Split Images Page 6

  Bryan said, "I hope that's all he doing."

  BRYAN WAS GOING THROUGH the stack of magazines on the toilet tank in the bathroom. National Geographic, Smithsonian, Quest, GEO, Law and Order, there, Playboy. But the wrong month. Two more National Geographics, another Playboy. Too recent. Car and Driver . . .

  He heard Angela say from the living room, "What're these little marks in the wall?"

  He looked out, through the hall and into the living room. She was standing to the left of the front door.

  "Bullet holes."

  And went back to sorting through the stack. An old Newsweek, Atlantic, Monthly Detroit . . .

  "Bullet holes?"

  Smithsonian, another National Geographic, Esquire, Esquire . . . another Playboy . . . November!

  He opened it, turned a page.

  "Why're there bullet holes in your wall?"

  "Somebody shot at me. I came in and turned the light on. Bang--a guy was waiting for me."

  There she was: the nice smile, perfect nose, the knowing eyes, soft hair slanting across her forehead, all within the square-inch or so border of the black and white photo. He got a razor blade from the medicine cabinet, sliced the picture out carefully and replaced the magazine, slipping it into the middle of the pile.

  As he came out of the hall and crossed toward the kitchen, she saw him: in his shirt sleeves now, the grip of a revolver showing, the gun riding in the waist of his trousers, behind his right hip. It was unexpected and gave her a momentary shock. She said, "Were you hurt?"

  "When?"

  "When you were shot at."

  "No, he missed. I think all I've got's Jim Beam."

  "That's fine. What'd you do then?"

  "What, with the guy? I took the gun away from him . . . Why don't you put on some music?"

  In the kitchen he held the stamp-size photo carefully in the palm of his hand, looked about undecided, then opened the Good Housekeeping Cookbook lying on the tile counter and placed the photo inside. There. He turned to the refrigerator and brought out an ice tray.

  In the living room Angela was looking through his record albums, a stack of them on the floor next to the Sears hi-fi system.

  "All you've got is Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson."

  "No, there're some others. George Benson . . .

  Earl Klugh."

  "You've got a whale record." She put on Bob James.

  Lamplight softened the starkness of the room, laid flaring designs on the empty walls. The music helped too.

  She said, "Did you just move in?"

  From the kitchen: "Almost two years ago."

  The room didn't reflect him; or anyone. Bare walls and shelves of paperbacks and magazines. A hanging fern, dying; a young ficus that wasn't doing too badly. Chair and sofa slip-covered in faded summer-cottage beige. It looked as though he could move out in less than fifteen minutes.

  "When're you gonna fix the place up?"

  "What's the matter with it?"

  A grocery sack with a red tag stapled to it stood upright on the glass coffee table. It was open. All she had to do, sitting on the edge of the sofa, was pull the sack toward her to look inside. She saw a girl's hairbrush, a beaded purse, a rolled-up cellophane bag that contained marijuana, a packet of cigarette paper and book matches. She saw what looked like pink panties, sandals, a white T-shirt bunched at the bottom of the sack that showed part of a word in black.

  She sat back as Bryan came in from the kitchen, a lowball glass in each hand. He said, "You can look at that stuff if you want."

  "It belongs to someone, doesn't it?"

  "Not anymore. She's dead." He placed the drinks on the table and started back to the kitchen.

  "I left in a hurry this morning, forgot to take it with me."

  The T-shirt was soiled with what looked like coffee stains; black lettering on white that said DETROIT IS FOR LOVERS.

  She dropped the T-shirt in the sack and sipped her drink, felt the warmth inside her as moisture came to her eyes. "You make a neat one," she called to the kitchen, relaxing, with a good feeling.

  He came in with a bowl of dry-roasted peanuts.

  "I thought we had some crackers, but we don't."

  And went back out again.

  "What're you doing?"

  "We're having a party."

  "Are we going to smoke at the party?"

  "I quit."

  "So did I. Why don't we start again and quit some other time?"

  She heard him say, "Okay, but I don't have any."

