Читать книгу Ties That Blind - Zachary Klein - Страница 12

Promises, promises. If the first don’t get you, the second one will.

“They didn’t bother to catch their breath before Lou called,” I grumbled into the telephone. “I don’t understand it. They have no car, they’re home tending for a recovering suicide, the weather’s lousy, but Lauren’s being watched. Again. Where the hell could anyone follow her?”

Boots tried to humor me out of my grouch. “Maybe there’s enough room in the house for someone to sneak around inside. That part of the North Shore is rich as hell.”

“The house is big but no mansion.” I paused then added sarcastically, “They call it the Hacienda. Wrong part of the fucking country for a name like that.”

“What did it look like?”

“I only saw the outside,” I replied. “It was a dark and stormy night…“Auditioning to host a P.B.S program? ?”

“Better that than this.”

“Right, Matt Jacob in a tuxedo on G.T.N., Gonzo Television Network.”

I smiled through gritted teeth. “Anything but this.”

“Why? You’ll find out soon enough if Lauren’s fears are real. Do it and be done.”

“You never say that about sex.”

Boots laughed, “Maybe I don’t have to.”

“Wise guy.” It was good to hear her voice. The storm had screwed with the airline schedule, and Boots had piggybacked a few more work days onto the delay.

“I’m serious, Matt, what’s the big deal? It’s just a job.”

The busman’s holiday wasn’t a big deal. Lauren was. She cast a powerful undertow, a pull I found disturbing—though unsure of exactly why. “They keep coming after me, and I don’t want to be drawn into their orbit. Let her go to the cops.”

“You said she won’t.”

“Yeah, but why not? Though she’s probably right about their usefulness,” I conceded, my own distrust of Blues bouncing to attention. “But this is different than just anyone asking me to take a case.”

“It’s different, all right,” Boots said sharply. “This is your father-in-law and the woman he’s involved with. Lauren is bright enough to see the way Lou loves you. Hell, you’ve even begun to make me nervous about using the “L” word.”

“I make you nervous about saying “love?”

Boots caught her breath and my mind’s eye watched her bite her tongue. “Let’s save this particular conversation until we’re together,” she finally said. “Right now I’m having trouble with your attitude. You’re chewing glass about Lou and Lauren. You’re always Mr. Tolerant, but when it comes to Lauren there’s no saving grace. You attack her clothes, her kids, her age for crying out loud. The truth is, you sound like a jealous little boy.”

“It’s not jealousy,” I replied with more certainty than I felt. “Something else is going on, but I don’t know what it is.”

“Then find out. Find out, because what you’re doing now isn’t working.”

Boots was absolutely right; something wasn’t working and part of it was me. “Okay, lady, you got it. Your intrepid sleuth will gird his loins and mount his white steed to make certain his father-in-law’s squeeze is safe.”

“Well, don’t gird them too tight and make damn sure you only mount a horse.”

“You understand I’ll be expecting my reward when you return. Which is when, by the way?”

“It’s nice to know you still think of me as a reward,” Boots answered, somber slipping into in her tone. “I’ll be home late Friday night. Meet at the condo?”

I didn’t like our goodbye, but then, there had been a lot of the conversation I didn’t like. I hung the heavy black Bakelite receiver on its squat base, watched my wall hanging cat clock wag its tail, and brought a Bass back to the kitchen table. Substance substitution. Most other times I’d have gone directly to dope. Might still, I realized, after two long pulls failed to relieve my tension.

I played with the tightly packed joint for a long time before lighting. I was angry about chasing my own tail around weed and alcohol. Mad at myself for allowing Lou and Lauren’s relationship to rock my life. Truth was, I was feeling hostile toward everyone. Boots’s complaint and her quasi-tell pissed me off. Lou’s proprietary, paternal proclamations pissed me off too.

But mostly I was angry at Lauren. For no real reason and, unfortunately, I knew it.

I also knew there had been something creepy about the damage done to Lauren’s car, and her refusal to report it. Which meant strapping on my holster and crawling closer to someone I wanted farther away.

Still, the thought of my holster had me reaching under the bed for the ‘.38. I could never entirely shake a sheepish sense of absurdity every time I seriously thought about the way I made my living. Something I considered whenever I found myself on my knees groping under the bed—which fortunately wasn’t too often. Most of my work for Barrister Simon took place in libraries or Government agencies. Even did a stint as a mall-man.

But once in a while I stumbled into something different, usually reeling out in worse shape than when I began. Those cases blew off any smile. When I thought about them, I became grimly conscious of the weight that the custom Bakelite grip placed in my left hand. And conscious of a sick sort of pleasure.

But Lauren’s undertow was not going to lead me toward any abyss. This was going to be an exercise in futility, a harmless waste of time.

Still, I spent most of the day smoking cigarettes and drinking beer while mindlessly cleaning my gun.