Peter Spiegelman - Death's little helpers

Turpin snorted. “And I suppose you’re going to tell me that you didn’t, and that you can account for your time.”

He was as subtle as a hand grenade, but I managed not to laugh. I worked something irate into my voice. “You’re damn right I had nothing to do with it. And what time am I supposed to account for, exactly?”

Turpin huffed, but his confidence was fading. “Screw around, then, but when you hear a knock on the door, remember that you had your chance. And tell your client the police might want to talk to her too. There are conspiracy issues, if she put you up to this.”

I sighed again, and this time I meant it. “For chrissakes, Turpin, give it a rest. I’m not the guy you want, and I think you know it. I’m still looking for Danes and I guess you are too, but we’re not the only ones. If you’d stop threatening me for five minutes, we might be able to figure out who else is working this.” Turpin thought about it for a while, but ultimately it was no sale.

“You had your chance, March,” he said, and hung up.

I put the phone down and pulled the covers up and tried to sleep and didn’t. After ten minutes I got into the shower.

I took myself to breakfast at the Florida Room, an airy spot around the corner from my place, and called Irene Pratt while I drank my orange juice. She was whispering and nervous, but relaxed a little when I told her that my conversation with Turpin had been brief and predictable.

“And he didn’t ask about me?”

“He didn’t ask and I didn’t tell.”

She sighed audibly. “Will he really call the police?”

“I doubt it. I’m pretty sure that was mostly for my benefit. Any sign of the mustache man or his car this morning?”

“Not that I saw. Have you heard anything from those friends of yours, the ones giving you a hand?”

“Nothing yet,” I said. I promised, again, to keep in touch and rang off.

I took a slow walk home, and the whole way I fought the urge to check my back. I was a couple of paces off the corner when I saw him. He was at my building, at the top of the short flight of iron steps that leads to the front door. He was smoking a cigarette and looking at his feet and swinging his backpack absently against the iron railing. His jeans were black and baggy, and his gray T-shirt bore a picture of a robot monkey wearing a gi and swinging a pair of nunchakus. Billy.

“School holiday?” I asked. He looked up and took a long drag on his cigarette.

“No,” he said. He made it sound like a challenge. His narrow face was stiff and his cheeks were red. He took another drag and flicked the butt down the stairs. It landed at my feet and dribbled smoke.

“Something the matter?” I asked. I flattened the cigarette with the toe of my shoe.

He snorted. “Yeah, something’s the matter- with you. It turns out you’ve got a terminal case of asshole.”

“Sounds painful.”

Billy made a mocking smile. “I hope so.”

“Billy, what the hell is this about?” Billy dug in his back pocket and came up with a crumpled pack of Marlboros and a yellow plastic lighter. He pulled out a bent cigarette and lit it.

“I told you, it’s about you being an asshole. It’s about you saying you were going to find my fucking father and then up and quitting on us.” He blew a stream of smoke down at me and looked much like his mother as he did it. “That’s what it’s fucking about, asshole.”

I took a deep breath. “Who told you I quit?”

Billy scowled and nodded and blew more smoke in my direction. “My mom, asshole. My mom told me.”

Shit. I shook my head. “You had breakfast yet?” I asked.

Billy flicked a hand at me, as if he were brushing off a fly. “Don’t give me the fucking big brother act, okay? No more comic book talk, no more music, no more buds and pals, all right? Just keep that crap to yourself.”

I looked at Billy and he looked back, angry and a little scared. “I didn’t quit this, Billy.”

“Don’t bullshit-”

“That’s enough,” I said. My voice was low and tight, and it brought Billy up short. A quiver rippled through his lower lip and his eyes looked wet, but he didn’t look away. “I didn’t quit,” I said, more softly. “Last Thursday night, your mom told me she’d decided she didn’t want to go on with this. You’ll have to ask her what her reasons were and decide for yourself if they were good ones. But they were her reasons, Billy, not mine. I didn’t quit.”

Billy let out a long breath and ran the back of his hand over his eyes and forehead. “You’re so full of it,” he said softly.

“I’m not, Billy.”

He looked down and his voice got softer still. “Don’t bullshit me about this,” he said.

“I’m not.”

He shook his head. “Fuckin’ A,” he said. His voice quavered and his nose began to run. “Fuckin’ A.” He dragged on his cigarette and coughed and spluttered.

“Throw that thing out,” I said. “I’ll buy you breakfast.”

We went back to the Florida Room and sat in a booth. Billy ordered pancakes and French fries and a cream soda. I had coffee. He pulled a pile of paper napkins from the dispenser and blew his nose and wiped his eyes. There were big fans revolving on the ceiling. Billy tilted his head back on the banquette and watched the slow blades turn.

“She fucking lied to me,” he said, and managed a rueful laugh. “She fucking lied to me again.” The waitress brought my coffee and a can of cream soda and a glass full of ice.

“Does that happen often?” I asked.

Billy shrugged. “Sometimes… when it’s easier for her.”

“Easier than what?”

“Easier than explaining something or having an argument. Easier than the truth.” He poured a little soda into his glass and watched it insinuate itself between the ice cubes.

“What was easier about this?”

“It was easier than telling me why she doesn’t give a shit about finding him, I guess.” He filled his soda glass and drank some off and filled it again. He did this over and over, until the can was empty.

“Did you talk to Ines about it?” I asked. Billy shook his head. “Maybe you should. Is she usually straight with you?”

Billy spoke carefully. “Nes is no bullshitter.”

I nodded and his face relaxed. “You’ve known her a long time,” I said.

“My whole life, basically.”

“She does a lot for you guys.”

Billy made a wry smile. “My mom can find her smokes by herself, and her studio. For anything else she needs Nes.”

“Does Ines take care of things for you too?”

His smile warmed. “All the school stuff, and soccer, and when I go to the comics conventions- she does all that. Nes does pretty much everything that takes a grown-up.” Billy crunched on an ice cube and watched a very tall woman in a very small dress walk by our table. When she was out of sight he turned back to me.

“My mom gave you a hard time?” he asked.

“Pretty much,” I said, smiling.

“It’s like her best thing.”

“Is she that way a lot?”

Billy shrugged. “I guess.”

“With everyone?”

“Everybody’s eligible.”

“Including you?”

He shrugged again and gazed someplace over my shoulder. “Nes says it’s because she’s afraid of stuff, and that she needs to control things or something- I don’t know if I get it all. But Nes says when you fight back it just makes her more scared and she gets more pissed off and it all just gets worse. She says when my mom gets going like that you have to be sort of a chameleon; you have to blend in and fade away and not give her anything to hit at. Nes says it’s like mental kung fu.” He looked into his soda glass and blinked hard. “I’m not much good at it, though. I don’t see it coming a lot of the time, and mostly I fight back.”