J Bertrand - Back on Murder

“I said I would.”

Charlotte calls up the stairs again. Apparently Tommy has arrived home. I want to press Robb harder, but I don’t have time. I’ll have to assume his promise is good. And I will be making that call to Gina sooner rather than later. Trust but verify.

When I join them in the kitchen, Tommy seems baffled by the sudden goodwill coming from Charlotte, but he’s sufficiently in love with himself to imagine that, given time, anyone could share the feeling, so he doesn’t peer too deeply into the matter.

“Hey, I just need to run up to the apartment before we go.”

“No time,” Charlotte insists, tapping her watch face. “We’ve got reservations.”

Ann loops an arm through his. “Besides, you look perfectly fine. Don’t go changing on our account.”

On the way out, he glances toward the living room, but if he notices all his things are gone, he doesn’t let on. We crowd into Ann’s car, the sisters in front, and accelerate into the early evening traffic. As we cruise past the Paragon, Tommy and I exchange a look. But our table is booked at a trattoria on Morningside in Rice Village, not far from the Bridgers’ West University home, where the manager seems to be on friendly terms with Ann. This is all, I realize, her doing. In spite of her bleeding heart when it comes to humanity in general, she can conjure up a ruthless streak for one-on-one dealings.

My hunch is borne out by the way my sister-in-law plays hostess, an unaccustomed role for her, offering a running commentary on the menu, drawing Tommy out about his teaching, the intangibles of his dissertation, and what he calls his activism, which consists mainly of attending various coffeehouse meet and greets and dropping in on the occasional protest. The funny thing is, I can tell she likes him. They have a good bit in common, really.

She gets him talking about West Africa, no doubt having learned from Charlotte that his summer in Ghana is such a touchstone. He can talk about it for hours. I relax and sneak a look in Charlotte’s direction. She still wears the contented smile, as if she’s reclining poolside in the sun, her eyes hidden behind big round sunglasses, her fingers trailing in the water.

By the time the bill arrives, we’re all good friends. The wine has flowed on Tommy’s side of the table, and now he glows with a damp-skinned sense of social triumph. In the car he talks at length about what’s wrong with the world, using words like bourgeois, consumerism, and globalization to great effect. Ann and Charlotte smile encouragingly, the car heading amiably down Kirby past Dryden, making a left onto Swift. We cruise the vehicle-lined street, block by block, until Ann pulls to a stop in front of a white brick duplex with black shutters, a hulking structure from the 1940s that looks part Tara and part art deco.

“Here you go,” Ann says.

The car is silent. Tommy glances toward me in confusion, noticing the keys dangling from Charlotte’s hand as she reaches between the seats.

“What are we doing here?” he asks, a baffled smile on his lips.

Charlotte puts the keys in his open palm. “Dropping you off.”

“I don’t get it.”

“This is your new place,” Ann says, adjusting the rearview mirror for a better look.

“I’m afraid the insurance isn’t going to come through anytime soon,” Charlotte says, “so I had a talk with your father, and he thought it was best for you to relocate. You’ll like this place.”

“It’s great,” Ann agrees. “Original fixtures and tile. And plenty of space out back for entertaining. The old lady downstairs is charming.”

He turns to me. “Is this a joke?”

In spite of everything, I feel for him. The occasion calls for a quip of some kind, but I have a hard time mustering anything, so an anticlimactic shrug has to suffice. Tommy sputters a few objections, only to find the sisters ready, swatting him down with ramrod charm. His things are already in the new apartment waiting for him. The first month’s deposit has been made. Charlotte digs through her purse, producing an envelope from the bank with his prorated rent refund in cash. That seems to clinch things. Fingering the stiff bills, he pops the door open and climbs onto the curb, waiting for the rest of us to get out.

He seems to think we’re all going upstairs to have a look at the place, but Ann quickly disappoints him. Her foot punches the accelerator, slamming the passenger door shut.

“Hey – ”

I turn in my seat, watching Tommy watch us, the keys drooping from one hand and the envelope from the other. Charlotte bursts out laughing, her feet drawn up onto the seat like a girl’s, and Ann grins, proud at her achievement. She rights the mirror, then glances over her shoulder at me.

“That’s how you solve a problem,” she says.

The sisters exchange a high five. I sit quietly in back, reflecting on how differently problems are solved when you’re a lawyer instead of a cop. Tommy, impervious to hints and even subtle intimidation, has been a conundrum to me, a first-class irritation. Even after the hurricane offered deliverance, I allowed him to install himself on the couch. It never occurred to me to buy him off. Charlotte has spent no telling how much to bring about her long-awaited eviction, but now she has it and she’s utterly pleased.

Not that Tommy was ever the real problem. It’s just that the real problem couldn’t be solved and never can be. This time next year, there will be another Tommy, because there always is. To move on, even temporarily, we need a sacrifice on the altar; we need to shed some metaphorical blood. Again, a hollow victory, but a necessary one. Yet another means to an end.

Or maybe I’m talking nonsense. My wife is happy, laughing like she used to when we first met. Instead of overanalyzing, maybe it’s time to simply enjoy. I pass my hand between the seats, finding hers. She clasps it, drawing it onto her lap, sitting back with a heavy, satisfied sigh.

It’s dark when Ann drops us off. Charlotte starts through the back door, dragging me by the hand, but I notice a light still burning in the garage apartment window.

“You left a light on,” I say, peeling my hand free.

“Leave it.”

“It’s people like you causing the energy crisis. Go on in, I’ll be back in a minute.”

She goes inside, leaving me to bound up the stairs, fumble with my keys, and shoulder my way through the door. Already there’s a musty, outdoors stench to the apartment, conjuring fears of the dreaded black mold. Now that Tommy’s out, we’ll have to see to this.

The neglected light is in the kitchen, reminding me of my conversation with Marta, the waitress from the Paragon. I pause with my hand on the switch, making myself a commitment not to return to that place, one I’ll probably break in time, though perhaps I won’t. To seal the promise, I turn off the light.

“March.”

The voice, coming suddenly out of the depths of the pitch-black living room, makes me jump. My hand slides under my shirt, reaching automatically for my off-duty piece.

“Don’t do it. You can’t see me, but I can see you.”

A pinpoint flashlight switches on at shoulder height, maybe fifteen feet away, blinding me, the kind of light usually affixed to a tactical firearm. Blinking, I struggle to make out the silhouetted figure behind the halo. But not because I haven’t identified the voice.

“It’s not too bright of you, coming here,” I say.

“That’s funny, under the circumstances. I never figured you for a wisecracker, so that’s good to know. Just keep in mind, if you go for that gun, it’ll be the last thing you do. And it won’t be hard for me, putting you down. I’d enjoy it.”

“Then go ahead. If you’re expecting me to beg, you’ve got another 358 think coming.”