Читать книгу Embracing The Fool - Dawn Leger - Страница 4

When he returned to the table with his latte, I had already completed my call.

“Who was that? Oh, do you want to share some of this?” he asked, pushing the enormous cup to the center of the tiny round table.

The small café was jammed with students, tourists, and wanna-be writers, all scribbling in their moleskin notebooks, everyone dressed head-to-toe in black and scowling at everyone else for making noise. Music that leaked from earbuds clashed with soothing classical violins humming from speakers suspended from each corner by thick cobwebs and seemingly little else, and even that was blasted out by the grind of the espresso machine every three minutes.

Michael leaned forward and boomed, into a sudden lull, “So, you have a father?”

“Why, yes, I do,” I said. “Don’t you? Or were you hatched out of the side of your mother’s head?”

“Sorry,” he said, toning down his voice. “That’s not what I meant. I just never heard you mention family before, so I assumed you didn’t have any…you know, living relatives.”

“Well, I do. In fact, my father lives in New Jersey and I see him a couple times a month. We even talk on the phone a few times a week. How about you? Where's your family?” I asked.

“Oh, my mom lives in Massachusetts, and my dad passed away a few years ago,” he said.

“I’m sorry. Do you see your mom often?”

“As often as I can,” he said, shrugging. “She’s busy with her business, and, I don’t know, I suppose I’m not a priority for her.”

I sipped the hot coffee and contemplated the undercurrents of his explanation. “So, she’s not comfortable with your ‘lifestyle,’ I take it?”

“Something like that,” he said. “How did you know?”

“I think that might be pretty common, and I’m sorry,” I said. I paused. “I haven’t seen my mother since I was eight years old, so I can kind of relate.”

“Really?” he replied. “Do you know where she is?”

“Sort of,” I said. “She went back to Europe. I’m not sure where, exactly. Just that she left my father—and me—and never looked back.”

“Did she run off with another man or something?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” I said.

I hesitated, and there was an uncomfortable silence for a moment.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s none of my business. You don’t have to explain anything to me. Family stuff is hard.”

“Yeah,” I said. I forced myself to look him in the eye. As much as I wanted to have a fresh start in the city with no connection to my past, I couldn’t deny that it would be good to have a friend who knew the “real” me. Should I take the plunge and tell Michael the truth about my family?

“I…”

Michael’s phone dinged and he pulled it out of his pocket.

“Oh, sorry, I need to take this call,” he said. “Hello?” he turned slightly away and I found myself looking at the back of his shoulder.

So much for intimacy, I thought. I finished the lukewarm coffee and checked my own phone for messages. As usual, there were none. When he disconnected the call, Michael turned back to me.

“Where were we?” he asked.

“Never mind that,” I said. “Tell me who was on the phone to make you look so goofy.”

“Oh, I wrote my number on the chest of a guy at the gym this morning and before he showered, he decided to call me,” he said. “We’re going to meet for drinks later.”

“You dog,” I said. “Should we clear out?” I pulled on my sweater. “I don’t suppose you’d be up for making a field trip to Princeton with me later on?”

“Nah, I’ve got class this afternoon, and I really have to work on my portfolio. And then I have to get ready for my date tonight,” he said. “Maybe next time.”

He hesitated. “Cassie? Is there something else? Something you want to talk about?”

What the hell, I thought. “You have another minute?”

He nodded.

“It’s just that, my mother…” Boy, this was hard. “She’s from, well, I guess I’ll just spit it out. She’s a Gypsy. And I’m afraid that might have something to do with this murder.”

“What?” he said. “How could it?”

“The knife, in Neville’s throat…” I whispered. “I kind of recognized it as one of theirs.”

“Holy crap.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Listen, I haven’t had anything to do with my mother or her family for a very long time, so I hope it’s not true, but I’m freaking out about it, you know? And I don’t know if I should tell anyone or just wait and see what happens. What do you think?”

“Geez, that’s a hard one,” he said. “If you tell the cops you recognize the knife, you’re putting yourself right into it.”

I nodded.

“But if you don’t say anything, then they won’t follow a possible lead…which might take them straight to your mother’s doorstep. Which is where, exactly?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Like I said, I haven’t spoken to her in years. She’s in Europe, but that’s a pretty big continent and I have no way to narrow it down to a particular country.”

“I think you should keep your mouth shut. Just answer the questions about your role in things, and let the cops do their jobs. Maybe they’ll trace the knife to her, maybe not—but it’s not your place to send them on that path,” he said.

“No?” I asked.

“No,” he said. He paused for a second, looking me over. “Wow, so you’re a Gypsy, then.”

“Don’t call me that, please,” I said, sitting back in my seat.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean it as an insult, it’s exotic.”

“I don’t want to be exotic, I just want to be a regular person,” I said. “Please, do me a favor and forget I ever told you.”

