Dead Anyway Page 13

  It was time to sell a few more guitars.

  I drove to a music store in South Norwalk I’d noted back when I was stalking Madame Francine de le Croix. It was a small shop, but the window was filled with vintage instruments, and thus an ideal prospect. I always carried in my back pocket descriptions of select items in the inventory, just in case an opportunity arose. So I entered the shop prepared.

  A balding man with a curly black and grey beard looked to be in a death struggle with a floor stand for some sort of electronic keyboard.

  “The perfect road rig for the piano-playing PhD in mechanical engineering,” he said, without looking up from within a contortion of black metal tubing.

  “This is why I never bother with assembly instructions,” I said.

  He looked up at me.

  “What can I do you out of?” he asked.

  “Vintage guitars. Wife says to cut down on the collection.”

  He picked up a piece of the floor stand, then used two hands to toss it on the floor.

  “Assemble thyself,” he said to the black tangle.

  We retired to a desk at the back of the shop. He pulled a chair up for me and introduced himself.

  “Aloysius Cooper,” he said. “I prefer Al. Not the famous one.”

  I handed him the sheet describing five very different guitars, from an exotic clear plastic Danelectro to an early twentieth-century Martin acoustic.

  “Pretty eclectic,” he said. “You looking for consignment?”

  “Straight purchase,” I said.

  “I’m running a store here,” he said. “I gotta have some margin.”

  “Generous terms,” I said. “Especially on cash sales. Just not stupid.”

  There was a well-thumbed copy of the Elderly Instruments catalog on his desk. I waited quietly while he looked up current pricing ranges for each of the guitars.

  “Wait here,” he said, getting up from his desk chair and disappearing into the back room. It wasn’t hard to imagine a phone call to a collector to arrange a little pre-sell. I’d seen it before. He came back ten minutes later.

  “The Les Paul and pre-war Martin,” he said, noting the two most expensive guitars on the list. “Let the haggling begin.”

  After telling me he wouldn’t insult me with a lowball offer, he tossed a ball whose elevation barely cleared the ground. I explained I had plenty of other options, and had only stopped by because I was in the neighborhood, and thought he might help expand my distribution. He noted the declining state of the vintage guitar market, about which I expressed some sympathy, while pointing out that we’d only just crested the peak. This genial thrust and parry went on for another ten minutes, after which I was ready to shake hands and depart friends, when he floated a respectable range for each instrument.

  “Depending on condition,” he added.

  “I’ll be back this afternoon,” I told him, and left.

  The drive up to Danbury and back was uneventful and almost unnoticed by me, as I was utterly absorbed in my thoughts, fueled by a growing anxiety over Austin Ott, III. He was teaching me my limitations, a check on over-confidence after the encounters with Sebbie Frondutti, Fred Tootsie and Pally Buttons. Contributing to the feeling was his M.O.—an intermediary between clients and field men, brokering rather than executing. It suggested excessive caution, or paranoia, or both. And thus a far more elusive quarry.

  This clinched my decision to draw in Shelly Gross. Risky, but essential to forward motion. Shelly could do things I couldn’t do, even in retirement. He still had plenty of relationships that could give access to official channels and police prerogatives, and if I properly read his personality, he was bored and ripe to be drawn back into the game.

  When I returned to the music shop, the keyboard and its unruly floor stand had disappeared. In its place were two stools and two guitar stands, as if waiting for a pair of performers to arrive.

  I set the guitar cases on the counter and opened them up. He snatched up the Martin and looked inside the sound hole.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said. “Welcome home.” He looked at me. “This is my guitar. Was my guitar.”

  “Really.”

  “I sold it to Gerry Charles. How is that old wood freak?”

  I knew I was better than most at keeping my emotional state from leaking into the observable world, but this time the shock of the unexpected showed.

  “What’s the matter?” said Cooper. “Is he okay?”

  “Don’t know him,” I said. “I bought it online. Never checked the provenance.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “I never do either. Not the first time one of my chicks has come home to roost.”

  Self-recrimination took the place of alarm. I should have anticipated that happening. Gerry had been a serious collector in the area for decades. He probably knew every dealer. A nauseating sense of vulnerability surged through me, somehow conflating with my fears over Jason Three Sticks. The room tilted, and I sat down in one of the performance chairs before I fell over. My heart began to race, and I nearly asked Cooper for a paper bag to breathe into.

  “Sorry. I’m still recovering from an injury,” I said, using the easiest and least challengeable cover.

  “Sure. Take your time.”

  While I sat in frustrated examination of my sudden failing, Cooper went over the two guitars, playing a lively bluegrass riff on the Martin and the opening bars of “Smoke on the Water” on the Les Paul.

  “You never go wrong with the classics,” he said, before throwing out a number for both. I bumped it up to where it belonged. “Okay,” said Cooper, “can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  He went to the bank, which was a block away, leaving me in charge of the store. Luckily no one came in, giving me time to compose myself. Evelyn had predicted lapses in cognitive acuity and sudden mood swings, most of which I’d avoided, especially in recent weeks. It was a reminder that I still had a functioning brain, though it wasn’t entirely the same brain I used to have.

