Bobby Mabry answered the door to Belinda’s house with bandages on his hands and stony fear in his eyes, the fear of a man who has lived most of his life afraid and still hasn’t fully adapted to the condition. He glanced at the cut on my forehead, looked warily at Charles and said, ‘What?’
His scalp was freshly shaved, his beard neatly trimmed, his shorts and shirt white and pressed. I asked, ‘Who shaves you with your hands wrapped like that?’
‘I told you not to come here again,’ he said, and tried to close the door, but Charles stepped between it and the frame.
Bobby backed away from Charles into the foyer and we walked inside. ‘What do you want?’
‘What happened to your hands?’ I asked.
He looked at Charles, frightened, but said to me, ‘What happened to your forehead?’
I smiled. ‘Should we start again?’
‘If you want.’
‘We need to talk to Terrence,’ I said.
‘About what? He’s got nothing to tell you.’
Terrence appeared at the top of a broad stairway that swept down to the foyer. ‘I can talk for myself, Bobby,’ he said. He came down the stairs in tight black jeans and an untucked rust-colored silk shirt. There was no fear in his eyes.
‘Why have you been hanging out at Little Vegas?’ I asked.
‘Who says I have?’
‘You’ve been there four or five nights a week, sponging drinks.’
He considered me. ‘I like the girls there and I like the feel of the place.’
‘Last night there were no girls at all and from what I can tell the girls who do work there aren’t worth driving across the city for.’
‘Who can explain desire?’ He smiled. ‘Some white boys can only get it up for black girls, right? Uncle Bobby gets it up for other boys. I get it up for the girls at Little Vegas. We all need something. Why do you care where I hang out?’
Charles spoke. ‘One of the women who worked there died the same way as your mother.’
‘Yeah,’ Terrence said. ‘Ashley Littleton.’
‘You knew her?’ I asked.
‘She wasn’t hard to get to know. Fifty bucks would do it. Sometimes twenty.’
Charles circled the foyer, observing and listening, then stopped at the three-tiered white marble fountain. He put a finger at the edge of the second tier so the water forked around it as it cascaded to the first tier.
I said to Terrence, ‘Tonya Richmond hung out there too. The manager and her sister had a baby together.’
He nodded. ‘Darrin and Deni.’
‘Sounds as if there was a close family at Little Vegas,’ Charles said.
‘I didn’t know Tonya well,’ Terrence said. ‘I like them trashy but not that trashy.’
I asked, ‘Did you tell the police all this?’
‘Of course. I had no reason not to.’
Charles said, ‘Did you tell them your mother went to a party in Jamaica with Tonya Richmond?’
Terrence looked at him like he was crazy. ‘What’re you talking about?’
‘Three or four months ago,’ Charles said. ‘Probably a weekend deal, maybe longer.’
Terrence shook his head. ‘My mom never hung out with Tonya.’
I said, ‘When we were here last time you said she’d started dating again about six months ago. Did she see anyone at Little Vegas?’
‘That wasn’t who she was,’ he said. ‘She liked established guys, guys who owned businesses, guys with money.’
‘Don Melchiori?’ I asked.
The councilman’s name stung him but he recovered. ‘She didn’t date him. But she knew him and dated one of his friends.’
Charles said, ‘You know that Melchiori’s a part owner of Little Vegas.’
Terrence nodded, looking defeated. ‘That doesn’t mean she was like Tonya.’
Charles removed his finger from the fountain. He flicked it and a drop of water arced through the air and landed on the black tile at Terrence’s feet. ‘You see what happened to Melchiori last night?’ Charles asked.
Terrence gave a half nod. ‘I watched the morning news.’
I asked, ‘Which of Melchiori’s friends did she date?’
Bobby said, ‘It’s none of his damn business, Terrence.’
Terrence looked at me evenly. ‘A man named David Fowler,’ he said. ‘He works in the mayor’s office.’
I asked, ‘Have you heard from him since your mom died?’
He shook his head.
We’d learned most of what we’d hoped for from the visit so I glanced at Charles. ‘D’you have anything else?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m ready.’
I said to Terrence, ‘I’m sorry for doing this.’
