The Accidental Pallbearer (14 page)

At the bank, Donatella Tomasi calls Silvio Conte and tells him that his son is coming down with something and that he made up a story, he lied about “that woman in California … No, he didn’t make up any stories about you … I swear to God … (She laughs.) No, he didn’t suggest you were behind
September 11
^th
 … or the Kennedy assassination … Can I bring you anything from Ricky?… (She laughs.) I’ll ask but I don’t believe Ricky sells filial devotion … I agree, I do, Daddy, that after a certain age we have nothing left to rely on but our sense of humor … Not true … I’m getting to that age.”

Conte awakes at 2:00
P.M.
Has Synakowski responded?

Having seen the error of his ways, his fever unabated, Conte
will risk dehydration and resolves to take no more liquids – with the exception of that cup of steaming chicken bouillon and three swigs of Excaliber which comprise the entirety of his late lunch. He calls Enzo Raspante to say that he must renege on his dinner invitation because of flu-like symptoms and Raspante replies, “Me too, who gave it to who? I don’t remember a romantic episode, do you?” Conte replies that he doesn’t “recall it either, but my memory isn’t what it used to be.” Raspante tells him that he’ll call Donny and “give the okay to give the photos to you whenever.” An hour later, Enzo calls to tell him the photos are waiting.

He picks up the photos and, too eager to wait until he gets home to examine them, begins to open one of the smaller envelopes when a late-model BMW pulls up a few parking spaces away. The driver emerges and walks hurriedly into Donny’s. The driver is Jed Kinter. Confident that he hasn’t been noticed, his paranoia on the rise, Conte drives rapidly away.

He’s spreading out five eight-by-tens on his desk. Arraying the larger ones on the floor. The eight-by-tens include DePellaccio (
great fuckin’ actor
) in back spasm, face contorted, bent over, at the rear of the hearse, casket not yet withdrawn; a man from behind in a black suit at the rear right side of the casket, hoisting; casket at the foot of the steps to Saint Anthony and the man in the black suit, dark glasses, visible in profile; casket still at the foot of the steps and the man in three-quarters profile glancing at the camera; man in
black from behind, casket at open doors of the church. The five photos on the floor are detail eighteen-by-twenty-four blow-ups of the man in black. He appears to match the description given by Janice McPherson.

Conte’s fever is down to 99.5°. He’s suddenly quite hungry, but has no energy for cooking. Takes a package of Genoa salami from the refrigerator and eats five slices. A handful of spicy olives. Four Ritz crackers slathered with peach jelly. A few modest swigs of Excaliber. Opens his computer and searches the archive of the
Observer-Dispatch
. The day of the murders was a day of heavy overcast with a threat of light showers. (
Dark glasses
.) He calls Janice McPherson at the college. Could she meet for coffee, say, at 8:00?… How about the Wendy’s at Oneida Square?… Okay, your house … Some photos I need to show you … Yes, Janice, related to our discussion.

No sooner does he put the phone down than it rings. Tootsie: “El, I can’t put this in an e-mail, which is why I’m calling. Raymond DePellaccio deposited nine thousand dollars, in 450 twenty-dollar bills, one week before the murders. He was one of ours. He withdrew all of it about five weeks later. Jeez, I shouldn’t be doing this.”

In a light rain, Conte hurries to her door. It opens before he has the chance to knock. She’s dressed to kill. He thinks she’s attractive. He thinks she’s ready for some action. He wants to banish the thought, and does, sort of.

“This weather,” she says. “Utica.”

“Good evening, Janice.”

They sit at the dining room table, which is set with expensive china and silverware. A carrot cake and homemade chocolate chip cookies.

She says, “Coffee? Tea?”

He wants to say neither, already feeling the urge to pee. Instead, he says, “You wouldn’t happen to have ginger twist, would you, Janice?”

She replies that she does and adds, with apparent irrelevance, “My son is out of town on business.” He understands the relevance.

She goes to the kitchen. He calls out, “Could you tell me where the restroom is?”

“Of course I could!” Laughing, warm and soft.

When he returns, she’s pouring his tea, saying “I decided to have what you’re having, Detective.”

“It’s nice tea. Hope you enjoy it.”

“I’ll enjoy it, Detective, why wouldn’t I if you do?”

He’s thinking, It’s been a while, approximately 114 years. Why not? He says, “I’m eager for you to see these photos.”

“What are they of?”

“I really can’t be sure, which is where you come in. Tell me what you think. There’s no right or wrong.”

“Okay.”

He’s thinking, Too sick to give her what she’s after. Maybe what I’m after.

“Detective, if I may say so, tonight you don’t look quite like yourself.”

“Who do I look like, Janice? George Clooney?”

She smiles and says, “Oh, you know what I mean. Are you feeling okay?”

“A little off, but okay enough. (
But not enough to
.) Showing her now the eight-by-tens.

After a moment she says, “Are you showing me what I think? He looks like … hard to say, really. I think, though … fifteen years is a long time.”

“Look at these,” showing her the blow-ups.

“That’s Jed’s visitor!”

“You’re positive?”

“Absolutely one-hundred percent! Why is he at a funeral?”

“Why indeed.”

“This is mysterious.”

“It is and it isn’t.”

“You won’t tell me?”

“After I solve the mystery.”

He’s sipping his tea, very small sips. Considering the low-cut blouse, unbuttoned down to her – enjoying the carrot cake immensely when she picks up two of the blow-ups, the full-length profile and three-quarter shots, and says, “I’m seeing something I bet you didn’t see, Detective.”

“What’s that?”

“Guess!”

“Please, Janice.”

“We women tend to see these things. We’re like detectives in our own way. Detectives of fashion.”

“Come on, Janice, stop teasing me.”

“Look at his shoes!”

“Okay.”

“And?”

“The soles. The heels. Is that it?”

“Those are special, Detective. We women can buy these platform shoes in a shoe store, but a man – why, I think you’d need to have them specially made. Not
you
, of course, you’re certainly tall and – but one of these shorties with complexes? You know how they are.”

“Great cake, Janice.” (
They said he seemed clumsy on his feet
.)

“Can’t say I made it, but if you allow me the pleasure of your company another time and give me fair warning, I’ll homemake you something real special.”

“And I’ll look forward to it, Janice.”

“Shall we get back on track, Detective?”

“That day the visitor left Kinter’s apartment, you described it as hot and humid.”

“It was during that awful heat wave.”

“Hot and humid you said?”

“Yes.”

“Sunny or overcast?”

“That’s beyond me, I’m afraid. Have I failed you? At the crucial point?”

“Far from it. Anything else strike you?”

She studies the blow-ups. Shakes her head in disappointment. She’s crestfallen. He puts his hand on hers. “You did great, Janice. You helped. Another time in a nonprofessional situation, maybe you’ll allow me the pleasure of sampling your specialty of the house?”

“No maybe about it, Eliot.”

Her refusal to pretend to remember whether the day in question was sunny or overcast convinces him that she’s a solid witness. He gets up. An intimate hug, initiated by Janice, enjoyed by both.

On the way home, Conte is struck by a wave of nausea. Stops the car, opens the door, leans out and vomits violently.