Back Story s-30 Page 4

  "I write poetry," she said. "By hand. The tactile sensation of actual transcription seems vital to the creative process."

  I nodded.

  "What can you tell me about your sister's death?" I said.

  "Nothing. She was in a bank. Some radicals held it up. One of them shot her."

  "Where were you at the time."

  "Movies. I took Daryl to see Harry and Tonto."

  "Your sister was in Boston to visit you," I said.

  "She was crashing with me," Sybil said. "She was in Boston chasing some guy."

  Sybil's face was dark from sun and tough from wind and deeply lined from maybe too many cigarettes. She was about sixty, and she sat with her legs apart, one arm tucking the slack dress between her legs.

  "Who?" I said.

  "Don't know. She was always chasing some guy, dragging the damn kid along," Sybil said.

  She took in smoke and exhaled slowly. I quit smoking in 1963. The smell no longer pleased me.

  "How about her husband?"

  "Poor Barry," Sybil said. "He married her, when she got pregnant with Daryl, you know, sort of do the right thing?"

  "Were they married long?"

  "Hell, I don't really know who married them. You know? They may have just sworn an oath of flower power."

  "They were hippies?"

  "Sure. Me too."

  "Drugs?"

  "You better believe it," Sybil said.

  "Pot?"

  "Everything," she said. "If I could light it on fire I'd smoke it."

  "Been off for awhile?"

  "I quit in March of 1978," she said.

  She snuffed out her cigarette butt, took a fresh one from its pack and lit it, and took a long drag.

  "Except for these," she said. "I coulda lit this one from the other one. But I hate the chain-smoke image. So I always put one out before I light another one."

  "I admire self-control," I told her.

  "You probably quit years ago."

  "I did."

  "You don't have any of that sunken-cheeks look," she said. "Like me."

  I had nothing to say about that, so I cleverly looked around the room. There were some genuinely awful seascapes framed on the walls.

  "Were they together long?" I said. "After Daryl was born?"

  "Emily and Barry? Depends what you mean by together. You know how we all were then?"

  "I recall the period," I said.

  "Yes, of course you do. You were probably off somewhere doing push-ups. A lot of us were crazy to be unconventional. If older people did it, we couldn't possibly do it. My father was in the Rotary Club, for God's sake. My mother played fucking bridge!"

  "So what about Barry and Emily?"

  "Emily would go off and have an interlude with some guy who looked like Rasputin, and when he dumped her she'd come back to Barry."

  "And Barry took her back."

  "He didn't want to look conventional, I think. You know? Never darken my door again? I was in a pretty long-term fog during the time."

  "And they lived in La Jolla?"

  "La Jolla?" Sybil laughed. It was an unpleasant guttural. "My father and mother lived in La Jolla. Emily and Barry lived under a Coronado Bridge ramp." She laughed the guttural laugh again. "La Jolla!"

  "After Emily's death, Daryl went back to her father?"

  "Yes."

  "And when's the last time you saw her?"

  "That was it," Sybil said. "I guess Barry didn't feel very good about the Gold girls."

  "That was your maiden name?"

  "Yep. Gold."

  Sybil started on her third cigarette.

  "Is there a Mr. Pritchard?"

  "And before that a Mr. Halleck and a Mr. Layne and a Mr. Selfridge. After Pritchard, I stopped marrying them."

  "You have any idea who might have killed your sister?"

  "One of the hippies in the bank," she said. "Nobody knows which one."

  "Just for the hell of it," I said.

  "That's what the cops told me," she said.

  "Any reason to doubt it?"

  "Nope."

  "Any idea who the hippies are?"

  "Nope."

  "Or where?"

  "Nope."

  "How about the guy she was in Boston chasing? Any thoughts on him?"

  "He was probably a jerk," Sybil said. "It's what she went after."

  "Any special kind of jerkiness?"

  "She liked the blowhard revolutionaries, mostly. You know, a lot of hair? Power to the people? Got any dope?"

