Roy braked hard and executed a four-wheel drift, penetrating the driveway a good seventy yards, and stopped before the police vehicle wailed past on the road, probably without seeing him, though he could not be sure and therefore reversed, drove back to the road, and turned in the direction from which he had come. As soon as an intersecting route was available, he took it, lest the cop too soon suspect what had happened and return flat-out.
Circuitously, and at a moderate speed, Roy reached town and his place of business, the hillside building at the rear of which, on the lower level, was a garage. The doors were open now, and he drove the car inside.
Diego and Paul, the mechanics who enjoyed a free lease from him in exchange for which they gave precedence to the servicing of the cars in his inventory, were never seen except at the garage, where they were at work before he ever arrived and often stayed after he left. The guys were masters of their craft. As he had boasted to Sam, he could have brought these wizards a box full of assorted bolts, gaskets, and cotter pins and come back in the afternoon to find an assembled engine that when started would run like the pouring of cream from a pitcher.
To which Sam’s usual response had to do with their being gay. He could not have known that for sure, as Roy himself did not. There could be no doubt they were exotic of origin. Diego was not simply Hispanic but a genuine native of Barcelona, whose English had British overtones due to his having served an apprenticeship in the United Kingdom; Paul spoke with an accent acquired during his boyhood in central Europe as the son of a German woman married to a black sergeant in the U.S. Army.
The guys were, of course, at work when he pulled the Jaguar in. Not only were they extraordinarily skilled with internal-combustion engines, they were fanatics about cleanliness and order, or anyway, Paul was and Diego followed his lead. Never could a drop of oil, a smear of grease, or even the stains of earlier drops and smears be found on the concrete floor. All elements of their equipment, from the big hydraulic lift to the smallest gauge of hexagonal wrench, glistened as if new. The men themselves wore powder-blue coveralls, always as pristine as the floor, and at the neck a navy-and-white kerchief, which Roy had once called an ascot but was corrected by Diego, a stickler for precise nomenclature.
“Cravat,” said he. “Ascot is the racecourse. For hosses.”
Paul was nearer at hand this morning. “I don’t like what I hear,” said he, as Roy emerged from the E-Type. “Ve’ll do a tune-up.”
“No need for that,” said Roy. “It drives beautifully. But the cops may be on my trail, so if they show up, make it look like you’ve been working on it for some time.”
Paul winked. He was a strikingly handsome man, the color of milked coffee. “Ach, you been a bad boy.”
Diego lowered the hand tool he had been using at a workbench and walked over to them, a stocky man in contrast to his tall and slender partner. The Jag’s engine was still running. Diego put one ear as low to the bonnet as he could without making contact. He straightened up to say, “I don’t like what I hyeah.”
“Have it your own way,” said Roy. “All I want is for the cops to think it’s been here all morning—if they show up at all.”
He left the guys and got the Jeep, the only vehicle he normally would leave all night in the parking lot and, without visiting his street-level office, drove to the Municipal Building. Eluding the police car had rehabilitated his morale. For a short but effective time he had not been the passive recipient of assaults on his moral essence. For a change he had chosen the rhythm of events.
Chief Albrecht’s manner was different from what it had been the day before. He begged Roy’s pardon for asking him to repeat the account of the incident at The Hedges and dictate it this time as a formal statement. Albrecht also scoffingly disclosed that he had heard both bereaved families intended to sue. “In my position I can’t take sides, Mr. Courtright, but as I’m sure your attorney already informed you, the whole bunch are scumbags.”
After he had finished giving the statement, Roy phoned Sy Alt and was surprised to be put directly through to the lawyer.
“That’s right,” Alt told him. “Harrison Wilkie—that’s Francine’s brother in case you don’t know—he’s a registered sex offender. He likes to flash his little wilkie at Catholic schoolgirls, and I tell you it’s little. The cops took reenactment photos; you can hardly see it in his hand.” Alt cleared his throat. “The late Martin Holbrook was charged with embezzlement eight or nine years back. It was settled out of court when he agreed never to work again as an investment counselor. I guess you know Francine had a shoplifting record.”
