Tuesday.
In the morning, Steve had his car towed to a shop and got a loaner. A Camry. After the Ark it felt like he was driving an eyeglass case.
At least he’d managed to stay clean one more night. Nights were the worst. Now, in the light of day, he could pretend he was a lawyer again.
He wanted to be a lawyer. He started out with the plan to be the best. From foster home to college, from college to law school, a great American success story. Going into law, he’d be able to tilt the scales of justice in a way that had been denied him.
In moments of reflection over beer or bourbon, he’d sometimes think he was trying to be Archimedes. Give me a lever and a place to stand and I can move the world. That project alone was enough to keep his mind from the bad things. The yesterdays.
He remembered clearly the day the idea got in his head.
He was ten and his mom was dead and they had a little funeral. His aunt came out from New Jersey, Aunt Kate, the only time in his life Steve ever saw her. She had stringy hair and fat lips. She didn’t sit next to Stevie in the chapel. The only one who sat next to him was Mrs. Bloom, who lived two houses down. She was a nice old lady, a widow who his mom used to borrow eggs from.
There weren’t more than six or seven others there. His mom was in a casket at the front. Organ music was playing somewhere. It was like in a haunted house movie.
Then a red-faced man with a funny collar came out with this smile on his face. It looked fake. He stood in front of the casket and said, “This was a lady.”
He started saying some things about Steve’s mom. But he’d never seen this man before in his life.
Then it hit him. For some reason he knew that this guy hadn’t ever known his mom at all. That he worked at this place. That he gave speeches about people who were dead. If somebody wanted that kind of thing.
He knew that Aunt Kate had set this up. And he hated her for it.
Then the man stopped talking and invited people to come and view “the dear departed.”
What? Get up and look at her?
No.
Yes. Mrs. Bloom took his hand and walked him forward. Behind Aunt Kate, whose wide ride swayed under a blue print dress in a way both sickening and mesmerizing to Stevie.
The waxwork that was supposed to be his mother lay in a white satin hollow. The moment Stevie saw it, a chill that would soon lead to hot tears started swirling in his chest, an iceball behind the sternum.
It couldn’t be Mom. She never looked this still. And the grotesque upturn of her mouth was horrifying.
For some odd reason he thought of a flashlight then, how if you put the two batteries in wrong the thing wouldn’t light up. No life, no juice. Maybe they’d put his mother in wrong. Maybe if they turned her around in the box there’d be a spark and she’d be alive again.
It was too soon for her to be dead.
He burst out crying. Once the tears started he knew he couldn’t turn them off and he pressed them out harder and harder.
Mrs. Bloom put her arms around him. Aunt Kate looked back at him, disgust on her face.
Maybe that was the moment she decided she didn’t want anything to do with Stevie. He suspected she was like that anyway.
Stuff happened after that. Mom’s possessions went to Aunt Kate. She left the trunk with the pictures, and Stevie raised such a stink he somehow got to keep it. When he went into foster care, they let him bring the trunk.
He would never give that up. They’d have to put him in a casket if they ever wanted to get it.
When he got to his office, he retrieved the envelope with the money, opened it, and spread the bills on his desk.
Fifty crisp Benjamins.
Probably dirty. The fruit of some sort of crime. Maybe even counterfeit.
Or maybe laundered.
If laundered, clean. And if clean, he could spend it.
He decided to drink it over. Pulled out the half-empty bottle of Jim Beam. But as he started to pour, something stopped him. A little voice. Maybe it sounded like Sienna Ciccone. Maybe he wanted it to sound like her. Whatever, he stopped and tried to keep a clear head.
Johnny LaSalle had told him something only his brother would have known. Steve did remember the stories Robert used to tell. Arnold and Beebleobble. Names that would make him cry when he was seven and eight and missing Robert terribly. Knowing he helped put Robert in the house that got burned down.
What about that? Could it really have been another kid in there? But the dental records. What about the records?
Might there have been a mistake?
Or something else. Steve’s brain started writing screenplays for Oliver Stone. This would all mean conspiracy.
Data is what he needed now. He put the bills back in the envelope and woke up his computer. Robert had died in Verner, California. Steve googled the coroner’s office in the county where Verner was situated. Came up with a number for the county sheriff.
Called. Got a receptionist. A woman.
“I’d like to speak to the coroner’s office,” Steve said.
“This is it. The sheriff is the county coroner. Would you like his voice mail?”
“Maybe you can help me.”
“I’ll try.” Her voice was young and informal.
“I’m interested in the records of an autopsy from July of 1983.”
“I can connect you to Lieutenant Oderkirk. He’s the chief deputy coroner.”
“Yes. Please.”
“One moment.”
Steve hefted the envelope of bills as he waited.
“Oderkirk.”
“Hi, my name’s Steve Conroy. I’m a lawyer in LA.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“We’re not all bad.”
“Kidding. What can I do for you?”
“I’m interested in an autopsy that was done back in 1983. Are those records available?”
“Sure. Back then they’d be on paper, but we’re in the process of putting them on microfiche. Is this some official business?”
“For me it is. It was my brother, Robert Conroy.”
“Oh.” Pause. “Well, let me see what I can come up with. You have the exact date of death?”
“It was July of 1983. That’s all I know. In a town called Verner.”
“Sure. Mountain town. I can look into it. What was the name again?”
“Robert Conroy.”
“All right. You have a fax?”
Steve gave him the number.
“Let me see what I can do,” Oderkirk said. “I’ll try to get it to you by close of business. If not, then tomorrow.”
“Anything you can do. Thanks.”
“You bet.”
Steve thought about calling Ashley again. This time he wouldn’t be asking for money. But he’d be able to tell her about LaSalle and the prison and five thou. She was really the only one he trusted.
But he decided against it. Whenever he called her now, there was part of him hoping she’d say, “Come on home, Steve. All is forgiven.” He had to get over that, had to accept the fact his marriage wasn’t going to be put back together again.
The door opened and Milos Slbodnik walked in as if he owned the place.
Which he did.
“So,” he said. “Here you are.” Slbodnik was in his fifties, with a head like an unshaved coconut. He seemed to have hair coming out of every cavity and crevice. His substantial pot belly masked the fact that he was once a wrestling champion — a fact he loved to repeat as often as he demanded rent.
“A knock on the door would be appreciated,” Steve said.
“You making good or what?”
“You’ve got a payment.”
“I got a nephew.”
“Excuse me?”
“You make threat with law, I got law.”
“Mr. S, I just finished a case. I’m due to get paid.” Steve shot a quick look at the envelope on his desk. “And I may just have a major new client. Before you file anything, give me at least a week of good time.”
The landlord lowered his substantial eyebrows. “One week. And what you are owing is four thousand.”
“I got it.”
“I hope you got it.”
He grunted and left.