Lawrence Block - Out on the Cutting Edge

“You couldn’t tell him the truth.”

“I don’t see how I could have, no. I told him a truth. I told him that she died because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I told him that the person who killed her was dead. Burial at sea sounds a lot more wholesome than getting dumped in a pigpen, but what’s the real difference? Either way you’re dead, and either way something eats you.”

“I suppose.”

“Fish or hogs,” I said. “What’s the difference, when you come right down to it?”

He nodded. “Why did you want Willa to listen in on your conversation with the Hoeldtkes?”

“I wanted to start with the focus on Paula instead of on Eddie, so I could come up on her blind side. And I wanted her to have the same version they were getting, so she couldn’t blurt anything out after she was in police custody.” I thought about it. “Maybe I just wanted to lie to her,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because I’d already shared a lot of myself with her, before I got Eddie’s autopsy results and found the chloral hydrate in her medicine chest. From that point I started drawing away. I never slept with her after that. The one time we went out, I think I encouraged her to drink. I wanted her to pass out, I wanted us to keep our clothes on. I wasn’t sure she’d done it, I didn’t know everything at that point, but I was afraid of it and I didn’t want the intimacy, or the illusion of intimacy.”

“You cared about her.”

“I was starting to.”

“How do you feel now?”

“Not great.”

He nodded and poured himself another cup of tea. We were in a Chinese place, and they’d refilled the teapot twice already. “Oh, before I forget,” he said, and reached into a pocket of his army jacket and came out with a small cardboard box. “This may not cheer you up,” he said, “but it’s something. It’s a present. Go on, open it.”

The box contained business cards, nice ones, with raised lettering. They had my name, Matthew Scudder, and my telephone number. Nothing else.

“Thank you,” I said. “These are nice.”

“I thought to myself that you ought to have cards, for God’s sake. You’ve got a buddy with a printshop, you really ought to have cards.”

I thanked him again, then started to laugh. He asked what was so funny.

“If I’d had them earlier,” I said, “I never would have found out who killed Paula.”

And that was that. The Mets went ahead and clinched their division, and they’ll start the playoffs next week against the Dodgers. The Yankees still have a mathematical chance, but it looks as though it’ll be the Red Sox and Oakland in the American League.

The night the Mets clinched, I had a call from Mickey Ballou. “I was thinking about you,” he said. “You ought to come round to Grogan’s one of these nights. We could sit up all night telling lies and sad stories.”

“That sounds good.”

“And in the morning we’ll catch the butchers’ mass.”

“One of these days,” I said.

“I was thinking,” he went on, “about all those people who came to say goodbye to Eddie. You go to those meetings yourself, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.”

After a moment he said, “One of these days I might ask you to take me along with you. Just for curiosity, don’t you know. Just to see what it’s like.”

“Anytime at all, Mick.”

“Ah, there’s no hurry,” he said. “It’s nothing you’d want to rush into, is it? But one of these days.”

“Just let me know when.”

“Ah,” he said. “We’ll see.”

I’ll probably get out to Shea for a game or two during the playoffs. They shouldn’t have trouble with the Dodgers. They beat them eleven games out of twelve during the regular season, so they ought to breeze right past them.

Still, you can never tell. Anything can happen in a short series.

The author is pleased to acknowledge the considerable contribution of William Smart and Karen and Cary Kimble, and indeed of everyone at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, where this book was written.