  "And you're out of that life now?"

  She smiled. "Got awful hard being a hippie by 1980 or so."

  "Was probably never easy," I said.

  "You got that right-constant worry that you might turn into your mother. Had to stay alert all the time."

  "And you've not had any contact with Daryl all that time?"

  "I send her a card every Mother's Day. I'm not sure why. I do them myself. I'm a painter." She nodded at the execrable seascapes. "I did all of those."

  "Splendid," I said.

  "I do enjoy my poetry. But it's not as good-yet. My real talent is painting."

  I took a card out and gave it to her.

  "If anything occurs to you, please let me know," I said.

  "Sure," she said and went to her Shaker table and tucked the card under the blotter. Then she went to a short, narrow bookcase and took out a slim volume of computer printouts. There were several others left on the shelf.

  "Take a copy of my poetry with you," she said. "I think you might enjoy it."

  "Thank you," I said.

  On the way back to Boston, I stopped in Kittery for a sandwich and a cup of coffee. While I ate, I read some of Sybil's poems, and when I departed, I left them in the trash can along with the empty coffee cup and the wrapper from the sandwich.

  15

  It was late, and I needed to think. I bought a bottle of Scotch at a New Hampshire liquor store on my way down from Maine, and a submarine sandwich in Saugus. I was carrying both when I left my car in the alley and went up to my office.

  The back stairwell was ugly in the nasty brightness of the fluorescent lights, and so was the hall. The black lettered sign on my office door told the world that I was a private investigator, or at least the part of the world that walked along this hall. I stuck the bottle under my left arm and got out my keys and opened my door. There was a sweet chemical smell in my office. It wasn't very strong, but it was there. It was a smell I knew. Susan, getting ready to go out. Hairspray! I left the keys in the lock and stepped into my office sideways to keep from silhouetting myself in the open doorway. The Scotch remained under my left arm. The sub sandwich was in my left hand. My gun was out. Nothing moved. There was a little light spilling in from the hall and a little less light drifting up through my window from Berkeley Street.

  As my pupils dilated, I could see someone sitting behind my desk. I had a vague sense of a presence on the wall to my right.

  "On the left side of the kneehole under the desk," I said. "There's a switch, controls the overhead."

  I narrowed my eyes against the light. Nothing happened. No one moved.

  "I would rather not shoot you in the dark," I said.

  Another moment when nothing stirred. Then a movement. And the lights came on.

  There were two men: the guy at my desk and another man standing against the wall just to the right of the bay window. Neither one was showing a weapon. I kept mine in hand, but let it hang by my side.

  "You have a bottle of Scotch whisky," the guy at my desk said.

  "I do," I said. "And I'm willing to share. But the sandwich is mine."

  The guy at my desk had a lot of teeth and very large black-rimmed glasses. His elbows rested on the arms of my chair. He had pale hands and long fingers, which he tented in front of his chin. His hair was smooth, flat to his head, and shiny black. Hairspray.

  "The Scotch will suffice," he said. "You have glasses, or must we pass it around like three wi
nos." His voice had an undertone to it, like the murmur of machinery deep in the ground.

  "I have the setups," I said.

  The guy standing against the wall was round-looking, with a red face and a thick blond mustache that twirled up at either end. Both men remained still while I put the Scotch and the sub sandwich on the desktop, and my gun back into its holster. I got some ice from the little office refrigerator, and glasses and soda from the glass-front cherry cabinet that Susan had installed, which went with the rest of my decor like a necklace on a toad. I put it all on the desk in front of Pale Fingers and sat down in a client chair.

  "One of you can mix," I said. "Scotch and soda, a lot of ice, a lot of soda."

  I unwrapped my sandwich while the blond guy made the drinks. The guy at my desk had his with soda, no ice. The blond guy had it on the rocks, not many rocks. He handed me mine and went back and stood against the wall. I had a bite of my sub and a slug of my Scotch and soda, and waited.

