Fry Me a Liver Page 18

  What all of this information did to me, of course, was the antithesis of everything that good lady stood for. It made me want to chuck all the due process, ignore technicalities like search warrants, chuck all the other legal shmontses, and get some answers. I knew myself well enough to understand that the answer Alan Zebeck had asked for would not come until this thing had been settled.

  And so I took a nap, resolved to get some answers whenever my brain poked me awake.

  Chapter 18

  I was awakened by the classic bing-bong of the doorbell.

  I had been in a happy dream place, with ducks on a pond—something I had experienced once in my life, when I was six or seven years old and my parents went to visit a friend in Norwalk, Connecticut. I remember the fearlessness of those real-life ducks while I threw them Oysterette crackers. My father kept saying “Oy” with each throw. I didn’t get the joke then, and it wasn’t in my dream. The ducks in my head were all stuck in the pond and quacking their displeasure. I tried to calm them and couldn’t, couldn’t find the Oysterettes, started to get agitated myself.

  And then the doorbell.

  It was three-fifteen on the DVR clock across from the sofa. I hoped it wasn’t Captain Health, all repentant and apologetic.

  “Coming!” I said as I threw off the throw I’d pulled over me. I stumbled to the door, stuck in that clinging nap-sleep. I widened my eyes to wake myself, ran my fingers through my hair, and pulled the door open.

  Two of my little duckies stood there on the front stoop. I switched on the front light and Luke and Dani looked up at me with what I would best describe as ashamed little smiles. To continue my animal metaphor, they were like cats who seemed pleased to have eaten the goldfish even though they knew they shouldn’t have.

  “Hey,” they both said, using the word that had mysteriously supplanted the traditional “Hi” in everyone’s lexicon.

  “Shalom,” I replied, still a little groggy. “Come in.”

  They looked at me a little mystified, then at each other, and then they giggled. I stepped back to admit them. Even as they walked in, Luke was pulling something from the back pocket of his jeans. I experienced a jolt as I realized it could be some kind of legal letter. Grinning, he handed it to me. I opened it as I knocked the door shut with my knee.

  It wasn’t from an attorney. It was from the city.

  It was a marriage license. I smiled as I took it in, grinned as I saw their names on it, felt a little guilty when I thought that with nothing else to do they’d decided to get married, then looked up at them. They were standing like punk figures on a cake, thin and innocent despite the tattoos and piercings, Dani’s little fingers wrapped in Luke’s larger ones, the picture of young love drawn by an artist for Adult Swim.

  “I am so happy for you both.” I beamed. And I was.

  Dani tittered. “Being, like, so near death made us realize how we wanted to die together, whenever that might be.”

  I resisted saying, “And getting married will guarantee your death . . .” Instead, I said, “Well . . . that’s a big and very adult step.”

  “True.” Luke nodded. “But, like, we’re already living together so stuff won’t cost any more.”

  “I think there’s a saying, right?” Dani asked.

  “Two can live as cheaply as one,” I offered.

  “That’s it!”

  Luke went on, “Plus the lawyer said we’ll have some money from the accident so that will help us as we figure out what to do.”

  My spine went icy and stiff. “The lawyer?”

  “That man,” Dani said.

  “The one who has been to the deli,” Luke added.

  “Dickson?” I asked.

  “Yes, Dickson Three, like A.J. Two,” Dani giggled.

  Andrew A. Dickson III, I thought. So, there will be a claim.

  The two kids standing in front of me were giddy from what they had done today, not what they were telling me. I’m not sure they even really understood. But they weren’t shmeckle; they needed to know.

  “You do realize that he’s talking about suing me,” I said.

  They stopped laughing slowly, like my dream ducks paddling from shore and being swallowed by mist.

  “What are you talking about?” Luke asked.

  “Yah . . . he said there was a class of some kind,” Dani said. “We’d take it with an insurance company.”

