Bag of Bones Part 28

'No, I can't let - '

'You can. And for Kyra's sake, you will. Later on, if you still want to, you can pay me back. We'll keep tabs on every dollar and dime, if you like. But I'm going to take care of you.' And you'll never take off your clothes when I'm with you. That's a promise, and I'm going to keep it. And you'll never take off your clothes when I'm with you. That's a promise, and I'm going to keep it.

'Mike, you don't have to do this.'

'Maybe, maybe not. But I am am going to do it. You just try and stop me.' I'd called meaning to tell her what had happened to me - giving her the humorous version - but that now seemed like the worst idea in the world. 'This custody thing is going to be over before you know it, and if you can't find anyone brave enough to put you to work down here once it is, I'll find someone up in Derry who'll do it. Besides, tell me the truth - aren't you starting to feel that it might be time for a change of scenery?' going to do it. You just try and stop me.' I'd called meaning to tell her what had happened to me - giving her the humorous version - but that now seemed like the worst idea in the world. 'This custody thing is going to be over before you know it, and if you can't find anyone brave enough to put you to work down here once it is, I'll find someone up in Derry who'll do it. Besides, tell me the truth - aren't you starting to feel that it might be time for a change of scenery?'

She managed a sc.r.a.p of a laugh. 'I guess you could say that.'

'Heard from John today?'

'Actually, yes. He's visiting his parents in Philadelphia but he gave me the number there. I called him.'

He'd said he was taken with her. Perhaps she was taken with him, as well. I told myself the th.o.r.n.y little tug I felt across my emotions at the idea was only my imagination. Tried to tell myself that, anyway. 'What did he say about you losing your job the way you did?'

'The same things you said. But he didn't make me feel safe. You do. I don't know why.' I did. I was an older man, and that is our chief attraction to young women: we make them feel safe. 'He's coming up again Tuesday morning. I said I'd have lunch with him.'

Smoothly, not a tremor or hesitation in my voice, I said: 'Maybe I could join you.'

Mattie's own voice warmed at the suggestion; her ready acceptance made me feel paradoxically guilty. 'That would be great! Why don't I call him and suggest that you both come over here? I could barbecue again. Maybe I'll keep Ki home from VBS and make it a foursome. She's hoping you'll read her another story. She really enjoyed that.'

'That sounds great,' I said, and meant it. Adding Kyra made it all seem more natural, less of an intrusion on my part. Also less like a date on theirs. John could not be accused of taking an unethical interest in his client. In the end he'd probably thank me. 'I believe Ki might be ready to move on to "Hansel and Gretel." How are you, Mattie? All right?'

'Much better than I was before you called.'

'Good. Things are going to be all right.'

'Promise me.'

'I think I just did.'

There was a slight pause. 'Are you you all right, Mike? You sound a little . . . I don't know . . . a little strange.' all right, Mike? You sound a little . . . I don't know . . . a little strange.'

'I'm okay,' I said, and I was, for someone who had been pretty sure he was drowning less than an hour ago. 'Can I ask you one question before I go? Because this is driving me crazy.'

'Of course.'

'The night we had dinner, you said Devore told you his great-grandfather and mine knew each other. Pretty well, according to him.'

'He said they s.h.i.t in the same pit. I thought that was elegant.'

'Did he say anything else? Think hard.'

She did, but came up with nothing. I told her to call me if something about that conversation did occur to her, or if she got lonely or scared, or if she started to feel worried about anything. I didn't like to say too much, but I had already decided I'd have to have a frank talk with John about my latest adventure. It might be prudent to have the private detective from Lewiston George Kennedy, like the actor - put a man or two on the TR to keep an eye on Mattie and Kyra. Max Devore was mad, just as my caretaker had said. I hadn't understood then, but I did now. Any time I started to doubt, all I had to do was touch the back of my head.