We shook hands and he looked like he might forgive my intrusion until Charles turned and climbed the broad stairway and I followed him.
‘Where are you going?’ Bobby shouted at us.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
In the hallway that extended from the second-story landing, doors opened to four rooms. With Bobby and Terrence behind us, we went into the master bedroom. Belinda’s. It was a large room, painted pale mocha, with a queen-sized bed centered against one wall and a twin bed positioned under a window that faced the backyard and the Intracoastal Waterway. A line drawing of a nude woman hung on the wall above the head of the larger bed. Along the third wall a wide passage led to a dressing room and bathroom. Inside the dressing room, visible from the bedroom, two large dark-wood dressers, his and hers, stood side by side. A ceiling fan spun slowly.
Charles and I went to the dressers. A framed photograph of Jerry Stilman stood on Belinda’s. He was a large-faced dark-skinned black man with a tightly trimmed goatee. He was handsome, though there was something mean in his eyes.
I opened the top drawer.
‘I’m calling the police,’ Bobby said but didn’t go to the phone.
‘What’s with the extra bed?’ I asked.
‘Jerry was a rough sleeper,’ Terrence said. ‘Sometimes Mom needed to get out of the way.’
The top drawer held Belinda’s panties, bras and an open box with necklaces, earrings, and a wide bracelet. My heart dropped a little and I breathed in, expecting to catch the scent of a girl long gone from my life but I smelled only the cedar grain of the dresser.
Charles held up a pair of extra large men’s underwear and unfurled it. ‘Jerry Stilman was a big man, wasn’t he?’ He looked over his shoulder at Terrence. ‘When’d you say he died?’
‘I didn’t. About a year and a half ago. A heart attack.’
‘And your mother kept his underwear drawer stocked and ready,’ I said.
Terrence looked at me and repeated something Bobby had said the last time Charles and I had come. ‘Losing men was hard on her.’
I opened the second drawer, removed a green blouse, held it to my face and breathed in. Nothing.
Charles asked, ‘Did the police look through your mother’s room?’
‘We didn’t let them,’ Terrence said.
‘Yeah?’ Charles said. ‘Why?’
‘I didn’t want them fingering her things.’
Charles removed a black pistol from the second drawer of the other dresser. He sniffed the barrel, then tucked the gun into his waistband.
‘You can’t take that,’ said Bobby.
Charles rooted through the drawer until he found a box of .38 caliber shells and he put it in his pocket. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I believe I can.’
Belinda’s bottom dresser drawer contained nightgowns and pajamas, and as I stirred them, searching for anything she might have hidden, a scent finally arose that I knew as well as my own body. My chest tugged and I recoiled from the sweetness of it.
When we finished with the bedroom we tried the next door, a home office with a big desk, two computers, a worktable, a small photocopier, a large wooden filing cabinet and a safe.
‘What did they use this office for?’ I asked.
‘Their real estate firm,’ Terrence said.
‘I thought they sold everything before moving from Chicago.’
‘They kept a couple of buildings. Jerry would’ve sold them but Mom wanted them.’
I went to the window and looked out. The Fairline motor cruiser rested against the dock, its lines hanging lazily in the water. Dark storm clouds were crossing the Intracoastal.
‘What’s in the safe?’ Charles asked.
‘Don’t know,’ Terrence said.
‘Bobby?’ I asked.
He shook his head.
Charles asked, ‘D’you have the combination?’
Again Bobby shook his head.
Terrence said, ‘We’ve scheduled someone to cut it open next week. My mom and Jerry kept the business private from me, and then when Jerry died Mom ran it on her own.’
Charles removed the gun from his belt, put in a single shell, went to the safe and aimed at the combination touch pad.
‘No,’ Bobby said.
‘Do you know the combination?’ Charles asked.
Bobby shook his head.
Charles grinned and tucked the gun in his waistband again. ‘Shooting it would only make noise and a mess.’
Bobby and Terrence smiled uneasily. Terrence asked, ‘What’re you looking for?’
I went to the filing cabinet and opened the top drawer. ‘We’ll know when we find it.’ The drawer held expired contracts reaching back fourteen years with nothing before then. The second drawer contained folders of bank records sorted by year, again going back fourteen years and stopping.