  When Cooper got back to the store, he handed me a fat white envelope, insisting that I count it while he watched. It was all there.

  “I do love that old Martin,” he said. “Maybe explains why it came back to me. The prodigal dreadnaught.”

  It wasn’t until I was back in the Subaru that I felt the world reassemble itself into its former, mildly distorted state. I breathed slow, deep breaths, bringing down my pulse and easing the clenched muscles in my neck and upper back.

  “You’re not a machine,” I could hear Evelyn telling me, the day before I left her house, “you’re a human being. It takes strength to understand your weaknesses. Not to capitulate, but to cope.”

  I felt again the gratitude and defiance her words engendered, and then I coped the only way I knew how.

  I threw myself into my work.

  BEFORE LEAVING Norwalk, I stopped at a deli and bought a copy of the New York Times. It was the first day Shelly had a chance to place an ad in the classifieds. And there it was.

  “1965 Mustang convertible, four-speed, 289, insanely clean and meticulously maintained, sold to the best offer with assurances it will annoy your wife as much as it does mine. Call now. Car goes off the market in two days.”

  He included his phone number in Rocky Hill. I bought another disposable cell phone and drove down I-95 toward New Haven. I called him as I went through Bridgeport.

  “Shelly Gross,” he answered.

  “I have zero interest in that Mustang,” I said in my Clint Eastwood voice.

  “So that’s not why you’re calling.”

  “I’d like to have a conversation, but I don’t know how to do it safely.”

  I got off the highway and drove toward the harbor, winding my way toward the dock area where they built icebreakers and mega yachts.

  “You could trust me,” he said.

  “I can’t. Not yet.”

  “We appreciate the tip on Sebbie. I’d like to know how you did
it.”

  “Some people are mind readers. Do you know Austin Ott, the Third?”

  “Not personally. Do I know you?”

  “You might,” I said. “What are the chances you could just tell me where he lives?”

  “About the same as you inviting me over to dinner.”

  “I just need a hint. Point me in the right direction.”

  “What do I get in return?”

  “You get him, and the evidence for a conviction. And maybe a few of his fellow rats in the bargain.”

  “Why don’t we just team up?” he asked. “Why all the cloak and dagger?”

  “Personal preference. I was hoping to avoid a Mexican standoff.”

  “I can’t discuss this over the phone.”

  “Okay,” I said, and hung up. By now I was standing at the top of a breakwater holding a piece of brick I found by the side of the road. I used duct tape to attach it to the disposable phone, then dropped it in the harbor.

  AS A way of celebrating my unwanted bout of disorienting paranoia, I decided to do something guaranteed to engender more of the same. I drove across the state to Clear Waters Casino to visit Natsumi Fitzgerald at her blackjack table.

  “Hey, mister,” she said as I sat down. “You’re back.”

  “I am,” I said, and that was all the conversation we had until I won enough to encourage my table mates to find their luck somewhere else.

  “So, was that guy your old friend?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Didn’t look like him at all. Sorry for the trouble.”

  “No trouble.”

  “I’m not ready to go back to work anyway,” I said. “I have another month of disability, I should take my time.”

  “Still getting over that beer? You drank the whole thing.”

  “The wages of sin. I’m thinking of having another one tonight. Build up my immunity.”

  “I have to study,” she said.

  “Of course. You should do that.”

  “I have to study some time. Not necessarily tonight. What do you know about Münchausen syndrome by proxy?”

  “Sounds complicated.”

  “It’s the subject of my term paper. If we talk about it, I can deduct the time from my study budget.”

  “We’ve done the Sail Inn. Where else would you suggest?”

  She picked a spot in Groton favored by submarine workers from Electric Boat and rarely patronized by casino people.

  “They make a lot more money, so the tips and wait staff are better,” she said. She gave me the name and address. “I’ll meet you there in about an hour, okay?”

  For the first time since waking from the coma, I was on a mission with no hope of furthering my objectives. That in fact, might even threaten the initiative itself. There was absolutely nothing, based on logic and reason, that could justify this impulse.

  Except that I was lonely.

  This does not deserve complex analysis, I said to myself. She’s an attractive young woman. She’s flirting with you. You’re not a machine, I could hear Evelyn say, you’re a human being. Accept your humanity.

  Which didn’t mean I missed my dead wife any less. If anything, the time with Natsumi had driven that repressed ache to the surface. As if the pain and the palliative were one and the same.

  These thoughts were still fresh in my mind when Natsumi slid into the booth across from me at the restaurant in Groton, which likely explained my first words to her.

  “That day I was injured,” I said to her, “my wife was killed.”

  She folded her hands on top of the table and bowed her head.

  “I thought there was something like that,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m still not myself. In fact, I’m not sure what I mean by ‘myself.’ I’m different from how I was before, but I’m not sure in what ways. I’m discovering as I go. So it’s not surprising if you think me a little odd.”

  “Not odd. Just inscrutable.”

  We drifted off from there into a meandering conversation with no references to either of our pasts. And though potentially sensitive areas were left untrodden, I felt that a basis for a legitimate friendship had been established—in defiance of my trepidation—yielding to the need for simple company with a kindred soul whose only motive was precisely the same thing.

