“I’ve got to get it looked at today. Half the time, it doesn’t want to start.”
“Great.”
And then I heard the muffled sound of a cell phone, and I could hear her rustling through her bag. “Hello?”
Then: “Stop fucking phoning me, okay?”
I took the shopping bags out of the Virtue and put them up in my bedroom, then locked up the house and got into the car. It started, but I wanted to be sure the problem wasn’t going to recur, so on the way into the office I stopped at Otto’s Auto Repair, and found Otto under a Mustang that was up on the hoist. Otto had looked after our cars, off and on, for the last fifteen years.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“I got myself a new car,” I explained, “and I’ve been having a little trouble with it.”
“Let’s have a look,” he said, and walked out the bay doors with me as I led him over to the Virtue.
“Whoa,” he said. “This is one of those hybrid cars.”
“That’s right.”
“Where’s the extension cord?” And Otto started laughing.
“That’s a good one, Otto,” I said.
“You really should have talked to me before you went out and bought one of these. I mean, they’re good on gas and all, but they’re a bit hinky in the electrical department. Sometimes they don’t want to start.”
“Yeah, so I’ve discovered.”
Otto nodded, asked me to pull the lever inside that would pop the hood.
“Jesus,” he said. “There’s nothing here but a huge plastic cover. I got to get that off before I can see anything. Can you leave it with me? It might have something to do with the battery cells. It’s got a shitload of them. Loose wire, maybe. You could pick it up later in the afternoon.”
I grabbed a streetcar the rest of the way to work, and Nancy, the assignment editor who was filling in for Sarah while she was at her retreat, found me at my desk about five seconds after I’d sat down. She’d read Dan’s turnover note and wanted to be brought up to speed. I gave her the short version of events, enough details that she could answer questions from any editors further up the food chain, including Magnuson, who could be assured, I said, that I was not involved in any shootouts.
“Shootouts?”
“You can just tell him, if he asks.”
“Write your story,” she said. “Everything you’ve got. And figure out what likely follows you have.”
“If there are any follow-ups,” said Dick Colby, who had sneaked up behind Nancy, “they’re mine. This is my beat, you know.”
“I’m sorry, Dick,” I said. “Next time I find a guy who’s dying, I’ll phone you so you can come down and call the ambulance.”
Nancy took a step back from Colby, trying to get some air.
“All I’m saying is,” Colby said, “everyone should respect each other’s territory. You don’t see me writing science fiction stories.”
“You could do one,” I said, “about a planet where no one bathes.”
“Oh fuck,” Nancy said under her breath.
“What did you say?” Colby asked me.
“Look,” said Nancy, who hated confrontation and wanted to defuse uncomfortable situations as quickly as possible. “Dick, we can talk about this later, okay?”
Cheese Dick wandered off, grumbling.
“I can’t believe you said that,” Nancy said.
“I can’t believe we’re still breathing,” I said.
My desk phone rang. I gave Nancy my “I have to get this” smile, and put the receiver to my ear.
“Walker,” I said.
“Zack. It’s Trixie.”
My stomach flipped.
“Hey,” I said. “I was, uh, I was actually thinking of calling you today.”
“I heard, on the news, about Lawrence. Isn’t this the guy you told me about on the phone?”
By now, Lawrence’s name had been officially released by the police, and the story was on the radio. “Yeah,” I said.
“Sounds terrible. How is he?”
“Not good.”
“Listen, you sound kind of preoccupied, so I can let you go. But what were you going to call me about?”
Think. The truth? Or something less than the truth?
“I don’t know,” I said. “I was just going to suggest getting a coffee sometime, maybe. How’d it go with that client? Your Girl Scout cookie fan?”
Trixie chuckled. “Oh yeah. Later, after he’d left and I was getting changed, I found crumbs in my stockings.”
I thought about that for a moment, decided it wasn’t worth trying to figure out the logistics.
“I think Paul got drunk last night.” As soon as I’d said it, I wondered why I’d done so. I guess I needed to talk about it with someone, and I hadn’t broached it with Sarah yet. “These teenage years, they’re enough to kill you as a parent.”
“I don’t envy you. Having kids, I don’t think it’s something I’d ever have been any good at.” There was an inexplicable sadness in Trixie’s voice. But then she brightened. “If only drinking had been the only thing I’d been into when I was sixteen.”
“And Angie,” I said, letting my daughter’s name hang out there for a minute, “she’s growing up so fast, it’s hard to keep up.”
“I’ll bet,” said Trixie. There was a long pause. “Zack, are you okay? You sound funny. Is everything all right?”
“There’s a lot going on for me right now. I’m feeling a little, I don’t know, overwhelmed.”
“I don’t doubt it. Listen, if there’s anything I can do, you call me, okay?”
“Sure,” I said, and we said our goodbyes.
I handed in my story by noon and told Nancy I was going to take a cab over to Brentwood’s.
When I got there, I found the place cordoned off with yellow police tape, although there were some guys there, putting plywood sheets over where the windows used to be.
I ducked under the tape, went in through the front door, which was wide open, and found Arnett Brentwood with a list of stock in his hand, checking it against what was left on the hangers.
“Mr. Brentwood?” I said. He was a small man, short and slight, but even in the aftermath of what had happened, was dressed meticulously in a black suit, white shirt, and tie. We had met once before, but he did not immediately recognize me. I told him who I was, and where I was from, and that I had found Lawrence the night before in the bedroom of his apartment.
“I am very sorry for him,” Brentwood said. “Sorry for his family. Please convey to them my sincerest concern and best wishes for his recovery.”
“I’ll be sure to do that.”
“I would like to do it myself, but as you can see…” He opened his arms wide, gestured at the destruction inside his shop.
“I was the one who called it in,” I said, “to 911. I was supposed to meet Lawrence here, and when he didn’t show up, I went looking for him.”
“These people, the ones who broke into my store, these are the people who tried to kill Mr. Jones?”
“It’s possible,” I said.
“It’s all over for me,” said Brentwood. “I have been hit before. The insurance people, they say they won’t cover me anymore. I can’t do this anymore.”
And he looked away, thinking that I would not see the tear that was running down his cheek.
“You tell Mr. Jones I am sorry,” he said. “And you can tell him that I am finished.”
21
MY NEXT STOP was the hospital. But not to give Lawrence the message from Mr. Brentwood. I’m sure he felt bad enough without hearing that his client was being forced out of business. I’d been thinking of him all day, had called the hospital a couple of times and managed to get nothing more out of the nurses than “critical but stable.”
With the Virtue still at Otto’s, I grabbed a cab in front of the Metro building and asked to be taken to Mercy General. After inquiring at the front desk, I found out, not to my surprise, that Lawrence was in the intensive care ward. There was a sign outside the ward that told me ICU patients could only have two visitors at a time, and they had to be family. I found a nurse, told her who I was.