I returned to the fridge and once more forgot to open it. My hands went to the magnets instead and again began moving them around, watching as words formed, broke apart, evolved. It was a peculiar kind of writing . . . but it was was writing. I could tell by the way I was starting to trance out. writing. I could tell by the way I was starting to trance out.

That half-hypnotized stare is one you cultivate until you can switch it on and off at will . . . at least you can when things are going well. The intuitive part of the mind unlocks itself when you begin work and rises to a height of about six feet (maybe ten on good days). Once there, it simply hovers, sending black-magic messages and bright pictures. For the balance of the day that part is locked to the rest of the machinery and goes pretty much forgotten . . . except on certain occasions when it comes loose on its own and you trance out unexpectedly, your mind making a.s.sociations which have nothing to do with rational thought and glaring with unexpected images. That is in some ways the strangest part of the creative process. The muses are ghosts, and sometimes they come uninvited.

My house is haunted. My house is haunted.

Sara Laughs has always been haunted . . . you've stirred em up.

stirred, I wrote on the refrigerator. But it didn't look right, so I made a circle of fruit and vegetable magnets around it. That was better, much. I stood there for a moment, hands crossed over my chest as I crossed them at my desk when I was stuck for a word or a phrase, then took off stirr stirr and put on and put on haunt haunt, making haunted haunted.

'It's haunted in the circle,' I said, and barely heard the faint chime of Bunter's bell, as if in agreement.

I took the letters off, and as I did found myself thinking how odd it was to have a lawyer named Romeo - (romeo went in the circle) went in the circle) - and a detective named George Kennedy.

(george went up on the fridge) went up on the fridge) I wondered if Kennedy could help me with Andy Drake - (drake on the fridge) on the fridge) - maybe give me some insights. I'd never written about a private detective before and it's the little stuff - (rake off, leave the off, leave the d d, add etails etails) - that makes the difference. I turned a 3 on its back and put an I I beneath it, making a pitchfork. The devil's in the details. beneath it, making a pitchfork. The devil's in the details.

From there I went somewhere else. I don't know where, exactly, because I was tranced out, that intuitive part of my mind up so high a search-party couldn't have found it. I stood in front of my fridge and played with the letters, spelling out little pieces of thought without even thinking about them. You mightn't believe such a thing is possible, but every writer knows it is.

What brought me back was light splashing across the windows of the foyer. I looked up and saw the shape of a car pulling to a stop behind my Chevrolet. A cramp of terror seized my belly. That was a moment when I would have given everything I owned for a loaded gun. Because it was Footman. Had to be. Devore had called him when he and Whitmore got back to Warrington's, had told him Noonan refuses to be a good Martian so get over there and fix him.

When the driver's door opened and the dome-light in the visitor's car came on, I breathed a conditional sigh of relief. I didn't know who it was, but it sure wasn't 'daddy.' This fellow didn't look as if he could take care of a housefly with a rolled-up newspaper . . . although, I supposed, there were plenty of people who had made that same mistake about Jeffrey Dahmer.

Above the fridge was a cl.u.s.ter of aerosol cans, all of them old and probably not ozone-friendly. I didn't know how Mrs. M. had missed them, but I was pleased she had. I took the first one my hand touched - Black Flag, excellent choice - thumbed off the cap, and stuck the can in the left front pocket of my jeans. Then I turned to the drawers on the right of the sink. The top one contained silverware. The second one held what Jo called 'kitchens.h.i.t' - everything from poultry thermometers to those gadgets you stick in corncobs so you don't burn your fingers off. The third one down held a generous selection of mismatched steak knives. I took one, put it in the right front pocket of my jeans, and went to the door.

The man on my stoop jumped a little when I turned on the outside light, then blinked through the door at me like a nearsighted rabbit. He was about five-four, skinny, pale. He wore his hair cropped in the sort of cut known as a wiffle in my boyhood days. His eyes were brown. Guarding them was a pair of horn-rimmed gla.s.ses with greasy-looking lenses. His little hands hung at his sides. One held the handle of a flat leather case, the other a small white oblong. I didn't think it was my destiny to be killed by a man with a business card in one hand, so I opened the door.