  The guy at my desk took his time with the whisky, sipping it gently, letting it sit a moment in his mouth before swallowing it delicately.

  "Good year for Scotch," I said.

  He smiled at me aimlessly. The blond guy took about half of his Scotch at the first pull.

  "I'm with the government," the guy at my desk said. "We both are."

  "How nice for the government," I said.

  "You weren't here," he said. "We took the liberty."

  "It's a way to get shot," I said.

  "What gave us away?" he said.

  "Hairspray," I said.

  "You smelled it."

  "Yep."

  "Vanity will be my downfall," he said.

  I took another bite of my sandwich, trying to keep the peripheral fallout off my shirt. I chewed. I swallowed. I had a drink of Scotch.

  "Whaddya want?" I said.

  Pale Fingers nodded and smiled.

  "Direct," he said. "I like that."

  I had another bite of my sandwich and waited.

  "We are here to ask a favor of you, in the interest of security."

  I sipped some Scotch.

  "You have been asking questions about the death of a woman named Emily Gordon."

  The blond guy with the mustache looked at me steadily. I think he was being menacing.

  "We would prefer that you desist."

  "Because?"

  "Because it is in the best interest of the United States."

  "How so?" I said.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm afraid I can't share that with you."

  "What a shame."

  "And if that is unpersuasive," he said, "I might suggest that it would be very much in your best interest as well."

  I finished my sub. It was excellent. But that was true of almost all subs.

  "Agreed?" Pale Fingers said.

  I finished the rest of my drink.

  "Buzz off," I said.

  The guy at my desk was tenting his fingers again. He glanced at the blond guy. The blond guy was still giving me the hard eye.

  "Are you sure you want to provoke the animosity of your government?" Pale Fingers said.

  His mouth was tight and his eyes, even magnified by his glasses, looked very small.

  "If this be treason," I said, "let us make the most of it."

  "Unless you reconsider," Pale Fingers said, "we may find reason to investigate you."

  "Given your track record," I said, "I remain undaunted."

  "And a tax audit is not impossible."

  "Yikes," I said.

  Pale Fingers and the blond guy looked at each other. Pale Fingers shrugged. The blond guy shrugged back. Pale Fingers stood.

  "You'll hear from us again," he said.

  "Oh good," I said. "I hate when friendships sour."

  We all looked at each other for a moment. None of us seemed scared. When they left, I made myself a fresh drink and went around behind my desk and reclaimed my chair. I put my feet up and looked at the open door into the bright, empty hallway, and thought.

  16

  I met Epstein for breakfast in a coffee shop near his office. He was there when I arrived, sitting at a table, drinking coffee.

  "Get a couple of these inside you and the day looks better," he said.

  A waitress brought me orange juice and coffee. I drank the juice, put cream and sugar in my coffee, stirred, and had a sip. Epstein was right. Orange juice and coffee never let you down.

  "This conversation going to be long enough so we should eat?" I said.

  "We'd be fools not to," Epstein said.

  I had a raspberry scone. Epstein had two eggs sunny-side up, bacon, home fries, and a bagel.

  "Maintaining the old cholesterol?" I said.

  "Except for the bagel," Epstein said. "The bagel's a gesture toward my heritage."

  "On that basis, I should have had the potatoes," I said.

  "You want to know why I offered to buy you breakfast?" Epstein said.

  "I figured you wanted some law enforcement tips."

  "That too," Epstein said. "But I been thinking about your old murder case."

  "Emily Gordon," I said.

  "Yes. I was thinking it might help matters a little if you knew the name of the agent in charge of the investigation."

  "There was an investigation?"

  "Well, we normally look into bank robberies."

  My scone had a light brush of frosting on the top, which seemed to me an excellent touch.

  "So who looked into this one," I said.

  "Of course," Epstein said, "I am not at liberty to give you his name."