“Okay, but tell me one thing: can you read fortunes? Like, can you read my palm?” he asked, thrusting his hand across the table between us.

“No,” I said. “Maybe someday, I’ll look at the cards for you, but not in a public place, okay?”

He rubbed his hands together. “Lovely! I can’t wait. But now I really have to get going,” he said. “Don’t worry, kiddo, your secrets are always safe with me. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow, all right? Try to stay out of jail in the meantime.”

We hugged and I headed via the back entrance to my building to the basement garage where I retrieved my Mini Cooper and slowly made my way through the crowded Greenwich Village streets towards the Holland Tunnel. When I was sitting in line on Seventh Avenue waiting for the traffic light to change and cars to move into the tunnel entrance, I saw a flashing red light coming up in my rear view mirror. There were cars on all four sides of me, and so I had nowhere to move out of the way.

“Pull over, Miss,” a voice instructed. “You, in the red Mini, pull to the right. Yes, you.”

At the green, the car next to me moved ahead and I signaled right. I stopped at the curb and the cruiser pulled in behind me. In short order, two officers approached, one on either side of the little car. I turned down the radio and pulled out my license, holding it out the window for the large policeman to read.

“Registration, Miss,” he said. I pulled the plastic envelope out of the glove compartment and handed it to him, noting that the other cop was walking around, looking in all the windows and assessing my belongings.

“Turn off the car and put the keys on the passenger seat, please,” he said. “I’ll be right back.” He walked away but the other officer, whom I now identified as female, stayed next to the car, her hand resting on her weapon. I reached for my cell phone.

She tapped on the window. “No calls right now. Just sit tight,” she said.

I dropped the phone back in my bag and moved the rear view mirror until I could see the other cop talking on the phone in his black and white. He was nodding; then he got out, motioned to his partner and filled her in. I took the opportunity to dial my own home phone number and waited for the answering machine to engage, then activated the speaker phone.

“Miss.”

The officer surprised me by appearing at my window suddenly. I secured the phone close to my thigh.

“Yes?”

“Detective Friday has instructed me to ask you to kindly remain in Manhattan until the investigation into Mr. Carstairs’ murder has been concluded.”

“Excuse me? Am I under arrest or something?” I asked.

“No, ma’am, it’s just a request.”

“So you aren’t going to take me in or anything?” I waited while he shook his head and handed my documents back. “And you can’t stop me from taking the tunnel to New Jersey to visit my father, can you?”

“Technically, no, we have no power to prevent you from leaving the jurisdiction, Miss, but Detective Friday is requesting that you remain in Manhattan for the time being, if you would be so kind.”

“Tell me, officer, am I a suspect? A ‘person of interest’ in this crime?”

“I have no idea, ma’am, I was just told to keep eyes on you and detain you if you made any attempt to leave the city.”

“Can I have the phone number of this Detective Friday, so I can speak with him directly?” I asked.

He turned away, spoke into his phone, and then jotted a number onto a card and handed it to me.

“Here you are. You can reach him at this number any time.”

“Thank you.” I reached for the keys and started the car. Both officers were still crowding my windows. “Can I do anything else for you?”

“I, um, aren’t you going to call him?” he asked.

“Not right now,” I said. “Please step away.”

“One moment.” He turned away again, but now I could hear him clearly speaking to the detective. “Do you want us to search the vehicle? Uh-huh… I don’t know...I gave her the number. ..Uh-huh…Should we follow her? Yes, sir. Roger that.”

He signaled the other cop. “Okay, thanks for your time, Miss.” They walked back to the cruiser.

Damn, I thought. Are they going to follow me to Princeton? This is ludicrous. Besides, that guy should decide if I’m a Ma’am or a Miss. Talk about bad form.

I hung up the phone and speed-dialed my father, then quickly filled him in on the situation. “So, should I still come down, or do you think you should come up here?”

“I’ll get the train,” he said. “When I know what time I’ll be in the City, I’ll send you a text. We can go somewhere extravagant for dinner. Don’t worry, we’ll get this all straightened out.”

“Okay, Dad,” I said.

“And I called your Uncle Phil for legal advice,” he said. “I’ll see you soon.”

He hung up before I could object to the Uncle Phil call. Oh boy.

It was almost 4:30, and I had no idea how I was going to get out of this lane of traffic without going through the Holland Tunnel and coming back. If it weren’t for the fact that it would cost me twelve bucks, I’d do it just to tick off the cops. Hmmm. Instead, I got out of the car and approached the officers sitting in the cruiser behind me. I knocked on the window.

“Excuse me, but could you possibly create a path for me to get out of here without going in the tunnel? I don’t feel like sitting here for the three hours it will take for there to be a break in the traffic,” I said.

They looked at each other. “Fine,” he said. “Move to the left when I tell you to go.”

