nature
both ensures the survival of the species and keeps the costs down.
I
waved the chart. "I was . . . trying to . . ."
"He's
stable. That's all they'll say."
"Stable
means?"
"Stable
means, he's got a severe skull fracture and two broken legs but is in
no immediate danger of dying. Whether or not he's going to stay like
this or for how long is anybody's guess."
Her
heels clicked as she crossed the room, took the chart from my hands,
and returned it to its place at the foot of the bed. No perfume; just
soap, leather, and hair spray drifted in her wake.
"What
happened?" I asked.
"He
was hit by a truck."
"Where?"
She
hesitated before answering. "On First Avenue."
"When
did this happen?"
"Three
days ago."
"Did
they get the driver?"
"It
wasn't his fault. He stopped. Heck walked right out from between
cars. There was no way he could have stopped in time."
"What
time of day was this?"
"Just
after midnight."
I
retrieved the chart and again pretended to study it. This called for
some discretion. Most of the things a guy could get on First Avenue
at midnight were not things you wanted to discuss with his wife.
"What
was he doing in that neighborhood at that time of night?"
When
I didn't get a response, I rephrased the question.
"Did
he have a meeting or something?"
My
question struck some kind of nerve. Marge heaved a sigh, pursed her
full lips, and reached a hand out toward me. She pulled the chart
from my hands and hugged it to her chest.
"This
isn't going to work," she said quietly. "This what?"
"This
. . . you . . . none of this. I thought maybe . . . you being a
detective and all. I'm sorry, Leo. You were just a wild idea I
had—but this isn't going to work." She turned away toward the
bed, fussing with the pillows, as if Heck knew the difference.
"I'd
like to help."
"Thanks
anyway, Leo," she said, continuing to prop and preen.
When
I didn't move, she tried again.
"Sorry
for wasting your time. I'll tell him you were by."
"He's
even easier to control when he's in a coma, isn't he?"
I
don't know where that came from. It crossed my lips before it ever
crossed my mind. I must have had it stored in some dank internal
warehouse where the collected injustices and indignities of
adolescence bide their time until that day when they'll all be sorry.
She turned slowly from the bed with that big smile.
"Leo,"
she said with a bit too much control, "get a grip. Better than
that, get a life. It's twenty-three years later. What? Am I supposed
to still feel bad about breaking up the Ballard Boys' Club?"
"Still?"
I countered lamely.
"You're
right."
She
stepped in close, nodding her head. We were eye to eye. Her face
makeup seemed to contain little specks of gold glitter.
"When
you're right, you're right, Leo. You always were the brightest of the
lot, so let's get this over with. I didn't feel guilty about it then,
and I don't feel guilty about it now. There. I said it. The man was
damn near thirty-five years old. I don't care about what you and the
other Lost Boys wanted. It was time for Superman to get on with his
life. You and the rest of those
perpetual
adolescents ought to try clicking your heels together and repeating
'I'll never grow up. I'll never grow up.' See if that works."
I
surprised myself again. "You could have done it differently."
She
pivoted and walked past me to the west wall. I figured she was going
to show me the door. Wrong again.
"I
was young," she said quietly. "I only knew what I wanted
and what was in my way. In those days, I didn't think much further
ahead than that. I was— what's the word?" She studied a
diamond-encrusted knuckle. "Smitten, I guess. I'd never seen
anything like him in my life. I mean, he wasn't my first or
anything."
She
turned to face me.
"I
was an early bloomer. They'd been after me since I was twelve. First
my uncle Jack, then anything else that could walk or crawl—but
nothing like Heck."
"He
was special," I agreed.
The
moment seemed to grant me a reprieve.
"Heck
and I hadn't talked much lately. He'd been sleeping on board."
"On
board what?"
"The
Lady Day."
"I
didn't realize you still had her."
"Oh,
well, we couldn't sell never-never-land, now could we?" The
bitterness crept back into her voice. "Hell, we borrowed money
at absolutely criminal rates when we expanded the business, rather
than sell the clubhouse. He wouldn't even use the damn thing as
collateral. He and Nicky were gonna—" She hugged the chart
tighter. "They've warned him. They've fined him. They've
threatened to take away his berth."
"Who's
warned him about what?"
"Sleeping
on board. There's no living aboard anymore. The city put a stop
to that years ago."
The
Lady Day was built to fish. She had berths all right and a galley and
the obligatory head, but nobody in their right mind was ever going to
mistake her for a five-star hotel. Whatever demons had driven Heck
from a warm spot next to Marge to the sparse shelter of the boat must
have been serious indeed.
"I'd
like to help," I offered again.
Marge
wandered over and leaned on the steel restraining rails of the bed.
She gazed absently at Heck as she spoke.
"You
know, he always kept track of you, Leo. He's got that famous picture
of you and the two . . . er . . . two working girls, in the fountain
in front of the Four Seasons, framed on his office wall."
That
particular incident not being the highlight of my career, I didn't
know what to say.
