Marked Man (17 page)

“Can you do me
a small favor?” said Monica Adair as we drove north on I-95.

“Sure,” I said.

“This might sound a little weird, but my mom and dad worry about me so much, and you might be able to put their minds at ease.”

“Whatever I can do.”

“Great, then you’ll, like, tell them we’re dating, right?”

“Excuse me?”

“They’re afraid I’m too often alone. They’ll be so reassured to know I have a boyfriend who’s a lawyer.”

“Monica, is that a good idea?”

“I know they might not be so happy about the lawyer part, but they’ll get over it.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“You can say you met me at work.”

“At the club?”

“No, silly. They think I’m a legal secretary. And your being a lawyer and my fake job being a legal secretary, it makes perfect sense that we would have a fake relationship.”

“Should I call you Hillary, too?”

“Why would you call me Hillary?”

“To be consistent.”

“I knew a girl named Hillary, once,” said Monica. “She wasn’t a legal
secretary, but she had a very nice figure. Not too smart, though. Thought Canada was a foreign country.”

“It is a foreign country.”

“That’s good, teasing me like that, just like a boyfriend would.”

“Monica, I’m not so comfortable lying to your parents.”

“Are you sure you’re a lawyer?”

“Pretty sure, though a lot of people seem to be doubting it lately. But if you’re so ashamed of your life, don’t lie about it, change it.”

“I’m not ashamed of what I do, I just have secrets. You don’t have any secrets, Victor? You tell everything about your personal affairs to your parents?”

I thought of the escapade with Sheila the night before. “Well, no.”

“There you go. Their life has been hard enough already, they don’t need to be burdened with the truth about mine. So the story is we met at the office and we’ve been dating for only a few weeks, but things are going really well.”

“What do we do together?”

“See movies, take walks. I cook you dinner. Veal parmesan.”

“Do you really?”

“No.”

“But I like veal parmesan.”

“I’ll fake-cook it.”

“Do I have a fake dog?”

“You did, but it died.”

“That’s a shame.”

“You’ll see, Victor, this is going to work out famously.”

I doubted very much that it would.

I was visiting Monica’s parents to learn what I could about the disappearance of Chantal Adair and its connection to Charlie Kalakos’s Rembrandt. That there should be a connection at all was too strange for words, but both girl and painting went missing almost thirty years ago, and each seemed to be of great concern to the family Hathaway, father and daughter. None of it made any sense, but I was not naïve enough to assume it was all a coincidence. I could no longer believe that the tattoo was evidence of a deep and abiding love found during
my missing night. There was something else going on, something dark and as of yet inexplicable. But I was going to figure it out, yes I was, and when I found who the hell had induced me to tattoo the name on my chest, a price would be paid.

“And you’re sure they won’t mind talking about your sister?” I said to Monica as I parked the car in front of a small, tidy house.

“Don’t worry.”

“It must be difficult for them to discuss.”

“Not at all,” she said. “Chantal is their favorite topic of conversation.”

There are canyons of loss among us, chasms of pain hidden behind well-tended lawns and freshly painted exteriors. Drive by a seemingly innocuous house and you can feel the tug, like a deep, swirling ache reaching out to pull you in, and all you want to do is keep driving until you slide into shallower, more placid waters. These are churches of sadness and doom, where voices remain hushed and candles burn in sad remembrance. Lower your gaze, speak with soft reverence, hunch your shoulders, stifle your joy. Such was the Adair household on a narrow residential street not far from the western mouth of the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge, just a stone’s throw from where Ralph Ciulla had been murdered.

“Mommy, Daddy,” said Monica, suddenly hugging my arm as the door opened, not giving me the chance to step away. “This is my new boyfriend, Victor.”

“Hi,” I said, trying and failing to take back my arm.

Mr. Adair was lean and gray, stoop-shouldered, parched by life, looking like a dried-out seventy even though still in his fifties. His smile was pained, his handshake thin, his averted eyes glassy, as if he had been throttled just moments before I arrived.

“So you’re the young man Monica has told us about,” he said.

I glared at Monica. “That would be me.”

“Come in, please,” said Mrs. Adair, a wraith with black eyes and nervous hands. “I put out some Chex Mix. I hope you like Chex Mix.”