The guy smiled, the anxious sort of smile people always seem to wear in Woody Allen movies. He was wearing a Woody Allen outfit too, I saw - faded plaid shirt a little too short at the wrists, chinos a little too baggy in the crotch. Someone must have told him about the resemblance Someone must have told him about the resemblance, I thought. That's got to be it. That's got to be it.

'Mr. Noonan?' 'Mr. Noonan?'

'Yes?'

He handed me the card. NEXT CENTURY REAL ESTATE, it said in raised gold letters. Below this, in more modest black, was my visitor's name.

'I'm Richard Osgood,' he said as if I couldn't read, and held out his hand. The American male's need to respond to that gesture in kind is deeply ingrained, but that night I resisted it. He held his little pink paw out a moment longer, then lowered it and wiped the palm nervously against his chinos. 'I have a message for you. From Mr. Devore.'

I waited.

'May I come in?'

'No,' I said.

He took a step backward, wiped his hand on his pants again, and seemed to gather himself. 'I hardly think there's any need to be rude, Mr. Noonan.'

I wasn't being rude. If I'd wanted to be rude, I would have treated him to a faceful of roach-repellent. 'Max Devore and his minder tried to drown me in the lake this evening. If my manners seem a little off to you, that's probably it.'

Osgood's look of shock was real, I think. 'You must be working too hard on your latest project, Mr. Noonan. Max Devore is going to be eighty-six on his next birthday - if he makes it, which now seems to be in some doubt. Poor old fella can hardly even walk from his chair to his bed anymore. As for Rogette - '

'I see your point,' I said. 'In fact I saw it twenty minutes ago, without any help from you. I hardly believe it myself, and I was there. Give me whatever it is you have for me.'

'Fine,' he said in a prissy little 'all right, be be that way' voice. He unzipped a pouch on the front of his leather bag and brought out a white envelope, business-sized and sealed. I took it, hoping Osgood couldn't sense how hard my heart was thumping. Devore moved pretty d.a.m.ned fast for a man who travelled with an oxygen tank. The question was, what kind of move was this? that way' voice. He unzipped a pouch on the front of his leather bag and brought out a white envelope, business-sized and sealed. I took it, hoping Osgood couldn't sense how hard my heart was thumping. Devore moved pretty d.a.m.ned fast for a man who travelled with an oxygen tank. The question was, what kind of move was this?

'Thanks,' I said, beginning to close the door. 'I'd tip you the price of a drink, but I left my wallet on the dresser.'

'Wait! You're supposed to read it and give me an answer.'

I raised my eyebrows. 'I don't know where Devore got the notion that he could order me around, but I have no intention of allowing his ideas to influence my behavior. Buzz off.'

His lips turned down, creating deep dimples at the corners of his mouth, and all at once he didn't look like Woody Allen at all. He looked like a fifty-year-old real-estate broker who had sold his soul to the devil and now couldn't stand to see anyone yank the boss's forked tail. 'Piece of friendly advice, Mr. Noonan - you want to watch it. Max Devore is no man to fool around with.'

'Luckily for me, I'm not fooling around.'

I closed the door and stood in the foyer, holding the envelope and watching Mr. Next Century Real Estate. He looked p.i.s.sed off and con-fused - no one had given him the b.u.m's rush just lately, I guessed. Maybe it would do him some good. Lend a little perspective to his life. Remind him that, Max Devore or no Max Devore, Richie Osgood would still never stand more than five-feet-seven. Even in cowboy boots.

'Mr. Devore wants an answer!' he called through the closed door.

'I'll phone,' I called back, then slowly raised my middle fingers in the double eagle I'd hoped to give Max and Rogette earlier. 'In the meantime, perhaps you could convey this.'