I pulled the handle on the third drawer. It was locked.
‘The key?’ I asked Terrence.
He shook his head.
‘Bobby?’
‘I don’t know where it is,’ he said.
Charles pulled the pistol from his waistband again and pointed it at the drawer.
Bobby and Terrence smiled, tight-lipped, as though the joke was getting old.
Charles fired the gun. The wood front split apart and splinters showered the room. The blast made my ears ring.
‘Jesus,’ Bobby yelled.
Terrence laughed, shocked.
Charles admired the gun. ‘Probably more power than the job needed.’
‘You could’ve kicked the drawer in,’ I said.
‘Yeah, I could’ve.’ He picked up the shell, put it in his pocket and tucked the gun away.
The shot had knocked the drawer off its track, so I shoved it in and pulled it out until it slid open. The drawer contained only a faded nine-by-twelve manila envelope and a small leatherette portfolio. I looked inside the portfolio and found papers and letters, some with business letterheads, some with government seals. I crammed the manila envelope in with the other papers and tossed the portfolio to Charles.
‘What’re you doing with that?’ Bobby asked.
‘I’ll return it when we’re done,’ I said.
He moved toward the door but Charles cut him off and pulled the pistol out of his waistband again. He loaded it with three more rounds.
‘What do you want?’ There was pleading in Bobby’s voice.
Charles made no pretense toward friendliness or kindness. ‘For you to cooperate and stop acting like an asshole.’
We went into Bobby’s bedroom. Bobby had surprisingly little in it – a few changes of clothes and toiletries. It looked and felt like a guest room.
‘How long have you been staying here?’ I asked.
‘I’m done talking,’ he said.
We moved to Terrence’s bedroom, the room of a kid who’d become an adult and never left home. There was a plain twin bed, a brown pressboard bookcase, a desk with a laptop computer on it, a dresser, a cabinet and a dartboard hanging on the closet door.
‘Don’t search in here,’ Terrence said.
‘Sorry, son,’ Charles said.
Terrence’s face flashed anger but Charles held the pistol and wore such a strangely innocent expression that you could believe that he would use it like a child who knew no better.
I searched the dresser, the cabinet, and the closet and found nothing that interested me. ‘See? No reason to worry,’ I said and went to the bookshelf. A line of paperback novels and a dictionary stood on the top shelf. On the next shelf were stacks of old magazines and a hand-carved wooden box, the kind they sell in Mexican tourist markets. I picked up the top magazine, an old copy of Details. Under it was a deeply creased magazine called Whiplash – with pictures of bondage and S&M on the cover.
‘This what you’re into?’ I asked Terrence and picked it up.
About a dozen odd-shaped pieces of paper fell from between the magazine pages and snowed to the floor. Terrence had clipped out favorite pictures. A woman wearing a mask over her head and studs through her nipples landed face up. So did a woman with feet and hands splayed spread eagle, chained to a dark wall, a cut below her lip. ‘What do you do? Arrange them like paper dolls?’
Terrence sighed. He moved to pick up the pictures. But Charles grabbed him.
I gathered the pictures myself, scooping them between the magazine pages, and saw that Terrence had altered some of them. He’d cut pictures of faces from other magazines or clipped them from family photographs and pasted them above the shoulders of the Whiplash shots. One of the faces was of a little Asian girl, no older than seven, which he’d affixed to the body of a skinny white woman with bleeding nipples. I stared at the next one for several seconds before I comprehended what I was looking at. He’d cut out a fat white woman who was being doubly penetrated and had pasted on a photograph of the face of Belinda at twenty-one or twenty-two years old. Belinda’s hair was shorter than when I’d first met her but her eyes were still young and hopeful. She had an open-mouthed smile as two men reamed the woman under her.
‘Jesus!’ I said.
Terrence said, ‘I told you not to look.’
‘Why did you do that?’ I asked.
Terrence looked mortified but said, ‘You can’t control what you desire.’
‘You can control what you do about it,’ I said.
‘Can you?’ he said.
‘I hope so.’
