which doors’re for closets. So we have to assume every door’s a door into a room—or a space big enough for your husband to get into some way and hide in, since he doesn’t seem to want to come out and talk to us.”
“He’s not
hiding
,” she said, both grim and disdainful. “He’s not
afraid
of you. He doesn’t even know you’re
here.
He’s out inna
back
, inna screenhouse. Can’t hear you guys in here, hollerin’ at him.”
“Kind of chilly still, for the screenhouse, isn’t it?” Dowd said, edging toward the kitchen entry.
“ ’s where the grill is,” she said. “He’s got his jacket on. That’s where we keep the gas grill, all right? His father got the first screenhouse for summer, he could grill meat for his dinner ’thout the mosquitoes eatin’ him. Then he had the bright idea if he put in a cement floor inna thing out there, second winter after, then he’d be able, grill his meat year ’round. Can’t use a charcoal or a gas grill in your own house—suffocate. Inna fresh air inna screenhouse, you can.”
Dowd studied her, his mouth working. “No kidding,” he said.
“Oh yeah,” she said, not looking up, “I’m not kiddin’. His father did it so that inna winter when the ground got all wet, then even if it snowed or rained, he could go out there and charcoal-grill what they had for dinner. Golf’s only one reason he retired Arizona, and I don’t think it was the main one—out there he can grill year ’round, never need a jacket. Loves the taste of charcoaled meat. But tryin’ to keep smoke away here, he built the screenhouse too far from the house. I mean, he walked normal, everything, and he would try to hurry. But it’s too far, and he always had the same trouble Tim does inna wheelchair—even withah landing strip that he had put in. Had like a sidewalk paved out to there. Goes like a bat outta hell on it.
Zoo-oom.
” She made a planing, swooping motion with her hand. “When it snows he has a kid come shovel it. So he has a lot of fun, but it don’t change anything. Meat’s all cold after it’s ready, time he can get it back inside here onna the table. Hafta put it under the broiler innie oven. Heat it up.”
At the entry Dowd glanced back at her to make sure she wasn’t moving. Seeing she was sitting head down with her shoulders slumped, dispirited, in the green plastic chair, he stuck his head into the passage and shouted: “Henry, can you read me? She says he’s out in the back. Got a screenhouse out there and he’s cookin’ meat in it.”
“Filet
mignon
,” she said resentfully, looking up, as Ferrigno called back
“Yo,”
from some point farther in the house.
Dowd looked back at her, pursing his lips, still shouting at Ferrigno. “I
said
—
she
says he’s out inna screenhouse. Inna yard inna back. Charcoalin’
meat.
Take a look out, see ’f he’s there.”
“Aw right,” Ferrigno yelled. “Yeah, there’s a light out there.” Dowd heard a door open and bang shut.
“
’Grillin’
meat,’ I said,” she said, looking up, regaining spirit
as Dowd watched. Now she was deciding that his interest should make her feel better. “His father—strictly charcoal.” She straightened up, moving her shoulders back and forth. “Timmy—strictly propane. Says ah charcoal lighter, all it is is kerosene, makes too much
smoke
; gets in his stoma there, an’
chokes
him.” She reached across her chest with her right hand, using her thumb and forefinger to pluck at her left bra strap under the left sleeve of the yellow jersey, hiking it up and resettling it on her shoulder. Then she did the same thing with the right strap, using her left thumb and forefinger. She wiggled and bounced on the chair and inhaled. She moistened the dark pink lips with the tip of her tongue. “Plus gives the meat an oily taste. Can’t hack it.” She sat back in the chair now and nodded, satisfied that she was displaying herself properly.
“I see,” Dowd said.
“Uh huh,” she said. She regarded the pilsner glass on the desk thoughtfully. “Tonight, see, we’re celebrating.” On the speaker the Boston Pops segued into “In the Mood.” She sniffled. “Lou and Joie’re comin’ back up here again tonight. To help us celebrate.”
“This would be Lou …
Sargent
?” Dowd said.