  “A class action suit,” I said. “He represents a bunch of you, he sues me and the deli in court, and the insurance company has to pay all of you if the judge or jury thinks I was somehow negligent.”

  “Whoa, wait,” Luke said. “What are you talking about? Who said anything about suing you?”

  “Luke, what the hell did you think the attorney was planning?”

  “Just what Dani said,” he replied with a puzzled expression. He looked at her and she nodded up in perplexed agreement.

  “I think you’d better have him explain this slowly and carefully before you agree to anything,” I said. “Did you sign anything?”

  “Just some papers saying it was okay with us for him to, like, do his lawyer thing,” Luke told me.

  “Who else?” I asked. “Besides you two, who else signed with him?”

  “Raylene, A.J. Two, and Newt,” he said.

  “I think Thom said no,” Dani remarked. It was as if Dani were one of those ducks, peering through the mist, trying to make out the opposite shore. “He said something about her—what was the word he used? Option?”

  “Opting?” I asked. “Opting out?”

  Dani snapped her painted fingertips and pointed. “That’s it.”

  “Gwen, I’m not really liking this vibe,” Luke said. “Are you saying that we did something wrong?”

  “Wrong?” I asked. “Legally, no. You’re within your rights to sue me and the deli. Morally? You guys know I had nothing to do with what happened and couldn’t have prevented it. Claims like this are opportunistic and attorneys like Dickson are known as ambulance chasers.” I saw Dani trying to keep up. “It means they see an accident and rush over, get the victim to sign papers like you signed. When the insurance company pays up—and most times they do—the attorney keeps a third or more of the money.”

  “Nice racket,” Luke said.

  “That’s exactly what it is,” I said. “A legal racket.”

  “But the money doesn’t come from you,” Dani said, clearly wanting to clarify. “It comes from a company.”

  “At first it does,” I said. “See, I pay a yearly premium to my insurance company to cover me from accidents or situations like this. When they have to pay out any big settlement, the yearly premiums of all of their clients go up. That way, the insurance company still makes a profit.”

  “Huh,” Luke said. “Like I heard you say when coffee bean prices went up. You had a big new weekly expense so, like, you raised the price on everybody’s cup a little bit to cover your cost.”

  “Exactly,” I said, impressed that he made the connection.

  “But you’re also saying it won’t cost you very much and that everyone in the class can get a lot of money,” Dani said.

  “Actually, my premium will go up considerably because insurance also has to pay to rebuild . . . if I rebuild,” I added.

  “Hmmm,” Luke said.

  It wasn’t that Luke and Dani were stupid. They were not. They were, like so many of their generation, simply focused on the minutiae of whatever they needed to know—like music or jewelry or how their latest tech gadget worked—and let the Internet tell them everything else.

  “So does this make us, like, enemies?” Dani asked.

  I took a long, long moment to think before answering. I didn’t want to encourage Dani or Luke into thinking that this kind of opportunistic shakedown was okay. But I also didn’t want to have them run back to Dickson and say that I threatened or antagonized them. All I needed was for him to get in front of a judge and say that I tried to cow or coerce my employees. That could also open
the door to labor issues, a door I had no doubt that shmendrick would love to kick open.

  “You work for me but we have become friends,” I said, “and we must always remain friends. That is more important than any other consideration. At least, it is to me.”

  The two young people looked down, at each other, down again, made faces that suggested they were processing what I had said. All the while they held hands. I realized I was still holding the marriage license. I looked back at it.

  “This is major,” I said with a chuckle. “I’m so happy for you both. Are you going to have a wedding? You know, a gown and bridesmaids, thrown rice, all of that?”

  “We want to have it at one of the clubs where Luke plays,” Dani said, her mind still clearly struggling with the previous subject. “Nothing fancy. Just a bunch of friends, a little bit of family, and a lot of fun.”

  “Sounds perfect,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Luke replied.

  “Hey, I hope your band doesn’t expect to get paid,” Dani said, playing with the zipper on his hoodie. “Like, they’re guests but they still have to play so you can serenade us and stuff.”

