There was a rather bizarre carnival-like atmosphere to the whole thing. Mrs. Sonia Barrows-Willingham had hired a valet parking service to handle the cars of the memorial attendees. And by the look of the makeshift parking lot, there were going to be more people here than at an April Mets game at Shea during the mid-’70s. I arrived at about the same time as Detective McKenna and he was in a fairly pissy mood to begin with. Maybe a little drunk too.
“Can you believe this shit?” he asked, pointing at all the cars already parked in neat rows on the east lawn. “So much for that intimate little memorial service, huh?”
“Let’s hang out here and maybe the MetLife blimp will show up for overhead coverage.”
“Too cloudy for that. Snow’s in the air.”
I looked up. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Here are your claim checks, gentlemen,” a very polite, dark-skinned East Asian kid said, handing us our receipts.
The claim tags were playing card-size renderings of Sashi Bluntstone paintings. Just amazing. Inside, they probably had life-size Jell-O molds of Sashi’s paintings.
“You see these guys parking the cars, Prager? All freakin’ Indians and Chinks. What’d she do, hire the high school chess and math teams? Un-fuckin’-believable.”
I didn’t bother saying anything to him about his not so subtle racism. Some guys bring their racism to the job. Sometimes the job brings the racism to them. And no matter which way you were infected, alcohol made things worse.
“You think this thing’s catered?” he asked.
“Given that there’s valet parking, I’d say the chances are pretty good.”
“I hope they have those little hot dogs. It’s not a party without the little hot dogs.”
“It’s not a party,” I reminded him.
“You think?”
“Come on, let’s get inside before it starts snowing.”
I put my hand on McKenna’s shoulder and urged him forward. Closer to him now, I could smell the alcohol strong on his breath. He wasn’t staggering, but he was tight. Apparently I hadn’t been the only one struggling with his part in this whole ordeal.
A very large, head-shaven, well-dressed black man stood guard at the door. He kept his hands at his side and wore a practiced expression that walked the line between dispassion and threat. His suit jacket was cut loosely enough to hide the sidearm he was no doubt carrying beneath it, but given the circus atmosphere, I wasn’t sure whether he was here to keep the press in or out. McKenna took one look at the guy, blew air loudly through his lips, and shook his head in disdain. He did it specifically so the security man would notice. If he had noticed, he didn’t show it.
“What the fuck, Prager? They think a fight’s gonna break out here or what?”
“I think it’s just a precaution. Rich people can get pretty weird about security, especially if paparazzi are involved.”
“Who even gives a shit anymore?” he said. “The kid’s old news. You have any idea how many other little girls have been murdered over the last few weeks?”
It was a question that required no answer, but I answered anyway to try and move him off the subject: “Too many.”
“One is too many.”
“You’ll get no argument from me.”
“Gentlemen,” the security man said, politely nodding his head and opening the door.
We stepped in.
“They’re really gonna screw me, Moe.”
“Who is?”
“The fucking bosses. My rabbi says they want to stick me in IA and there’s nothing he can do to protect me. Me, in Internal Affairs! Jesus, I might as well put in my papers or eat my gun.”
“Don’t be an ass. Come on, let’s see what’s what.”
It was apparent pretty quickly what was what. There were bars set up in the main hallway at the base of each of the two staircases. At one of the bars, I recognized the faces of some local female TV reporters, their heavy makeup looking ridiculous under normal lighting. What was a circus without clowns, right? I guess the news vans were parked around the rear of the house. At least I didn’t see any cameras, but that didn’t mean the cameramen weren’t setting up in the room where the memorial was to be held. There was a small army of tuxedoed servers passing trays of hors d’oeuvres. None of the silver trays seemed to contain those little hot dogs. This didn’t much please McKenna nor did the presence of the media.
“Fuck this! I’m getting a drink.” He walked away. I didn’t try to stop him. He was a man on a mission.
On the other hand, I had no intention of drinking. While I’d made a dent in the bottle of fancy scotch on New Year’s Eve, I hadn’t overdone it. I meant to keep it that way, but when I saw Sarah walking towards me, I changed my mind on the notion of temporary sobriety. She was holding someone’s hand as she approached. That someone was Paul Stern. I was painfully aware of her taking note of the disapproval in my expression before I even realized exactly what it was I was feeling.
“Hi, Dad.” She leaned over and kissed my cheek.
“Moe,” Paul said, letting go of Sarah’s hand to shake mine. I shook it. I wasn’t happy, but I wasn’t a complete idiot.