“Yeah,” she said, “and his wife, Joie? Coming up here from South Dartmouth, soon as she gets out of work. Lou don’t have a job. Right now. I thought you’re them—they must’ve got here early. See, they were there
with
us,
saw
it—Rocky’s, down in Stoughton? Last Sunday afternoon.” She smiled. That’s why the filet mignons.” She paused expectantly, inviting a reply. Dowd kept his face expressionless and said nothing. “You know?” she said, helpfully.
“Well,” Dowd said, “I was trying to think. What it’d be that you’d be celebrating. But I couldn’t. Not first day of spring—that was last month. Not income tax day—that was a week ago.”
“
Income
tax day?” she said. “Who in
hell
’d celebrate
income tax
day?”
“Well,” Dowd said, “never personally had the good luck to’ve been one myself, I wouldn’t know this from experience, but I would think that people finding out that they’re getting big refunds on their taxes, they might think that was a pretty good reason to celebrate.”
“Oh,
yeah
,” she said, frowning, gnawing again on her lower lip. “I never thought of that.” She nodded. “I guess that could happen.” She glanced again at the pilsner glass; the foamy white head on the golden beer had subsided. She licked her lips. She said, “Say, uh,” nodding toward the beer, “ ’d it be all right if I was, you know, to drink some of that now? While you’re still here, I mean?”
Unable to stop himself, Dowd grinned at her. “Well now,” he said, “that’s an interesting question. Let’s consider it.
“This’s
your
house, right?” he said.
She nodded, bright-eyed now.
“And that there is
your
beer, right?” he said.
She nodded again.
“Corona,”
she said proudly.
“Which you’ve aleady had some of, right?” he said.
She blushed.
“In fact,” he said, “being something of a student of this sort of thing, having had a few beers myself, I would guess that maybe this one might be your …
second
?” She shook her head a little. “No?” he said. “Then this would be your …
third
… tonight?”
She nodded happily.
“But you’re over twenty-
one
,” he said, “so you are
legal.
” She nodded. “And you’re not
driving
, I can see.” She shook her head. “And you’re not
disturbing
anybody,” he said. She shook her head emphatically, grinning at their game. “Certainly not … the
peace
,” he said. He winked. She lifted her eyebrows and beamed. “We do know that, at least,” he said. She put her head back and giggled.
Dowd nodded, smiling. “Then I think it’s okay,” he said. “Go ahead and have some beer.”
She was reaching across her body with her left hand for the glass when the door somewhere in the house behind them opened and then banged shut again. She remembered Ferrigno had also come in, and gone out, and the fun vanished from her face. She frowned and started to get up.
“Back in with him, Loot,” Ferrigno yelled. “Out here in the dinette.” There were squeaking, banging and thrashing sounds.
“No,”
Ferrigno said. “You’re not goin’ in there. They’ll be comin’ right out here. Don’t give me no fuckin’
shit
now—I’ll take your fuckin’
mignons
and put ’em downah damn
disposal.
You just get over there behind that
table
, and you
lock
those fuckin’ wheels, and you stay fuckin’
put.
”
Theresa, making a soft cry that was not a word, came out of the chair, putting out her hands to fend off Dowd, but he stood aside to his left and turned his back to the kitchen entry, extending his right arm like a crossing gate, so that she ran into it and stopped. “Slow down now,” he said, keeping his voice soothing. “Take it easy. Let’s try to keep in mind here what your situation is. Your husband’s in the kitchen and he’s in police custody.”
She stared at Dowd, her eyes wild. “Under arrest, ma’am, yes, he is,” Dowd said, taking her by the forearms again as she raised her hands, now fists, to beat his chest. “Charged with conspiracy to possess and distribute narcotics, one charge out of many that we could bring. Have to choose from, you might say.” She tried to wrench out of his grip and could not. “But for the moment he’s right here and you are going to see him, as I assume you had in mind here when you raised your fists at me.”