  “Yeah,” Luke agreed. “I’ll talk to them.”

  Then they fell awkwardly silent. I let it stay like that for a bit, then asked, “What’s up?”

  Luke’s mouth moved around a little, testing it like the Tin Man after he’d been oiled. He didn’t speak.

  “We, uh—we, like, are planning to pay for stuff with the money Dickson said he’s going to get us,” Dani said. “Except for the band, who better play for free.”

  “We can’t afford stuff otherwise,” Luke said.

  “Like clothes to get married in,” Dani added. “And food.”

  The silence returned, thicker and more uncomfortable than before. I think if they could have clicked their heels to vanish—to continue the allusion—they would have done so. What was sad was that I would have offered to pay for the wedding as my gift to them, but Dickson would have turned that into coercion.

  I handed Luke the license. “Listen,” I said, “I am really happy for you both, and I don’t want a good day to go bad for you. Go wherever you were going, have a great little celebration, and don’t worry about anything.”

  “But we have to,” Luke said. “We don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You won’t,” I assured them. I didn’t know if they could tell I was lying. Luke and I had worked together every day since I arrived in Nashville. Often, our nonverbal signals were more useful than what we said. From the way he was looking at me, his head slightly bowed but his eyes on me, he might be doing that now.

  Dani hugged me and thanked me and Luke smiled thinly as he turned to leave. Something got through to them, though I don’t know exactly what that was. It truly had not been my intention to manipulate them in any way. Did I want Andrew Dickson III to go away, or worse? Yes. Did I want to cause Luke and Dani concern? No. Especially not on a day that was so important to them.

  They both gave me little waist-high waves as they left. I shut the door and exhaled. That was tougher than I thought; the punch from being told that Dickson was, in fact, coming after me was hard and ugly. I was glad to feel anger at him, though, and not at my two workers, though it bothered me a little that Raylene, A.J. Two, and Newt—the little traitor, of all people—had jumped on for the trip to Fort Knox. But it also touched me to learn that Thom had not. Say whatever bad things you want about organized religion, it gave her a moral compass and the backbone to reject things she felt were wrong. Then again, Dickson had screwed over her brother in a property dispute and Thom actually went to jail for a few hours after the lawyer provoked her into coming after him with a Windex bottle. So I knew she would never be involved with any situation in which he would benefit.

  Eating a toasted bagel with shmear as a late afternoon snack while I got my digital camera and whatever else I thought I’d need, I dressed for my little excursion. Then, filled with bitter indignation at Dickson—which got stacked on the anger I already felt for whoever did this—I headed out.

  Chapter 19

  According to the online white pages, my quarry lived in a very small house on Lucile Street. The ride took twenty minutes. As I made the turn off N. First Street, I saw a quaint little shoebox house with what seemed to be a lush lawn and ample garden, all of it behind a very high chain-link fence. I worried that the fence meant there might be a dog, in which case this would be a very short drive-by. But I didn’t see any areas of the lawn or garden that were dug up. Judging from the weedy, burnt lawns of the houses that surrounded his, I guessed that Gar simply didn’t want dogs or kids or ATVs or guilty husbands looking for a rose ripping up what he had so carefully planted.

  I pulled to the curb across the street, and sat there idling. Gar’s truck was in the driveway, which was behind the fence. If I were going to get to it and have a snoop, I was going to have to climb. I hadn’t done that since I was a kid. I had smaller feet then, which fit easily in the openings. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

  Worth it? I asked myself as I sat burning gas at four bucks a gallon.

  I wasn’t sure what I was going to do at the truck, other than look inside and hope he wouldn’t see me from the house. I didn’t think it would be smart to open the truck door and, besides, he probably took the laptop inside. Still, my gut told me to do it; I figured I’d know whatever I was looking for when I found it—maybe a wrapper from deli takeout, a cryptic note from Josephine, another ingredient used to make a bomb. Something.