  She went into the sack and brought out the Baggie. The grass looked clean, just a few seeds and bits of stem, dark stuff with a green smell to it. She rolled a cigarette, lighted it and sat back again on the sofa. As Bryan came in, now with a plate of white cheese and celery stalks, she said, "Am I destroying evidence?"

  He said, "Not unless you smoke the whole lid."

  When she offered him the joint he took it carefully.

  "It's been a while." Drew deeply on it and said, holding his breath, "The last time, I ate about five pounds of caramel corn."

  She said, "Well, six feet, about one sixty. I don't see a problem that shows. When do you take your gun off?"

  He brought it out, a revolver with a stubby barrel, and laid it on the coffee table. The grip, she saw, was wrapped tightly with rubber bands. He said, "I forgot something." And went back to the kitchen.

  Angela drew on the cigarette, staring at the revolver, about to ask him about the rubber bands when he came back in with the Good House- keeping Cookbook and handed it to her.

  "You brought me here to cook, is that it?"

  "No, look inside. There's something in there."

  "What?"

  "Just look. It might be in the chicken section."

  Angela leafed through pages, came to Poultry and began turning pages one at a time, concentrating now, looking for some clue. Then stopped. She seemed awed by what she saw. "I don't believe it."

  She held up the inch-square black and white photograph of herself.

  Bryan leaned over to look at the cookbook open on her lap and nodded. "Under chicken cacciatore."

  She said with a softness he had not heard before, "You really did . . . I've got goosebumps."

  Bryan said, "It is scary, isn't it?"

  Patti Daniels stood against the open door to the study; arms folded, which told Robbie something when finally he pushed the off button on the remote-control tuner, the armed Secret Service agents on the television screen imploding to black and he looked over at his wife. She had asked him yesterday how many times he'd watched it--the video cassette tape of the Reagan assassination attempt--and if she wanted the latest tally he'd tell her: nine times so far this evening.

  She said, "I don't get it."

  He didn't feel required to answer. Comments would have to be put in the form of a question. He waited, fingering the remote-control device in his hand.

  "How many times are you going to look at it?"

  He hadn't anticipated that one. "I don't know."

  "What're you looking for, blood?"

  "There's not much of it to see."

  She straightened, brushed at the loose sleeve of her lounging gown, refolded her arms and leaned against the door again. The hip line was provocative; but he knew better.

  "Did you have dinner?" Patti asked him.

  "Yeah, as a matter of fact, at the Renaissance Club. David and Roger. They're not doing an awful lot of business. I mean the club. All that newDetroit bullshit--Cartier's moving out, right on the heels of your favorite shop. Walk through the RenCen, the only people you see're working there or wearing name tags. They don't even have full occupancy, they're putting up two more buildings."

  Patti said, "I love to talk about economics."

  "How 'bout the six hundred grand condo in Aspen? You'd hire an ad agency to sell me on that one."

  She said, "The only reason you don't like it is because I do. I'm going back out for Easter."

  "Your snooty
pals are gonna miss you."

  "Tell them I may come down for the polo matches. I'll see."

  "The jock," Robbie said. "What've you got out west, another ski instructor?"

  She stared at him, posed, pert blonde in folds of champagne silk by Halston, boat-neck design good on her for a few more years, flowing lines to conceal thick legs; in ski pants or tailored clothes, an aristocratic fragility above the waist, a peasant's big-ass sturdiness below: the halves of two different women in one.

  She said, "Do you want to compare notes? How about your writer friend--she still around?"

  "Angela? Come on."

  "I forgot. She must be ten years over the hill."

  "Maybe I'll go out to Aspen with you."

  "I'm going to bed."

  "Jealous husband shoots--what is he, Austrian?

  Swiss? . . . Jealous husband shoots ethnic ski instructor." Robbie grinned. "Wait a minute. You like that suave foreign type, what about Walter?

  You could have an affair with Walter, you wouldn't even have to leave the house."

  She said, "Are you serious about hiring Walter?"

  "Of course I am."

  "The servants don't know what to make of him.

  They don't know which side he's on."

  "I like him," Robbie said. "Walter's solid, good Hamtramck stock. Speaking of which, not only Dodge Main is no more, Lynch Road's gone.

