Robert Stone - Death of the Black-Haired Girl

The thought was fascinating. All gone. The wife, the daughter who had seemed magical and more as a child but had proved only surpassing in beauty and intellect, otherwise an ordinary mortal like himself. A man, Stack thought, who has a child like her believes it’s himself transcended. But the Stacks of the world did not transcend. Still, she had surprised. Maud had been touched by something strong. She had surprised but the power of the Sidhe, the fairies who owned her, had brought her down. Head to head with religion, the kid had gone. How he had loved her!

He thought it the easiest thing in the world now, to understand. Some force overcome with rage like his own had demanded that miracle child of form and grace be crushed on the sidewalk like a roach. The life he was living since the day he made himself understand that his daughter was dead was different from the one he had lived before. It was compounded still of rage and grief — they were still present, still a scourge — only less confusing. He felt as if he suddenly commanded a clear view into what had been his life, and it seemed to be one where he had outlived identity. The papers he carried, for the weapon, the driver’s license, all the credentials that defined him — even his own name — had no significance at all. Not that this brought any particular freedom. Freedom had always been a thing alien to him, as a concept or as an experienced condition. No one and nothing was free, everything rigorously bound and priced, locked down and chained, from your last drink to your last orgasm to what you thought were the highest flights of your soul. Stack was out of breath. He took his hat off and leaned on the cheap cane. It was late afternoon but the day was still bright. He was waiting for the courage to telephone Brookman in the house across the street.

He had been sitting a long time and the mild day concealed a chill at its core that worked its way into Stack’s bones. He had taken to feeling the outline of his Glock as though time or reason had somehow stripped him of it. Finally, after the winter shadows had edged from one side of Felicity Street to the other, he saw a man he knew must be Brookman headed up the street. Brookman was a large man, a few inches over six feet tall, and the unbuttoned charcoal-gray overcoat he wore spoke for the breadth of his shoulders. He would have to be approached, as the term went, “with caution.” He would have to be killed quickly and beyond a dying effort. Stack’s hand went to the weapon under the cloth of his coat.

He watched as the man he knew was Brookman turned briskly into his elegant residence on Felicity Street. At the point of taking out his cell phone, Stack was at once aware of an unmarked car, a few years old, blocking traffic in the near lane. His friend Salmone was at the wheel and rolled down the passenger-side window.

“Hey, Eddie!”

Stack stood up. His instinct was to walk away.

“Eddie!” Salmone pushed open the passenger-side door. “Eddie. Step into my office, brother.”

His capacity for escape was a thing of the past. Stack walked into the street and climbed into Salmone’s Camry. They drove down the street that led to the center of the Common and parked in a row of spaces marked off for utility vehicles.

“Dr. Carr call you?” Stack asked.

“What are you doing in front of their house, Eddie?”

“I was meditating.”

“Look, man. Somebody ran Maudie down and left her to die in the street. It wasn’t Brookman, for Christ’s sake. And everything we know is telling us now he didn’t do anything like push her. His wife was there.”

“His wife was there? Of course she’s gonna fucking defend him.”

“I’m thinking this woman is a lousy liar. Even in extreme situations. I’m thinking I’m gonna know when this babe is lying to me. What he says, what she says — it’s corroborated. The early stuff was not reliable. Accusing witnesses didn’t stand up at interviews, or they weren’t really witnesses — they didn’t see it.”

“He seduced my daughter, Sal. He mocked us. He made her a whore.”

Salmone shook his head.

“Don’t talk like a meathead. I’m sorry, Eddie. Don’t destroy your life. Her memory. Her mother’s memory. Your own legacy.”

“My legacy? What the fuck is my legacy? Legacy! Some bullshit term of media correctness to perfume the shit people do? My old man could talk legacy, the Irish legacy on the docks, on the tugs. You want to talk Sicilian legacy, Sal? My legacy, my dick.”

Salmone, offended and angry, sat silently for a moment and looked around to see if anyone outside was near enough to have heard.

“This got you where you got no pride, Eddie. I feel sorry for you. I got pride if you don’t.”

“I’m talkin’ about myself, Sal. Not about anybody else.”

“All right. Get a hold of yourself, for Christ’s sake.”

“I was a mooch, a jelly,” Stack said. “You know what Kinsella said in front of me?”

Salmone folded his arms and raised his eyes.

“Don’t, Eddie, for God’s sake.”

“He’s talking, Charlie, about cops on the bag. He says some cops can take it and some can’t. If you don’t know how to take it, you shouldn’t. He said, ‘Some cops would love to take it but they don’t know how.’ He says this in front of Barbara. He was talking about me. And then, after the thing—”

“Shut up, Eddie!” Salmone shouted. “Shut the fuck up! You were honest as the day was fucking long. You were incorruptible and you were smart and everybody loved you and especially Barbara — she’s a saint in heaven — she loved you. Kinsella’s a piece of shit.”

Salmone paused and considered his old partner. “Hey,” he said, “are you carrying? Do you have a weapon?”

“No,” Stack said.

“Look,” Salmone said, “I blame myself. I didn’t like Brookman. I was pissed. I swear I was pissed at his behavior. And because I knew who Maudie was. But he didn’t push her in front of no car. I didn’t say he did, did I? I was suspicious.”

Stack watched the Christmas lights on Prospect Street switch on.

“I can tell you this too, Eddie. The Staties got a list of people reported their car stolen right after Maud died. Had work done on it. There’s gonna be an arrest soon. So there’s that.” He turned to Stack. “Eh, I think you went crazy and I think you got a weapon. I want it.”

Stack ignored him.

“You want to end up in the fuckin’ zoo at the end of your life? You want to dishonor yourself so much?”

Stack shook his head.

“Or,” Salmone said, “you want the garbage guys and the coroner sweeping up your fucking brains and the rest of your family thinking about that? And the sin.”

“Oh, fuck the sin, Sal.”

Salmone put his hand out. “I want the weapon. I’ll get it to you. You want a receipt? I’ll personally return it to you. Now I want it.”

So in the end Stack handed over the Glock. Salmone looked at his watch.

“There’s a train now every half hour. You’re gonna make the four-twenty. I’ll give you a ride.”

“I don’t want a ride,” Stack said. But he took it.

At the station, on the platform, Stack watched the four-twenty pull away. He was not going to miss his appointment with Brookman, he thought, even if it was just an announcement of things future. He leaned on his cheap walking cane. He was having more and more trouble getting over the distances his routines required. Also, he thought, he might find a variety of uses for it. He took out his phone and called Professor Brookman’s home.

“PROFESSOR BROOKMAN?”

He had never seen or heard Edward Stack, the bereaved, the famous cop, but he knew who it was.