She exhaled heavily, and disgustedly. “I’m a state police officer, ma’am,” he said. “I’m a
cop
, I guess I have to remind you. We’ve maybe been having a little too much harmless
fun
out here, you and me, than I should’ve been allowing, but don’t let
it mislead you. We ain’t pals, you and me, and it’s still a criminal offense to try to hit me.” She looked calculating. “Or try to kick me, or knee me—
anywhere, in any part of my body.
You got that? You do that, and forget about flirtin’, I’ll
hurt
you. You’re thinkin’ ’bout doing somethin’ like that,
don’t.
Understand?” She took a deep breath and nodded.
“Now, if you tell me you can behave yourself now, we’ll go out and see your husband. Or if you don’t I’ll have you cuffed to a radiator so fast it’ll make your head spin.” She scowled. “Oh-
kay
,” he said, “we’ll try it again.” Using her forearms he turned her around and sat her down on the green plastic chair again, hard.
“Now, damnitall Mrs. Sexton,” he said, “calm yourself down, all right, willya? Don’t make me arrest you for chickenshit stuff, A and B onna a cop?
Poof
, that’s
nothin’.
Lug teenage drunks for that alla time, every Saturday night. Whereas
you
, you got an excellent chance to be
different.
Right now, unless you make nice with the law, you got a very good chance of makin’ the big time. Because unless we start hearin’ something we haven’t heard here yet, me and Henry, like how much you both wanna help us, we’re gonna run you and your
dee
voted husband for some very—grown-up—offenses, such as major-league drug trafficking. Get you folks some
serious
time. Start with fifteen years apiece and then double it—at least, and that’s just gettin’ started.
“You’ll be
famous
, both of you—big-time desperadoes, inna headlines day or two. Course he’ll be close to eighty, next time you two get your jollies, and they won’t let you dress like that, ma’am, where you’re gonna go—other ladies’d go
mad.
But fame does have its price.” He smiled. “So’s that what you’d rather do?”
Her eyes were wider now than before, and her mouth formed a dark pink oval.
“Timmy!”
she yelled. “Don’t
say anything.
Don’t you say one word these guys.” Then she sat back, hunching her shoulders into the defensive posture, and stared at Dowd. “And I’m not gonna, either,” she said, her face and eyes
filled with hope that Dowd would allow her to carry out her defiance.
He nodded slowly. “Much better,” he said. “Now, would you like to take a moment, catch your breath and collect your thoughts here, or are you okay enough now so that we can go out into what I gather is the kitchen, join your husband and Trooper Ferrigno, and I’ll formally advise you both of your rights.”
She shook her head. “No,” she said, “I mean, I’m all right.” She stood up, rubbing her hands down the legs of her jeans as though smoothing a skirt around herself, humming softly and taking a very deep breath, apparently just wanting oxygen. Then at the end of the chorus, she smiled to herself and sang in an undertone, “But you just can’t kill the beast.”
D
OWD
SAW
THAT
THEY
WERE
a team. Under the expressionless steady gaze Ferrigno maintained on them, standing with his arms folded behind Sexton under the speaker and the grey plastic cuckoo clock mounted over the back door, they communicated as much by exchanging glances as by speaking words. The light in the kitchen and dinette, overcrowded by the four of them, came from two multicolored stained-glass Coca-Cola ceiling fixtures; it had a warm and cozy reddish glow. The speaker at low volume played the Boston Pops version of the Glenn Miller arrangement of “St. Louis Blues March.”
Dowd, standing between the refrigerator and the beat-up maple table, feeling as though he was intruding, read the Sextons their rights. While he was doing it Theresa removed a long rolled-up paper tube, secured by an elastic band, from the center of the table and put it on top of the refrigerator. Tim in his wheelchair efficiently collected the three place settings closest to him, stacking the plates at the opposite place in front of Dowd and putting the napkins and the cutlery on top of the stack. Theresa took it from the table and put it on the counter between
the stove and sink. “You understand these rights as I have read them to you?” Dowd said.