It was kind of fun to be the subject of this maneuver, but I accumulated quite a bit of bad traffic karma during the painful exercise that involved one cruiser stopping traffic across four lanes of traffic to enable me to make a left onto Canal Street and get off Seventh Avenue.

Since I had an entourage and some time to kill, I decided to do some shopping in Chinatown. I found a questionable parking lot and paid ten dollars to a boy who was probably not much older, promising him a large almond cookie if I found the car in the same condition that I left it.

“No cookie. Big Mac,” he said, smiling.

We shook on it. I resisted the urge to ask if he wanted fries with that, certain of the affirmative response.

I was determined to inject my own personality into the vanilla apartment that Michael was helping me decorate. First stop, Mrs. Wong’s Emporium. Okay, it was a tourist trap, but I knew what I wanted from my virgin trip below Canal just a couple of months before, and I knew exactly where to find it: a giant golden cat with one perpetually waving paw, symbol of welcome and good luck. Its ornate floral designs and smiling face would add just the right touch of whimsy to Michael’s sophisticated choices for the living room. Fortunately, the large item was extremely lightweight and fit snugly into my front seat.

When I stopped at Crate & Barrel on my way uptown, I noticed a new pair of cops trailing me. Neither one helped carry the crate of wine glasses I purchased back to the car, so I was glad that I’d opted for the home delivery of my new red enamel cabinet, where the Chinese cat would sit and wave, perpetually. I gave my companions a nod as we headed back to university parking. Maybe with my Dad in the car, I’d venture out to the Brooklyn Ikea for a major shopping spree, but for now I was satisfied with my strategic purchases. By the time I had lugged everything inside, cleaned up and changed clothes, my phone was reminding me to head to Grand Central.

It’s easy to spot my father in a crowd, because he’s almost always the tallest person. And with a full head of bright orange hair that refuses to be tamed, he is doubly hard to miss. When he stands alone, one might liken him to a stork or other extremely long-legged bird; he is very short-waisted, so his legs seem disproportionately long for his body. Naturally, this body is terribly thin, gaunt almost, and white, pale to the point of translucence in winter, with remnants of boyhood freckling across his nose and cheeks that sprout and flourish given the slightest exposure to the sun. He is, in a word, the epitome of gawky. There’s even, on most days, a cowlick…along with large, stick-out-like-jug-handle ears. Honestly, I love him to death, but thank God that I inherited only my brains and not my looks from my father’s gene pool.

On this day, probably because of the serious shit his only child had stepped into, Father came up the escalator wearing an actual tweed cap. I did a double take. He had on a trench coat as well, so he looked like a normally-proportioned, quite handsome, but very tall man.

“Dad,” I called, rushing to grab him by the waist. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

He patted my back softly. “No worries, Cassie, all under control, now it is. You’ll be well advised.”

I grinned and linked arms with his. “I feel better already,” I said. “But Uncle Phil? Really? This isn’t a traffic ticket in Passaic, you know.”

We both chuckled and walked through the crowds heading into the evening air. “A dinner reservation somewhere has been procured?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “ABC Kitchen.”

“A carpet store serving food, that is?” One eyebrow disappeared under the rim of his cap as he studied my face. “In need of home furnishings you are?”

“I am trying to liven up my apartment a bit, but no, it’s a real restaurant and it’s gotten very good reviews. I was lucky to get a table,” I said.

“Room for our friends, there will be as well?” he nodded his head towards the two officers following us up the street.

“I don’t think they have that kind of dinner allowance,” I said. “But we can invite them to join us, if you really want.”

“Not at all,” he said. “Catching up we must do. Doughnuts or whatever it is that officers eat at night they should find.”

“They can always shop while waiting for us,” I agreed.

I know, it’s off-putting, this Yoda-talk of his. He started doing it right after my mother left, which happened to coincide with our immersion in all things Star Wars. It became our private language, and over the years he falls into it whenever we’re alone, usually minus the strange accent. It got us through a very difficult time, and instead of being a reminder of what we lost, it’s a reminder of the bond that we forged when we had to figure out how to go it alone.

Along with the meal, and a description of the events of the previous few days, the evening with my father provided me with something I’d been missing for a while, a sense of calm and purpose. This was the only person in the world who knew who I really was, and with whom I could be myself, and that was a comfort beyond the need for love and reassurance—as well as his offer to cover any legal expenses.

“Do you really think I’m going to need a lawyer?” I asked, wiping my mouth with a linen napkin.

“Necessity it may be, in this case a wise decision, I think,” he said. “Distasteful and unpleasant, and contrary to idealism on the other hand, hiring ‘Uncle Phil’ to play hardball on your behalf should be the path taken by both tortoise and hare in this case.”

