“That was nice of you to come to my parents’ house,” said Monica. “It seems to help them to talk about it. It’s almost like when they talk about her, or watch the movies, she’s still there.”
“I liked your parents.”
“And they liked you, I could tell.”
“Your father scowled at me.”
“Only at the beginning. Later he warmed up. You’re the best fake boyfriend I’ve ever had.”
“There have been others?”
“Usually they’re gay.”
“Which must lessen the complication.”
“You would think. But my parents don’t show the movies to just anybody.”
“Are you sure? I got the sense they corral Mormon missionaries and Fuller Brush men to see the movies and hear the tale.”
“Not true. And my mother told me approvingly that you sure do know your Chex Mix.”
“You’re going to have to tell them eventually that we’re not dating.”
“We aren’t?”
“No, Monica. This wasn’t a date.”
“I brought you home, you met my parents.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Yes, I’m kidding. Oh, my mom will ask about you for a while, and then I’ll say we broke up, and that will be the end of it. Maybe I’ll fake-date a doctor next. They always liked doctors.”
“Why don’t you date someone for real?”
“Fake dating is so much easier. You should try it, Victor.”
“Why not? I’ve faked everything else. Tell me about your brother, Richard.”
“What’s to tell? He’s a little sad, a little lonely, but he’s very smart. He’s my older brother. I used to idolize him.”
“What kind of work does he do?”
“He doesn’t. He just plays on the computer or watches TV.”
“No friends?”
“It’s hard to find a friend when you haven’t stepped outside the house in twenty-five years.”
“Excuse me?”
“He doesn’t leave the house. He can’t step through the doorway. He’s stuck, and he’s been that way since before I was born. He has that thing.”
“Agoraphobia?”
“That’s it. First time I heard it, I thought he was afraid of sweaters. But what it really means is he can’t go outside or to public places.”
I thought then of the home movie projected onto the wall, not the parts with Chantal posing or playing with her cousin Ronnie, not the parts that held the rest of the family in thrall, and not the images of the parents either, at the start of their lives when the world held nothing but hope. No, I thought of the boy, laughing and tossing leaves into the air, towheaded and pink-cheeked and full of promise. The palpable sadness in that house had burrowed like a parasite into his heart, turning him into some grotesque creature. I had come on all hard-boiled with him, and maybe he had asked for it, but it wasn’t right, and I felt ashamed. He had deserved better from me, better out of life. Whatever evil had happened to Chantal had happened to him, too, it had happened to all of them. And my client’s involvement was enough for me not to be able to ignore it.
“I’m going to find out what happened to your sister, Monica,” I said.
“You’re taking the case?”
“No, I can’t take it on as a case. No retainer, no fees, no expenses. And believe me, it hurts to say that, more than you can imagine. But I have a conflict with another case I’m involved in, so I can’t take it on professionally. But I’m going to find out all the same.”
“For me?”
“Not really.”
“Then why, Victor?”
“I don’t know. Because her name somehow got tattooed on my chest and I’ll be staring at it in the mirror for the rest of my life. Because what happened to her was dead wrong and it pisses me off. Because of your brother.”
“My brother? I didn’t think you liked him.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Maybe neither do I, but still. My apartment is trashed, my partnership is cracking up, I’m drinking too much, flirting with reporters, sleeping with Realtors. Frankly, I’m in desperate need of something hard and clean in my life, and finding what happened to Chantal is all I have.”
“That is so… Victor, that is so… so…” She leaned over in the car and kissed me on the cheek.
“We’re still not dating,” I said.
“I know. I’m just so happy. It was a message, wasn’t it? The tattoo, I mean.”
“Maybe it was.”
“From her.”
“From someone. Let me ask you, is anyone in your family a tattoo artist?”
“No.”
“I’m still trying to figure out who gave it to me.”
“She did. You’re fighting hard not to admit the truth, but it will come to you. So when do we start?”
“We?”
“Sure.”
“No.”
“You’re not going to let me help you?”
“Monica,” I said, “I work best alone.”
“But I want to help. Can’t I help? Please, Victor. I need to do this.”
“Monica, there is no way that-” And then I stopped.
My first impulse is always to be a lone wolf. One of the reasons Beth might have been dissatisfied at the firm was my penchant for pushing her away and going it by myself. And here was Monica, whose life had been as altered and bruised as anyone’s by Chantal’s disappearance, asking me if she could help find out what happened to her sister. I didn’t know what aid she could give, but maybe I was being selfish, maybe she more than anyone deserved the opportunity to be involved in the search. Or maybe I was kidding myself and simply still felt the soft touch of her finger on my chest.
“Okay,” I said. “You can help.”
“Really? You mean it?”
“Sure. We’ll start in a couple days. Maybe you and I, we’ll go together to visit an old friend of your parents’.”
“Why don’t we start right away? Oh, Victor, this is so fabulous. I’ll take a few days off from the club, buy some black leather pants, clean the gun.”
“No gun.”
“But, Victor, I like my gun.”
“No dog, no gun, no heels sharp enough to penetrate flesh. That’s not the way I do things, at least not professionally.”
“All right, all right, don’t get your tie into a twist. What about the black leather pants, are they okay at least?”
“Why black leather pants?”
“Emma Peel, from The Avengers.”
“Sure, the black leather pants are fine.”
“But why aren’t we getting started right away?”
“Because first I have to meet someone in New Jersey, and that I have to do alone.”
36
This time I was dressed to blend: sneakers and jeans, red baseball cap, a garish yellow Hawaiian number hanging open over a white T-shirt. I had thought of wearing shorts, but my legs were so white they glowed, which didn’t quite fit the image of a sun-worshipping Jersey boy, so jeans it was. When I reached my perch at Seventh Street on the Ocean City boardwalk, the sun was setting and the sky over the ocean was turning Kodachrome. I did a quick peruse. No Charlie, no goons who might have followed me, just the usual crowd swarming and laughing in the thick salt air, flirting and ignoring the flirts, whining, strolling, dripping soft ice cream onto their shoes. I thought some ice cream might fit my disguise.
I was standing in line at the Kohr Bros. Frozen Custard stand when I heard a hiss from the T-shirts in the store next door. Behind a scrim of shirts, I could spy the top of a round bald head, ugly plaid shorts, sandals over socks.
“I’ll have a small vanilla,” I said to the pretty Russian woman behind the stand. “And a large vanilla with rainbow sprinkles.”
With the ice creams in hand, I sauntered over to the T-shirt store and held out the large sprinkled cone. Through a collection of shirts and sweats, a hand reached out.
“Thanks,” said Charlie. “I love the custard.”