Alex Barclay - The Caller

‘That’s not true. She loved you. You know that. You had an argument that night that was because of how much she loved you. If she was still here, you would have made up the next day. So she thought it was your first time too – you wouldn’t hate someone for that. You might feel dumb, but that’s all.’

‘She wouldn’t have walked home alone…’

‘Don’t,’ said Joe. ‘You’ll go over and over it until you go crazy. Everything that happened was out of your control. That’s one of the hardest parts about life – you don’t know what’s around the corner.’

They sat in silence for a few seconds. Joe wondered what game Tara was playing.

‘Shaun, are you and Tara exclusive? I mean, could Tara be seeing other guys?’

‘Jesus Dad, bad enough you’re on my case, I’m not going to start getting into Tara’s sex life with you… or lack of it, thanks for your sensitivity.’

‘Just, what’s your relationship with her exactly?’

‘OK, now you’re just sounding freaky.’

Anna knocked on the door and stepped in. ‘What do you think?’ she said. ‘New dress.’

‘Cool,’ said Shaun.

‘You’re going out tomorrow night,’ said Anna, ‘so I’m inviting your father to a special home cooked meal.’

‘You look beautiful,’ said Joe. ‘Very… healthy.’ She caught him staring at her chest.

‘Thank you,’ said Anna. ‘And thank Tara,’ she said to Shaun. ‘I bought some of her SplashBronze.’

Joe studied his reflection in the mottled mirror in the cool basement of Augie’s on East 48th Street. He was wearing the same pale grey shirt and charcoal tie he wore to work that morning, but with a tuxedo that Anna had bought him in Paris two years earlier. Old Nic had discovered Augie Penrose in the seventies. He was one of New York’s finest tailors. For forty years, his basement was open only to a loyal band of customers. Joe, Danny, Old Nic and Bobby, even Giulio Lucchesi, all had Augie alterations or suits.

‘Beautiful tuxedo,’ said Augie, ‘beautiful.’

Joe nodded. ‘My wife…’

‘I saw the label was not from around here,’ said Augie. ‘Fancy guy. Guys give you a hard time for the European suits?’

‘Jealousy,’ said Joe, straightening each jacket sleeve. ‘That’s all it is, Augie.’

Augie laughed and walked over to him. ‘Pants,’ he said, pulling at the loose waistband. ‘Usually you guys come in, I’m letting the suit out,’ he said.

‘I’m running now,’ said Joe, ‘getting back in shape.’

‘Yeah, I see it in guys your age all the time.’

‘Really, Augie. My age is making me run?’

‘For the hills. You’re a handsome guy, Joe, but maybe you’re looking at those grey hairs, a few lines around the eyes and wondering “Have I still got it? Do the hot chicks still check me out?”’

Joe looked down at Augie, sixty-seven years old, with his skinny, hairy white arms and his powdery pale scalp. He flashed forward twenty-five years, then looked back in the mirror to reassure himself.

‘It’s not over yet,’ said Joe. ‘Sure the hot chicks still check me out.’ He smiled, but it fled quickly. Everywhere he looked that morning, women were pregnant, wheeling strollers, struggling with children and grocery bags and car seats and tantrums. Sharp surges of panic were overwhelming him. He waited for them to be replaced by something warmer. He couldn’t work out whether the last year had disassociated him so much from life that he had lost all sense of what he wanted.

Augie picked some pins from a leather pouch at his hip and went to work on the waistband. ‘Do you want some doughnut room?’

Joe shook his head. ‘No. Give me something to aspire to.’

Nothing felt normal anymore. When Shaun was born, Joe was twenty-three, had loads of energy that was all channelled into his work. By the time the new baby was born, he would be almost forty-two and pictured himself tired and with no energy to channel anywhere. He tried to imagine himself with a stroller walking through Owl’s Head Park, but the image wouldn’t happen. His stomach was a knot of guilt and fear.

Augie stood up from his kneeling position at the hem of Joe’s pants.

‘I’m out of pins,’ he said, disappearing into the back office to give the quiver in the expensive black fabric a chance to settle.

Dean Valtry sat at his desk, his manicured hands flat on the surface. In identical black glossy frames on the wall behind him was a row of photos showing eight dazzling Hollywood smiles.

‘Beautiful,’ said Valtry. He pointed to one celebrity icon. ‘According to her dentist? She had the worst set of teeth he had ever seen. She was this breathtaking Southern belle… until she opened her mouth. Her teeth were rotten. She was a child model, developed an eating disorder, all she did was drink soda, eat crap. Now look at that smile. A thousand watts. That’s what gets her the attention. And we did that. We gave her that career.’

Joe nodded. He was used to people like Valtry. Cops were shit on their shoes, but they still needed to impress them.

Valtry kept talking. ‘Of course, the dentists are the glory hounds. We create the perfection. They get their faces out there, in magazine ads, on TV, pat themselves on the back for my work. They just whack up the price, charge the patient five times what they’re paying me – so you can imagine what they’re taking in – and get their ass kissed by the rich and famous. What I do is like fine art. You know what a tooth looks like: individual, ridged, indented, curved… we replicate that exactly. In school, ninety per cent is a good grade. But there’s only room for one hundred per cent in my line of work. When I make a crown, a dental implant, a bridge, it has to fit perfectly, like God himself put it there. Perfection doesn’t do percentages.’

‘It sure don’t,’ said Danny.

‘That’s how it is,’ said Valtry. ‘So, how may I help you?’

‘Mr Valtry, do you use Trahorne Refining in Philly?’ said Joe.

‘Yes we do. Why?’

‘We received a report,’ said Joe, ‘that a bloodstained lab coat was found in a package sent to them from your laboratory.’

Valtry frowned. ‘Yeah, that can happen.’

Danny and Joe exchanged glances.

‘Sure it can,’ said Valtry. ‘My technicians work with these spinning wheels. They’re mounted on lab benches and they file down metal with them. These things can break, quite explosively, actually. You could certainly get cut from flying debris.’

‘That’s not the quantity of blood we’re talking about,’ said Joe.

‘Show me the coat. I’ll tell you.’

‘We don’t have that in our possession,’ said Joe.

‘What?’

‘It was incinerated.’

‘I’m confused, gentlemen.’

‘By accident,’ said Danny loudly. ‘It wound up in the incinerator.’

Valtry let out a snort, but slowly took in the demeanour of the two men standing in front of him. ‘Just how bloodstained was this lab coat?’

Joe leaned forward. ‘Enough that two homicide detectives are paying you a visit.’

Valtry paused. Joe had seen these pauses before. The person absorbs the information they’re given, speeds through what he knows, weighs it all up, then decides how to play it.

Valtry threw his hands up. ‘You’re coming in to my office with tales of a bloodstained lab coat – no, wait – an imaginary bloodstained lab coat and I’m supposed to enlighten you? ’

‘Look,’ said Danny. ‘We’ve got the guy who found the coat. We have reason to believe it is linked to an investigation we are working on. We’re asking for your help here.’

‘This is crazy. Have you spoken with Bob Trahorne? You need to talk to Bob. He can vouch for me, my character, my reputation, whatever you need.’ He gestured to the photos on his wall. ‘You think someone like me, who has a successful professional relationship with New York’s top Park Avenue dentists is going to be involved in a homicide? I’m going to risk my income and social… position in the community? Or employ someone who would be involved in a homicide? Give me a break. I’m top of my game, ask anyone. I earn a lot of money doing what I do, I don’t piss people off, I make beautiful teeth. That’s it. Talk to Bob. I’ve been dealing with him for fifteen years. I have no idea a. how that lab coat came to be there or b. if the lab coat even exists at all.’