“Do I know this person, or do I want to know why this is going to be distasteful?” I asked. “I mean, I get why I should be proactive and not wait to be charged. But is he some kind of New Jersey crook-lawyer?”

“No, but close you are. Of the ‘outlaw’ family he is, in a manner of speaking. Relatively, that is.”

“No,” I said. “You didn’t.”

“Cassie,” he said.

“How could you go to them?”

“In times of need…”

“No, I mean, really—how? Do you have somebody’s phone number that you can just call and ask for a lawyer?” I asked. “Or, are you in touch with…her?”

“Now, Cassie,” he said.

“No, I don’t want to know,” I said. “You called Uncle Phil and that’s it.”

Denial is a wonderful thing, I thought. I just couldn’t bear it if he was in touch with my mother because I needed help.

“Yes, that’s it,” he said. “I called Uncle Phil.”

I nodded. “Okay. Dessert must be had, then,” I announced grandly. “And another glass of wine, if we are entering into the nether-regions of the mother-land.”

He shook his head. “Good thing you chose art history as a field of study, my dear daughter, and not theater,” he said.

After signaling the waiter and placing our order, he leaned closer to me. “The knife, then, can you describe it to me, and slowly? All the gems and the gold? A drawing might you produce?”

“I’ll do that at home, it will be easy. In fact, if I can find one, I’m sure I have a picture of it, or something pretty close to it.”

“No,” he seemed horrified.

I nodded, filling my mouth with a spoonful of chocolate mousse.

“Was it hers?” he asked.

“Could be,” I said. I shrugged. “Could’ve been mine, too. Hard to tell.”

“Oh dear,” he said. “So, we’ll meet with Uncle Phil, definitely. Tomorrow, first thing.”

“There’s no one else we could call?” I asked.

He shook his head, drank some wine, and watched as I washed my mousse down with the remainder of the Cabernet Sauvignon.

“Touch the knife—you did not, did you?” he asked softly.

“I was about to…but I didn’t.” I could hardly look him in the eye.

“Heaven is to be thanked for that,” he said.

“Not really,” I said. “The cops interrupted me leaning over the body. One more second, and that baby would’ve been in my pocket.”

We both sighed, our eyes not meeting.

In the morning, we met “Uncle” Phil at a nondescript diner on 11th Avenue. It was early, and the place was half empty. My father was dressed in his usual khakis-and-cream outfit, plain trousers worn with a striped L. L. Bean no-iron Oxford shirt and an English tweed jacket that was almost as old as I was. As for me, I was decked out in my best baggy gray sweatpants, New Balance sneakers, Yankees tee, and NYU sweatshirt.

“Dressing like a grownup when meeting someone in a public gathering place should at least be attempted,” Father said when I joined the two men at a corner booth.

“Good morning, Phil.”

I held out a hand to the attorney.

“Coffee,” I said to the waitress fast approaching with menu and pad in hand. “Blueberry muffin? Perfect, thanks.”

“You don’t look nothing like those photos I saw in the Post, you sitting like a little mouse in that cruiser,” Phil said. “Geez, you looked like the victim there. Good job.”

“I had just been through a very traumatic experience, thank you,” I said.

“Yeah, your father filled me in on the situation,” Phil explained. “I think you’ll be all right. I’ll just be on call in case they want to question you again. If they do, you let me know and I’ll meet you, and that’ll be that.”

“Really? That will be that?” I asked.

He nodded.

“So, the fact that they found me standing over the body, no problem?”

Another nod.

“And that my manuscript was strewn all over the room, no problem?”

More head bobbing.

“And supposedly people in our group have said that there was bad blood between Neville and me, still there’s no problem that would cause the police to consider me a suspect in this murder? Nothing that I should be worried about?”

“That is correct,” Phil said.

“Did my father tell you anything about the knife stuck in the victim’s throat and its resemblance to one that I used to own?”

Phil looked at his notes, then at my father, at me, and back at his notes. “No, but—it wasn’t yours, was it?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think so,” I said.

“Hmmm. Well, it shouldn’t be a problem then,” he said.

“Really?” I said.

I looked at my father, who seemed to be studying his cuticles intently.

“Dad, might we speak outside for a moment? Would you pardon us, Phil?”

I pulled my father out of the booth and down to the entrance. Once outside, I hissed, “Where the hell did you find this guy? Does he even have a law degree? ‘Not a problem?’ Hell, I’d convict me under these circumstances, and he’s not even batting an eye.”

“The talking he should do, it seems for the best,” Father said. “Calming presence here is required to present an aura of innocence and grace.”

“I’ve lost my appetite, and you clearly have lost your mind,” I said. “Let’s just hope to God that I don’t get hauled in for questioning with this clown sitting next to me.”

I turned and started walking west, hoping to catch a cab.

“I’ll call you later, Dad," I said. "Thanks for trying.”