“We’ve been seeing each other since Christmas Eve,” Sarah said. “Be happy about it, Dad.”
“You don’t need my approval to date.”
“Yes, we do,” Paul said. “You know we do.”
“Well, I need a drink. I’ll see you guys later.”
I walked over to one of the bars where Randy Junction was milling about with a rather spectacular blond. She wasn’t young, but the forty years or so she’d managed to live hadn’t laid a glove on her. She had that perfect Morgan Fairchild nose and violet eyes that were impossible not to stare at. She saw me staring, but she was used to being stared at. Junction was used to men staring at her.
“Mr. Prager,” he said, after I collected my scotch, “this is my wife, Jill. Jill, Moe Prager. He’s the-”
“-man that found Sashi’s killer, yes.” Her voice was as husky as she was lean. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She offered me her hand. “Thank you for finding out what happened, though I wish things had turned out differently.”
“Me too.”
“A lost child of any kind is a tragedy,” she said.
That cut deep. I remembered back to Katy’s miscarriage, how it tore her up inside, how it caused the first subtle cracks in our marriage. I took a prodigious gulp of scotch. “It’s awful for everyone.”
“Except for my husband and the cunt throwing this strange little affair.”
“Jill!” Junction snapped.
“Don’t Jill me! You and that dried-up bitch will need your own private bank tellers now that Sashi’s dead.”
“Okay, that’s quite enough from you.” He grabbed his wife’s arm, but she pulled away from him.
“Again, Mr. Prager, a pleasure to meet you.” She sauntered off into the crowd.
“You’ll have to excuse my wife. She’s had a little too much to drink already.”
“Seemed in control of her faculties to me.”
“It’s Sashi. You see, she can’t have children,” he said with blame in his voice. It wasn’t that they couldn’t have children. She couldn’t have them.
“She can’t have children and you can’t keep your dick in your pants. I think I’ll take her side in this.”
“You don’t understand. Sure, she’s very beautiful, but-”
“Save the explanations for someone who gives a shit, okay? And by the way, I got some of the paintings back.”
You’ve got to love human reflex because in spite of himself and his surroundings and his wife’s commentary on his greed, Randy Junction’s eyes got big and he smiled a big wet juicy smile. Money makes the world go around, the world go around, the world go around
… The best part was watching him struggle to wipe his face clean of joy. He just couldn’t do it and I guess he figured it wasn’t worth the effort. I wasn’t worth it.
“Try not to ejaculate right here, Randy,” I said, waving my glass at the bartender for a refill. “A double.” The bartender more than obliged.
Junction was gone before the words were out of my mouth. No doubt to hunt for Sonia Barrows-Willingham and tell her about the recovered paintings.
As I walked away from the bar, Candy looped her arm through mine and marched me into a library like the ones that I used to think existed only in movies. You know, shelf after walnut shelf of colorfully bound volumes with gilded titles on leatherbound spines. There was even a painting of a fox hunt and a big antique globe from when Ogologlu’s home country was losing its grip on a nice chunk of the world. She closed the door behind us.
“I saw you talking to Randy and Jill.”
“I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus, so what?”
“Come on, Mr.-Moe. Did you tell-”
“Not for me to tell.”
Candy exhaled for the first time since she found me. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
“Jill? Mrs. Junction? Yes, very.”
“Why would he want me when he could have her? I know that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Not even close.”
She seemed not to hear. “You don’t know about their situation. You don’t understand.”
“Funny. That’s what Randy tried to tell me.”
“And…”
“I’m not judging you, Candy, but what are you doing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Exactly. Now’s not the time to trust your decisions. You’re grieving.”
“I want my life back. I want a life where I can have some joy. Do you know what it’s been like being a slave to my own daughter? To be an adjunct, a second thought, to have my needs be the last rung on the ladder? Everything I’ve done since the day Sashi first picked up a brush has been about her career.”
“Well, you’re free now.”
“That’s right,” she said, stepping uncomfortably close to me. “I can do whatever I want.” And before I could react, she kissed me on the mouth, and with intent.
“Stop that!” I pushed her away hard and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
Candy made to slap my face, but I grabbed her hand before she even came close. When she calmed down, she said, “Why did you do that, push me away like that? I’ve wanted to kiss you like that since I was fourteen.”
“Well, you’re not fourteen anymore, but you are acting like someone who wants to be punished. Try and remember that today is about Sashi. Let yourself feel the grief and the guilt if you have to, but don’t look to me for answers. I don’t have the ones you want.”
