It was late afternoon by the time Merilee joined up with me back at the farm. It seemed so deliciously tranquil there. The breeze off of Whalebone Cove was rustling the leaves of the apple trees. The ducks were quacking in the pond. The chickens were conversing in their coop. Merilee announced she was going to take a good, long walk in the woods. Lulu decided to keep her company. I decided to pull my manuscript from the deep freeze and sit down with it at the writing table in the chapel, fully intending to escape back into my fictional universe while the Ramones blasted from my turntable.
But it was no use. There was still too much ugly reality somersaulting around in my head.
When the business line rang I had no doubt who it would be. Same hoarse, phlegmy voice. Same mocking, insinuating tone. “That you, smart guy?”
“It’s nice to hear from you again, Mr. Romero. I’ve missed our little chats. It’s been a while.”
“That’s because I’ve been locked away in a padded cell. I’m guessing you already knew that, seeing as how it was the cops who showed up for our eleven o’clock meet, not you. You ratted me out, you flaming piece of shit.”
“Consider yourself lucky that’s all I did.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re still alive. There was a very strong case being made by a lot of very influential people that you should be taken out. If it weren’t for me you’d be dead right now.”
He let out a laugh. “Like Greg and Marty are, you mean?”
“And don’t forget Sabrina Meyer.”
“Never heard of the bitch.”
“How did it make you feel?”
“How did what make me feel?”
“When you heard that Greg and Marty were dead.”
“I didn’t feel anything. Why would I?”
“They were friends of yours.”
“Bullshit. They were never my friends. When I needed their help, a good word whispered in the right director’s ear, they both turned their backs on me. So I couldn’t care less that they’re dead. Fuck them.” He fell silent on the other end of the line for a moment before he said, “Nothing’s changed except for the price tag, smart guy. It’s gone up to thirty-five thou. I’m giving you one more chance to make good on your word. Tonight, nine o’clock, same place. Show up with anything less than thirty-five thou and I go straight to the Enquirer and tell them the whole, sad story about the night when the great big movie star got high on coke, ran over a Yale professor and left him for dead. Is it a deal?”
“Fine,” I said. “It’s a deal.”
With a click the line went dead.
I went inside the house, found a manila envelope and tucked the Lyme–Old Lyme phone book inside. It made for a good, snug fit.
That was when Merilee and Lulu came home from their walk. Merilee flopped down at the kitchen table, pooped. Lulu took a long drink from her water bowl before she flopped down, too.
“How was your walk?”
“Good. It gave me some time to think. Let’s sit out on the deck. There’s a nice, cool breeze.”
“All right.”
We sat on the Adirondack chairs overlooking the cove and watched the osprey circle overhead, floating on the breeze.
“Time to think about what?”
“Marty, mostly,” she replied. “He always resented Greg’s good looks, Greg’s ease around other people and, more than anything else, that Greg took Dini away from him. Marty channeled his pain and his loneliness into amazing performances. Became one of our finest actors. Yet his resentment never, ever stopped eating away at him. How heartbreaking is that?”
“From where I sit? Pretty damned heartbreaking.”
“Greg was a solid pro. He deserved his Oscar. But he rarely made a movie or play better simply by being in it. Marty did. Marty was a genius. But no one will think of him that way now. They’ll remember him as the crazy man who murdered Greg Farber and then died of a drug overdose while he was sitting on the toilet, just like Lenny Bruce and Elvis.” She let out a long sigh of regret. “Is it too early for a glass of chilled Sancerre?”
“It’s never too early for a glass of chilled Sancerre. Stay put, I’ll get it.”
There was a half-empty bottle in the refrigerator. I grabbed it and two glasses. Dug the remains of several cheeses from the cheese drawer, Lulu’s anchovy jar, a knife and a hunk of baguette. Set it all on a tray and carried it outside. Merilee got busy unwrapping the cheese. I poured the wine, handed her a glass and fed Lulu an anchovy.
“I ran into Mr. MacGowan when I was out walking,” she said, sipping her wine. “He asked me how Quasimodo was fitting in.”
“Damn. He promised me he’d keep his trap shut.”
“What happened to Old Saxophone Joe, darling?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, okay. R.J. showed up here when we were away and beheaded him. I gave Joe a proper, respectful burial. I can show you where the marker is.”
“Thank you, I’d appreciate it. I want to plant something there for him.”
“And then I asked Mr. MacGowan if he could spare a rooster.”
“Hence Quasimodo.”
“Hence Quasimodo.”
She smeared some Maytag blue on a piece of bread, nibbled on it and sipped her wine, eyeing me over the rim of the glass. “Is R.J. out on bail?”
I nodded.
