We followed them off the boat, but lost them on the steep streets up near the Seattle Centre. It didn’t matter. I directed Bel up into Queen Anne and then over to the big houses off Bigelow. The second street we tried was the right one.
‘How’s the handbrake?’ Bel asked as she parked roadside.
‘I haven’t needed it yet,’ I answered.
Jeremiah Provost’s house boasted a cellar garage with a slope running down to it from the pavement. This was where Kline’s car was parked, its nose almost touching the garage’s closed door. Bel had taken us a bit further down the hill, which was fine. We couldn’t afford to be obvious; it was still daylight. But I decided to take one risk anyway.
‘Stay here,’ I said.
‘That’s what you always say.’
‘This time I mean it.’ I left the van and stuck my hands in my pockets, whistling like a regular Joe on his way home from work. I climbed back up the hill and passed Kline’s car. Bel had been right, it was a Lincoln. I didn’t suppose the licence would help me, but I memorized it anyway. I passed the path which led around to the side of the house. I looked up and down the street, but there was no one about, no one to see me dive into the shrubbery and begin crawling my way around to the front door. Clancy had mentioned night-lights, but this was still daytime. I was hoping the system would only work at night.
I could hear voices, and slowed my pace accordingly. I could hear Kline’s voice, then another man’s. It seemed, amazingly, that they were holding a conversation — and a heated one at that — on Provost’s doorstep. I could hear snatches. Kline kept his voice low, the other voice was the angry one.
‘I told you not to come back here! You never did listen, did you?’ This was the other voice talking.
Then I found myself nose to a prickly bush, and looking through its foliage across a postage stamp lawn to the open front door. A man stood in the doorway, looking down on to where Kline and his driver stood. The driver had his hands behind his back. Kline stood with hands in pockets, head bowed. He started to make a speech I couldn’t hear. Above the three men, I could see a lamp high on the wall of the house. It was pointing in my direction and it was on. I must have triggered a beam. I prayed they wouldn’t look up and see it. There was no point worrying anyway.
So instead I concentrated on Jeremiah Provost.
It was my first sight of him, and he was impressive in a mad professor sort of way. He looked like he’d gained weight since the most recent newspaper photos. His beard was longer and greyer, his frizzy hair swept back and out from his forehead, like he had electricity searing through him. He was wearing denims and a T-shirt and an old cardigan. There was a strand of thick round beads around his neck, and he touched them as he spoke. His stance made it clear he had no intention of letting Kline over the threshold.
That was the most puzzling thing of all.
Kline’s speech over, Provost looked to the sky for guidance. ‘Look,’ he said, his voice an educated drawl, ‘just stay the fuck away, okay? Is that too much to ask?’
More undertones from Kline.
‘I know he’s dead,’ Provost snarled. He meant Nathan. Nathan’s gory end still hadn’t been on any news I’d seen. No doubt Kline and his men had been busy covering it up. Provost was still talking. ‘As yet,’ he said, ‘we don’t know anything other than that he is dead. What’re you saying?’
I almost whistled: Provost didn’t know the connection between Kline and Nathan. I even felt a moment’s pity for Kline, who had just lost a brother. Then I smiled to myself.
The light overhead was still on. I wondered what kind of timer it had. And I thanked God it wasn’t wired into any alarm. There was a camera, but it was aimed at the path, just in front of the main door. Kline was shuffling his feet. He said a few more words, then turned to go.
‘Yeah,’ said Provost, ‘and don’t forget to take your fucking gorilla with you.’ I could see the gorilla clench his fists behind his back. Oh boy, he wanted to swipe Provost. But all he did was give him the surreptitious finger instead.
I waited till they’d gone and Provost had closed and locked his door, then worked my way around the rest of the perimeter towards where the shrubbery ended just before the swimming pool. ‘Swimming pool’ was actually stretching things; it was more an outsized bath. The French windows were open, curtains wafting through them. There was a big white open-plan living area, and a dumpy woman standing in the middle of the floor. She was stroking Provost’s hair and kissing his neck, whispering to him. I squinted against the glare from the sinking sun. On the other side of the house, I could hear Kline’s car pull back on to the street and drive off. The woman had long lifeless hair and was wearing a floaty kaftan which caught the breeze from the French windows. I guessed she might be Alisha. She stepped back from Provost, who was rubbing his hands over his face, a man carrying the weight of the world. He started flapping his arms, shouting something, near to frenzy or madness or something.
‘What’s on your mind, Jerry?’ I said to myself, hoping he might yell out an answer.
But instead the woman hiked the kaftan over her head and let it fall to the floor. She was naked underneath. It wasn’t a bad move. Provost stopped fretting and started looking. There was a lot to look at, including a wondrously large pair of breasts. He walked forward to meet her, and she took his head and rested it against her. He seemed like a child then, as she spoke quietly to him and stroked his hair and soothed him. When he broke away from her long enough to start taking off his own clothes, I back-pedalled through the shrubbery and on to the street.
My knees and elbows were black with earth, and with my bruised face I knew anyone seeing me now would have little hesitation calling the cops. So I fairly jogged back to the VW and got in.
‘I saw them leave,’ said Bel. ‘When you didn’t come back straight away, I thought—’
I stopped her panic with a kiss. What do you know, it worked, just as it had with Provost. In fact, she took another kiss and then another, this time with eyes closed.
I told her what I’d found out, but she couldn’t make much out of it.
‘Things seem to be getting more confused all the time.’
She had a point. It took us a while to find a road down on to Aurora, where we found ourselves part of the evening rush-hour. There was a drive-in burger bar, so we stopped there for dinner. The burgers were huge and delicious. Then Bel dropped her bombshell.
‘I want to see Sam.’
24
New York, New York. Hoffer was back in his element.
He loved all of it, from Brooklyn and Queens to downtown Manhattan. He belonged here, along with all the other movers and shakers, the trick operators and cowboys and scammers. New York made sense to him, he knew its rules, knew when to play and how to play. Other cities, other countries: fuck ’em.
He stood outside the splatter gallery and felt so euphoric, he almost climbed the stairs to his office. Then he crossed to the diner and phoned his secretary instead.
‘Moira baby, I’m down here if anybody wants me.’
‘Sure. Constantine’s here.’
‘Send him down in five minutes.’
‘Okay. Did you bring me a souvenir?’
‘Hah?’
‘A souvenir,’ she persisted. ‘I wanted something royal.’ She sounded petulant.
‘Give me a break,’ Hoffer told her, putting down the phone. He didn’t recognise any of the waitresses. The one who came to his table told him it was vacation time, everyone waiting tables this week was relief.
‘And do you give relief as well, honey?’ Hoffer said, grinning. She stopped chewing her gum and gave him a look. You couldn’t have called the look interested. ‘Just coffee,’ Hoffer said, dismissing her.