A Perfect Crime Page 12

  The bus drove on, picked up speed, approached New Horizons. Whitey saw a cop on the sidewalk, talking to the social worker. As the bus drew closer, Whitey saw that the cop was showing something to the social worker, a piece of paper. And as the bus went right by, within a few feet of them, Whitey saw what it was: the artist’s composite, with nothing right except the fucking hair. Whitey stayed on the bus.

  Roger was sleeping the deepest sleep he’d had in a long time when the phone rang. He fumbled for it in the darkness of the strange room, answered.

  “Rog? It’s me, Whitey Tru-Whitey Reynoso. I’m calling like you said.”

  “But it’s four in the morning.”

  “Kind of anxious to get started, is all.”

  Was he drunk? Stoned? Planning some scheme of his own? Was this not going to work, after all?

  “Rog? You still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “So maybe you could come and pick me up.”

  “Where are you?”

  “On 441, of course. Where you picked me up before.”

  Was he armed? Alone? His voice was full of impending surprise. “Very well,” said Roger.

  His motel room had a kitchenette. Roger took the biggest knife from the drawer, hid it under the seat of his rented car, drove out to 441. Could he kill Whitey? Certainly. There was a deep, violent well of hatred in him, as he was sure there was in most people; he’d known it since boyhood. It made war possible, and perhaps all human civilization. The only problem was scheduling: Whitey wasn’t supposed to die yet.

  Roger came to the spot where he’d found Whitey, saw a lone man in the headlights, slowed down, slow enough to bring any overeager accomplices out of the bushes, slow enough to see that Whitey was holding some sort of bundle, slow enough to hear him cry, “Hey, it’s me,” as Roger went by.

  A few hundred yards beyond, Roger made a U-turn and drove back. He stopped the car, one hand on the knife. Whitey came out of the shadows, opened the passenger door, got in. His eyes were bright. “Hi, Rog. Had me concerned there for a minute. Here. I brought you something.”

  Roger inched the knife out from under the seat. Whitey laid the bundle between them: something wrapped in a denim jacket. “Open it, why don’t you?”

  With his free hand, Roger opened the jacket-and there was the baby gator, its mouth fastened shut with packing tape. Roger felt Whitey’s gaze on him, waiting for his reaction.

  “You’ve done well, Whitey, very well.”

  Whitey laughed with delight. “Feisty little bugger, that gator, let me tell you.”

  “Not an alligator, actually,” Roger said. “It’s a crocodile-you can tell from the angulation of the jaw.”

  “Whatever. Tore my jacket to shreds. My only jacket.”

  Roger silently counted three and said, “You can have the one in back.”

  “Cool,” said Whitey, donning the leather jacket right away. It felt great. The gator watched with its slitty yellow eyes.

  14

  “Any hints?” asked Anne, eyeing their opponents across the net as the players took their serves before the top-bracket semifinal of the club championships.

  Francie checked them out: two wiry women wearing elbow braces and knee pads. She thought she recognized the taller one from her college days; she’d played for Brown, or possibly UConn-a distant memory, no more than a fragment, but unpleasant.

  “How was your overhead in the warm-up?”

  “I didn’t make a single one,” said Anne with alarm. “You think they’re going to lob us?”

  “To death,” said Francie.

  Francie was right. The wiry women, tireless, unsmiling, grim, fed them-Anne particularly, as they saw her game begin to fall apart-junk, chips, dinks, lobs; they served conventional, Australian, from the I, even both back for a point or two; and they called the lines very close. First set: 6–2, the 2 coming on Francie’s serve.

  On the changeover, while the wiry women iced their elbows and knees, Anne turned her flushed face to Francie and said in a low voice, “I’m so sorry. They’re hitting every ball to me and I’m playing like shit.”

  Francie put her hand on Anne’s knee, felt it trembling. “First of all,” she said, “it’s only tennis. Second, it’s not over.” She leaned forward, spoke in Anne’s ear. “This set we’re going to do a little lobbing of our own.”

