Holly repeats her name and says she’s interested in Cary Dressler. “I’ve been working on a case where Mr. Dressler’s name came up. I went by the bowling alley where he worked—”
“Strike Em Out Lanes,” he says, sounding impatient.
“That’s right. I’m trying to track him down. It has to do with a series of auto thefts. I can’t go into the details, you understand, but I’d like to talk to him. I saw the picture of your bowling team with Mr. Dressler in it, and I just thought you might have some idea where he got off to. I’ve already talked to Mr. Clippard and Mr. Welch, so since I’m nearby, I—”
“Dressler has been stealing cars?”
“I really can’t go into that, Mr. Harris. You are Mr. Harris, aren’t you?”
“Professor Harris. I suppose you can come by, but don’t plan on staying long. I haven’t seen young Mr. Dressler in years and I’m quite busy.”
“Thank y—”
But Harris is gone.
Roddy puts his phone down and turns to Emily. Her sciatica has relented a bit and she no longer needs the wheelchair, but she’s using her cane, her hair needs combing, and Roddy has an unkind thought: She looks like the old witch in a fairy tale.
“She’s coming,” he says, “but not about the Dahl girl. It’s Dressler she’s interested in. She says.”
“You don’t believe that, do you?”
“Not necessarily, but it makes a degree of sense. She claims to be investigating a series of car things.” He pauses. “Thefts, car thefts. It could be. I doubt very much if private detectives work just one case at a time. It wouldn’t be payable.” Is that the right word? Roddy decides it is.
“She’s got separate cases involving two of the people we’ve taken? That would be a very large coincidence, wouldn’t it?”
“They happen. And why would investigating Bonnie Dahl lead Gibson to the bowling alley? That elf-girl was no bowler.”
“Her name is Gibney. Holly Gibney. Perhaps I should talk to her when she comes.”
Roddy shakes his head. “You didn’t know Dressler. I did. It’s me she wants to talk to, and I’ll handle it.”
“Will you?” She gives him a searching look. “You said onguarding instead of regarding. You… I don’t exactly know how to say this, my love, but…”
“I’ve slipped a cog. There. I’ve said it for you. Did you think I wasn’t aware? I am, and I’ll make allowances.” He touches her cheek.
She presses her hand over his and smiles. “I’ll be watching from upstairs.”
“I know you will. I love you, muffin.”
“I love you, too,” she says, and makes her slow way to the stairs. Her ascent will be even slower, and painful, but she has no intention of having a chairlift installed, like the one in the house of the old bitch down the street. Em can hardly believe Olivia is still alive. And she stole that girl, who appeared to have some talent.
Especially for a black person. For a negress.
Emily likes that word.
Holly mounts the Harris porch and rings the bell. The door is opened by a tall slim man wearing dad jeans, mocs, and a polo shirt with the Bell College logo on the breast. His eyes are bright and intelligent, but beginning to sink in their sockets. His hair is white, but far from the luxuriant growth Hugh Clippard sports; pink scalp peeks through the comb-strokes. There’s the ghost of a bruise on one cheek.
“Ms. Gibney,” he says. “Come into the living room. And you can take off the mask. There’s no Clover here. Assuming there is such a thing, which I doubt.”
“Have you been vaccinated?”
He frowns at her. “My wife and I observe healthy protocols.”
That’s answer enough for Holly; she says she’ll be more comfortable with her mask on. She wishes she’d worn a pair of her disposable gloves as well, but doesn’t want to take them out of her pockets now. Harris is obviously cocked and locked on the subject of Covid. She doesn’t want to set him off.
“As you wish.”
Holly follows him down the hall into a big wood-paneled room lit by electric sconces. The drapes are pulled to keep out the strong late-afternoon sun. Central air conditioning whispers. Somewhere light classical music is playing very quietly.
“I’m going to be a bad host and not ask you to sit,” Harris says. “I’m writing a lengthy response to a rather stupid and badly researched article in The Quarterly Journal of Nutrition, and I don’t want to lose the thread of my argument. Also, my wife is suffering one of her migraines, so I’d ask you to keep your voice low.”
“I’m sorry,” says Holly, who rarely raises her voice even when she’s angry.
“Besides, my hearing is excellent.”
That much is true, Em thinks. She’s in the spare bedroom, watching them on her laptop. A teacup-sized camera is hidden behind knickknacks on the mantel. Emily’s most immediate concern is that Rodney will give something away. He’s still sharp most of the time, but as the day grows late, he has a tendency to misspeak and grow forgetful. She knows this is common in those who are suffering the onset of Alzheimer’s or dementia—the syndrome is called sundowning—but she refuses to believe that can be true of the man she loves. Still, a seed of doubt has been planted. God forbid it should grow.
Holly tells Harris the car-theft story, which she has refined on the way over—like the little girl in the Saki story, romance at short notice is her specialty. She should have used the story with Clippard and Welch, but it came to her too late. She certainly plans to use it when she talks to Ernie Coggins, who interests her the most: still bowling and still married. The wife probably not suffering from sciatica, but it’s possible, it’s possible.
Barbara goes down to their father’s old office. Jerome’s computer is now on the desk, with papers piled on both sides of it. She assumes the thick stack on the right is the manuscript of his book. She sits down and thumbs through it to the last page: 359. Jerome wrote all of this, she marvels, and thinks of her own book of poems, which will run to perhaps a hundred and ten pages, mostly white space… assuming it’s published at all. Olivia assures her it will be, but Barbara still finds it hard to believe. Poems not about “the Black experience,” but about coping with horror. Although sometimes there may not be that much difference, she thinks, and gives a short laugh.
The orange flash drive is where Jerome said it would be. She turns on the computer, types in Jerome’s password (#shizzle#), and waits for it to boot up. The wallpaper is a picture of Jerome and Barbara kneeling on either side of their dog Odell, who has now gone to wherever good dogs go.
She plugs in the drive. There are drafts of his book numbered 1, 2, and 3. There’s correspondence. And a file labeled PIX. Barbara opens it and looks at a few photos of their notorious great-grandfather, always dressed to the nines and always wearing a derby hat slightly cocked to the right. Signifying, she thinks. There are also photos of an all-Black nightclub where dressed-to-the-nines patrons are jitterbugging (or maybe Lindy Hopping) while the band is knocking it out. She finds the one of the Biograph Theater, and then one of John Dillinger himself, lying on a mortuary slab. Oough, as Holly would say. Barbara closes the PIX file, drags it to an email addressed to her brother, and sends it off with a whoosh.
To the left of the computer is a litter of notes, the one on top reading Call Mara abt promo. The ones directly underneath appear to be about Chicago, Indianapolis, and Detroit in the thirties, each with many references to books about those places during Prohibition and the Depression. Hope you’re not overdoing it, J, Barbara thinks.