Sara Paretsky - Sisters on the Case

‘‘Your own mother wouldn’t have recognized you?’’

‘‘My mother’s dead.’’

‘‘Oh, I’m sorry.’’

‘‘It was a long time ago. I killed her, too.’’

‘‘That’s nice, that she appreciated your humor. Your dad, you get your funny bone from him?’’

‘‘Oh, yeah, he was hilarious.’’ It sounded bitter, as if there was jealousy. ‘‘He killed me. Nearly.’’

‘‘Is that unusual?’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘A comic from a happy family? I thought all comedians came from bad families, like they had to laugh to keep from cryin’, that kind of thing.’’

‘‘I don’t know about that.’’

‘‘Not much of a philosopher, like you’re not much of a historian?’’

‘‘Hey.’’ Defensive. ‘‘When I was workin’, I knew what I believed, and what I didn’t. That’s philosophy, ain’t it?’’

‘‘Like, what did you believe?’’

‘‘I believed in doing my job, and not cryin’ over it.’’

‘‘Me, too.’’

‘‘That right?’’

‘‘Yeah, do your job and fuck the regrets.’’

‘‘Or fuck the pretty broads in Pittsburgh.’’

‘‘I think maybe we’re kind of alike, you and me.’’

‘‘A salesman and a comedian.’’

‘‘You still don’t buy it that I was a salesman, do you?’’

‘‘You said it yourself, you don’t look the part.’’

‘‘I look the part as much as you look like a comedian.’’

‘‘You bought it. Askin’ me all about it.’’

‘‘I was sellin’ you. You think I’m no salesman, but I sold people down the river all the time. But you already know that, don’t you? What? Gone silent again? Nothin’ to say? So who sent you? One of those wise guys I ratted out? My son? Somebody else in the Family? And where’s your two-by-four? You got a reputation for takin’ ’em by surprise, knocking ’em flat first thing, you said so yourself. So why the conversation first before you take me out?’’

‘‘The conversation was your idea.’’

‘‘What about the two-by-four?’’

‘‘Not as quick as the gun in my pocket.’’

‘‘What about the noise?’’

‘‘Silencer.’’

‘‘Witnesses?’’

They both looked around, both of them taking note of the two young women with baby carriages over by the historical markers, of the middle-aged male jogger moving their way from the west, of the young couple leaning up against a tree.

‘‘Witnesses to what? I get up and stand in front of you to continue our conversation. You slump over, but nobody sees past me. I grab your shoulder to say good-bye. When I leave, you’re an old man in a baby blue tracksuit, asleep on a park bench, and I’m an old man walkin’ back to my car.’’

‘‘And then what?’’

‘‘Then you go to hell. I go home and retire.’’

‘‘You’re retiring, all right. See this wire on my baby blue jacket? And see those young women and that jogger coming our way? They’re FBI. If you looked behind you, you’d see a few more, including a sniper in the bedroom window of that nice house back there. He’s aiming at your head, so don’t think you can take a shot at mine. I just made my last sale, Mr. Comedian. And you’re the product.’’

He stood up, slowly, heavily, and then turned and looked down at the fat man with the gun in his pocket.

‘‘You should have paid more attention to history when I was trying to tell you.

‘‘You want to know why the Confederates lost? Because the greedy fuckers stole a farmer’s old gray mare, which pissed him off, and so he told the Feds where they could sneak over that ridge.’’ He pointed north and a little west, as the first two agents laid hands on the shoulders of the other man. ‘‘It took the Rebs completely by surprise. Then they got surrounded, and they never had a chance.’’ The agents hoisted his audience to his feet. ‘‘Just like you were going to steal my life, which pissed me off, so I told the Feds how to sneak up on you, so they could surround you, and you wouldn’t stand a chance. You know the old song? ‘The old gray mare, she ain’t what she used to be’? Your life and mine, they ain’t what they used to be, but my life is still mine.’’ He banged his meaty right thumb on his chest. ‘‘I’m hanging on to it, like that farmer and his old gray mare.

‘‘You know what they say about history,’’ he called out, raising his voice to make sure the other man heard as they led him away. ‘‘If you don’t pay attention to it, you’re bound to repeat it!’’

A roach coach is the closest St. Chris comes to an after-hours joint.

When the restaurants and bars in Isabeya are shuttered and silent, the last of the weekend revelers- mostly local boys-going-on-men in their late teens- head for the waterfront parking area near Fort Frederick to cluster around a shiny aluminium-sided Grumman Kurbmaster step van labeled in foot-high red letters, MAUBI’S HOT TO TROT. The Os sprout dancing yellow and orange flames like the garish hair colors favored by MTV punk rockers, a hairstyling trend rarely seen on our tiny patch in the Caribbean.

A construction worker forced into early retirement by an accident that shattered his left leg-leaving him with a permanent limp and occasionally dependent on a cane-Maubi sells cold sodas, homemade ginger beer, and maubi from ice-filled coolers, and takeout platters from the foil-lined containers of West Indian snacks and fried chicken kept hot under infrared lamps.

Late one Friday night in early April, I stopped for a take-home snack. Maubi sat inside his van, elbows resting on the serving counter, chatting with a handful of lingering customers. Michael’s voice crackled over the airwaves from an old boom box radio sitting up high on a back shelf. Maubi ended a ribald story with a thigh-slapping belly laugh to greet me with a warm smile.

‘‘Morning Lady! What carries you to town so late?’’

‘‘Last-minute parade stuff and the memory of your wife’s pates. Got any left?’’

‘‘Beef or saltfish?’’ I never ordered saltfish, but Maubi always asked just the same.

‘‘Two beef, please.’’

‘‘I got beef roti tonight.’’

‘‘I’ll take one. And a chicken leg for Minx.’’ I knew from experience a cat will forgive any slight if there’s a food bribe involved. In the five years we’ve been together, Minx has become hooked on Maubi’s fried chicken.

‘‘Something to drink?’’

‘‘Your specialty,’’ I said, smiling. ‘‘A large one.’’

Maubi grinned. ‘‘Brewed it fresh myself this week in my big enamel kettle. Best maubi batch ever.’’ He kissed the tips of his fingers as a sign of his own approval, chortling as he packed my food and drink in a cardboard box.

‘‘Is your quadrille group ready for the Navidad de Isabeya parade next weekend?’’ I asked, digging in my fanny pack for cash.

‘‘My band’s been practicing every evening with the dancers at the legion hall.’’

‘‘The parade wouldn’t be a success without you. I’ve put your group at the end of the lineup.’’

‘‘Saving the best for last,’’ said Maubi with a broad smile. ‘‘Where you parked?’’

I pointed to my ten-year-old hatchback a short distance away.

‘‘That’s too far to go by yourself. The jumbies could get you.’’ He leaned toward me, lowering his voice. ‘‘It’s not safe like the old days. We got drug dealers and lowlifes limin’ around the fort. That’s why I come to rest my van down here so late. Keep my boy and his friends out of trouble.’’

‘‘You’ve done a good job,’’ I said, putting the change in my coin purse. ‘‘He’s a fine boy. He’s graduating this year, isn’t he?’’