“I hated doing bibliographies,” I said, thinking back. “Sometimes I’d just make them up.”
Agnes slapped my shoulder playfully. “I’ll bet you didn’t fool anyone.”
“No,” I said.
“Some of the professors,” Agnes said, “were writers themselves, and they didn’t mind bending the rules a bit. They were the ones who’d let Brett hand in a story instead of something he had to go to the library to research.”
“Do you remember who they were?”
Agnes shook her head. “It’s been so long. I wouldn’t know them if they stood up in my soup naked. Except maybe for that one who runs the college now. I see his name in the
Standard
now and then and recognize it.”
It felt as though a minor tremor had gone off beneath me. “You mean Conrad Chase?” I asked.
“That’s right. That’s the one. When he was still a professor, he took an interest in Brett’s stuff. Brett talked about him all the time. Probably his favorite professor the whole time he was at Thackeray. He even came by to see me a couple of times after Brett died. He brought flowers the first time, and he even sent me some concert tickets once. He was very thoughtful.”
And then, suddenly, she teared up. She dug a tissue out from under her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s been so long, you’d think I could hold it together when I talk about him now.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “These things are always with us.” I gave her a moment to compose herself, then asked, “So did Brett ever show Professor Chase his writings?”
“I know he did. He was very encouraging. Brett even got invited to Professor Chase’s home a couple of times, I think. This was back before he became famous, and before he met that actress and married her. I think Brett would have been very excited to see what happened to Professor Chase after that book of his came out. Imagine, if his future hadn’t been cut short the way it was, trying to go on as a writer, being able to count someone like Conrad Chase among your friends. I bet that would have opened some doors.”
“I bet it would have.”
But then she shrugged and dabbed away a couple more tears.
I said, “Did you ever read it?”
“Hmm?” she said, not sure what I was referring to.
“A Missing Part,”
I said.
Agnes Stockwell shook her head as though I’d asked her if she did table dancing in her spare time. “Oh no. Well, I tried. I got about fifty pages into it and thought it was so . . . well, it wasn’t my cup of tea, if you know what I mean. I’m not saying it was a bad book, just not the kind of thing I want to read. There are so many wonderful words in the English language, so many nice things to write about, but some writers, they don’t like those words and those things. I like to pick up the latest Danielle Steel, but reading about a man’s privates getting changed into a woman’s? I don’t care how brilliant the critics say it is. It’s not for me.”
I smiled. “I totally understand.”
“But I’ll tell you this,” she said, softening. “Brett was always a lot more open-minded than me about these things. He was what I guess you’d call a more experimental writer, willing to take chances. I think he would have loved that Professor Chase’s book.”
THIRTEEN
I
ASKED AGNES whether I could borrow her phone book before I left. She went in and fetched it for me, leaving me with Boots. She rubbed her ugly pug-nosed face up against my pant leg.
Agnes Stockwell returned with not only the phone book but a small notepad and a pencil.
“What are you looking up?” she asked, and then, quickly, “Forgive me. That’s none of my business.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “There’s another stop I have to make on the way home, but I needed to double-check an address.”
I found three listings for Burgess in the Promise Falls directory and wrote down the number and address for each. “Thank you,” I said, handing the book back to Agnes. “And for the lemonade, too. So long, Boots.”
As I walked down the driveway, I dug my cell phone out of my pocket. I thought a quick call to Barry was in order, to tell him that it had occurred to Derek, after he’d been through the Langley house, that the computer tower was missing. It either meant something or it didn’t, but he might as well know.
I realized I’d not turned the phone on when I left home, and hit the button to bring it to life. While I waited for it to come on, I happened to glance up the street and saw a black car sitting there, a block or more away. As I took a couple of steps toward my truck, the car, a Grand Marquis, started moving, and rather than get in I decided to wait and see whether this had anything to do with me.
The car pulled up alongside the truck, and before it had come to a full stop the back window powered down.
“Hello, Randall,” I said, slipping the phone back into my pocket.
Mayor Finley flashed me his big shit-eating grin. “Cutter, you son of a bitch, would it kill you to say ‘Your Worship’?”
“It might,” I said.
“Listen, Jim, have you got a minute? I’d really like to talk to you.”
“I’m kind of working,” I said. “How did you find me here?”
