Speak Ill of the Living (10 page)

They followed him to a sunroom, where Sandra Lime was waiting. She was short and petite, maybe five foot four, with a pointy chin and thin, colorless lips. Her skin was smooth and perfect, her eyes a striking deep brown. Her hair was speckled with gray, and cut as short as Eddie's. The style might have looked too boyish on a less attractive woman, but on her, it worked. She wore a tailored grey pants suit, over a white blouse and a simple string of pearls.

“You're the writer,” Sandra Lime said to Eddie. Her voice was ragged, too old for the rest of her.

Eddie nodded. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Ma'am is for old ladies,” she said. “Call me ma'am again and I'll sic Vincent, my doorman, after you.” She didn't smile.

Was that a joke?

“And you're the assistant,” Sandra Lime said to Bobbi.

“I am,” she said. “But you must be Sandra's
daughter
. Is your mother available?” She smiled sweetly.

“You I like,” Mrs. Lime said in the same sharp tone. “Follow me. We'll talk in the den.” She spun and marched off.

Bobbi turned to Eddie, flashed a smile full of teeth and followed Sandra Lime. Eddie came last, taking his time, peeking into a room with greenhouse-style windows, a library with rows of built-in bookcases and a bathroom that smelled like strawberries. The den was a pine-paneled room crammed with burgundy leather furniture, a liquid plasma television hung like a painting, and a six-sided poker table covered with red felt. Original watercolors of yachts and seashores decorated the walls.

It had the feel of a hunting lodge, comfortable but not over-the-top. Eddie recalled Roger Lime's biography—he had grown up a street hockey player in the middle-class Lowell Highlands neighborhood; his wealth was earned, not bred into him. And despite his reputation as a hard businessman, many people who knew Lime insisted that the bank president didn't take himself too seriously.

“I want a chamomile,” Sandra Lime announced. She put her hands on her hips.

Eddie couldn't decide if she was offering a round of tea.

“Milk and three sugars in mine,” Bobbi ventured.

“Nothing here,” Eddie said.

Sandra left without another word. When Eddie was confident she was out of earshot, he leaned to Bobbi and said, “This is strange.”

“She's a little strict, maybe, but I wouldn't say strange.”

“No, I mean look at this place—obviously her husband's game room, yet there are no pictures of him anywhere.”

Bobbi glanced around. “I hadn't noticed.”

“There were no pictures of Roger Lime in the hall, or any of the other rooms we passed, either.”

“Maybe she put them away because they were too painful to look at.”

Eddie was about to argue the point, but stopped when Sandra Lime returned with a tall chrome teapot on a silver tray, and two clear glass mugs.

“Fix it how you want it,” she told Bobbi.

They reclined on leather. Sandra Lime sipped clear tea, and then got to the point. “I don't know what you're writing about my husband, Mr. Bourque, and I don't care. I would only caution you that the final chapter has
not
been written, and if you publish a piece prematurely, you are sure to be embarrassed.”

Eddie took out his notebook. “How do you mean?”

She stared through him. “I mean that Roger has jerked me around with one childish prank after another for more than twenty years of marriage and I'm
sick
of it.”

Eddie fought the urge to give Bobbi the I-told-you-so glance. He focused on Sandra Lime. Her forehead was tight, her left hand balled into a little fist, her right gripping the mug tightly.

Bobbi interjected, “So your husband was a joker?”

Sandra wet her lips with her tongue. “His immaturity was charming at first, when I was young. Back then he seemed childlike, not child
ish
. For an overeducated girl raised by nuns in parochial school, Roger was…” She looked away in thought; had a sip of tea, “…he was liberating.”

She paused. Eddie thought about prodding her with a question, but decided to wait. Silence can be a great inquisitor; it inspires people to explain.

Bobbi interrupted the quiet: “But he went too far, right?”

Sandra frowned at the question. Eddie ground his teeth.

Don't blow it, Bobbi!

She didn't. Sandra Lime started a story:

“Five years ago, Roger was out sailing, alone, off the coast of Hull, when he ran up onto a sandbar—I think he was drunk, but I've never proven it. He left the boat at low tide and waded to shore, ran into an old fraternity friend, and went off to drink port wine and play darts, or some such thing. The Coast Guard found his boat, abandoned, saw some fish blood on the deck, and concluded that Roger must have hit his head and dropped overboard.”

Sandra Lime paused to warm her tea with a splash from the teapot.

“The report of his
accident
made the radio,” she said. “Roger thought it was the most hilarious joke. He could have called in and reported himself safe, but instead he had his friend drive him home so he could watch me mourn for him.” She stared out the window with narrow eyes. “I should have thrown a party. That would have shown him. I swore that I'd leave the very day he ever pulled a stunt like that again.

