"That was TV," I said. "You ever hear of Bactine?"
"Yeah," Nate said, "that thought came to mind after the whiskey really got poor Eddie jumping, so I figured, give the guy a couple sips, see if that made a difference."
"Poor Eddie?"
"The guy has had some tough breaks," Nate said.
"I'm sure," I said.
"Anyway," Nate said, "we got to talking. Comparing notes. He's really done well for himself in this real estate game."
"He's a crook, Nate," I said.
"If you can look past that," he said.
"I can't," I said. "Neither should you. He tried to bleed Cricket dry. God knows how many people just like her didn't get out. The guy is a predator, Nate. Do you get that?"
"Okay," Nate said. "Okay. Breathe, man. You're all bunched up looking now. Your eyes are all buggy. Big mean spy guy going loco."
I unclenched my jaw. I loosened up my forehead. I took a moment to stare at the sea. I thought I caught a whiff of someone grilling chicken.
Nothing worked.
"Nate," I said, "did he tell you what he was doing here?"
"He said he was worried about his wife," Nate said.
"I'm sure," I said.
"Yeah, I didn't believe that, either," Nate said. "So I asked him again after we'd had a couple. But that's the story he's sticking to. Said he figured if some crazy psycho was willing to kill her in the name of someone he was just pretending to be, that he owed it to her to set the record straight."
"A real come-to-Jesus moment," I said. "You did good, Nate. I appreciate it." I meant it, even if Nate's methods were a wee bit on the unorthodox side.
"Yeah?" Nate said.
"Yeah."
"Just keeping my pimp hand strong," Nate said. I started to walk back inside, since I had an idea how I'd use this situation with Eddie to the fullest, but Nate stopped me. "Do you remember coming out here when we were kids?" I told him I did. "What was it, some kind of field trip or something?"
"Yeah," I said. "Something like that."
"I remember you and me just running around that big-ass resort," he said. "And then I sort of remember us hanging out with a security guard. Weird. I haven't thought about that in years."
"It was a good time," I said. I didn't have the heart to tell him what I remembered, the circumstances, the repercussions.
"Was it?" he asked. He turned his head, as if trying to get his memories to line up.
"Sure, Nate," I said. "Sure. Not like when we went to that potato chip factory and Justin Pluck stabbed you."
"You know I ran into Justin Pluck a few years ago," Nate said. "Married, a couple rug rats, working at Costco."
"Was he still missing most of his hair?"
Nate laughed. "I didn't get too close. I didn't want whatever he had rubbing off on me."
"What did he have?"
"Normalcy," Nate said.
That was something he-we-would never have.
After sending Nate home, I went inside, brewed a carafe of coffee, sat down with Fiona and Sam in front of Eddie Champagne and started pouring him cups of black coffee.
"Drink," I said to Eddie.
"That's a myth," he said. "Coffee doesn't sober you up. Best thing for me would be a nice, long nap. Clinically proven."
"I'm sure it is," I said. I nodded at Sam, who reached over and squeezed Eddie's nose closed for about ten seconds, until Eddie popped open his mouth to breathe and Fiona shoved a straw in. "Now be a good boy, Eddie. Drink."
Eddie did as he was told, downing two cups of coffee in record time. I made him a couple pieces of toast and made him eat those, too. When he started to show signs of actually being able to comprehend reality, I let Sam take a look at the gash on the back of his head, which was still leaking blood, but not quite the torrent Nate had mentioned.
"He'll need stitches," Sam said.
"How many?" Eddie said.
"I'd say about fifty," Sam said.
"That's about two hundred less than you would have required if it had been me here," I said. "About a thousand less than you'll need if you don't tell me what I want to know now."
"First thing you need to know," Eddie said, "I am not the guy you're mad at. Dixon Woods? That's just a name I picked at random. This is a big misunderstanding."
"I know who you are," I said. "And I know you just lied to me. I'm not the police, Eddie. You're not on tape. We're just two guys having a conversation. Granted, one of us is cuffed and one of us isn't, but I'd like you to feel like you can tell me the truth, Eddie. I gave you coffee. I made you some toast. So I'm going to give you a chance to correct that last statement. If I like what you have to say, I won't spray salt water into your head wound."
Eddie Champagne's eyes darted around the room. He didn't look scared. He didn't even look worried, exactly. He sort of seemed to be enjoying this.
"You know," he said, "we redid this kitchen."
"I didn't know that," I said.
"Yeah," he said. "I moved in, it was stainless steel. Real cold, uninviting. It was my idea to put in those glass-faced cabinets. I picked out the granite for the island, made Cricket get one we could put chairs around. She wanted to have a sink in the island, but I told her she wouldn't need it since she wouldn't be doing that much cooking. She liked that idea. Let me tell you. What lady wants to cook?"
He looked at Fiona then and gave her a crooked smile, which probably gave other women a warm feeling, but which only caused Fiona to glare at him. That had a silencing effect on Eddie.
"When did you decide to bleed her?" I said.
"You don't just decide that sort of thing," Eddie said.
"More of a life choice?" Sam said.
Eddie cleared his throat. "I've got a few abilities," Eddie said, "none of which make for a good living. But after I met Cricket, I really thought she was the kind of lady I could get used to loving. But then, once I got in it, all these lies I'd already told, what was I supposed to do?"
"Telling the truth would have been an angle," I said.
"Not gutting her life," Fiona said.
"Not stealing money from wounded soldiers," Sam said.
"So there are three choices," I said. "You want more?"
Eddie pointed to his coffee cup, indicated he'd like some more. In a show of good faith, I clipped off Eddie's cuffs, told him that if he did anything outwardly stupid with his hands he'd lose the use of them, permanently. I poured him another cup and watched him take a few sips. He held his pinky out at an angle, like he was of the royal class. He had all the moves.
"Guys like you and me, Hank, we can't always deal in truth. Look at you and your crew here," he said. "I don't presume to know what your game is, but I'm going to say you've never met Dixon Woods, either, or else you wouldn't be trying to play that psycho. That pussy Rosencrantz just swallowed your whole bait. Teach me to work with educated people. Am I right?"
Smart. Trying to make a connection with me. Attempting to get an empathetic response. Probably thinking, like Stanley Rosencrantz before him, Here's a guy I could make a deal with.
"Eddie," I said, "we're nothing alike."
"Don't be so sure," he said. "I mean, here you are with Cricket, too. Similar tastes, right? And anyway, I came back today. I was ready to take you out. See? End of the day, I felt bad. Contrite. Ready to make amends."
"Yeah," I said. "Listen. I hate to tell you this, but I do know Dixon Woods. And I'm afraid, Eddie, that you're going to need to deal with him yourself."
Eddie finally seemed to leave his comfort zone. "That guy is a monster. You can't let him have his way with me." Eddie detailed his last meeting with Dixon, which involved a tire iron, a broken wrist and a lingering jaw problem. "I want it noted for the record," he said, leaning into his coffee cup, like it was microphone, "that I really did love his mother. You know, she passed on and that bastard didn't even have the kindness to come back for her funeral. No problem busting me up, but he won't do the honor of burying his mother? You look up the records, see who paid for her funeral expenses. Tell your people that."