“You tell it, Pops,” said Derek.
“Melinda. It’s been thirty-seven years since I seen her. Have no idea what the years they done to her. But if Melinda shows up tomorrow and says ‘Let’s go,’ well, you’d need send out the dogs to find me, brother, because I’ll be gone.”
“I believe it,” said Derek.
“Gone.”
“Your wife know?” I said.
“She’s got her own,” he said, “but he’s fat and lazy and can’t get out the house no more. He not coming north, that’s for sure. But Melinda, one never knows.”
He pushed himself out of the seat, sighed an old-man sigh, full of bone weariness and long-accepted regret.
“I can still smell her skin,” said Barnabas. “Smooth and sweet-scented, like polished rosewood.”
“So who is yours, Derek?” I said after the old man had ambled off. “Who is the old love that still haunts?”
“Who, me?” said Derek. “Nah, not me. I’m cool.”
“You lie,” said Antoine.
“Don’t do me like that, Antoine.”
“Derek still in love,” said Antoine. “For always and ever.”
“Shut up, man. All right. No biggie. There was one. Tamiqua.”
“What happened?” I said.
“We were together. From grade school, even. And then I started playing, and she acted like it was some crime, and that was it. She upped with some other slob and moved to New York.”
“Still hurt?”
“I’m over it.”
Antoine laughed. “Hell he is. Tamiqua, she only wanted for Derek a make something better for himself. All Derek wants a do is hang. So now he hangs alone.”
“Not alone.”
“Not with Tamiqua.”
“What about you, big guy?”
Antoine pointed those dark glasses at Derek. “Sam,” he said.
“Samantha,” said Derek, nodding his head.
Antoine tilted his head and stared until Derek involuntarily pulled back.
“Whoa,” said Derek.
There was a moment of awkward quiet.
“What does all this duppy love have a do with Black Cat?” said Antoine.
“It’s my Julia,” I said. “The guy she left me for was murdered on Sunday night, and she’s the main suspect. I’m looking into it and I discovered this.” I pushed away my now-empty plate, took out my wallet, let a few empty plasticine squares float to the table. “She had these on her the night her husband was shot. They were full, along with the whole needle-in-the-arm kit. I just want to know when she got them and why.”
“The why’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?” said Derek. “She’s a hophead, your old love.”
“Maybe, but she doesn’t seem like it. And that night I didn’t see any marks on her skin.”
“Got a good look, did you? All the hidden places?”
“Good enough.”
“You are a dog,” said Derek. “The night she kills her husband you’re hooking up with her. Bo, I got to say, I’m almost impressed.”
“The murder happened at a pretty specific time. She told me she was out of the house at the time, wandering around. But maybe she was wandering over to buy herself a couple of fixes when her husband was being shot in the head. I thought it was worth a try. Her life may be on the line.”
“She broke your heart, she smacking up, she maybe killed that man,” said Antoine. “Why you still a care?”
“Old love,” I said.
Antoine stared at me for a moment with his dark glasses and then said, “When was this killing?”
“Sunday. About eight o’clock at night.”
“You got picture?”
I took a photograph out of my jacket pocket. Antoine and Derek leaned over to get a look.
“Bo,” said Derek, nodding his head.
“Pretty like money,” said Antoine. “And if I get what you need, what promises you make me?”
“Promises about what?”
“About them police, about them lawyers, about keeping Johnny Crow off our backs.”
“The people who get hold of this will only be concerned about the guilt or innocence of the woman. Whatever else is involved, any trouble, I’ll handle it myself.”
Antoine turned to Derek. “You trust him?”
“He’s my lawyer. He got me out of a scrape with a certifiably slick move. Whatever comes up, he can handle it.”
Antoine thought about it for a moment before stuffing the photograph into the center pocket of his overalls. “You don’t want a be disappointing me, Victor Carl,” he said. “Wait here. I be back.”
As soon as Antoine left the booth, Derek leaned forward. “Can you believe that? Big old Antoine going all Brokeback on us. Damn, you never can tell where that shit will start breaking out.”
“Shut up, Derek.”
“Hey, I’m cool with the down low. I’m man enough it don’t threaten me. But Antoine? Damn. I’ll have to watch my step around that big boy, turn off the charm.”
It wasn’t long before Antoine was back at the table. He stood before us, his massive hand on the neck of a young, smooth-faced kid with nervous eyes.
“This likkle bwoy be Jamison,” said Antoine, tightening his grip on the kid’s neck. “And Jamison, he has something he need a tell you.”
15
It was after midnight, and a better man might have been able to stay the hell away, but I am not a better man.
After hearing what Jamison had to say in the Jamaican juke joint, I was shaking. I know what it feels like to have your worst fears confirmed, but to have them discounted utterly was a whole new sensation. Was my luck changing after decades of relentless calamity? It seemed so very much as if it was. And it was that lethal sense of euphoric possibility that sent me scurrying right over to that mansion of death in Chestnut Hill.
I parked in the circular drive, bounded out of the car, dropped the knocker again and again onto the green door. I paced around in a circle as I waited, jammed my hands in my pockets, pulled them out again, knocked once more.
It was Gwen who answered. Her feet in slippers, her robe clutched with a strong hand about her waist.
“You know what time it is?” she said.
“I know, I know. But I need to see Julia. Can you wake her?”
Gwen glanced behind her, into the house, then peered for a moment over my shoulder before yanking me inside.
“She’s been awake,” she said. “She hasn’t slept yet, just sitting in that room, drinking and staring at nothing.”
“What room?”
“That room. The one. The same one the police went through again this morning before the missus came home.”
“They were here this morning?”
“Oh, we had a busy day. First the police, then Mr. Swift and the missus, then an old friend of the doctor’s, that Mr. Trocek. He just stayed a bit. A few others paid respects. It was only you who didn’t come.”
“Things were hectic, I couldn’t get away,” I lied, “but I’m here now, and I need to see her.”
“Come on,” she said. “I’ll take you.”
Gwen led me through the foyer, to the entranceway that led to Wren Denniston’s trophy room. The double doors were closed, but the yellow police tape was lying flaccid on the floor.
“You find anything yet?” said Gwen.
“Maybe,” I said.
“About Mr. Cave?”
“No.”
“You need to find that Miles Cave. You’ll tell me when you do?”
“Sure I will. But what I found is even better.”
“Is it going to help her?”
“I hope.”
“She’s in there,” said Gwen. “When the last guest left, she took a bath and then came right down to that room and sat.”
“Okay,” I said.
“I tried to make her go back upstairs. To get some sleep at least. It’s not healthy sitting there all night. In that room. With the blood still on the carpet. I’m cleaning it tomorrow, I am, Mr. Carl. I don’t care what they say.”
“You do that.”
“Go on in, then, if that’s what you’re going to do,” she said.
I thought Gwen would announce my presence, but she just stepped back to clear my path. I gave her a final glance and then put my hand on the doorknob. It felt strangely hot, but that must have been my own excitement, because I was excited, so excited I ignored the warning expressed on Gwen’s features as I turned the knob, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.