“She hates doctors.”
“See if you can get her to one anyway.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that.” He looked at the neighbor again. “What’re you doing here, Becky?”
“I was working in the garden when this man brought her home.”
“Our neighbor, Rebecca Weaver,” Krochek said to me. Not as if he were introducing her, as if he were apologizing for her showing up at the wrong place at the wrong time.
“I’d like to know what’s going on,” she said.
“So would I.I don’t know.”
“She’s been beaten up, for God’s sake. One of those people she associates with. What if they show up here?”
“That won’t happen.”
“It could. I’m here alone day and night, Mitch, I don’t have to tell you that.”
“Jesus,” Krochek said. He looked and sounded half-angry, half-exasperated. “Nobody’s going to bother you or Janice. Just go home, okay? I’ll call you later if there’s anything you need to know.”
“Will you?”
“Yes, yes. Go on. Please.”
The woman jammed her sun hat back on and went, reluctantly, with another distrustful glance in my direction. When she was out of earshot, Krochek said, “Divorced six months, not used to living alone. She got the house and a half-million-dollar settlement. If Janice divorces me, they’ll be like two peas in fucking luxury pods and I’ll be living in some rented apartment.”
Nothing from me. I didn’t want to get into that with him again.
“What happened to her?” he asked. “She tell you?”
“Wouldn’t talk about it.”
“No question it was a beating, though?”
“Not as far as I’m concerned. Judge for yourself when you see her.”
“You think it was that guy you told me about, the enforcer … what’s his name?”
“Lassiter. Could be.”
“Or else some lowlife fellow gambler she hooked up with.”
“Ask her. Maybe she’ll tell you.”
“Not if it’s about gambling debts, more of my money down the sewer. And what the hell else could it be?” He raked fingers over one cheek, hard, the nails leaving reddish tracks in the skin. “Suppose he does show up here, the guy who beat her up? What am I supposed to do, pay him off?”
“That’s up to you. If he trespasses, or makes overt threats in person or on the phone, call the police.”
“The police. More hassle, more upheaval.” He raked his cheek again. “Four years ago we were on top of the world, everything running smooth. Now it’s a goddamn nightmare. I don’t know how much more I can stand.”
“She’s back home,” I said. “That’s something.”
“Yeah, but for how long? A week, a month, then it’ll start all over again. I’m between a rock and a hard place—I can’t live with her anymore, but if I let her divorce me I get a royal screwing. What the hell am I going to do?”
I didn’t have any answers for him. He wasn’t asking me, anyway.
A big battleship-shaped cloud floated across the sun and the gusting wind was suddenly chill. It made Krochek shiver, snapped him out of his bitter reverie. “I’d better get inside,” he said. “Thanks for bringing Janice home. You didn’t have to bother and I appreciate it. Let me pay you for your time …”
“Not necessary, Mr. Krochek. Just pay the invoice we sent you.”
“Yes, I will, right away. Sorry about the delay. Sorry about what I said in the Ladderback last week, too, the crap about manufacturing evidence. I’m just not myself these days …” The words trailed off, blew away in the wind. He reached for my hand, shook it briefly, and trudged away up the drive, slump-shouldered, as if he were carrying a heavy weight on his back.
Lives you’re glad you don’t lead, people you wish well but hope you’ll never see again.
JAKE RUNYON
It wasn’t until late Monday afternoon that he finally caught up with Brian Youngblood.
He’d stopped by the Duncan Street address once on Sunday, and called Youngblood’s number twice more, without getting any kind of response. Away from home or ducking visitors and callers—no way to tell which. Most of Monday had been taken up with more pressing work. He’d had time for one call to the home number that went unanswered. Duncan Street was more or less on Runyon’s way to his apartment, so he made another pass by there shortly after five o’clock. And this time, his long lean on the doorbell produced results.
The intercom clicked, made noises like a hen laying an egg, and a staticky voice said warily, “Yes?”