  Chrysler's going down the toilet and Lee Iacocca hangs in there like a hemorrhoid. You see him in the TV ads? He's a fucking storm trooper. Buy a Chrysler product, you son of a bitch, or I'll kill you."

  "Good night," Patti said.

  "Wait a minute. There're some papers you have to sign, on the desk."

  Patti straightened, moved toward the glow of the brass, green-shaded lamp. She seldom came into Robbie's study; it had all the hallowed solid-oak charm of the Detroit Athletic Club, where men in dark suits talked solemnly about ten-day reports and women were admitted through a side entrance.

  She looked at the pages of legalese and picked up Robbie's gold pen.

  "What're we up to now?"

  "Some more of the liquidation," Robbie said.

  "Within four days a Jewish auctioneer will have wiped out seventy-five years of nuts and bolts for the automotive industry. And you know what the best part is? The goddamn Japs'll probably buy half the equipment. No more Daniels fascinating fasteners. That's not bad, I could've used that. I see things in headlines lately. Fastener firm finally says fuck it. Daniels--no. Foremost Chrysler ass-kisser closes its doors."

  "Sells out," Patti said. "Buying the Cadillac was sort of a tip-off. Rolls and Mercedes don't count."

  "Just sign the papers . . . I don't know why I stayed in as long as I did. He'd come down to the plant, his arm hanging, dragging his leg, he'd come down and sit among his bowling trophies and blackframed memories . . . Knudsen, Sloan, Tex Colbert, he even had Horace Dodge up there, Christ, while he stared at me through those fucking glass partitions.

  Go to Schweizer's for lunch. Dad went every single day for forty-five years. I'd say, let's go to Little Harry's for a change. No, Schweizer's. I'm never gonna eat another potato pancake as long as I live."

  "Poor baby," Patti said.

  "What I'm gonna do, sell every machine in the plant except one. I think a Waterbury Farrell Automatic Thread Roller, a big Number 50. Paint it black and stand it out on the front lawn with a plaque that reads: 'It's an ugly fucker, but it sure made us a pile of money' . . . I'd love to do that."

  Patti said, "It's too bad you don't have the balls." She signed the papers and left.

  "You lied to me," Angela said.

  The first thing he thought of: you left the razor blade on the sink.

  She had come out of the bathroom and was standing in the hall doorway, holding what looked like a magazine under her arm. "You're not forty.

  You're thirty-seven or -eight. Which?"

  He said, "I'll be thirty-eight in October," relaxing a little but still uncertain, until she held up, not a magazine, his high school yearbook.

  "Western," Angela said, "nineteen-sixty-one . . ."

  He'd taken it in there one morning weeks ago- saving time, looking up a familiar name, a robberyhomicide suspect he was pretty sure he'd gone to school with--and left the yearbook on the open shelf with the towels.

  ". . . 'Bryan proved his sterling character both in the classroom and on the Cowboy basketball court where he averaged fifteen points a game,' " Angela recited. "Sterling character, my ass."

  "I averaged sixteen points," Bryan said.

  "Why did you lie?"

  "I'm not quite six foot either."

  Angela waited.

  He said, "Well, you were having trouble being thirty. So, I thought if I told you I was forty, and looked like I was handling it okay--you know, forty being worse than thirty--it might make you feel better."

  "You did it for me?" Angela said.

  "I guess so."

  She was coming toward him with the warm look again.

  "Sometimes," Bryan said, "I tell myself I'm forty.

  It makes me feel more--I want to say mature--but grown-up, anyway. See, I think you get over forty you're finally there, you're full-grown and it's easier to talk to people. Otherwise, I have the feeling everyone's older than I am."

  "I do too," Angela said.

  "So I pretend I'm older and it works."

  "Are you shy?" She sank down next to him on the sofa and he handed her the joint, the second one she had rolled from the evidence bag.

  "No, I don't think I am. Well, maybe a little."

  "You weren't shy in court. But it's funny," Angela said. "In a way you seemed . . . not like a little boy exactly, but boyish. Natural. I wanted to make a face at you, like we were in grade school."

  "Why didn't you?"

  "I didn't know what kind to make."