  "Of course," I said.

  "On the other hand, if you were to bribe me by paying for breakfast, simple courtesy would mandate some sort of response."

  "Breakfast is on me," I said.

  "Agent's name is Evan Malone."

  "He still around?"

  "He's retired," Epstein said.

  "You know where he is?"

  "Of course."

  "What do I do for his address."

  "I may need a second bagel," Epstein said.

  "Jesus, you're hard," I said. "No wonder you got to be SAC."

  "Do I get the bagel?" Epstein said.

  "Yes."

  "Malone's on a lake in New Hampshire. I took the liberty of writing it out for you."

  "You knew I'd cave on the second bagel, didn't you?"

  Epstein smiled. I took the address and put it in my shirt pocket.

  "I'm willing to go as high as a dozen bagels," I said. "But I need to ask you a question."

  Epstein nodded gravely and spread his hands in a welcoming gesture.

  "You send a couple of employees around to talk with me last night?"

  Epstein frowned.

  "Employees?"

  "Geeky-looking guy with big, round glasses and a lot of teeth," I said. "Blond guy, heavyset, big mustache."

  "Employees," Epstein said.

  "That's what they told me."

  "They said they were with the Bureau?"

  "Government," I said. "I inferred Bureau."

  "Inferred? What kind of talk is that for a guy your size?"

  "Large, but literate," I said. "They yours?"

  Epstein shook his head. "Not mine," he said. "What did they want?"

  "For me to leave Emily Gordon alone."

  "The thirty-year-old murder."

  "Twenty-eight."

  Epstein nodded and looked around for the waitress. When he caught her eye, he gestured for more coffee. She came and poured some for both of us.

  "Could I have another bagel?" Epstein said to her. "Toasted, with a shmeer?"

  "You want that with cream cheese?" she said.

  Epstein smiled. "Yes."

  The waitress hurried off.

  Epstein said, "They show you any ID?"

  "No."

  "So you don't know they were government?"

  "No."

  "But we know they were somebody, and somebody doesn't want you investigating the
death of Emily Gordon."

  "Or the whole case," I said. "It may not be Emily Gordon per se."

  "Could be," Epstein said. "Could be the fear that if you investigate Emily Gordon, you'll find out something else."

  "Or expose the cover-up."

  "Or both," Epstein said. "Remember Watergate?"

  "It wasn't the crime, it was the cover-up?" I said.

  "Per se," Epstein said.

  17

  It was Sunday morning. Susan and I were walking Pearl II along the Commonwealth Avenue Mall toward Kenmore Square. She was still a little nervous in the city and tended to press in against Susan's leg when cars passed. I didn't blame her. If you were going to press a leg, Susan's would be an excellent choice.

  "So," I said. "Daryl's idyllic La Jolla childhood appears to be, ah, exaggerated."

  "Poor kid," Susan said.

  "Why the false history?" I said.

  "I imagine the real history is too painful," Susan said. "And if you need to, you can pretend so hard that it's almost true."

  Traffic was sparse for the moment, and Pearl felt daring. She pulled vigorously on the leash in the direction of some pigeons.

  "You think she believes it is true?" I said.

  "No, she knows it's not," Susan said. "But it could have been. And she probably believes she's the kind of person that such a childhood would have produced."

  "It's almost true, because it could have been true," I said.

  "And because it is the best way to explain the kind of person you are."

  A motorcycle went past us toward the common. Pearl shrunk in on herself, tucked her tail down, got low, and pressed against Susan. Susan patted her.

  "You'll get used to it," Susan said. "You'll be a city girl soon."

  We crossed Exeter Street.

  "You think I should tell Paul," I said.

  "Does he need to know?"

  "As far as I can tell, he's not planning to stroll into the sunset with her."

  "Would it do him any good to know?"

  "Probably make life harder," I said. "Having the secret, deciding whether to tell her he knows, thinking about the lie when he's trying to direct her in a play."