“I did not,” said Roy. “But then I never knew her well.”
“You ought to get acquainted with the women you shtup,” Alt said over his raspy chuckle. “Second thought, better you don’t. Francine was also arrested for A ‘n’ B in ninety-four. She threw chilled soup on another woman in a restaurant.”
“She didn’t deserve to get beaten to death.”
“Well, I never touched her,” said Alt, rasping again. “I can’t wait for those self-satisfied shits at Ashford, Fine & Corrigan to return my call. They didn’t do their homework, accepting clients like these. You can pretty much forget about the suit, Roy. Are you on for Sunday?”
“No,” Roy told him. “I’m not much of a golfer.”
“Which is why I always welcome you in a foursome,” said Alt. “You’re a lousy player on the course but the best-looking at brunch. You do have a way of attracting the ladies. Wish that wife of mine wasn’t too old for you. I’ll be in touch.”
“Yeah, with a big bill.” But Alt had already hung up. Roy was depressed again after speaking with the lawyer. He got no satisfaction from knowing about the delinquencies of Francine and her clan. He sincerely hoped he would be allowed to do something for her orphaned children before they joined adult humanity with the failings for which it is notorious.
He was en route to the office he had not visited for two days when his cell phone rang. Recognizing Kristin’s voice, he pulled into an empty parking space in front of one of the Main Street antique shops that did little weekday business.
Her tone was demanding. “Is this really you? I’ve been trying all your numbers for hours.”
Roy asked docilely about Sam.
Her voice softened. “This second episode turned out not to be that dire.”
“Do the doctors know what they’re doing?”
“I’m not qualified to judge,” Kristin said with her usual coolness. “But if they don’t know, who would?”
According to Sam, his cardiologist was, like his electronic gear, top of the line, which might only mean expensive, but neither did Roy have medical credentials. “I tried to reach you at the bank this morning and also talked to Maria. I hadn’t gotten your message till then.” He felt she might despise him for supplying too much excuse. Anyway, what he had been doing was his own business. He had had no reason to suspect Sam would have a setback; besides, it had not turned out to be that serious. He wasn’t married to Sam or to Sam’s wife.
“I’m not checking up on you,” Kristin said, as if she had heard and been chastened by his internal reflections. “I was worried you’d be offended by not hearing from me sooner.”
“Oh.”
“Well, I know you’ll want to see Sam. Our trails will probably cross over there.” She was obviously about to hang up. “I’ll see—”
Roy spoke quickly. “I’d like to talk with you first, if you could spare a minute.”
“Of course.”
“I don’t mean on the phone.”
“Gee…” Her reluctance disappointed him. “As you can understand, I haven’t put in a full day at the bank for some time now, and I’ve got a staggering backlog.”
“All right,” Roy said. “I will say it here and now, because the air has to be cleared. Last time I saw Sam he accused me of having an affair with you. I just walked out. That was too much for me.”
He had never heard her laugh
in this fashion, if in fact he had ever heard her properly laugh at all. Over the phone it sounded like splashing water. Finally she said, “That was his joke. You know how he is, you of all people.”
“I never heard him joke about something like that, even when he was well.”
“Then it’s the medication. But I assure you he was joking. He told me about it—and thinks you leaving in a huff was part of the joke. You and he have been kidding each other like that since you were boys, haven’t you? Trading fake insults?”
No, not that kind, never anything that was really personal, and Roy could not remember a girl or woman for whom they had ever competed. To begin with, their respective tastes in females were so different. Sam of course derided Roy’s so-called lechery, but that was another matter altogether from accusing his best friend of an illicit connection with his wife. Such a charge had to do not with sex but with betrayal, with dishonor, with a shame that Roy would have found unbearable…. For all that, he could admit, and in fact was eager to do so, that any wife, and especially one as sensitive as Kristin, would know her husband better, certainly in this area, than any male friend of however many years.