  Or nothing, I told myself. Maybe I just wanted to cross him and Josephine off the list.

  Or maybe I just wanted to be proactive.

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” I asked myself quietly. I couldn’t do anything about Dickson or poor Thom or A.J. I couldn’t go to work. I didn’t want to talk to Captain Health. I felt like I had nothing and no one and was trying to throw a little confetti in the air, cheer myself up. Back in New York, I used to do that by going to the movies or a concert or meeting a friend for brunch. Now, I was out prowling. I was the Catwoman.

  Or Katzwoman.

  Oy, I thought. A superhero reference. Stop it; that’s Iger’s shtick.

  My brain really was going a little stir crazy.

  I sat there because I really didn’t have a plan of action and I also didn’t have anywhere else to go, no one to see. Why did Iger have to turn out to be such a putz? Maybe it was time for a dating site.

  I was about to drive away when I saw something move from the corner of my eye. I turned as Gar came out the front door, wearing his overalls and a fawn-colored windbreaker. I snapped off the engine, watched as the landscaper went to the gate, opened it, then pulled the truck out. He got out and closed the gate. I fired up my lazy six-cylinder and followed as he drove off.

  He headed south, back the way I had come. It was actually a little scary as I realized he could be heading directly for my house. It was late to be paying a professional call, and he hadn’t been dressed for a date. He bypassed the city center, which is where he might find a hoedown kind of bar. This was the route to Bonerwood Drive and I was starting to get really concerned. Not that I was in any danger, since I was stealthily traveling behind him. I was worried that my paranoia was dead-on. If he was heading to my house, he might have it in mind to blow that up too. With me in it.

  My heart was punching my rib cage on three sides. Dammit, he was going to my place. I let myself fall back a few more car lengths. The road was going to get pretty deserted up ahead on Edmondson and I didn’t want him to see me. I needed to know what the lawn mower man was up to.

  Now my palms were shvitzing all over the steering wheel. Sweat was dribbling down my shirt collar. Without taking my eyes from the road, I fished around my bag and retrieved my cell phone. I dropped it on the seat where it would be handy. I had Detective Bean’s number saved and would call her at once if he stopped at Casa Katz.

  We drove down Edmondson. There was no doubt now. He slowed, made the turn o
nto Bonerwood. I stopped down the street as though I lived somewhere else. I picked up the phone and watched while he checked the numbers, stopped in front of my place. He did not get out of the truck. He looked the place over, just like I’d done with his. And it was pretty clear with no car in the driveway and dusk setting in with no lights on inside that no one was home.

  I picked up the phone and punched it on—

  As he looked over at my car, I slumped low in the seat. He turned the truck around and drove toward me. Maybe he’d just drive by and go—

  But he pulled up next to me, driver’s side to driver’s side. He was higher than me and looked down with the face of a judge about to pass sentence.

  “I figured it was you,” he said.

  “Oh? Why?”

  “I saw your car as you drove past Josephine’s house,” he said. “I thought I saw it on the way down.”

  “Well, you did,” I said stupidly.

  “You got my message?” he asked.

  “Uh . . . no. I did not.”

  I looked at my phone. There was a voice-mail message from Gar McQueen.

  “Josephine gave me your number,” he said. “I figured you were maybe too busy to call so I decided I’d come around and have a look at the place. You did say this is where you wanted work done?”

  “Yes. I did. That’s right.” I felt like the world’s number one shmuck.

  Gar looked back at the house as if measuring the distance with his eyes. “So—why did you park about an eighth of a mile away?”

  “I . . . I didn’t know it was you up there,” I said, stumbling. “I just saw someone pull up in front of my place, got concerned. I’m a little cautious since the bombing.”

  He nodded. “Understandable. So you didn’t see the big lawn mower in the back and the name on the side?”

  “Couldn’t make out either of them,” I told him lamely. “Not the best eyes in the world.”

  He looked down at me wearing the same flat expression he’d had on back at Josephine’s. “So you want to talk about your place?”