“It’s my favorite.”

“And you simply must meet Richard.”

“My brother,” said Monica.

“Of course,” I said. “Your brother, Richard. The whole family.”

“Not quite the whole family,” said Mr. Adair.

“But Richard so enjoys guests,” said Mrs. Adair, “and he’s especially looking forward to meeting you.”

“I bet,” I said.

He didn’t get up when first he spied me. Richard Adair looked like he wouldn’t get up for a tornado. His heavy hips spread out on the couch as if planted there. Sweatpants, Eagles jersey, stocking feet propped on the coffee table with the tips of his socks flopping over his toes. He was about a decade older than me, big and balding, with a round face and graying mustache. A bunch of billboards were roaring around some oval piece of asphalt on the television, and Richard kept staring at the tube as if, instead of the current running order, the secret of the universe was about to be broadcast and he was just waiting to sneer at it.

“Richard,” said Mrs. Adair as if to a spoiled child. “Monica’s brought her friend to the house.”

“I’m watching here,” said Richard. “What do you think?”

“Richard loves his television,” said Mrs. Adair. “When he’s not on the computer, you can always find him in front of the television.”

“We got a big one from Best Buy,” said Mr. Adair. “What is it, Richard, the thin-screen thing?”

“LCD.”

“It was on sale.”

“Can you keep it down?” said Richard. “I’m watching.”

The living room had that closed-in, windows-painted-shut feel, stifling and hot. We set ourselves on the various pieces of furniture, Monica still clutching my arm, as if she were the one in foreign territory. There were pictures of saints clustered on one of the walls, and plates painted with clowns with their big sad eyes on another. Chex Mix was scattered about in various bowls. I wasn’t lying, I always liked Chex Mix, and Mrs. Adair didn’t just open the boxes and stir, she did the whole margarine and Worcestershire sauce baking thing, which filled the house with a savory scent while imparting to the Chex Mix a nice garlicky crunch.

“Lovely Chex Mix, Mrs. Adair,” I said.

“Thank you. Richard, dear, Victor is a lawyer, did you know that?”

No answer from Richard. I guess he knew.

“NASCAR is on,” said Mr. Adair in explanation. “The racing cars.”

“Yes, I know,” I said. “Who among us doesn’t love NASCAR?”

Mrs. Adair clapped her hands together and rubbed. “So how long have you two kids been an item?”

“Not too long,” I said.

“When Monica called and said she had a date with a young man she met at work, we were just so thrilled. You would think someone as pretty as our Monica wouldn’t have trouble finding a young man, but she is very particular.”

“Oh, Mommy, stop it.”

“She works all day and then just stays at home all night, poor thing. She needs to get out more. Don’t you think so, Victor?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” I said.

“What kind of law do you do?” asked Mr. Adair.

“All kinds, but mostly criminal law.”

“We don’t like criminals in this family.”

“Well, they’re not as popular as NASCAR, I give you that, but they still have rights.”

“What about the rights of the victims?”

“Stop it, Daddy,” said Monica. “Daddy’s been watching too much cable news. He thinks he’s O’Reilly.”

“The man makes good points. He’s a pillar.”

“So was Lot’s wife,” I said.

“I hate lawyers,” said Richard, without looking away from the television. “Greedy little buggers, all of them.”

“I suppose we are,” I said. “But it’s a capitalist country, right? Where would we be without greedy little buggers?”

“What’s it like making money off other people’s heartbreak?” said Richard, still without turning his head in my direction. “I mean, a guy breaks his leg, you make money. A guy breaks his head, you make more money. No matter how crippled the victim, you make out like a thief. It must sicken your heart.”

“But the cardiologists these days can do wonders,” I said. “What do you do, Richard?”

“Richard is between things,” said Mrs. Adair. “More Chex Mix, Victor?”

“No, ma’am, I’m fine. Thank you.”

“You bagging my sister yet?” said Richard.

“Excuse me?”

“Richard, shut up,” said Monica.

“I’m just asking,” said Richard. “I’m allowed to ask.”

“Something to drink, everyone?” said Mrs. Adair. “Tea?”

