12
The church was locked. I started down the path to the side door. Suddenly it opened. I ducked behind a bottlebrush bush.
Neverman came out, in a rush. He crossed the lawn to the rectory and disappeared inside. I waited a minute before I came out of hiding.
The basement was cold, with a dank smell of dry rot that I hadn’t noticed the night before. I went along, glancing into the storerooms that opened off the hallway. They were stacked with raw materials for the brushes: plastic and wooden handles, rolls of wire, straw and nylon bristles. The last room, closest to the stairway to the vestibule, was crammed with cardboard cartons. I checked an open box near the door. Shoelaces, like the ones Sebastian had shown me yesterday.
I thought back to Clemente’s agitation when I had told him Sebastian was peddling these. Was it possible Sebastian had taken the items without Clemente’s permission and pocketed the money? It didn’t strike me as likely, but then, I didn’t know the brush man very well.
I went on upstairs. The walls of the vestibule were water-stained and flaking away in big chunks. Inside the church, the elements had taken a similar tolclass="underline" The pews closest to the gaping hole in the roof were in bad condition, and the parquet floor buckled. I stood, caught by the kaleidoscopic pattern of the round stained-glass window above the altar.
Why had Clemente let the church deteriorate so? It would take more talent than Neverman possessed to make it habitable now. I took a last look around and started back to the basement. A sound arrested me on the landing, and I froze.
Sebastian came out of the first storeroom, a shopping bag in his hand. It was heaped with shoelaces, dishwashing gloves, sponges and wooden spoons. The brush man had expanded his line in a big way. I wondered how he’d explain it when Clemente confronted him.
With his white cane, Sebastian expertly tapped away toward the side door. I remained still until I heard it shut. By the time I got there and peeked out, Sebastian had crossed the lawn toward the rectory. Instead of going in, however, he skirted it, keeping close to the bottlebrush bushes. Suddenly he paused and cocked his head. I watched, safe in the shadows of the basement.
Sebastian was under Clemente’s office window. Deliberately he set his shopping bag down, stooping to push it under a bush. He then crept forward, still in a crouch, his cane preceding him, until he was hidden by the foliage under the window. The bushes quivered and then were still.
Clemente had remarked that blind people’s sense of touch was heightened, and I remembered reading that loss of sight had a similar effect on their hearing. Sebastian’s keen ears had obviously picked up an interesting conversation in Clemente’s office, something that made an excursion into the shrubbery worthwhile. Well, two could play.
I darted across the lawn and crept under the bushes at the far end of the window, trying to move as quietly as possible. The leaves rustled, and Sebastian started. I crouched, holding my breath. In seconds, he relaxed.
Clemente’s voice came from within the rectory. “...calm down, Jeff, and let’s go over exactly what she said again.”
“Again? She said she had proof, that’s what!” Neverman’s tone was agitated and high-pitched.
“But what kind of proof?” Clemente asked patiently.
“How should I know? She wouldn’t tell me. All she said was she had proof, and if I didn’t come back and live with her, she’d take it to the cops. She’ll do it, too.”
“You’re being paranoid, Jeff. Take it easy and sit down. You’ve been pacing for ten minutes now. It won’t help...” The peal of the telephone interrupted him. “Herb Clemente speaking.”
In the short silence that followed, Neverman uttered an unintelligible curse. There was a thump, as if he had hit his fist against the wall.
“Look, take it a little slower,” Clemente said to the phone. “Who did this to you?”
A pause.
“No, wait! Don’t hang up. I do care.”
In moments, the receiver slammed down.
“Must be my day to be besieged by hysterical people,” Clemente muttered.
“What?” Neverman asked distractedly.
“That was a girl I met last night. She’s crying and carrying on, and I can’t understand a word she says. So she accuses me of not caring about her and hangs up.”
Oh, my God! I thought. She’s gotten worse again!
“Sounds like a wonderful little woman,” Neverman said.
“Thing is, she’s cute, and I’ll bet a pretty good lay. But if she’s that unstable, forget it.”
I stiffened with anger at his shabby treatment of my friend and momentarily lost track of the conversation. I couldn’t really blame Clemente for being wary of any involvement with Linnea, but I didn’t want her hurt.
Clemente was saying, “How long did Anya give you to make up your mind?”
“She said I better show up there tonight, bag and baggage, or she’d go to the cops first thing tomorrow.” He paused. “Maybe I could buy her off?” Neverman sounded slyly hopeful.
“Forget it, Jeff. No loan. Cash is tight right now, as you know. I’m making good on the fifty thousand tomorrow.”
“So what do I do?”
“Well, Jeff.” Clemente’s voice held an undertone of amusement. “I see only one solution.”
“What?”
“Pack your stuff, roll up your sleeping bag, and go home.”
“Very funny.”
“I mean it.”
“There’s got to be another way!”
Clemente replied, but evidently he had moved away from the window, for his words came out muffled.
“Goddamn it!” Neverman’s voice rose. “You try living with her!”
“Fortunately I’m not the one she’s crazy about. Now, I’ve wasted enough time on this problem. You’d better get your stuff together so you don’t keep Anya waiting.”
“Goddamned if I will! Goddamned if I will!” Neverman’s voice escalated to a wail. “I’ll see her dead before I’ll live with her! Not you or the cops or anybody else can make me go back to her!”
The door slammed. I peered through the bushes at Neverman’s departing back. He strode furiously toward the street, fists clenched at his sides.
Through the open window, I heard Clemente mutter, “Jesus y Maria!”
I glanced at Sebastian. He relaxed his listening pose and crept from under the bushes, locating his shopping bag with his cane. I waited until he’d disappeared around the rectory before I emerged from hiding myself.
Neverman was far up the block on Twenty-fourth Street, crossing toward a small sidewalk cafe. Indifferent to traffic, he forced two cars to stop for him. A motorcycle roared around them, horn blaring, its driver shouting imprecations. Neverman gestured with his middle finger and kept on going. He entered the railed-off cafe and took a chair at a table with a red-and-white striped umbrella. I hurried up the street.
Neverman hunched over his table, drumming his fingers. I stopped in front of him, and he looked up with an anger-contorted face.
“Hi, Jeffrey,” I said.
“What the hell are you doing? Following me? Herb told me you’re a private cop. Did Anya hire you to keep tabs on me?”
“Of course not.” I sat down uninvited. “Is something wrong?”
With an effort, he controlled his enraged expression. “Naw. I’m just getting some lunch. Can’t take that swill at the Center any more.”
I glanced at my watch. “Three o’clock’s late for lunch.”