Charles mumbled, ‘You never did.’
I balled up the picture and stuffed it in my pocket. ‘This isn’t desire. I understand what need can do to a man,’ I said. ‘But I don’t understand how you could make a picture like that.’
Terrence’s eyes were wet with shame and anger. ‘Get out of my room,’ he said. ‘Please.’
‘I want to,’ I said. ‘I honestly do.’ I turned back to the shelf and thumbed through the rest of the magazines. There were two more copies of Whiplash. I didn’t shake them to see what would fall out. I opened the carved wooden box. Inside was a pair of surgical scissors, probably the ones he’d used to snip pictures from magazines, and three glassine baggies. ‘Heroin?’ I asked.
‘Please get out of my room,’ he said.
I closed the box and said to Charles, ‘Let’s go.’
We went downstairs to the front door. Bobby and Terrence looked humiliated, the way men do when you’ve exposed their essential nakedness. Charles looked as innocent and content as ever. I tried not to look like I regretted stripping Terrence and Bobby of the little that seemed to cover them.
Charles said, ‘Let’s check the garage.’
I’d seen enough. ‘I’m done.’
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I might want to trade that piece-of-junk Dodge you gave me for one of their cars.’ He walked back through the house, into the kitchen, through a large laundry room and into a three-car garage. A brown Nissan SUV and a burgundy Mercedes convertible were parked in two of the spots, both looking like they’d come straight from the carwash.
‘Could anyone mistake the Nissan for green?’ I asked.
‘Doubt it,’ Charles said.
A clean workbench with a tall tool chest and a set of shelves stood in the third parking spot. I went to the chest and opened the drawers. It held tools, though they looked unused.
Charles went to the shelves. They held vases and flowerpots, garden shears, a couple of pairs of garden gloves and a spool of clear plastic lawn bags. Charles peeled one of the large bags off the spool.
Bobby said, ‘We hire Mexicans for that.’
‘Shut up, Bobby,’ I said.
Charles climbed into the passenger seat of the Nissan and checked the glove compartment, then got out and looked in the back. He did the same with the Mercedes.
‘All right?’ I asked.
‘Good enough. Let’s go.’
We went back through the house and out on to the front porch.
Heavy thunderheads had rolled in silently while we were inside. The green of the lawn and trees had deepened in the gloom. The air was still and humid.
‘When’s Belinda’s funeral?’ I asked Bobby.
He shook his head. ‘Police won’t release her body. They say it could be weeks.’
‘How about a memorial service?’
‘Sorry. You’re not invited.’
Terrence glanced at his uncle, then me. ‘Tomorrow at four. Palm Valley Baptist Church.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
Bobby asked Charles, ‘What are you going to do with Jerry’s gun?’
‘I was planning to add it to my collection,’ Charles said. ‘What do you think I should do with it?’
‘I think you should give it back.’
Charles pulled it from his belt. ‘Yeah? It won’t do you any good. You’ve got to be able to shoot it.’
‘It’s not yours,’ Bobby said.
‘Fine.’ Charles handed the gun to Bobby, butt first, setting it roughly into Bobby’s bandaged fingers. He dug the box of shells out of his pocket and gave it to him too. ‘There’re still three rounds in the magazine. Don’t forget to unload it.’
Bobby struggled to point the gun at him. ‘Give me the other things.’
Charles considered the leatherette portfolio that I’d taken from the file cabinet and said, ‘Ah, go to hell.’ He turned and walked toward his car.
Bobby fumbled with the pistol, pointed it at the lowering clouds and managed to pull the trigger. The shot cracked through the air. Charles stopped and cocked his head to the side as though he couldn’t believe what he’d heard and was deciding what to do about it. He came back and got close to Bobby, who pointed the pistol at him, looking shocked at his own nerve.
‘You stupid sonofabitch,’ Charles said. He swung the portfolio at Bobby and knocked the pistol out of his hands. It landed softly on the lawn. A sudden cool wind gusted through the branches in the side yard and crossed the grass. Bobby turned from the gun and looked at the sky as if the storm might strike us down. The first cold, fat raindrops splashed on the neatly raked gravel of the front walk.