Chapter 15
A loud buzzing cut like a chainsaw through my dream. Bare winter trees, dark sky, cold. A stream, two ways to cross it: one a bridge, ugly and new; the other shadowy, undefined. People in the shadows, people I thought I knew but couldn't see. Movement in the darkness. And then the buzzing, and I was awake, disoriented in the twilit room.
I groped for the clock, hit the button. The buzzing stopped. I lifted the clock and focused on it: four o'clock. Christ, what a stupid time to get up. No, but it was afternoon, not morning; and Lydia was coming. Right, at four-thirty. Get out of bed, Smith, take a shower, make yourself bearable.
Groggy and stiff, I stumbled to the bathroom. I'd been asleep for an hour, since I'd gotten back from the Creekside Tavern. I stood under the hot water, tried to make the steam clear my brain.
The Creekside. Shabby mustard-colored shingles, brown vinyl trim, windows full of lit beer signs, most for brands the Creekside didn't sell anymore. Inside, wood-grain Formica dimness and a stale smell. No sign of the drug dealing that went on from the bar or the bookmaking business in the back room, but it was early in the day.
Two guys my age were curled over beers at the bar; two younger guys and a girl with a fountain of hair springing from the top of her head were playing pool. They all looked up, measured me, an intruder in their territory, and just how tough was I, if it came to where that mattered? I sat on a barstool near the door, not near the other guys, the etiquette of the stranger.
"Haven't seen you here before," the bartender said, put my Bud on the bar. He was blond and big, shirtsleeves pushed up past his elbows.
"No," I said. "I'm from North Blenheim. I don't get over this way much."
That placed me for them, told them where I'd been before I walked into their lives.
"What brings you over here now?" he asked.
I drank some beer. "Frank Grice."
He made a show of looking around the near-deserted room. "He's not here."
"Been in lately?"
"I don't remember."
"Buy yourself a drink. It might help your memory." I dropped a twenty on the bar.
"Why, thanks, friend." He scooped up the bill, rang it into the register. He poured a shot of Dewar's, downed it, smiled, and shook his head. "I don't think that helped."
"Think harder," I suggested.
One of the pool players straightened up from the felt, strolled around the pool table, cue loose in his right hand. I drank more beer, put the glass down on the bar as he came to stand beside me.
"Something I can do for you?" I asked, not looking at him.
"You look familiar. You look like a cop." A nasal voice, belligerent and edgy.
"I never liked my face much, either," I said.
"What do you want Frank for?"
"He's got something I want." "What?"
I looked him over. Smallish; fish-belly pale; eyes a little out of focus. Close up, he was younger than I'd thought, too young to be drinking in the Creekside in the early afternoon.
"Tell you what, Junior," I said. "You tell me where Frank is, and I'll tell him my secret, and afterwards, if you're good, he'll tell you."
"Sonuvabitch," he growled. He hefted the pool cue, moved closer.
I slipped off the barstool toward him, took a quick step in, too close for him to swing the cue. I socked him in the stomach, fast but not all that hard; but his eyes had told me he'd drunk enough that I didn't need to hit him hard. He made a small noise, doubled over, was quietly sick.
"Hey!" came from his friend on the other side of the pool table. He headed for me.
"Mike!" said the bartender sharply. "Hold it!"
The second pool player halted, his hands rolled into fists. He glanced from the bartender to me, back again.
"You're not going to break up my place," the bartender said. "You," he turned to me, "get the hell out."
Standing, I realized that the beer was hitting me harder than it usually did. The room wasn't as still or solid as I liked rooms to be. Getting out didn't seem like a bad idea.
I dropped my card on the bar. "Tell Frank I know about Ginny Sanderson, and the truck," I said to them all. "Tell him he'll have to deal with me. I'll be at Antonelli's tonight. Tell him that."
And I left the Creekside, my clothes still carrying that stale, sour smell as I drove, slowly and carefully, back to my cabin, to sleep.
The hot water faded to warm, lukewarm, cold. After a few minutes of cold I gave it up. I dried, dressed, built a fire in the stove, put the kettle on. Four twenty-five. I sat at the piano, worked at slow, even scales until I heard a car crunch down the driveway. Four-forty. I closed the piano, opened the front door in time to see a Ford Escort roll to a stop next to my Acura.
I crossed to the car as Lydia got out. I hesitated, then kissed her cheek, caught the scent of freesia in her hair.
"Don't squeeze," she said. "Where's your bathroom?"
I pointed to the cabin door. "Just inside, on the left. I'll bring your things."
She scuttled up the porch steps, disappeared inside.
I reached into the car, brought out a zippered, snapped, strapped, and buckled carry-on of soft black leather. I followed her inside, dropped the bag on the couch. The bathroom door opened and she came out, combing her hair back from her face with her fingers.
"Didn't you stop?" I grinned.
"I wouldn't have made it by four-thirty if I'd stopped."
"I always stop," I told her. "Twice."
She made a rude noise.
"That's just what your mother always says to me."
"I'm not surprised. What happened to your face?"
I’ll tell you all about it. Do you want some tea? It's only Lipton's, in a bag," I apologized. "It was all I could get.
"When in Rome," she sighed. I took that as a yes.
Lydia shook off her leather jacket, unclipped her holster from her belt. The lamplight was gold on her smooth skin; it caught highlights in her hair, which was black and asymmetrical, like her clothes. While I made her tea, and coffee for myself, she wandered around the room, investigating my drawings, photographs, books. She stopped at the small silver-framed photo. She picked it up in both hands, looked at it silently, then looked over at me; but I was busy with cups, spoons, and teabags, and I let her look pass.
"It's just the way I thought it would be up here," she finally said, coming over to the counter, collecting her tea.
"I didn't know you ever thought about it."
"Don't play dumb." She settled onto the couch, drew her legs up. The cushions molded themselves to her as if they'd been expecting her, as if they were already used to her being here.
"I'm not," I said. "Playing, anyway. I'll tell you the whole story."
"That's only part of it."
"Part of what?"
"What I'm mad about."
"I thought the problem was I wouldn't tell you who the client was, why the paintings were here."
"The other part is there's a client at all."
"I don't get you."
A log shifted on the fire. I could see sparks through the stove grate; then everything was still again.
"I thought you came up here," Lydia said, "to get away from work."
"I always have, before this."
"But this time, someone from here called you in New York to hire you."
"That's right."
"When you left you didn't tell me that."
I sipped my coffee. "I wasn't sure I was going to take it."
"So? When you did take it, you called me to work on it. To work for you." "With."
"No, for. If it was with, you'd have told me from the beginning. Even if you weren't sure."
"I've turned down cases before," I said. "Without telling you."
"And taken them. And I didn't care. But I thought things were supposed to be different now."
"Am I supposed to consult you on every decision I make?"
"God, I knew you'd say that! No, and you're not supposed to play dumb again, either." She pulled her legs in closer, wrapped both hands around her mug. "This is a big deal, you working up here. You can't pretend it isn't."