She was sobbing now, quietly, into the palms of her hands. Grief does stupid things to people. I knew firsthand about that. I’d done my share of acting out too. If I’d made Candy take note of that, then good, I was glad. If I’d just hurt her feelings… Well, it was a day for hurt feelings.
“I’ve got three of the paintings back.”
She looked up out of her hands, her makeup smeared, but the tears turned off.
“What? How? I don’t under-”
“I did use one to bribe someone and that got me to Tierney,” I said. “I had the other three tested by an expert for authenticity.”
“But-”
“They’re in the trunk of my car. I’ve already told Junction. You guys can get them when this thing, whatever this is, is over. Right now, I need another drink.”
Actually, I felt more like I needed another shower, but a drink was the best I could do under the circumstances. I got a double on the rocks and went to find a quiet little corner for myself. Even with all the people in attendance, I thought, there were lots of quiet corners in a house that size. One of the things thwarting my quest was that there were an inordinate number of flat screens set up around the house showing endless videos of Sashi. Some of the images registered, but I mostly tried to avoid watching. Finally, I found a kind of nook on one of the staircase landings between the second and third floors. There was a small stained glass window that let in light and a pillow-covered oak bench built into the landing wall. I sat down and slowed down my drinking, trying to sip at this one. It was lovely up here and the noise from the main floor was only a quiet medley of shuffling feet and soft whispers.
“My husband used to love this spot.” It was Sonia Barrows-Willingham in all her desiccated glory. “That’s a Tiffany window there behind you.”
“Nice place,” I said, feeling the scotch.
“I understand you’ve managed to recoup certain assets, some of which are mine.”
“News travels fast around here.”
“It travels fast everywhere, Mr. Prager, or hadn’t you noticed?”
“Nah, I’m a Pony Express kinda guy myself,” I heard the scotch say.
She did that grotesque barking laugh of hers. “Where are my paintings?”
“In my car. The kids out front have my keys,” I said, reaching into my pocket for my claim check. “Give this to them and they can get them out of the trunk.”
She snatched the card out of my hand and headed back down the stairs. I waited to speak until she’d almost made it to the landing below.
“Oh, Mrs. Barrows-Willingham, I nearly forgot to mention…”
“And what would that be, Mr. Prager?”
“Next to the crate with the paintings is a copy of a report on the authenticity of the paintings that you might find a fascinating read. I’m certain the press will find it equally fascinating. It was convenient of you to invite them, by the way. Thanks. You saved me a lot of bother.”
She didn’t say a word, but about-faced and was standing back in front of me within seconds.
“That reward money was merely a token of my generosity, Moe.”
“It’s Moe now, is it?”
“If you like. As I was saying, that hundred thousand was only a tiny sampling of my generosity. I can be far far more giving. Unfortunately, I am not blessed with Candy or Jill Junction’s looks, but I find that men are more easily swayed by money in any case. Money can get you all the Jills and Candys you could ever want.”
“No sale, sorry. I don’t want them or your money. I already gave the hundred grand away.”
She didn’t flinch. “Force is also very effective and much less expensive.”
“You’re threatening me now? I don’t much like threats.”
“No one does. I believe that’s the whole point.”
I put my scotch down and reached around for my. 38. I unhinged the cylinder and spun it like a wheel of fortune. “Round and round she goes…” I snapped the cylinder back in place and pantomimed shooting her. “Pow, pow, pow.”
She said nothing, but swallowed hard.
“Don’t ever threaten me again, Mrs. Barrows-Willingham. I know some people who would make what John Tierney did to Sashi a pleasant alternative to what they would do to you. And if you think I’m fucking around, try me.”
I picked up my scotch glass and left her standing there, shaking. I went downstairs to try and find a real human being. In a million years, I never thought I’d be happy to see Max, but grief and loss make for strange bedfellows. I found him in the butler’s pantry, drinking bourbon straight out of the bottle and looking even more wrecked and wretched than when we last spoke. He wasn’t crying, but he recently had been, a lot. Through all this, he was the only one who seemed fully in touch with what he’d lost. Love, even parental love, is a complicated thing, but Max’s was pure. In the end, he was the only mensch amongst the monsters. Mensch, in Yiddish, means a real man. He handed me the bottle and I took a sip.
“Tough day,” I said.
“Impossible.”
Then there came an announcement over the intercom. The circus was about to begin.
Showtime.