“The whole matter was a terrible embarrassment when it made the paper around here, and the Coast Guard sent a bill for ten thousand dollars in reimbursement for the time they spent searching for him.” She sighed, angrily. “Roger paid them in nickels—he thought it was funny.”

“I don't remember seeing that story,” Eddie said.

“You were working in Vermont,” Bobbi reminded him.

“So last spring,” Sandra continued, “when the police said he was abducted, I was unable to be afraid. When they told me he was dead, I was unable to mourn. When I opened his will and saw that he wanted his ashes buried in a
green
coffin…” She trailed off and looked into her tea.

Bobbi was sitting forward, like she was about to spring at Sandra Lime.

She'll get there, Bobbi…take it easy!

Sandra whimpered, then quickly caught herself and said flatly, “When will that man stop tormenting me? I picture his funeral in my head and I wonder if he was there, in a disguise, counting the tears on every face to see who missed him most. I just want to know that he's alive, so I can get out of this purgatory, between widow and wife. I just want to slap his face and file for divorce.”

She thinks it's a joke.

Mrs. Lime thought her husband had arranged his own kidnapping. There was certain logic to the theory—it would be easier to hide a man who
wanted
to be hidden. He could vanish for a few months, maybe with a mistress in the Bahamas, and then return in pictures as if by magic—or by miracle. But Sandra was overlooking something.

“What about the bones?” Eddie asked. “In the car. Those were
somebody's
bones, if not your husband's.”

She looked at Eddie, wide-eyed at what the question implied. “Roger is sick,” she said, suddenly defending him. “But he wouldn't have
killed
someone over a prank.” She looked at Bobbi, who nodded with gentle reassurance.

Bobbi said to her, “Your husband could have paid somebody to steal a skeleton from an old family graveyard—not that it's
right
to do that.”

“A crime,” Sandra agreed, “but not murder.”

Both women looked to Eddie, as if waiting for him to validate what they both believed for their own reasons—that Roger Lime had faked his own abduction. “I don't know,” Eddie said, softly, though he wanted to believe as badly as they did.

Chapter 13

The cab left Eddie and Bobbi on Merrimack Street, in downtown Lowell, in front of the Dunkin Donuts. It was a short walk for Bobbi back to her hotel, and an even shorter walk for Eddie to get another coffee. It was getting close to noon, and Eddie remembered that they hadn't eaten.

“Do you want a hot chocolate or a slice of pizza?” he offered. “There's a good place around the corner.”

“Too much to do, too much to think about,” Bobbi said. “I'm going to try to call Henry, if he has any phone time left.” She stared at him. “Your brother is one stubborn son of a bitch, but I'm going to try my best to convince him it's worth fighting for his freedom.”

Eddie knew what she was saying. She wanted him to talk to Henry. He looked to the gum-stained sidewalk. “You're his wife,” he said. “I barely know him.”

She laughed softly.

Eddie couldn't see the joke. “What?”

“You barely know him?” she said, tears in her eyes. “Ed, you
are
him. Jesus—the two of you are like little clones.”

“Huh? Because we're both gullible?”

“Yes, that's one thing. There's about a million others.” She reached for him, stroked his neck tenderly one time. “I talk to you and I hear Henry. Like him or not, he's your family. And I promise that if you got to know him, you'd like him.”

Eddie sighed heavily. “For my whole life, Henry has been my dark secret,” he said. “My closest friends in this city think I'm an only child.”

She stepped back and looked at him intensely.

“I see it now,” she said. “The shame—a lifetime of it—weighing you down. You're afraid to let it go. How come?”

She waited. Eddie wouldn't answer. She answered for him: “Your shame is some kind of badge of honor for you. ‘Look at me,' you can say, ‘I'm so
good
, not like that nasty person in jail.'”

She had struck close to the truth, but hadn't reached deep enough. “That's not exactly right,” Eddie said, surveying inside himself for the answer. He couldn't see it; it was hiding from him.

Bobbi let out a deep breath and then slumped a little. “Enough berating on my part,” she said. “For now.” She playfully punched Eddie's shoulder. “Just think about it. You have nothing to lose and a brother to gain. I'll bet he'd give you a battle across a chessboard.”

Eddie smiled. “Are you sure you don't want lunch?”

She nodded and hurried off. “I'll be in touch. Thanks, little brother-in-law.”

It wasn't like Bobbi to turn down free food, but Eddie didn't complain. He had a meeting with Lew Cuhna in just over two hours, and he had to solve his transportation problems.