  THE NEXT day I began to stalk Shelly Gross. I’d been cautious when chasing down the hoods, but I’d imagined Shelly to be far more watchful and vigilant. A wily old G-man with eyes behind his head and prescience crackling through his nerves. I had no particular basis for this romanticization, but it was good discipline to pretend I did, especially given the recent lapses and cautionary moments.

  This is why I only drove by his house twice—once in daylight to get a photo of his across-the-street neighbor, and again at night to stick a remote, battery-powered webcam under the neighbor’s yew.

  The camera was originally designed to capture wildlife. It was remotely controlled and only switched on when a passing creature triggered a motion detector. Camouflaged, weather-proof and rechargeable by the sun, I hoped it would survive long enough to get a fix on Shelly’s patterned movements before his neighbor peered under the bush or an errant ray of sunshine lit up the lens.

  The wireless signal from the camera was picked up by a video receiver hidden within a tangle of roadside brush several blocks away. The receiver uploaded to an Internet service that asked for very little in the way of identification beyond a credit card number. This was still an exposure, even though I’d acquired one for the exclusive purpose. The card was issued to Alex Rimes, but the address was an empty storefront in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Again, not perfect, but probably good enough.

  The next two weeks featured a satisfying tedium. Through most of the days and nights I re-familiarized myself with the insurance agency’s finances and operations. It helped that I was the one who set up the folder structure and files, and the day-to-day bookkeeping, including how every transaction was tied back to the general ledger. I eventually discovered that I’d missed some important blocks of data from Bruce Finger’s computer, but that was easily remedied by logging in as Administrator One and helping myself. This I only did late at night as a mild precaution when the activity logs rarely saw anyone else on the network. Many would find this activity a brutal slog, but even with my compromised quantitative skills, I felt tremendous comfort in the presence of long columns of numbers and the puzzle-solving reconciliation that was inherent in double-entry accounting.

  It was little wonder that Elliot Brandt was eager to close a deal. Florencia ran an unadventurous but profitable little ship—disciplined, orderly and strictly adherent to the most conservative interpretation of generally accepted accounting principles.

  “My goal is to bore the auditors to tears,” I remember her saying.

  This happy work was often interrupted by alerts from the webcam that there was activity at Shelly’s house. I was able to review the video, which was time stamped, and either go live or let it slip back into standby. After two weeks, I’d harvested a lot of information on Shelly’s comings and goings.

  As important, I got a good look at Shelly himself, a short, fit, white-haired guy who moved very briskly for a sixty-eight-year-old. He always wore running shoes, and lighter outerwear than the increasingly cold weather should have called for. He drove a late-model, silver Chevy Malibu.

  Every evening, seven days a week, he left the house at six-thirty carrying a gym bag, returning exactly three and a half hours later. I made a study of the health clubs in the area, choosing one that offered a discount to Rocky Hill residents, that was well-equipped and within easy driving distance. I drove there and parked in the lot near the entrance and waited with a newspaper conspicuously open on the steering wheel.

  At the predicted time, Shelly arrived and parked in a slot within eyeshot of where I was waiting. I recorded his location, and after he left the car, I left the lot. I came back a half hour before his esti
mated departure, but he was already gone.

  I repeated the process the next night, returning with an hour to spare. Shelly’s car was still there, so I waited again. He came out soon after and drove off. I tailed him as long as I dared, finally turning into a shopping strip and pretending to use a drive-up ATM.

  Over the next several nights I used rented cars to pick up the hunt further down the trail each time, until he finally led me to his destination—a homey-looking bar and grill in Old Wethersfield called the Powder Keg.

  I went home to more financial study, waiting until two nights had passed before going to the next step. I also used the time altering my appearance into something both natural and easy to maintain, yet still transformative. This began with growing out my beard, which surprised me by displaying a fair amount of grey. I had to buy a new wig to match, one long enough to sprout out from beneath a baseball cap. I also put in some time at a tanning salon, then further darkened my skin with some cream out of the makeup kit.

  The crowning touch was a pair of color-altering contact lenses, a deep brown that completely disguised my natural hazel.

  Even given my overestimation of Shelly’s perceptive powers, I thought I looked thoroughly disguised, and not merely a darker, more hirsute version of myself.

  I picked a Tuesday night, when restaurants were neither too busy, nor too empty. Old Wethersfield was an ancient American suburb, and the inside of the Powder Keg was eager to uphold that status, deploying Revolutionary War armaments, including muskets lining the walls and a full-sized cannon, as the decorating motif. In keeping, it was a dark place with lots of weathered wood and phony lanterns barely penetrating the gloom. The brightest spot was the bar, discreetly set off in a room of its own. It was just big enough for the bar itself, with a narrow aisle, and a row of wooden, high-backed booths, one of which contained Shelly Gross eating his meal and drinking a tall glass of draft beer.

  I sat down across from him.

  “Do you still have that Mustang?” I asked.

  He looked up from his plate but continued to cut into a cheeseburger that he’d ordered without the convenience of a bun.