  "So you were feeling like a little girl."

  "Yeah, but I wasn't aware of it till I started looking at you. See, I didn't analyze it then, at the time."

  He said, "Why don't you put that thing down."

  She said, "All right," and laid the joint in the groove of an ashtray that said Carl's Chop House.

  He said, "Are you ready?" Touching her face with his palm as she turned back to him.

  She said, "I'm ready."

  They kissed for the first time, not rushing it but finally holding on and getting it all, not wanting to let go it was so good.

  Bryan said, "That was the best kiss I've ever had in my life."

  She said, "God, you're good. But don't say it if it isn't true. Okay?"

  "No, I mean it. It was the best one I ever had."

  "You're not lying . . ."

  "No, it's the truth."

  "Please don't ever lie to me, okay?"

  "No, I won't. You a little high? I think I'm beginning to feel it."

  She said, "It was the best one I've ever had, too."

  He said, "Are you having fun at the party?"

  Walter was wearing a raincoat over his pajamas because he didn't own a bathrobe. He was wearing black wing tips, too, but no socks.

  He knocked and entered the study. It was dark: the only light coming from a green desk lamp on one side of the room and the TV screen on the other, where Mr. Daniels was sitting in a leather chair, his legs stretched out on a matching leather ottoman. The picture on the TV screen didn't move. It was like a color photograph of the Secret Service ganging up on the assassin, who was under the pile somewhere.

  Robbie said, "Come on in, sit down."

  Walter pulled a ladder-back chair closer to the TV set, sat down and hunched over with his elbows on his thighs.

  Robbie said, "See the guy with the submachine gun?"

  "Yeah, in the gray suit," Walter said. "It looks like an Uzi."

  "That's what it is," Robbie said. "All right, watch." He began clicking the remote-control switch and the pictures on the screen backed up frame by frame. Then changed to another view of a
ction. Then to an earlier, longer view of Secret Service agents and newsmen standing around, waiting.

  "There," Robbie said, "he doesn't have it." He moved the pictures forward and stopped on the Secret Service agent with the submachine gun angling up from under his right arm, his left arm extended, pointing; he was saying something. Robbie said, "There, he does. Where did he get the Uzi?"

  "Out of a case," Walter said. "One latch open, the other one closed, with his finger on it at all times."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I just know, that's all," Walter said. "That's Quick-draw McGraw, whatever guy has that job, that's what he's called. Keeps within six paces of the president at all times. Maybe eight."

  Robbie ran the sequence backward again and stopped on a frame that showed a hand holding a revolver in the right foreground, two bodies on the sidewalk, a policeman's hat, part of the president's limousine.

  "What kind of gun is that?"

  "No kind," Walter said. "Guy shoots the president of the United States with a fucking Saturdaynight special."

  "You feel he deserves better. I agree. This is how to do it if you're dumb but lucky," Robbie said.

  "You want a drink?"

  "No, I don't care for anything. I was in bed."

  "Two questions," Robbie said. "What did Angie and the cop talk about, the hearing?"

  "No, just bullshit. He was pointing out to her some of the, you know, points of interest."

  "Okay. The other thing, how do I get hold of Curtis Moore?"

  Christ, try and keep up with this guy. "I don't know," Walter said, straightening, sitting back in the chair. "Call him, I guess."

  "Incidentally," Robbie said, "you've got a new lawyer, Roger Stedman. He'll get in touch with you when the time comes."

  "What do I tell Eddie Jasinski?"

  "Tell Eddie he's fired," Robbie said. "I want to try to set up something with Curtis Moore either tomorrow or Sunday, preferably tomorrow. Where does he hang out?"

  "You call him at home?"

  "Several times, no answer. What about his motorcycle club? You must've dealt with them at one time or another."

  "I don't know," Walter said, "they used to always be at a place on Jefferson, across from Uniroyal. Let me think." He looked around the semidark room, a study that was bigger than a parlor, Daniels staring at him, waiting. "Yeah, the Elite Bar, corner of Jefferson and Concord, across from where Uniroyal was. They sit out in front revving their machines. They don't go anywhere, just make a lot of noise, wake up the neighborhood."