“He’s called again, hasn’t he?”
“He has. And he still wants his hush money. I’m giving it to him tonight. He’ll use it to pay off whomever it is he owes it to. It’s my sincere hope that he will then go to jail for a solid decade for stealing that truckload of Marvin windows. It’s also my sincere hope that this nostalgic Yale Drama School reunion of yours has run its course and that I can go back to work on my book.”
“I’m coming with you tonight.”
“Absolutely not. You can’t.”
“Why not?” she demanded indignantly.
“He could be setting a trap. Have a photographer with him. You can’t be seen with him, Merilee. Can’t be mixed up in any of this. Just leave it to me, okay? After tonight, this mess with R.J. will all be over.”
OUR RENDEZVOUS SPOT by the old brass mill’s front gate was no more picturesque or fragrant than I remembered it from last time. Again, I spotted him by the orange glow of his cigarette.
“Give it here,” he said right away, meaning the money.
“I guess this means we’re dispensing with pleasantries,” I said, handing him the manila envelope.
He ripped it open greedily, shining his flashlight inside. “What the hell’s this?”
“The current Lyme–Old Lyme phone directory. And they’re damned hard to come by, so I want it back.”
“Where’s my fucking money?”
“There is no money, R.J.”
R.J. gaped at me in disbelief. “What do you mean there’s no money? What the fuck is this?”
“This is me doing something that absolutely no one else thinks I should do. I’m giving you one last chance to walk away. If you ever come near Merilee again, I’ll kill you. If you try to peddle your version of that hit-and-run incident to the tabloids, I’ll kill you. If you so much as speak to a tabloid reporter, I’ll kill you. I’ll get away with it, too. The police will even thank me. If you’re too stoned or screwed up or just plain stupid to realize that I’m trying to do you a favor, then so be it. But I need to give you this chance. You see, I don’t want you on my conscience. It’s already plenty crowded, and getting more crowded each and every day,” I said as my thoughts turned to Sabrina Meyer from Hack-Hack-Hackensack and her bright future that was never, ever to be.
R.J. was still gaping at me. “You’re playing head games with me? I owe some very dangerous people that money. I promised I’d have it for ’em tonight. I need that money!”
“Too bad. You’re not going to get any.”
“You don’t get to walk away from this, bro.” His voice had turned menacing now. “For this, I have to mess you up.”
In response, Lulu moved around behind him, a low growl coming from her throat. She has a very menacing growl for someone who once got beat up in Riverside Park by a Pomeranian named Mr. Puffball.
“Tell her to cut that out,” R.J. warned me, his eyes widening.
Lulu moved in closer, baring her teeth at him, her growl now a full-throated snarl.
“I ain’t kidding around. She comes any closer I’ll blow her head off!”
Actually, what he did was kick her. Or I should say he tried to. Not a wise move. All he got for his trouble was Lulu’s jaws clamped hard around his bare ankle.
Cursing angrily in pain, R.J. reached into his waistband for his Glock. That was when his nose collided with my right fist. He went straight down, blood gushing from his nose. The Glock clattered away on the pavement. He lunged for it.
He never made it.
Two shots rang out from the darkness. R.J. took the first one in the chest, the second in his throat. He let out a soft gurgle, shuddered and then he was gone.
I whirled—and my flashlight’s beam found Merilee standing there behind me in a safari jacket with the farm’s .38 clutched in her hand and a strangely calm expression on her face. Lulu ran to her and tried to climb up her leg, whooping and moaning. Me, I went and took the gun from her. Then I heard rapid footsteps on the pavement. Someone was running toward us. It seemed Merilee wasn’t the only one who’d decided to tail me that evening.
Pete Tedone knelt beside the late R. J. Romero, then looked up at us inquiringly.
“Merilee Nash, say hello to Pete Tedone, Lieutenant Tedone’s brother.”
“Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Tedone,” she said quietly.
“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Nash. Which one of you . . . ?”
“I did,” I said quickly.
“He did not,” Merilee insisted. “I’m the one who shot him.”
“Well, you’d both better go right home and stay there. I’ll take over from here.” Tedone pocketed R.J.’s Glock. Then took the .38 from me and gripped it in each hand before he stuck it in R.J.’s dead hand and fired it once into the air. “Okay, here’s what happened,” he explained. “You hired me to make the payoff and it went sour. He pulled his .38, the two of us grappled for it and it went off.”
“But that .38 is registered to Merilee,” I pointed out.
“He stole it from the farm when he killed your rooster.”
“We didn’t report it stolen.”
Tedone waved me off. “Don’t worry about that. This is what you’re paying me for.” He pointed to the manila envelope tucked under my arm. “Is that the drop money?”
