Linwood Barclay - Parting Shot

“I heard my grandmother talking about him. She said he’s got shit for brains. She said he used to hire underage hookers. Is that true?”

I nodded. These days, it didn’t seem to matter what someone said or did. They’d still get elected.

We drove on in silence for another couple of miles. I glanced in my rear-view every few seconds. A black van had been riding along in my wake for the last few blocks.

“I’m just up here,” I said. I pulled over to the curb in front of Naman’s Books and the van continued on up the street.

“You live in a bookstore?” Jeremy asked.

“I live over it.”

I’d had to move out for a few months, but now I was back. Naman’s place had been firebombed by some racist nutcases last year when unfounded fears of a possible terrorist invasion had gripped Promise Falls. I wasn’t sure Naman could make a go of it again, but he was back in business, and I had my old apartment back.

“We can leave your stuff in the car,” I said, opening the door. Once Jeremy was out, I locked the Honda and led him to a door that fronted onto the sidewalk. There was a small sign on it that read: Cal Weaver: Private Investigations .

“Wow, just like in the movies,” Jeremy said.

I unlocked the door, revealing a set of stairs going up. I extended an arm. “You first.”

When we reached the top, there was a second door to unlock, and then we were in my apartment. A combined kitchen and living area, a bedroom off to the back. The whole place was smaller than his grandmother’s foyer.

“Jesus, you actually live here?” Jeremy asked.

“It’s not much, but it’s pitiful,” I conceded. I pointed to the fridge. “Help yourself to a Coke or something.”

He opened it as I went into the bedroom. I kept a small travel case in the closet. I threw it onto the bed, opened up a couple of dresser drawers, and begin filling it with clothes.

“There’s no Coke,” Jeremy called out. “But there’s beer. Can I have a beer?”

“No.”

“This is going to be a real fun couple of days.”

“You know what? Make us some sandwiches.”

“Do what?”

“In the fridge, down below. I bought a bunch of stuff yesterday. Sliced ham, roast beef. There’s a fresh loaf in the cupboard. Or if you want tuna, there’s a tin in there, some mayo in the fridge. Something to eat now, and then some we can put in a cooler and take with us.”

“Can’t we just stop at McDonald’s or Burger King when we’re hungry?”

“No.”

I went back into my bedroom. I finished putting in enough clothes for three or four days. Then I went to the closet, reached up to the top shelf, and brought down the case that held my gun. I wasn’t that worried I was going to need it, but you never knew. Finally, I grabbed a small cooler I often used when I was on a surveillance job to keep bottled water and snacks fresh.

I zipped up the overnight bag and brought it and the cooler into the main room.

“How’s it going?”

He had everything he might need to make sandwiches out on the counter. Bread, meat, butter, all spread out in no particular order. He had the look of someone who’d dumped all the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle onto the table and had only just started turning them image up. “Fine. I’m doing it. But aren’t you being hired to look after me? Shouldn’t you be the one to do this?”

“How can I shoot the bad guys waiting to bust in at any moment if I’m up to my elbows in mayo and mustard?”

The look he gave me suggested he couldn’t tell whether I was being serious or putting him on.

I stood next to him at the counter.

“Okay, let’s get a production line thing going on here. You start buttering the bread, and when you’re done, move it this way.”

He did as instructed. The butter was a little on the hard side, and as he attempted to spread it, it opened up holes in the bread.

I took the butter plate, put it in the microwave on medium for ten seconds, then gave it back to Jeremy.

“That’s better,” he said, dipping the knife into it and spreading some onto the bread. “I used to make sandwiches with my dad.”

“Oh yeah?” I said. “When did your parents split up?’

He shrugged. “Long time ago. They were separated for ages, and then they finally decided to get a divorce.”

“That can be tough,” I said.

“Whatever,” Jeremy said. He slapped some meat onto a piece of bread, lay a cheese slice on top of it, then a second piece of bread. “It’s quiet here,” he said.

“There’s more traffic in the middle of the day,” I said. “It’s noisier then.”

“That’s not what I meant. There’s not all the yelling.”

“Oh, that. You live with a lot of that?”

He shrugged. “My mom and Madeline argue a lot. And then Mom and Bob, too. That’s why I sneak out sometimes.”

“Sure.”

He slid some bread slices my way and I layered on some deli meat.

“Where are we going to go?”

“I thought we’d see all the hotspots of upper New York state.”

“There are some?”

That made me laugh. “A couple. What are you interested in?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what you’re interested in?”

“My mom’s always trying to get me interested in things I don’t care anything about.”

“Like?”

“I don’t know. Like documentaries. The History Channel. I don’t care about that stuff. I like movies. Did you see the new Star Wars ?”

“No.”

“It was okay.”

“What else has she tried to get you interested in?”

He shrugged. “She likes to sign me up for sports, but I don’t like sports.”

“Why not?”

“Do I have to have a reason?”

“I guess not.”

“There’s one thing, though,” Jeremy said.

“What’s that?”

“You won’t laugh.”

“Of course not.”

“I like art.”

“Art? You like to paint?”

He shook his head. “I hate history, but I like reading about painters. Are there any art galleries we could go to?”

I wasn’t expecting that. “Yeah, I think we could find some of those. You take art in school?”

“I was going to, but Bob told my mom that I should take something else, that I’d never get anywhere taking that. You can’t get a job doing art.”

“Not everything you take has to be aimed at a career.”

“That’s what I said, but Mom agreed with Bob.”

“Would you like to be an artist? I know a little girl — well, she’s not that little, she’d be twelve now, I think — named Crystal who likes to draw all the time. Those things they call graphic novels. She’d like to do those when she grows up.”

“Is she good?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m guessing she’s still interested. I haven’t seen her in a while. She moved out to San Francisco to be with her dad.” I paused. “Her mom died.”

“Graphic novels are cool, but I don’t want to actually draw or anything. I’m not good at that. But I’d like to study it. Like, find out everything about great painters like Renoir and Raphael and Michelangelo and those guys. But not just classic guys. Modern stuff, too, like that dude who just threw shit all over the canvas, dribbling paint like crazy.”

“You talking about Pollock?”

“That’s the guy. Pollock. I’d like to get a job in a gallery or a museum or something like that. Do you think that’s lame?”

“Lame? No.”

“So where are we going? It’s already dinner time. Are we just having a sandwich for dinner?”

“Just thinking on that,” I said. “Whether to go tonight or in the morning.”

The light outside was starting to fade. We could stay at my place for the night, but that would mean putting Jeremy on the couch. Still better than the jail cell he could have ended up in, but I thought maybe he deserved better than that. Jeremy’s admission that he was interested in galleries had me considering a New York destination. We could be there in three or four hours. I’d have to see about a hotel reservation first.