“I asked Ellen,” he said. “She tried to call you.”
“My cell was off,” I said.
Finley said, “I told her it was really important, and when she couldn’t raise you, she told me where we might find you. Come on. Take a minute. Get out of that heat.” He opened the door, his version of an official invitation.
“Randy, really—”
“Please, Cutter, come on. I’m asking real nice here.”
So I opened the back door wide enough to get in. Finley shifted over to the other side of the seat. It was wonderful and cool back there. As I pulled the door shut, Lance Garrick turned around in the driver’s seat and sneered, “Hey, Cutter, how goes the weed whacking?”
I pretended he wasn’t there.
“Lance,” said the mayor, “instead of sitting around wasting gas, why don’t we drive around a bit? That okay with you?” Finley asked me.
“Whatever,” I said. “I’ll sit back and enjoy the A/C.”
“Pretty fucking hot week to be cutting grass, and on a Sunday, too,” Lance said, shaking his head, making a “tsk-tsk” noise, as if I were in violation of some Promise Falls bylaw. He looked ahead, steered, and said, “Mighty cool in here, though.”
“Lucky you,” I said, unable to ignore him completely.
“Yeah, I sure wouldn’t want to be cutting grass in this heat, no sirree Bob.”
“I get it, Lance,” I said.
“If I was, like, fourteen, then it’d be a different story.”
“Lance,” Finley said, “would you just shut the fuck up?” To me, he said, “I gotta see if there’s money in the next budget for one of those pieces of glass between the seats.” Up front, Lance twitched. “I want to have a talk here, Lance. Can you put in your fucking iPod or something?”
“I didn’t bring it,” he said, sounding hurt.
“Then just watch the fucking road,” Finley said. “I’m conducting business back here.”
Not so far, I thought. I was just looking out the window, enjoying the ride. I wondered whether Randall would get Lance to wipe my sweat off the gray leather seat after I got dropped off back at my truck.
“Jim,” Mayor Finley said, “you’re looking good. You really are.”
I didn’t say anything.
“How y’all managing, after this thing at the Langleys’? You must be shook up. How’s your wife and boy?”
“What can I do for you, Randy?” I said.
“That’s the Jim Cutter I know. Cut to the chase, no pun intended. That’s something I always liked about you. Langley, he acted for me on a number of occasions, did you know that? His office, not him personally, even handled my divorce from my first wife.” He paused a moment. “Or my second. Or maybe it was both of them.”
I rubbed my hand over the leather seat between us. I wondered how many times Finley had gotten laid back here.
“Yeah,” I said. “Albert did work for a lot of the movers and shakers around Promise Falls. That is, if Promise Falls is big enough to have movers and shakers.”
Finley laughed. “True enough. We’re not Albany. We’re a smaller pond. But even one of those has a few big fish, am I right?”
I waited.
“The thing is,” Randall Finley said, his voice growing more quiet, “I’m thinking of making a move.”
“A move?” I said. “Jane finally kicking you out of the house?” A reference to his third wife, who’d stood by him for longer than anyone would have expected. She must have been expecting a payoff at some point to stay with Randall Finley, or was just a hell of a lot more forgiving than the two wives who’d gone before her.
“Funny one,” he said. “I’m taking a run at Congress.”
I had no reaction.
“What?” Finley said. “No smart-ass comment?”
“Knock yourself out, Randy. Run for Congress. Run for president. It doesn’t matter to me. I won’t be voting for you.”
Another laugh. “You’re a straight shooter, Jimmy boy. I’m not counting on your vote, but I was wondering if I could count on your discretion.”
“Discretion?”
“When you’re mayor, well, you can make an ass of yourself the odd time and get away with it. Believe me, I know. But on the national scene, particularly when you’re from a state like New York, not some bumfuck state no one’s ever heard of, like North Dakota—”
“My mother was from North Dakota,” I said. She wasn’t, but what the hell.
“You know what I mean,” Finley said, not offering to apologize. “My point is, when you’re on the national scene, that’s a hearse of a different color.” He looked at me to see if I liked his spin on a shopworn cliché. I gave him nothing. “Anyway, you start running for Congress, people start digging into your past, start asking questions. They start talking about
character
.”
