He had everything he might need to make sandwiches out on the counter. Bread, meat, butter, all spread out in no particular order. He had the look of someone who’d dumped all the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle onto the table and had only just started turning them image up. “Fine. I’m doing it. But aren’t you being hired to look after me? Shouldn’t you be the one to do this?”
“How can I shoot the bad guys waiting to bust in at any moment if I’m up to my elbows in mayo and mustard?”
The look he gave me suggested he couldn’t tell whether I was being serious or putting him on.
I stood next to him at the counter.
“Okay, let’s get a production line thing going on here. You start buttering the bread, and when you’re done, move it this way.”
He did as instructed. The butter was a little on the hard side, and as he attempted to spread it, it opened up holes in the bread.
I took the butter plate, put it in the microwave on medium for ten seconds, then gave it back to Jeremy.
“That’s better,” he said, dipping the knife into it and spreading some onto the bread. “I used to make sandwiches with my dad.”
“Oh yeah?” I said. “When did your parents split up?’
He shrugged. “Long time ago. They were separated for ages, and then they finally decided to get a divorce.”
“That can be tough,” I said.
“Whatever,” Jeremy said. He slapped some meat onto a piece of bread, lay a cheese slice on top of it, then a second piece of bread. “It’s quiet here,” he said.
“There’s more traffic in the middle of the day,” I said. “It’s noisier then.”
“That’s not what I meant. There’s not all the yelling.”
“Oh, that. You live with a lot of that?”
He shrugged. “My mom and Madeline argue a lot. And then Mom and Bob, too. That’s why I sneak out sometimes.”
“Sure.”
He slid some bread slices my way and I layered on some deli meat.
“Where are we going to go?”
“I thought we’d see all the hotspots of upper New York state.”
“There are some?”
That made me laugh. “A couple. What are you interested in?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what you’re interested in?”
“My mom’s always trying to get me interested in things I don’t care anything about.”
“Like?”
“I don’t know. Like documentaries. The History Channel. I don’t care about that stuff. I like movies. Did you see the new Star Wars?”
“No.”
“It was okay.”
“What else has she tried to get you interested in?”
He shrugged. “She likes to sign me up for sports, but I don’t like sports.”
“Why not?”
“Do I have to have a reason?”
“I guess not.”
“There’s one thing, though,” Jeremy said.
“What’s that?”
“You won’t laugh.”
“Of course not.”
“I like art.”
“Art? You like to paint?”
He shook his head. “I hate history, but I like reading about painters. Are there any art galleries we could go to?”
I wasn’t expecting that. “Yeah, I think we could find some of those. You take art in school?”
“I was going to, but Bob told my mom that I should take something else, that I’d never get anywhere taking that. You can’t get a job doing art.”
“Not everything you take has to be aimed at a career.”
“That’s what I said, but Mom agreed with Bob.”
“Would you like to be an artist? I know a little girl — well, she’s not that little, she’d be twelve now, I think — named Crystal who likes to draw all the time. Those things they call graphic novels. She’d like to do those when she grows up.”
“Is she good?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m guessing she’s still interested. I haven’t seen her in a while. She moved out to San Francisco to be with her dad.” I paused. “Her mom died.”
“Graphic novels are cool, but I don’t want to actually draw or anything. I’m not good at that. But I’d like to study it. Like, find out everything about great painters like Renoir and Raphael and Michelangelo and those guys. But not just classic guys. Modern stuff, too, like that dude who just threw shit all over the canvas, dribbling paint like crazy.”
“You talking about Pollock?”
“That’s the guy. Pollock. I’d like to get a job in a gallery or a museum or something like that. Do you think that’s lame?”
“Lame? No.”
“So where are we going? It’s already dinner time. Are we just having a sandwich for dinner?”
“Just thinking on that,” I said. “Whether to go tonight or in the morning.”
The light outside was starting to fade. We could stay at my place for the night, but that would mean putting Jeremy on the couch. Still better than the jail cell he could have ended up in, but I thought maybe he deserved better than that. Jeremy’s admission that he was interested in galleries had me considering a New York destination. We could be there in three or four hours. I’d have to see about a hotel reservation first.
Maybe that was why I went to the window, to see how nightfall was coming together. There weren’t many cars parked along the street this time of day, now that the shops were closed, with the possible exception of Naman downstairs. He often kept his used bookstore open late because he had nothing better to do.
I guess that’s why the black van on the other side of the street stood out. It was the only vehicle at the curb for half a block. I thought it might have been the same van that was riding along behind us on the way over. The windows were tinted, and I couldn’t tell whether anyone was inside.
“Finish up those sandwiches,” I said to Jeremy. “I gotta go down to my car for a second to get something.”
“Okay,” he said emptily.
I went quickly down the stairs and opened the door to the sidewalk. The van, its tail end facing me, was about five car lengths away. As I started across the street, I noticed exhaust coming out of the tailpipe. The taillights flashed on briefly, the van was shifted into drive, and it took off up the street.
Even if I’d been close enough to get a good look at the license plate, it wouldn’t have done me much good. It was smeared with dirt and illegible.
When I got back up to my apartment, I said to Jeremy, “I say we go tonight.”
Twenty-three
Someone was rapping softly on Craig Pierce’s bedroom door.
“Yeah?” he said.
The door opened. Standing there was a woman in her forties carrying a binder, a purse slung over her shoulder. Short hair, glasses, plain black skirt and off-white blouse.
“Hey,” she said. “I’m sorry I’m a bit late today. I got held up with another client.”
“Come on in, Ms. Sinclair,” Craig said.
“Oh, how many times have I told you to call me Beverly?” she said, smiling, looking directly at his mauled, disfigured face.
Craig, standing by his dresser, broke off eye contact to examine the contents of a small shipping package.
“What do you have there?” Beverly Sinclair asked cheerfully.
“Oh, just some things I ordered,” he said. He picked up one of them, something shiny and metallic and small enough to put into the palm of his hand, closed his fingers over it, and sat down in the chair by the foot of his bed.
Beverly sat in the other chair, set her purse on the floor, rested the binder atop her knees and folded her hands together. “So,” she said, still smiling like someone doing a toothpaste commercial, “how are we doing today?”
“We are doing terrific,” Craig said. His mangled lips formed a twisted smile. “I suppose a lot of that has to do with what a good counselor you are.”