William Lashner - Marked Man

I thought then of the home movie projected onto the wall, not the parts with Chantal posing or playing with her cousin Ronnie, not the parts that held the rest of the family in thrall, and not the images of the parents either, at the start of their lives when the world held nothing but hope. No, I thought of the boy, laughing and tossing leaves into the air, towheaded and pink-cheeked and full of promise. The palpable sadness in that house had burrowed like a parasite into his heart, turning him into some grotesque creature. I had come on all hard-boiled with him, and maybe he had asked for it, but it wasn’t right, and I felt ashamed. He had deserved better from me, better out of life. Whatever evil had happened to Chantal had happened to him, too, it had happened to all of them. And my client’s involvement was enough for me not to be able to ignore it.

“I’m going to find out what happened to your sister, Monica,” I said.

“You’re taking the case?”

“No, I can’t take it on as a case. No retainer, no fees, no expenses. And believe me, it hurts to say that, more than you can imagine. But I have a conflict with another case I’m involved in, so I can’t take it on professionally. But I’m going to find out all the same.”

“For me?”

“Not really.”

“Then why, Victor?”

“I don’t know. Because her name somehow got tattooed on my chest and I’ll be staring at it in the mirror for the rest of my life. Because what happened to her was dead wrong and it pisses me off. Because of your brother.”

“My brother? I didn’t think you liked him.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Maybe neither do I, but still. My apartment is trashed, my partnership is cracking up, I’m drinking too much, flirting with reporters, sleeping with Realtors. Frankly, I’m in desperate need of something hard and clean in my life, and finding what happened to Chantal is all I have.”

“That is so… Victor, that is so… so…” She leaned over in the car and kissed me on the cheek.

“We’re still not dating,” I said.

“I know. I’m just so happy. It was a message, wasn’t it? The tattoo, I mean.”

“Maybe it was.”

“From her.”

“From someone. Let me ask you, is anyone in your family a tattoo artist?”

“No.”

“I’m still trying to figure out who gave it to me.”

“She did. You’re fighting hard not to admit the truth, but it will come to you. So when do we start?”

“We?”

“Sure.”

“No.”

“You’re not going to let me help you?”

“Monica,” I said, “I work best alone.”

“But I want to help. Can’t I help? Please, Victor. I need to do this.”

“Monica, there is no way that-” And then I stopped.

My first impulse is always to be a lone wolf. One of the reasons Beth might have been dissatisfied at the firm was my penchant for pushing her away and going it by myself. And here was Monica, whose life had been as altered and bruised as anyone’s by Chantal’s disappearance, asking me if she could help find out what happened to her sister. I didn’t know what aid she could give, but maybe I was being selfish, maybe she more than anyone deserved the opportunity to be involved in the search. Or maybe I was kidding myself and simply still felt the soft touch of her finger on my chest.

“Okay,” I said. “You can help.”

“Really? You mean it?”

“Sure. We’ll start in a couple days. Maybe you and I, we’ll go together to visit an old friend of your parents’.”

“Why don’t we start right away? Oh, Victor, this is so fabulous. I’ll take a few days off from the club, buy some black leather pants, clean the gun.”

“No gun.”

“But, Victor, I like my gun.”

“No dog, no gun, no heels sharp enough to penetrate flesh. That’s not the way I do things, at least not professionally.”

“All right, all right, don’t get your tie into a twist. What about the black leather pants, are they okay at least?”

“Why black leather pants?”

“Emma Peel, from The Avengers .”

“Sure, the black leather pants are fine.”

“But why aren’t we getting started right away?”

“Because first I have to meet someone in New Jersey, and that I have to do alone.”

This time I was dressedto blend: sneakers and jeans, red baseball cap, a garish yellow Hawaiian number hanging open over a white T-shirt. I had thought of wearing shorts, but my legs were so white they glowed, which didn’t quite fit the image of a sun-worshipping Jersey boy, so jeans it was. When I reached my perch at Seventh Street on the Ocean City boardwalk, the sun was setting and the sky over the ocean was turning Kodachrome. I did a quick peruse. No Charlie, no goons who might have followed me, just the usual crowd swarming and laughing in the thick salt air, flirting and ignoring the flirts, whining, strolling, dripping soft ice cream onto their shoes. I thought some ice cream might fit my disguise.

I was standing in line at the Kohr Bros. Frozen Custard stand when I heard a hiss from the T-shirts in the store next door. Behind a scrim of shirts, I could spy the top of a round bald head, ugly plaid shorts, sandals over socks.

“I’ll have a small vanilla,” I said to the pretty Russian woman behind the stand. “And a large vanilla with rainbow sprinkles.”

With the ice creams in hand, I sauntered over to the T-shirt store and held out the large sprinkled cone. Through a collection of shirts and sweats, a hand reached out.

“Thanks,” said Charlie. “I love the custard.”

“Who doesn’t? You want to talk here?”

“I’ll meet you at the waterline in five minutes.”

“Just don’t spill your custard on the steps this time.”

I waited on the beach, breathing deep the salt air. A wide stone jetty was just ahead of me. The evening was breezy and clear, the sea glinted orange, the surf was angry. I stood at the crest of the sand, where the shoreline started slanting toward the sea, and watched the waves swell and froth before pounding themselves into oblivion. Quite a show. They ought to sell tickets. The fate of the universe in six-second tableaux. Appearing nightly. Try the veal, and don’t forget to tip your waitresses.

The beach was open to the left, closed in by a music pier on the right. In the reddening light, I could spot a few silhouettes climbing along the jetty or strolling across the sand. I kept track of them all, checking to see if any were a little too interested in anything I was doing. As usual I was being completely ignored, which was, as usual, fine by me. Especially when I was meeting with a client who was wanted by a bunch of gangsters, a hit man from Allentown, and the FBI all at once. I turned toward the boardwalk, spotted a giant toddler with an oversized head and splayed legs coming my way.

“You alone?” said Charlie Kalakos.

“Sadly, that’s my condition in the world.”

“Were you followed?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I drove slowly with one eye on my rearview mirror. Because I stopped on the side of the highway twice, and no one else stopped. Because I parked on Seventeenth and walked the ten blocks on back streets and spotted nothing. But I’m just a lawyer, Charlie, not a spy. My training is in torts, not tails. I’m doing my best.”

“Your best might get me capped. How’s my mom?”

“She’s fine. She’s even seemed to perk up a bit.”

“So am I heading home?”

“Before we talk about the negotiations, I’ve got some news for you. Remember you told me about your friends, and one of them was a Ralph?”

“Why?”