  “Will that work?” Anne asked. Francie saw the blue disk of her eye in profile, inches away: still, waiting for the response.

  “At least those fucking knees of theirs are going to ache tonight,” she said. The blue disk brightened, bulged slightly; Anne laughed.

  She laughed, but her game did not come back, at least not right away. Her lobs were short, and the wiry women proved adept at putting them away, one of them grunting an annoying little “Ho!” on every overhead. Francie and Anne fell behind 1–3, 1–4.

  Anne’s serve. “This isn’t working,” she said as Francie handed her the balls.

  “Any other ideas?” said Francie.

  “No,” Anne replied, her face pinker than ever. Francie watched a vein throbbing in her forehead. She wanted to say forget whatever’s fucking up your mind and just play. Instead she glanced across the net, saw the opposition waiting restlessly on the other side, eager to get on with the demolition.

  “Go with your second serve,” she told Anne.

  “What good will that do? They’re clobbering my first.”

  “Probably none, but try it.”

  Anne tried it. The wiry women, fooled by the change of pace, netted the first two returns. On the next two, they were ready and hit aggressive crosscourt shots, but Francie poached on both and put them away, the second drilling a padded knee and drawing an angry glare-unintentional, on Francie’s part, but somewhere in her heart, she said yes. 2–4.

  Anne’s lobs grew stronger and deeper in the next game, forcing the wiry women to scramble in the back-court for the first time in the match. Now Francie and Anne were making the easy putaways. 3–4. Francie’s serve. Four all. Francie and Anne then broke serve again, but Anne, serving for the set, double-faulted twice. Both sides held after that and they went to a tiebreak.

  A long tiebreak, full of jittery errors on both sides, kept alive by an outrageous out call on the far baseline that brought a surprisingly furious look to Anne’s face.

  7-7. “Can you believe that call? It was in by a foot.”

  “Anne?”

  “Yes?”

  “Just win this point.”

  Their eyes met. Francie thought she saw through the doubtful outer person to a stronger one inside. Anne nodded.

  Next serve to Francie, a spinner into the body. She hit a weak return, picked off at the net, angled at Anne’s feet. But Anne made one of her miraculously quick reflexive shots, catching the ball on her racket, deflecting a soft lob, her best of the match, over outstretched racquets on the other side, landing indisputably within the lines for a winner.

  “Beautiful,” said Francie, suddenly filled with the feeling-rare for her, but the greatest pleasure the game had to give-that she could do anything she liked with the ball.

  She took two of them from Anne, put one in her pocket, bounced the other a few times, tossed it up, bent her knees. The ball reached the top of its arc and seemed to pause. With all the time in the world, Francie hit it in the bottom right quadrant as hard as she could: an ace down the middle.

  “Oh, yes, Francie.”

  Match tied at one set apiece.

  But it was really over, probably decided somewhere in the middle of the second set, perhaps at the moment Francie volleyed the ball off that padded knee. Francie and Anne began playing better and better; the wiry women, their soft game beaten, had no fallback. In what seemed like a few minutes, Francie and Anne went up 5–0, 40–15 in the third set.

  Anne serving at match point. To the backhand. One last lob, a good one, over Francie’s head. She went back to take it, calling, “Got it.”

  Anne came across behind he
r: “Mine.”

  “Got it.”

  “Mine.”

  They were both in midswing when Francie ran her over. A cry of pain from Anne; their racquets collided-but somehow struck the ball, which arced toward the net, ticked off the tape, and dropped untouched on the other side. Game, set, match.

  Anne lay on the court, face ashen, lips blue. She sat up, tried to rise, could not. Francie knelt beside her. “What hurts?”

  “Ankle. What if I can’t go on?”

  “Don’t have to. We won.”

  “That went over?”

  “Yup.”

  Anne made a fist, almost pumped it.

  Francie sat on the court, gently removed Anne’s shoe, rolled off her sock, and supporting the weight of Anne’s leg in her lap, examined the ankle.