“You should be okay there, Randy. You’re quite a character. Ask anybody. Ask those unwed mothers whose rug you puked on. I’m sure they’d back you up on that.”
“Yeah, well.” Finley almost blushed. “That was unfortunate. I’m gonna drop by and see Gillian in the very near future and give that home a big fat fucking grant. May not shut up their whining babies, but it ought to shut up their mothers.”
“There should be some sort of award, Randy, for the good works you do,” I said.
“So anyway, what I wanted to know was, could I count on you to be discreet should anyone come sniffing around asking things about me?”
“Discreet about what?”
Finley did half an eye roll. “Look, there were times, while you worked for me, when I was not on my best behavior. But I’m not that person anymore. I’m a different guy. That guy you worked for, that guy, he doesn’t even exist anymore.”
“Good to know,” I said.
“So all I’m saying is, if someone was to come asking what kind of guy I was to work for, could I count on you to say the right thing?” When I didn’t say anything, he continued, “I mean, we’re square, right? You kept things to yourself, and I didn’t go charging you with assault. A lot of guys, they’d have had your ass thrown in jail for what you did.”
Lance interrupted. “You never should have called him at all that night, boss. You should have just called me. Then nothing woulda happened.”
“Maybe,” I said to Lance, “if you hadn’t set up Randy here with jailbait, nothing would have happened then either.” I turned to Randall Finley. “And as for you, you can’t be serious, thinking you were doing
me
a favor when you didn’t press charges? Think of the witnesses you’d have had to call. How old was that girl? And her friend in the hallway? They’d have had to get permission slips to skip class so they could testify.”
“Here’s the thing,” Finley said. “I could find you a job, Cutter. Working for me, on my campaign.”
“Hey,” said Lance, “you’re not giving him his old job back, are you?”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Lance, would you just fucking drive?”
“What? I’m supposed to pretend I can’t hear?”
“Jim, ignore him. What I’m proposing to you is some other kind of job in my campaign. There’s plenty of work to go around. And you’d be paid well. A lot more than I’m sure you’re getting cutting people’s lawns, for Christ’s sake. What the hell’s happened to you? Have you no pride?”
I wanted to tell him that if I had no pride, I’d still be working for him, but I didn’t have to justify my life to him or anyone else.
He wasn’t done. “Driving around in a silly truck, doing that kind of work, it’s totally beneath you, Cutter. You’re a capable man with a lot of skills. You know how to deal with people. You have great instincts. You’re not easily flustered. I like that. And that business, punching me in the nose, water under the bridge. It’s like it never happened.”
To Lance, I said, “Can you take me back to my truck?” To Randall Finley, “Look, I don’t care what you do. Run for whatever you want. I don’t have anything to say to anybody.”
“You’re a stand-up guy, Jim.”
“Because if I told people what sorts of things I’d witnessed, I’d have to explain why I worked for you as long as I did. And I don’t know how I’d do that. So you don’t have a thing to worry about. And as for the job offer, I’ll pass. I like what I do. I like working with my son. I can look myself in the mirror at the end of the day.”
Finley nodded thoughtfully. “I can’t ask for anything else,” he said. “You don’t want to work for me, I accept that. And I’m grateful for your discretion.”
“That girl,” I said. “The one in the room. What ever happened to her?”
“I don’t know,” Finley said. “Never saw her again. I cleaned up my act after that night, Cutter. Swear to God.”
I could see my truck up ahead. The town car slowed and pulled over to the curb.
Finley extended a hand. Shaking it seemed to take less effort than refusing it, so I gave him mine. I tried to tell myself I wouldn’t be compromising my principles if I didn’t squeeze too hard. While he was pumping my hand, Finley said to Lance, “Go around and get the door for Mr. Cutter here.”
“Huh?” said Lance. “You kidding?”
“You heard me.”
Lance got out and started walking around the car. For a second I thought, fuck it, I can open my own goddamn door, then figured, why not let Lance do what he’s paid to do?
The door opened and I got out. As Lance closed it, he leaned in close to me from behind, his chin over my shoulder, and whispered in my ear, “That’s a first. Don’t think I ever opened the door for a fucking lawn boy before.”
I drove my elbow back, fast and hard, taking him just below the rib cage. The air went out of him and he dropped.
“Sorry,” I said. “That’s my weed-whacking arm. It gets twitchy.”