“Tea would be lovely,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Monica, why don’t you help me in the kitchen? There’s another batch of Chex Mix in the oven. It’s especially nice hot out of the oven, don’t you think, Victor?”

“Oh, absolutely. What kind of margarine do you use?”

“Oh, heavens, I wouldn’t use margarine. Only real butter in my Chex Mix.”

“It shows.”

The two women departed for the kitchen, and the three men were left with nothing but the sound of engines roaring out of the television set. The announcers got excited about something, Richard belched, Mr. Adair pushed himself out of his chair to hit the head. I swirled some Chex Mix in my fist.

“Who’s winning?” I said to be friendly.

“Some guy with a hat,” said Richard. “Do you care?”

“No.”

“Neither do I. Can I be frank?”

“Sure, and I’ll be Sam.”

“We both know Monica isn’t the brightest bulb in the shed. We both know you’re not dating her for her taste in literature. So I figure you got to be bagging her. I mean, if you’re not, and I’m talking about bagging her steady, giving her the old heave-ho night and day and night and day, then really, what’s the point?”

“Nice mouth on you, Richard.”

“I’m just saying.”

“She’s your sister.”

“Yeah, sure, I know, but my God, look at her. Have you seen those legs? They go up to her chin. And her breasts are, like, perfect.”

“How do you know that?”

“Sometimes she sunbathes in the back and loosens her top. I just sit up in my room and stare out the window.”

“Richard, you’re being creepy.”

“Listen. There are girls on the Internet not half as hot as Monica making a fortune just by spreading their legs and lifting their shirts for the camera. With the package she’s carrying, she could make double, triple, but she’s wasting it all in that stupid law office.”

“She does good work in that office,” I said.

“Maybe you could talk to her for me.”

“About what?”

“I’ve got this idea of opening a Web site. ‘Monicaland dot com,’ we’d call it. I’ve already reserved the domain name. I’d do all the work, all the designing and maintenance, answer all the e-mails for her. I’d even pretend to be her in the Monicaland chat room. All she has to do is let me take some pictures. We could make a fortune.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’d be doing all the work, and the money we make could set her up for life. I’d give you a cut, too, if you convince her.”

“You’ll have to dress better, Richard, if you’re going to be a pimp.”

“Hey, I’m just looking out for my sister. I just want to build her up a nest egg. That’s the way my family is—we look out for each other. And let me tell you, if you want to keep bagging my sister day and night, like you’re doing now, you’ll go along.”

“Or else what?”

“I knew it was you as soon as you walked in the room. I seen you on the TV. You’re the guy representing that Charlie Kalakos guy with the painting.”

“What about it?”

“Here’s the deal. You talk to Monica about our Web site and I won’t tell my parents who you are.”

“Why would I care if you tell? What does one have to do with the other? I’m a little lost here, Richard.”

“There’s a connection, trust me.”

“Oh, is there?” I got up, stepped over the television, stood right in front of it, the vroom vroom going on behind me. Richard craned his neck to try to see around me, found it futile, looked at me for the first time and then away. His eyes were yellow, his skin flabby and white like an overworked dough.

“You want to tell me about it?” I said.

“I’m trying to watch,” he said.

“Okay, I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your NASCAR.” I moved from in front of the television, around the coffee table, and sat smack on the couch, so close our hips were rubbing.

He tried to slide away, but I slid with him. He watched the racing, I watched him, watched him wilt under my gaze. I knuckled his head, twice, and he just shrank away, like a slug shrinking away from salt.

“What’s the connection, Richard?”

“Forget about it.”

“No, I want to hear.”

“It’s not important.”

“Sure it is.”

“What are you doing here? Get the hell out of here. Leave me alone, or I’m going to tell Monica you hit me.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” I said. I leaned close, so close my lips were almost touching his ear. “Here’s a lesson for you, boy. There are two types of people in the world, users and tools. You want to be a user, you want to turn your sister into a whore, but you’ll always be just a tool. And you want to know why? Because you have to be able to read people to be a user, and you are functionally illiterate. See, here’s the thing, Richard: You thought I came here because I have the hots for Monica, that I have her name tattooed on my lustful little heart, but you’re wrong. She’s not the Adair whose name I have tattooed on my heart. How do you like them apples?”