“You may be right.”
“I know I am, Roy,” Kristin said. “And after all, it reflected on me, too.”
For a moment he did not understand this comment, but to maintain his pride he murmured an assent.
Kristin was proving she also knew him. “I mean, he would also have been accusing me.”
“Oh, sure,” Roy said hastily. “He wouldn’t have given you a passive role. I should have recognized the joke from that. I’m not myself these days. Self-pity may not be a good excuse, but it’s the only one I can find.”
Her voice suddenly became very tender, even in this means of transmission. “It’s good enough for me.”
He was moved by the statement, though it might represent no more than common courtesy. It was just as well they were speaking by telephone, so that she could not see the flush he felt heat his face.
“Sam can still have visitors?”
“Of course. He’s expecting you.”
“What should I bring?”
“Nothing. He’s got too much stuff there already. The staff is complaining.”
“Something I noticed but never got around to mentioning: There aren’t any flowers in the room. Men don’t usually send them to other men, but I was wondering—”
“He’s allergic to flowers,” said Sam’s wife. “Didn’t you know that? All of those at home are silk or paper or something.”
Roy sighed. “Well, there you are. After twenty years I seem to be barely acquainted with the guy.”
“He sneezes if he sees a picture of a rose,” said Kristin. “Any kind of flower makes him tear up as if his heart is breaking.”
Roy remembered Sam’s copious tears at Roy’s father’s funeral. Fond as he had been of the man, Sam had perhaps wept overmuch, more even than Robin. Given the affection between them, Sam would have been a more appropriate son for Victor Courtright than Roy, who preferred the mother who had deserted him at a tender age. He always believed her more foolish than wicked. She was also beautiful.
“I’ve seen him cry at funerals,” Roy told Kristin. “It never occurred to me it might be the flowers.”
“I’ve got to go do some work, Roy.”
“Oh, sure.” He was about to make some polite closing comment when she briskly hung up. And why not? It was the rational thing to do. In these few short days he had begun to see, beyond the superficial attributes, what made her so attractive to Sam, though in fact that had never been in question. He still could not understand the reverse, though he might be getting closer. Sam needed taking care of. Could it be as simple as that? Many people had such a need. Lately he could include himself in their company, but that had not always been true. Normally he was self-reliant. Now that he was temporarily otherwise, Kristin seemed to like him as earlier she had apparently not. Did she simply have a preference for losers?…He shocked himself with this reflection. He had never before thought of his best friend with such stark candor…though now that he did, it was, if unfortunate, no surprise. Perhaps it had always existed as an assumption, too established to require conscious legitimizing.
“Hi there!” The window on the passenger’s side was open, and a winsome young woman’s smiling face was framed in it. She looked vaguely familiar to him, but he had no clue as to her name.
“Hi,” said he. “It’s good to see you.” The emphasis was instinctive in such a situation, when he cautiously withheld any more enthusiastic greeting. She might after all be poised to ask of him something he could not gracefully provide, in this period that had suddenly become so disorderly.
He was relieved by her producing a slotted can into which he could stuff a bill for whatever cause. Apparently they had not previously met, and she was asking nothing else of him. But he had not folded the money carefully, and it went only halfway in before clogging the narrow aperture.
The young woman took over, leaning in, her unbrassiered breasts plumped and defined by the lower edge of the window frame. She plucked the money out and, in refolding it, saw the denomination.
“Fifty bucks? My God. Thank you. You must love animals.” She had short glossy black hair, and her eyes looked somewhat Asiatic.
“I do, in fact. I also like you.”
She quickly pushed the bill into the can, as if he might change his mind. But her smile was wider. “You don’t know me.”
“If I knew you better, I might find you obnoxious.”
This statement made her laugh. “That’s a new one.”
