“There‟s something wrong,” she said. “I can tell.” And then after a moment she added, “It‟s Tony.
Something‟s happened to Tony!”
I nodded and said awkwardly, “I‟m afraid it‟s bad news.”
Her eyes instantly glazed over with tears. Funny how people know before you ever tell them.
“Oh my God,” she said. “He‟s dead, isn‟t he?”
I nodded dumbly, trying to think of something to say, some gentle way of putting it when there wasn‟t
any.
“Oh no,” she said. Her voice was a tiny, faraway whimper.
She sagged against rue like a rag doll with the stuffing punched out of it. I put my arms around her
and stood under the tree for a long time, just holding her. I could feel her body tightening in ripples as
she tried to control the sobs; then the ripples became waves of grief that overwhelmed her and
suddenly she started to cry uncontrollably. I lowered her to the grass and sat beside her, clutching her
to me, rocking her back and forth, as if she were a child who had just lost her first puppy dog.
I saw Lark walking back across the square, engrossed in a hot dog. When she saw us, I waved her
over. She knew what had happened before she got to us. She stared at me, her eyebrows bunching up
into question marks. She didn‟t say anything, just sat down next to DeeDee and began to rub her back,
trying to fight the tears captured in the corners of her own eyes.
As we sat there I looked over at the bank and caught a glimpse of Charles Seaborn staring out the
window. He stepped back into the shadows when he realized I had seen him. I looked back at the
third-floor windows of Warehouse Three. I don‟t know what I expected, perhaps Donleavy sending
semaphore messages across the park to the banker. The windows were empty, like blind eyes staring
sightlessly out of the old building. All the power that had once ruled Dunetown seemed focused on
this grassy flat, only now it seemed to be replaced by fear.
We sat under the tree for fifteen minutes, trying to console DeeDee. Finally she got the courage to ask
what had happened.
“A boating accident,” I lied. I didn‟t seem to have the guts for the truth at that moment. For the first
time since Nam, I felt desperately sorry for someone on the bad side of the law.
Regardless of what „Tony Lukatis had done, I knew what demons had taunted him to his death. Doe,
the promise of Wind-song, the easy life, the same demons that had taunted me, distorted my values,
left me emotionally barren after Nam. I remembered the day I wrote the letter to Doe and Chief. It
was like history repeating itself, except this time I couldn‟t escape behind a letter. DeeDee was here
and I had to face her grief to touch it, to feel her tears against my face.
Finally she started asking the inevitable questions, questions for which I didn‟t have answers yet.
Where? When? Did he drown? Probably. Was he doing something wrong when it happened? I wasn‟t
sure. Where was his body now? I didn‟t know. Was it terribly painful? No, I said honestly, I didn‟t
think so, it was very quick.
“Look,” I said. “There‟s something I have to do. I‟ll tell Seaborn what happened. Take her home,
Lark. Call the doctor and get her a sedative. I‟ll be over as soon as I can get there.”
We took her to her car and Lark got behind the wheel. DeeDee sat motionless beside her, staring
through her tears at nothing.
“Damn, damn, damn!” she cried vehemently, her anger suddenly spilling over. “Damn them all!” And
she covered her face with her hands as Lark pulled away.
Seaborn‟s spidery fingers were dancing along the edge of a barren
desk the size of a soccer field. He was trying to look busy when
I tapped on the door and entered the room without being invited.
He was startled, his eyes widening like a frightened fawn‟s.
The office was big enough to comfortably accommodate the enormous desk and was as barren as the
desktop. Behind the high-back desk chair, facing the door, was an oil portrait of a stern-looking man
with devilish eyebrows that curved up at the ends and unsympathetic eyes. I guessed from his dress
that the man in the painting was Seaborn‟s old man. There was one other picture in the office which I
assumed to be of Seaborn‟s family. Otherwise, the room was as sterile as a spayed bitch. He started to
object when I entered but I cut him off.
“DeeDee Lukatis‟ brother has been killed,” I said. “Lark is taking her home. I told them I‟d tell you.”
“My Cod,” he said, “how frightful. What happened?”
“Boating accident,” I said, perpetuating the new lie. “He was in the water for a couple of days. The
predators made quite a mess of things.”
His face turned gray contemplating what I had just told him.
“What can I do?” he said, half-aloud, as though asking himself the question.
“Well,” I said, “a little tenderness and understanding would help.”
“Of course, of course,” he said. Seaborn seemed to have trouble saying anything once. After a
moment he cautiously asked, “Did this have anything to do with. . uh, the, uh. .
“Murders?” I said. He winced at the word. “Why would you think that?” I asked.
“Her brother‟s been in trouble before, you know,” he said, as though letting me in on a secret.
“I‟ve heard,” I said. “I can‟t answer that question. Right now I‟m more concerned about DeeDee than
why her brother died.”
“Of course, of course,” he repeated. And then, “What is she to you?”
“Just a friend,” I said. “We all need them, you know.” I left him sitting in his vast, sterile office,
wiping the thin line of sweat off his upper lip.
As I left the bank, a frenetic little man with sparse black hair and hyperactive eyes scurried past me,
hugging his briefcase to his side. Lou Cohen, making his daily deposit. Death didn‟t change anything
in Doomstown.
56
DEAD HEAT
Driving out to the track, I kept thinking that it seemed like an awfully festive thing to be doing after
the events of the morning. For the first time in years I felt connected to someone else‟s pain. I could
feel DeeDee‟s, like psychic agony, but there was little I could do about it.
A cloud as dark as Tony‟s future followed me most of the way to the track, then obliterated the sun
arid dumped half an inch of rain in about thirty seconds. it was one of those quick, drenching summer
showers that come and go quickly, but it made a mess of the traffic at the racetrack gate and made me
a few minutes late arriving.
Callahan was waiting at the back gate, with his customary flower decorating a tan silk suit and his cap
cocked jauntily over one eye. Here was a man who dressed for the occasion.
“What‟s the latest body count?” he asked dryly as we headed for the grandstand.
“I‟ve lost count,” I said, not wishing to get into the Tony Lukatis thing. “What‟s happening today?”
“Disaway‟s going to win,” he said matter-of-factly. “Little storm drenched the track down just
enough.”
“Will it bring down his odds?” I asked.
“Doubt it. Hasn‟t shown anything his last two times at bat. Players don‟t trust him.”
“Are you going to put some money on him?” I asked.
“Never bet the ponies,” he said. “Rather give my money away.”
The stadium and grounds were exquisite. The grandstand, with its gabled roof and tall cupolas at the
corners, was Old South to the core. It could have been a hundred and fifty years old. Callahan led me
on a quick walk through the premises.