"He's
got an envelope in his desk with all these clippings about you and
your cases. All the times you made the papers. I found it the other
day when I was going through the desk trying to straighten things
out. That's when I thought maybe ... I don't know."
"I'd
like to help." Third time's the charm, right? "I'd consider
it a privilege to do anything for Heck that I can."
"What
about working for me? Would that be a privilege?" she asked.
"The way things are"—she put a hand on Heck's chest—"it
looks like. . . temporarily at least, you'd be working for me, not
for Heck."
She
patted him gently.
"You
and I will have to work it out as we go along," I said.
She
turned and looked me in the eye for a long moment. Her gaze had the
same unsettling effect on me that it had twenty-three years ago. This
time, I was the one who turned away.
"Fair
enough," she said.
I
pulled my notebook from my back pocket and turned around. She was
seated in the heavy blue chair next to the bed. I clicked my pen.
"Where
to start?" she said to no one in particular.
Usually,
by the time people come to me, they've told their story numerous
times and have it down to a science. Detectives aren't anybody's
choice for a first resort. Marge's manner suggested the opposite. I
had the feeling that I was the first person who was going to hear
whatever was to follow. As she spoke she looked at the unmoving Heck
as if at any moment he would rise up and save her from this painful
duty.
"Nicky
had—" I thought she was going to balk again, but instead she
plunged ahead. "Nicky was diagnosed with cancer about eighteen
months ago. Bone cancer." She hesitated. "For a while, it
looked like he was going to lose a leg. Then they said they had it
under control. Then, he needed to go for those treatments again.
Chemotherapy."
She
waved the words away.
"They're
a bunch of witch doctors. They can maybe slow it down but other than
that they don't have a clue."
She
sighed heavily and reached out to Heck again, stroking his cheek.
"Heck
took it hard. Harder than Nicky. Heck—" She began to edit
herself. "To make a long story short—"
"No
need," I said. "It's probably best if I hear it all."
She
nodded resignedly. "Heck took it hard. Nicky meant everything to
him. He must have forced that poor kid into about a dozen second
opinions. Nicky was like a pin cushion, but Heck just had to do
something. Couldn't stand feeling helpless. He just had to do
something to fix things. He always had to fix things." She
paused.
"Anyway,
when he got more or less the same diagnosis from everybody, Heck had
this harebrained idea. He and Nicky were going fishing together. Back
into business. They were going to refit the Lady Day and hit the high
seas together." She shook her head. "I don't know what he
was thinking. Other than taking the Clipper up to Victoria, Heck
hadn't been out on the water in ten years."
Another
pause, as she reminisced.
"Well,
we did have a little thirty-foot Sea Ray for a while there, but
somehow it just seemed to make him sad." She flicked a gaze in
my direction. "So we sold it."
"Heck
and Nicky were going fishing," I prompted.
"Heck
said it would take Nicky's mind off it all. That the sea air would do
him wonders. None of it made any sense, but he wouldn't listen, and
Nicky— well—he just idolized Heck. Whatever his dad said was
gospel."
She
was winding up now. "He gave Nicky the Lady Day. Signed it over
to him. He gave Nicky his trust fund so they could refit the boat.
They knew damn well they wouldn't get the money from me," she
added defiantly.
Catching
herself, she went on.
"The
boat was sound. Heck always kept it up, but it needed new
electronics. The navigational equipment and radar were out of date."
She
shot a murderous glance at the inanimate Heck. Her hands closed into
bejeweled fists. I recognized the signs. Her resolve was waning.
Clients often reach a point where they'd rather live with the
problem than have to finish telling the story to a stranger.
"And?"
I said.
"And,
they almost got it finished." "Then?" A chill ran down
my spine like a drop of icy rain. She transferred her glare to me.
"And then Miss Allison Stark came along." This time I
waited.
"Nicky
met her at one of his therapy sessions. I
don't
know what she was doing there. He used to go to these meetings with
other cancer patients. You know, support groups. Where they could
share. Heck hated it. He kept saying that Nicky didn't have cancer
like those other people. Not like lung cancer or liver cancer. He
couldn't face it, just couldn't stand it."
She
was losing her thread. I poked her back on track.
"Allison
Stark?"
"Allison
Stark Sundstrom," she snapped, angry I'd reeled her in. "They're
married?"
"They're
dead," she said quickly, hitching her breath. "Or that's
what everyone except Heck thought."
I
could hear Heck's smooth breathing, the muted hum of machinery
somewhere in the bowels of the building, a toilet flushing next door.
"Let's
start back with Allison Stark," I suggested.
"She
came over Nicky like . . ." Marge mused, "like . . ."
She
read my mind. "Yeah . . . like I did over Heck. But"—she
wagged a finger at me—"this was different."
"Different
how?"
"There
was something about that girl. It's hard to describe."
My
eyebrows gave me away.
"I
know that sounds strange, Leo, but it's true. From the minute I met
her, something in me knew the girl wasn't real."