Rum gets out of the car. Looks under the hood. After a while, he closes the hood. Sticks his head back in the car. After a minute or so, comes back out. Goes to the back and slides under. He puts his ear to the gas tank, then raps his knuckles against it.
He stands, frowning. Does that for a bit. Looks back and forth at the gas tank a couple times.
He looks across at Henry’s Hamburgers. Boarded up. Driveway sporting weeds. Weeds under the phone booth by the old front door too. But it is a pay phone, and it is lit up.
Rum reaches into his pocket. Glances at what she presumes are coins in his hand.
He trudges across the Purity parking lot, cuts through the missing partition of sagging fence, and makes his way toward the phone booth. Mary Pat’s been idling the whole time, and she slips the gearshift into drive, rolls Bess slowly out of her parking spot, headlights off, depressing the gas pedal with increasing pressure, so that she’s almost on top of Rum by the time he hears the car and thinks to turn and look. She punches the gas and shoots around to his right, the front tire missing him by no more than a foot but the driver’s door swinging wide and hitting his body hard enough to lift him off his feet and chuck him over a patch of grass into the old drive-through lane (a first in the neighborhood; huge deal at the time).
By the time he gets to his feet, she’s bunched his shirt in her hand. He stumbles and wobbles as she drags him over a curb and through the side door of the restaurant, which she’d jimmied hours ago. She throws him to the floor in the remains of the old kitchen. When he tries to get up, she delivers a one-two-three-four combination to his face, relying on the vicious speed of it over any real force to break his spirit. Which it does. He lies back and groans and covers his face and drops the hands only when he feels her unbutton his jeans. Before he can stop her, she’s pulled his jeans and his Fruit of the Looms down to his knees and straddled him with a box cutter in her hand, one of the thin ones that looks like a large stick of Juicy Fruit but, he must know from his supermarket experience, can slice the top off a carton of canned goods like the cardboard’s made of tissue.
Before he can believe she’s really pulled his pants off, she’s already yanked his ball sac toward her and flicked the blade along the underside.
She’s going to venture a guess he’s never screamed so loud or so high in his life. The blood flows freely from the cut.
“Tell me everything about the night on the platform at Columbia Station.”
He tells her. Doesn’t stop until she’s fairly confident he’s told her everything he knows. He even tells her the parts that don’t reflect well on Jules, don’t make Jules look good at all.
When he’s done, she places her knees on his shoulders. Looks down at him for a bit. Casually, almost as if she’s curious what could happen, she flicks the razor blade off his throat and neck a few times. The tears, hot as tea, she presumes, flow from the corners of his eyes and down into his ears.
“You’re gonna kill me.”
“Thinking about it.” She shrugs. “Where’s Jules?”
“I don’t know.”
She flicks the razor off the flesh beneath his chin. “But you know she’s dead.”
He scrunches his eyes and the tears flood from them. “Yes.”
“How?”
“Everyone knows,” he says simply.
“Open your eyes.”
He does.
“You’re gonna call the police. And you’re gonna tell them what you told me. If you don’t, Rum, you listening? Say you’re listening.”
“I’m listening.”
“If you don’t, I’ll come back for you. Nothing will stop me. Nothing will save you. No matter what happens, Rum, no matter who you think you know or who you think can protect you, they can’t. Not against me. I’ll get to you just like I got to you tonight. And I will cut off your balls. Then I will cut off your dick. And I will throw them down a sewer for the rats to eat while you bleed to death where I leave you.” She stands. “Go out to that pay phone and call the police and tell them you want to confess to Auggie Williamson’s death.”
She starts to walk out and then stops. Turns back. Of all the beliefs she holds chambered in her heart, the one she holds dearest is the one she could now put at hazard simply by asking a question. It’s the belief that Jules was the best part of her. That Jules was better than her or Dukie or Noel. And that wherever her soul ended up, it ended up where the good souls go.
She clears her throat. “Those things you said Jules did — did she do them?”
Rum gets a look on his face like he knew he should have changed that part of the story.
“Did she do them?” Mary Pat repeats, enunciating every word. “Don’t fucking lie or I’ll know it.”
“Yes,” he says.
She stands in the doorway a long time, her lower lip quivering.
“Well, I raised her, didn’t I?” she says. “So I guess that’s my sin.”
She lets herself out.
19
Bobby’s not even through the door of the station house when Pete Torchio, the duty sergeant, holds a phone aloft and says, “For you.”
“Who?”
Pete winks. “Says his name is Special.”
“What?”
“Special Agent Stansfield.”
Pete thinks he’s hilarious. That’s why he’s on his third wife and he’s only thirty-two.
Bobby points at his desk as he passes through the gate. “You can put him through.”
“Fills me with a deep pleasure, Bobby. Tickles my warm parts. You know that.”
Bobby gets to his desk and the phone is ringing, the button for line two blinking. He presses it and puts the phone to his ear. “Giles?”
“Bobby. How’s tricks?”
“Oh, you know. You?”
“You hear the busing protesters busted up one of the windows to our building?”
“I did.”
“They were chanting ‘Niggers suck’ for over half an hour, Bobby.” There’s a tone in his voice that suggests somehow Bobby either a) is responsible or b) can explain the behavior. “I mean, half an hour.”
“That’s a long time for one chant,” Bobby says. “You’d think they would have mixed it up.”
“Should be kept in cages, people like that.”
Giles Stansfield grew up in Connecticut. Went to Brown, then Yale Law. Until he joined the Bureau, he probably never met a black person who didn’t work a service job for the Stansfields or for Yale. Same went for poor whites.
“What’s up, Giles?”
“I hear you’re sniffing around the Butler crew.” His voice is suddenly convivial, as if they’re chatting over a bowl of punch at a garden party.
“Where’d you hear that?”
“I’m just thinking you might want to communicate with us, so no signals get crossed.”
“What signals could get crossed?”
“Just, well, signals.” Giles’s voice is still convivial but also a bit fretful, like the conversation is playing out differently than it had played out in his head.
“Why don’t you tell me what those signals could be, and I’ll know whether I could cross them with my own?”
He can hear Giles trying not to sigh. “I blame Nixon.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Bobby puts his service revolver in his desk drawer, adds his car keys for good measure.
“He created that Drug Enforcement Administration horseshit. Took the Bureau of Narcotics and folded them in with the ODEA. Then they grabbed a bunch of cowboys and rejects from precincts all over the Northeast, and now they call it an agency.”