  Shadows loomed over them. “Did you hear a cracking sound?” said one of the wiry women, not quite hiding her satisfaction.

  “More like a little rip,” Anne said.

  Francie looked at the wiry women pursing their lips. “Nice match,” she said, reached up to shake hands, and asked them to send someone from the desk. They went away. Anne was gazing up at her. “You’ll be okay by Saturday,” Francie said.

  “You think?”

  “I’ve done that ripping number a hundred times. We’re going to win this goddamn tournament.”

  Color began returning to Anne’s face.

  But it was her right ankle, and she couldn’t drive. Francie and the desk attendant helped her out to the parking lot, and Francie drove her home in Anne’s car.

  “I hate to inconvenience you like this,” Anne said. “My husband will drive you back the minute he gets home.”

  “No trouble,” Francie said. “Got anything to drink? Beating a pair like that’s worth a celebration.”

  “I never thought we could. You were so cool out there, Francie.”

  “I like to compete,” Francie said. True, but not the kind of remark she’d normally make, possible now only with the endorphins flowing through her brain.

  “And you were serving so hard-just like Nora.”

  “That turns out not to be a compliment,” Francie said. She explained Nora’s Newtonian theory of big hips and hard hitting.

  Anne laughed and said, “You know you’ve got a great body.”

  “I most certainly do not.”

  “Come on-men on the other courts are always looking at you. That’s never happened to me in my whole life.”

  Anne lived in Dedham, a small Federal house with a big lawn, not far from the green. Leaning on Francie, she limped up the shoveled walk, unlocked the door. They moved into a little hall, with cut flowers-irises-in a vase beside the mail and a stack of audiotapes. “I’ll get ice,” Francie said, seeing the kitchen straight ahead.

  A bright kitchen, with three places set on the table and a note stuck to the fridge: Anne-I’ll handle dance pickup. Back at 8. A note probably written early that morning; Anne’s husband would be tired, in no mood for more driving. Francie checked her watch: twenty minutes to. She opened the freezer, found an ice pack under a container of rocky road ice cream, took it to the living room.

  Anne sat in a corduroy-covered chair, her leg up on a footstool. The ankle was more swollen now, but Francie had seen worse. She laid the ice pack on it.

  “You’re an angel,” said Anne.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “No. There’s some wine in the cabinet over the sink, but I don’t think it’s very good.”

  “Let’s save it for Saturday night,” said Francie, picking up the phone.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Calling a cab.”

  “Please don’t,” said Anne, glancing out into the darkness. “They’ll be home any minute.”

  Francie started dialing.

  “Please. I feel guilty enough already.”

  Francie paused for a moment, then gave in. She hung up the phone, poured Romanian wine for both of them, sat on the couch.

  “To victory,” said Anne.

  They drank a toast to victory.

  Paintings hung on Anne’s walls, all but one framed re-productions, of no interest to Francie. The one original, partly obscured by a desk lamp, was a still life of a bowl of grapes. She thought at once of oh garden, my garden. This painting had none of its resonance, but the technical skill of the artist was as high, perhaps higher: the grapes glistened, as though they’d just been washed.

  “I like that painting,” Francie said.

  “You do?”

  “Who’s the artist?”

  “Well,” said Anne, “the fact is, me. Although I wouldn’t say artist.”

  Francie rose, took a closer look at the painting, liked it even more. A. F. was painted in a bottom corner, almost too small to read. “Tell me more,” she said.

  “Like what?”

  “Where you learned to paint. What other stuff you’ve done. Et cetera.”

  “I can’t say I ever really learned. And I haven’t done anything in years, Francie.”

  “How come?”

  Anne shrugged. “Family life.” Her gaze turned inward. “And I guess I got discouraged.” She brightened. “But are you really telling me you like it?”

  “I am.”

  “That means a lot. The truth is I’m so jealous of you. I’d kill for a job like yours, Francie.”

  “I’m not an artist,” Francie said.

  “Neither am I.”

  “Don’t be so sure. I’d like to see more.”