But first, more coffee. He bought a hazelnut with cream, and then used his cell phone to dial Durkin at
The Daily Empire
.

After four rings came the answer, “Yo.”

“Durk, it's Eddie Bourque looking for another favor.”

Durkin chuckled. “The ink truck doesn't come again for two weeks, skinny boy,” he teased. “Can you fit in my duffle bag?”

“Different kind of favor—not newspaper files.”

“Wanna see if you can fit in the bag anyway?”

Eddie smiled. “That's it, old man,” he said. “I will beat you with your own crutches if you don't shut your friggin' pie hole and
listen
for two seconds.”

Durkin laughed like a revving chainsaw: “Ha-ha-ha-HAAAAA! HAA!”

“I need transportation,” Eddie said, “and I know you're something of a gear head. Can you save me from blowing any more beer money on cab fare?”

“Mmmm,” Durkin said. Eddie could picture him stroking his stiff beard. “Possible, Bourque. What's your criteria? Fast? Roomy? Off-road capability?”

“Cheap.”

“Ha! Cheap we can do. A buddy I served with in Vietnam just croaked—God rest his soul.” Durkin quietly blessed himself, “…name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost.” He continued, “So my buddy's widow gave me his wheels, which I can't use because my left leg is stuck in a cypress tree about nine thousand miles from here, and I haven't had time to modify the vehicle. You can take it as a loaner, until we can track down something you might want to pay for.”

“I need it now,” Eddie said.

“Of course you do, you demanding little bastard. You know Tony's place?”

“The Italian restaurant?”

“Naw, the other Tony. The auto-garage.”

“I thought the cops shut him down for making book.”

“He's open again. Got acquitted after a witness refused to testify—he got cold feet.”

“Better than cement feet, I guess,” Eddie said.

“Meet me at Tony's in twenty minutes and I'll hook you up with a new ride.” Durkin chuckled in a way that put a lump in Eddie's throat.

***

Tony's place was a one-story white clapboard garage that sagged in the middle. There were two rusted double-gravity gas pumps outside that probably hadn't moved fuel since Henry Ford stopped here for a fill-up. The side lot was dirt and weeds, with dark oil spots and a row of junked cars—old Buicks, first-generation mini-vans, an ancient green Packard with what looked like bullet holes in the door and—Eddie gasped!—a Chevy Chevette, with four flat tires and patchwork body of Bondo and primer.

I'm in love
.

Tony was a stocky guy in his late forties, with rough curly hair, a short black beard, and a limp. He was reading a
Phantom
comic book when Eddie arrived.

Durkin showed up in his black Corvette two minutes after Eddie. He climbed out of the car on his crutches, nodded to Eddie, and then flipped Tony his middle finger.

“I'll snap that thing off and pick my teeth with it,” Tony warned.

“How's your foot?” Durkin asked.

Tony shrugged. “Screws are pressing against the skin,” he said. “I'm going back next month to get the plate taken out.”

“Or I could just countersink the screws into the bone for you,” Durkin offered. “Lend me a drill.”

They both laughed, and Durkin explained to Eddie, “Biker humor. Everybody gets mangled eventually.”

Eddie pointed to the Chevette. “How much?”

Tony looked it over, and then squinted toward heaven, looking like he was performing some complicated calculus in his head. “For that piece of shit, three hundred.”

“Sold!” Eddie said.

“And an extra three hundred if you want us to put the engine back in, add some respectable pre-owned tires, and sneak it past the inspector.”

Eddie frowned.
Love hurts
. “How about five hundred?”

Tony smiled. “Gimme a week.”

“In the meantime,” Durkin said, “I'm lending him Chuckie's old ride. Can you bring it around?”

Tony nodded. “If it fucking starts, sure.”

Eddie watched him limp around the garage, and then said to Durkin, “I really owe you this time, man.”

Durkin patted Eddie's shoulder. “Wait till you see it!”

From behind the garage came a deafening bark, like the sound of battle between two Gatling guns. Tony came riding around the building on the most decrepit motorcycle Eddie had ever seen. Durkin beamed. Tony drove a circle around them, and then killed the engine.

Eddie stared at it, open-mouthed. He said, “What the hell…is
that
?”

“My buddy's old rat bike,” Durkin answered.

The motorcycle was painted flat black. It had old-fashioned spoke wheels, a tractor-style seat in the shape of an ass, and black leather saddlebags with brass rivets and leather fringe on the flaps. A greasy black drive chain stretched to the rear wheel. There was no chrome or plastic anywhere on the bike, and every square inch of machine was caked with dusty black grime.

“It looks like what the barbarians rode to chase Mad Max after the apocalypse,” Eddie said.