Roy opened the glove compartment and took out a business card. He presented it to her.
She straightened up and read, “Incomparable Cars. You’re Roy Courtright?”
He put the Jeep in drive. “Give me a call if you want to buy a pre-owned Rolls-Royce.” He turned the steering wheel and took his foot from the brake. “Or just want to take a free test drive in one. Check me out with the Better Business Bureau.”
In the rearview mirror he could see her staring at him as he drove away. This whole thing had been involuntary, a kind of reflex triggered by the appearance of a woman who was attractive to him. He felt somewhat foolish now, only a moment later. She was young enough to be a college student. As a rule he could not endure college girls, who made him feel old and who had no history, no current or ex-husbands by contrast to whom he seemed glamorous.
While he waited for the green light at the last traffic signal on Main, a police car going the other way crossed the intersection and abruptly stopped parallel with him.
The officer in its open window was Howie. “Mr. Courtright,” he called over, “are you missing a sports car from your place this morning?”
“Nope. I just came from there.”
“I was chasing one out Meadowbrook a while ago,” Howie said. “I lost him. He was driving like he stole it.” Traffic was backed up behind the cruiser, blocking the intersection in all directions. The cars in the rear, not able to identify the police vehicle, were leaning on their horns. “I thought it might be one of yours.”
“Maybe it was one I sold somebody in the past.” Had this been a real possibility, Roy would never have made a suggestion so disloyal to a client. “But not all sports cars are vintage models. Check with Porsche-Audi, or maybe it was a Miata from Logan Mazda, in Crawford.”
“Whatever.” Apparently Howie had not even recognized the marque. There were now probably two dozen cars in the bottleneck he was creating with the easy arrogance of a policeman. But at last he acknowledged the horns, winking at Roy. “Got to calm down these irate citizens,” he said. “Seeya, Mr. Courtright.” He put the car in motion, but as slowly as possible, freeing the blocked vehicles only to begin a crawl.
Roy’s earlier pleasure in eluding the pursuit was compromised now that he put a face on the cop who chased him. Howie might not drive that well at speed and could have been killed taking one of th
ose corners on Meadowbrook. Outrunning the police was adolescent behavior. Nevertheless, had he not been aware that it would be reported immediately to Kristin, he might have boasted of the escapade to Sam, whose disapproval of Roy’s driving enhanced the pleasure his best friend derived from it, as did similar moralizing about his sex life: a wimp sitting in judgment on virility. For an instant it occurred to him, awfully, that he despised Sam. He thrust the thought away as quickly as it had come. If he had contempt for his friend, then why want to impress him?
They had never been competitors. When they were teenagers Sam would gorge on candy bars and potato chips while watching Roy work out for an hour with a barbell. For his own part, Roy had never been envious of the gadgets Sam was addicted to even as a lad, the vest-pocket voice-activated tape recorders, the pen-sized Mace canister, the radio-sunglasses, or for that matter the girls for whom in those days Sam seemed the greater attraction. Nowadays both of them found common amusement in remembering Roy’s early lack of success with females. Sam’s first score was at least a year and a half before his own, not to mention that when Roy’s opportunity arrived at last, he failed to give an adequate performance. He was so embarrassed he never dated the girl again, and it was another year before he even tried to have intercourse, except with prostitutes, who are professionally indifferent to a client’s humiliation, unless of course they have been paid to provide it.
Sam heard from a girlfriend that Roy was thought to be gay. “I told her you went to that Korean massage parlor all the time. But you know how women are.” But Roy had not so known, in that era. Nor, though in fact he did frequent them, did he know anything nonphysical about Asian masseuses, for they either did not speak English or were averse to speaking with him and communicated exclusively by hand signals.
Sam feared that paying for it was an aphrodisiac to Roy, but such proved not to be the case. “I know sex is supposed to be largely mental, but with me the physical can control the mind.”
Sam asked, “They say a stiff prick doesn’t have a conscience. Is that what you mean?”