  Anne thought. “They’re all packed away in the basement,” she said. “Except one I did of my husband, just after we got married. My last real effort, now that I think of it.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In the bedroom. You can go up. First door on your right.”

  Francie went into the hall, climbed the stairs, entered the first room on the right. A bedroom, with a king-size bed, and over it, in oil, the head of a dark-eyed young man, all greens and browns, edged in white. Not as good as the grapes in technique, but it resonated more-whether because of Anne’s artistry or the subject’s resemblance to Ned, Francie didn’t know. An astounding likeness, not photographic, but in affect, and perhaps all the more powerful for that reason. It froze Francie on the spot, there at the foot of Anne’s bed. She stared at the painting, unaware of time, unaware of anything until a car door slammed, close by.

  Francie hurried downstairs, through the hall, into the living room. Anne looked up with a smile. “Find it okay?”

  “Yes. Anne-”

  “And what did you think? I’ve never been that happy with it, but it’s Em’s favorite for some reason.”

  “Em?”

  “Emilia. My husband started calling her Em, and it stuck.”

  Francie heard the front door open.

  “Speak of the devil,” Anne said.

  15

  A nightmare that began with cute domestic touches.

  “Honey, I’m home,” called Ned in a parody of a sitcom-daddy voice. Not someone who sounded like him, but Ned: beyond doubt.

  And a girlish voice responded, “Dad. Don’t be such a dork.”

  Francie, motionless in Anne’s living room, her motionlessness that of the dreamer desperate to flee the nightmare but suddenly paralyzed in every muscle, heard the words, heard Ned’s voice, and Emilia’s, Em’s-Em, Em, Em, a warning often sounded, completely missed-heard their voices strangely distorted, as though all sounds but the highest treble and deepest bass had been eliminated. Visual distortion came, too. Colors-the walls, the rug, Anne’s face-veered toward yellow.

  “In here,” Anne called back, her eyes brightening. She glanced at Francie with the expectant look of someone about to introduce people certain to like each other, about to bring two positive components of her life together. Francie felt blood rushing to her throat, her cheeks; she blushed like the kind of schoolgirl she’d never been.

  Footsteps in the hall. All her senses, all her thoughts in turmoil, Francie glimpsed
her face in the mirror over the fireplace. She looked normal, even composed. No trace of a blush, no discomfort, completely cool. How was that possible? She should have beheld an image of terror and shame. Then Ned walked into the room, his daughter, Emilia, Em-with his dark eyes, his erect posture-at his side. He saw Francie, stopped dead, went white: horrified. Horrified for all to see.

  Anne saw. “It’s not as bad as it looks, Ned,” she said. “Just a sprain. Please don’t worry. And the great thing, the important thing, is we won the match.”

  “The match?” Ned said.

  “We’re in the finals! Ned, this is Francie, my new tennis partner. Francie, my husband, Ned.”

  Their eyes met. Ned tried to hide what was going on within, but he couldn’t do that from Francie. She saw horror-his first thought must have been that Anne knew all, the second perhaps that Francie had had some kind of breakdown and come to confess-give way to confusion. Neither moved to close the space between them, to shake hands. Francie spoke first. “Hello,” she said, not coming near the right note, unable to remember how to say hello to someone for the first time.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said, also hitting it wrong, and adding a faltering little smile that was off target as well.

  Francie, aware of Anne’s glowing face, almost a caricature of enthusiasm, tried to think of something to say. She met people all the time, always knew what came after hello and nice to meet you. But this time nothing did. There was no light remark, no easy meaningless flow. The room and everyone in it grew yellower and yellower, and the urge to bolt from it grew as well, almost overwhelming her. At the same time an inane phrase- nice to meet you, too — readied itself in her mind. But nice to meet you, too was playacting, a lie. She didn’t want to say it, not unless she absolutely had to, didn’t want to smile and be a villain; she just wanted to get out. The silence went on and on. Surely Anne, so sensitive to atmosphere, would notice, would feel the awkwardness.