“Mm-hm,” Tony said, proudly. “Hardtail frame wrapped around a Harley shovelhead engine.”

“Forward controls,” Durkin added. He patted the handlebars. “Ever ride a bike with ape hangers like this? They get your hands in the air so the wind can yank out your armpit hair.”

Durkin and Tony laughed.

Eddie's mouth went dry.

“Is it leaking?” Eddie asked.

“Aw, shit, Bourque, that ain't nothing,” Durkin said. “Don't park it in your living room if you're afraid of a little oil.”

“Better the bike leaking than the rider,” Tony added. He climbed off, then brushed his hand over the gas tank, which was scuffed and dented. “Had a little road rash when Durk brought it in. I hammered out the worst of it.”

Eddie took a closer look. The bike's previous owner had wrapped rosary beads around the handlebar cables, and had glued a two-inch crucifix to the tank, next to a small metal heart. Eddie looked even closer. “A Purple Heart,” he said.

Durkin explained, “Yeah, Chuckie got his medal in Vietnam the same day I got mine. We met in the hospital.” He looked over the bike, smiling like a proud father. “Sweet machine, huh Bourque?”

Eddie looked to the ground. He kicked a pebble, embarrassed. “Uh, I've never ridden a motorcycle before.”

“Never? Not one time?”

“Does renting a motor scooter on the Vineyard count?”

“Not one bit.”

“Then never.”

Tony shrugged and offered: “It's a fuckin rat bike, just ride it like you stole it.”

“He probably needs some more specific instruction,” Durkin said.

Tony frowned, thought it over and explained, “Down here on the right-hand side, you flip out this kick-start pedal, pull out the choke, and stomp here to fire it up—assuming it starts.”

“Assuming,” Durkin agreed.

“Then ease the choke back a bit. This handlebar lever, here on the left, is the clutch. With your left foot, you have your gearshift. First gear is down and the next three are up.”

“It's why I can't ride it,” Durkin said, wistfully. “Can't shift the gears.”

Tony continued, “Your right foot works the rear brake, right hand works the front brake.”

Eddie's stomach was tightening. “Should I not use the front brake?” he said. “I don't want to fly over the handlebars.”

Tony slapped his own forehead and cried, “That's a negative! This isn't the ten-speed you pedaled to school, boy! Most of your braking power is in the front. An old lump of scar tissue like
me
could ride all day on just the rear brake, but a virgin like
you
would depart this life with a mouthful of road salt. But don't forget to
use
your rear brake, too, and don't lock it up, but if you do lock it up, keep it locked up until you stop. If you let that rear wheel grab traction again in a skid, you'll do a high-sider.”

Eddie didn't ask for a definition of high-sider—his brain was swimming with Tony's instructions. It was enough to know that a high-sider probably included the wail of an ambulance and six months of physical therapy.

“If something's in your way,” Tony continued, “don't look at it. You'll get target fixation and bore right into the obstacle. Look for your opening instead, and you'll steer right into it. Okay? Any questions?”

The movie in Eddie's head was a full-color loop tape of his battered body turning cartwheels down Route 495 at seventy miles per hour.

“Is this even legal?” Eddie wondered.

Tony shrugged. “The bike's muffled enough to not be a cop magnet, and the tires have just enough tread to pass. It's registered and inspected—though I think the sticker might be stolen. Whatever. Just ride like you're not afraid to be pulled over and you probably won't be.”

“Don't I need a special license?”

He gave a backhand wave. “Eh, who knows? I've never had one.”

Eddie thought about why he shouldn't take the bike—there were about a hundred reasons. But he couldn't keep taking cabs everywhere.

“I dunno, guys,” Eddie said.

Durkin slapped Eddie on the back and sent him staggering two steps. “C'mon Bourque! Who wants to live forever?”

“Well, not forever, necessarily, but I was looking forward to the weekend.”

Tony grinned. “I got what you need.” He limped to the garage, reached inside the door and came back with a small can.

Durkin smiled. “Industrial degreaser,” he explained.

Eddie didn't trust their smirks. “Am I suppose to use it on the bike?”

Tony flipped open a saddlebag and dropped the can inside, into a mess that looked like Eddie's junk drawer at home.

“This is a courtesy for the Department of Public Works,” Tony said, “to help them scrub your grease spot off the road the next time this bike lays down in a curve.” He slapped Durkin high-five and they both laughed.

Durkin traced the Sign of the Cross again. “Like good ol' Chuckie.”

Eddie looked over the fresh scuff marks on the fuel tank, and frowned. “Durkin,” he said, “exactly how did good ol' Chuckie die?”