Andrew Vachss - Two Trains Running

He took a cautious seat on the edge of the couch, back ruler-straight, unsure of where to put his hands, eyes trained on the door through which Tussy had departed.

The gray-and-black cat entered the living room, regarding Dett with unflinching yellow eyes. His thick tail twitched twice, then he effortlessly launched himself onto the seat of an armchair upholstered in the same fabric as the couch. The cat curled up comfortably, his bulk covering the cushion completely. His eyes never left the intruder.

“Oh, you met Fireball,” Tussy said, smiling as she came back into the living room.

“He looks like someone should have named him Cannonball,” Dett said, making a face to show he was impressed.

“Yes, he’s a big fat load now, aren’t you, boy?” Tussy said, scratching the monster behind his ears, a move instantly rewarded with a sound like a trash compactor. “It was my dad who named him. Even when he was a little kitten, he was the laziest cat on earth. ‘A real ball of fire,’ my dad said one day, and it just stuck.”

“I never saw one that big. Is he part bobcat or something?”

“I don’t know what he is. My dad brought him home one day from work. I had been asking for a kitten for the longest time, and it was my birthday, so…”

“But that had to be when…”

“When I was a little girl, yes. Well, twelve, anyway. Fireball’s been with me ever since. Guess how old he is?”

“I… uh,” Dett struggled, trying for the right number, “… thirteen?”

“I don’t know who you’re being nicer to,” Tussy said, “me or Fireball. He’s twenty-one-old enough to vote.”

“Really?”

“Why are you so shocked? Didn’t you ever hear of a cat who lived that long?”

“I… I don’t know much about cats. I never had one. But if he’s twenty-one, and you got him when you were-”

“I’m thirty-three years old,” Tussy said, hands on her hips, as if daring him to deny it.

“You don’t look… I mean… I don’t know how to say things sometimes. I thought you were…”

“Younger? Don’t look so distressed, Walker. I took it as a compliment.”

“I didn’t mean it as one. Damn! I’m sorry. What I meant to say was, I wasn’t just saying it. You look like you’re maybe twenty-five. Anybody would say the same thing.”

“Well, me and Fireball are a lot alike. We’re both overweight, and we both don’t show our age so much.”

“You’re not…” Dett felt his face burn as his voice trailed away.

“I’m just having fun with you,” Tussy said. “Look, it’s only a half-hour drive to the restaurant. I’ve never been there, but I know where it is. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

“I should have tea in the house. My girlfriend Gloria does; it’s ever so elegant. But I don’t drink it, and I don’t have people over very much.”

“Could I have a glass of water?”

“With ice? Boy, listen to me!” Tussy laughed. “You can take the girl out of the diner, but you can’t take the diner out of the girl, I guess.”

“I would like some ice water,” Dett said. “Very much.”

He studied the cat, who affected great boredom, until Tussy returned with a pair of tall blue glasses, one in each hand.

“Here you go,” she said, handing one to Dett, and seating herself on the opposite end of the couch.

Dett took a sip. “It’s great,” he said. It’s water, you fool, he thought to himself.

“Oh, just put it down on the table,” Tussy said, sensing his discomfort. “We never used coasters in the house. Mom always said they were for people who put on airs.”

“With a house like this, you wouldn’t need to put on airs,” Dett said. “Your furniture is really something. It looks too good to buy in a store.”

“It is!” she said, delightedly, clapping her hands. “My father made it. All of it. My father and my mother together, actually. Dad did the woodwork, Mom did the upholstery. It took them forever. And when it was finally all done, Mom said she wasn’t about to cover it with plastic, the way some people do.”

“Your father makes furniture? I mean, for a living?”

“No. He worked at the plant. Woodworking, it was like his hobby.”

“Hobby? He’s a real artist. I’ll bet he could sell stuff like this for-”

“My parents are gone,” Tussy said. She opened a little black purse, took out her pack of Kools. Dett reached for his matches as she said, “They’ve been gone a long time. My dad had a workshop. Out in the garage. There wasn’t even room for the car in there. And my mother, she sewed for money, sometimes. She made dresses, like for proms or weddings.” She leaned toward Dett, accepted the offered flame, inhaled deeply. “She never got to make one of those dresses for me.”

“Christ, I’m sorry,” Dett said. “I didn’t know. I never would have-”

“They’ve been gone a long time. Eighteen years, this December. It’s all right, Walker. I love this house. I love everything my mom and dad did to make it beautiful. It didn’t make me sad when you said what you did-it made me proud.”

1959 October 05 Monday 19:00

“I didn’t know who else to talk to,” David Peterson said.

“You did the right thing,” SAC Wainwright assured him.

“Exactly the right thing,” the man standing next to Wainwright’s desk seconded. He was a stranger to Dave, dressed in a matte gray alpaca suit which draped softly over his lithe frame, and a white silk shirt, buttoned at the throat. The man’s skin was the color of rawhide, emphasizing the artificial whiteness of his too-perfect teeth. His eyes were shallow pools of dirty water. “What is it this time?” he said. “Nazi scientists, working in a secret lab to send rockets to the moon? A plot to test new vaccines on military personnel? Flying saucers?”

“Giving syphilis to Al Capone,” Dave said, relieved when the unnamed man barked a laugh.

“Mack Dressler used to be a top agent,” Wainwright said, solicitously. “But a number of years ago, he began experiencing what psychiatrists call ‘paranoid ideation.’ It’s not as uncommon as you might think, Agent Peterson. A man spends his life following people, opening their mail, listening in on their phone calls-he starts to think people are doing the same thing to him.”

Wainwright paused, looked into Dave’s eyes to emphasize his concern, paused a couple of heartbeats, then went on, as if responding to a question: “Well, of course, we arranged for Mack to get treatment. Had him in a government hospital for almost a year. Unfortunately, the treatment wasn’t a complete success. He no longer believes he’s under surveillance, but he… ruminates a lot. And he constructs bizarre, highly detailed scenarios in his head, to ‘explain’ things.”

“Sir, could I ask, how come he’s still…?”

“Working? Well, there’s two reasons, Agent Peterson. The first one is that Mack Dressler, for all his… well, we might as well call it what it is, craziness… is an excellent investigator. He has superb skills, and we use him in sort of a training capacity, always partnering him with new agents. You’ve learned a few tricks from him, I’ll bet.”

“I sure have,” Dave said, loyally. “He’s shown me how to-”

“Yes,” the unnamed man interrupted. “Exactly so. And the other reason we keep Mack Dressler on staff is the most important one. The Bureau always takes care of its own, Agent Peterson. Never forget that.”

“I won’t, sir.”

I never saw a Bureau man who didn’t wear a tie before, Dave thought to himself on the drive back to his apartment. And he wasn’t carrying a weapon, either-you couldn’t even hide a wallet under a suit like that. He wished he could ask Mack what it all meant.