“No, it’s the Lyme–Old Lyme phone book.”
Pete Tedone frowned at me. “Where’s the money?”
“There is no money.”
“You showed up here without any money?”
“That’s correct.”
He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I got to tell you, Hoagy. For a bright guy you sure know how to act stupid.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“And now I want you to beat it. Both of you. You two were never here tonight, understood?”
We understood. Started back toward the old stone bridge with Lulu trotting along ahead of us. Merilee had left her beat-up old Land Rover next to the Jag. Tedone’s Chevy Tahoe was parked alongside. When I looked back at him, Tedone was crouched over R.J.’s body with his flashlight, going through his pockets. Merilee didn’t look back. She never looked back.
“MERILEE, ARE YOU okay?”
“I’ll be fine, darling. Although I do wish you’d stop asking me that.”
It was two hours later and I was still waiting for an emotional response from her. Grief. Horror. Something, anything. So far, she’d just behaved as if it were any other night. Pronounced herself starved. Put away a late supper of Caesar salad and four-alarm chili washed down with two frosty bottles of Bass Ale. Had herself a leisurely soak in the claw-footed tub. Now she was snuggled in bed in the moonlight with a cool breeze coming off of Whalebone Cove. The only indication that she was the least bit bothered about having pumped two shots into R. J. Romero earlier that evening was that she asked me if I’d mind keeping her company for a bit. I sat in the worn leather easy chair next to the bed sipping a Bass with Lulu snoring contentedly at my feet.
“Merilee, I still have one more thing I need to ask you.”
“Fine. What is it?”
“Why did you do it?”
She gazed out the window for a long moment. “As an act of mercy,” she replied softly. “You didn’t know the young R.J. The wild and gifted and beautiful R.J. The man who couldn’t miss. This R.J. was so strung out, desperate and sick that he’d become a menace to everyone, including himself. I did the humane thing by putting him down.”
“You loved him, didn’t you?”
“With all of my heart and soul,” she acknowledged readily. “When he and I split up I didn’t think I’d make it. It took months and months for the wounds to heal. And years before I believed it was even possible to love a man again.”
“What changed your mind?”
“You did, silly.”
“Good answer.”
“Hoagy, would you do me a huge favor and get under the covers with me for a little while?”
I stripped to my boxers and slid under the covers with her. She rolled onto her hip, her head resting on my chest. I put my arm around her and held her.
“I still carry it around all of the time,” she confessed. “Not a day goes by that I don’t think about it. We killed that poor man.”
“You weren’t driving. He was.”
“But I could have called the police. Given the family some comfort. I could have done something.”
“You’re absolutely right. And tonight, you did.”
“I had to. He killed Old Saxophone Joe. You know who was next, don’t you? Lulu. He would have killed Lulu, I swear. And then he’d have gone after you. Do you know what would happen to me if I lost you? I’d fall to pieces.”
“Why, Merilee, you almost sound as if you’re still a tiny bit fond of me.”
“Oh, shut up. I had to do it, Hoagy. I had to protect my home. H-had to protect my-my . . .” And then they came. The tears. I held on to her tight as she cried. She cried for the Yale School of Architecture professor whom they’d left for dead that night so many years ago. She cried for the gifted but uncontrollable wild beast from Federal Hill whom she’d loved and lost and tonight had put down like the rabid animal he’d become. She cried for Greg. She cried for Dini, who’d lost her husband, and for Durango and Cheyenne, who’d lost their father. She cried for Marty, who couldn’t cope with his broken heart and bitterness and, after years and years of trying to destroy himself, had finally succumbed to the darkness and destroyed Greg. And Sabrina. She cried for herself and for her fellow members of their uncommonly gifted class at the Yale School of Drama. There had never been a class nearly as talented before or since. And maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. I’ve begun to think that strange, horrible things can happen when there are too many talented people in the same place at the same time. Somebody ought to write a book about it someday. Not me, but somebody.
She was still crying when the early predawn birds began to chirp. Didn’t cry herself out until Quasimodo let out his first hoarse crow of the morning, which was so pathetic that it made her laugh through her tears. “I just can’t get used to him. I keep expecting to hear Old Saxophone Joe.”
“That makes two of us.” Lulu let out a low, unhappy grunt from the leather chair. “Correction, three of us.”
Shortly after that, Merilee closed her eyes and fell into an exhausted sleep. As she lay there in my arms, it occurred to me that despite all of our ups and downs—the years of loving each other, hating each other—that I still didn’t know Merilee Nash. None of us really know the person whom we love. That’s nothing but a sweet illusion. Then I closed my own eyes and, smiling, fell asleep with the stranger in my arms.