I almost expected him to take off his gla.s.ses and rub his eyes. He walked back to his car instead, tossed his case in, then followed it. I watched until he had backed up to the lane and I was sure he was gone. Then I went into the living room and opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper, faintly scented with the perfume my mother had worn when I was just a kid. White Shoulders, I think it's called. Across the top - neat, ladylike, printed in slightly raised letters - was

ROGETTE D. WHITMORE

Below it was this message, written in a slightly shaky feminine hand:

8.30 P.M.Dear Mr. Noonan,Max wishes me to convey how glad he was to meet you! I must echo that sentiment. You are a very amusing and entertaining fellow! We enjoyed your antics ever so much.Now to business. M. offers you a very simple deal: if you promise to cease asking questions about him, and if you promise to cease all legal maneuvering - if you promise to let him rest in peace, so to speak then Mr. Devore promises to cease efforts to gain custody of his granddaughter. If this suits, you need only tell Mr. Osgood 'I agree.' He will carry the message! Max hopes to return to California by private jet very soon - he has business which can be put off no longer, although he has enjoyed his time here and has found you particularly interesting. He wants me to remind you that custody has its responsibilities, and urges you not to forget he said so.RogetteP.S. He reminds me that you didn't answer his question - does her c.u.n.t suck? Max is quite curious on that point.R.

I read this note over a second time, then a third. I started to put it on the table, then read it a fourth time. It was as if I couldn't get the sense of it. I had to restrain an urge to fly to the telephone and call Mattie at once. It's over, Mattie, I'd say. Taking your job and dunking me in the lake were the last two shots of the war. He's giving up.

No. Not until I was absolutely sure.

I called Warrington's instead, where I got my fourth answering machine of the night. Devore and Whitmore hadn't bothered with anything warm and fuzzy, either; a voice as cold as a motel ice-machine simply told me to leave my message at the sound of the beep.

'It's Noonan,' I said. Before I could go any further there was a click as someone picked up.

'Did you enjoy your swim?' Rogette Whitmore asked in a smoky, mocking voice. if I hadn't seen her in the flesh, I might have imagined a Barbara Stanwyck type at her most coldly attractive, coiled on a red velvet couch in a peach-silk dressing gown, telephone in one hand, ivory cigarette holder in the other.

'If I'd caught up with you, Ms. Whitmore, I would have made you understand my feelings perfectly.'

'Oooo,' she said. 'My thighs are a-tingle.'

'Please spare me the image of your thighs.'

'Sticks and stones, Mr. Noonan,' she said. 'To what do we owe the pleasure of your call?'

'I sent Mr. Osgood away without a reply.'

'Max thought you might. He said, "Our young wh.o.r.emaster believes in the value of a personal response. You can tell that just looking at him.''

'He gets the uglies when he loses, doesn't he?'

'Mr. Devore doesn't lose lose.' Her voice dropped at least forty degrees and all the mocking good humor bailed out on the way down. 'He may change his goals, but he doesn't lose lose. You were the one who looked like a loser tonight, Mr. Noonan, paddling around and yelling out there in the lake. You were scared, weren't you?'

'Yes. Badly.'

'You were right to be. I wonder if you know how lucky you are?'

'May I tell you something?'

'Of course, Mike - may I call you Mike?'

'Why don't you just stick with Mr. Noonan. Now - are you listening?'

'With bated breath.'

'Your boss is old, he's nutty, and I suspect he's past the point where he could effectively manage a Yahtzee scorecard, let alone a custody suit. He was whipped a week ago.'

'Do you have a point?'

'As a matter of fact I do, so get it right: if either of you ever tries anything remotely like that again, I'll come after that old f.u.c.k and jam his snot-smeared oxygen mask so far up his a.s.s he'll be able to aerate his lungs from the bottom. And if I see you on The Street, Ms. Whitmore, I'll use you for a shotput. Do you understand me?'

I stopped, breathing hard, amazed and also rather disgusted with myself. If you had told me I'd had such a speech in me, I would have scoffed.

After a long silence I said: 'Ms. Whitmore? Still there?'

'I'm here,' she said. I wanted her to be furious, but she actually sounded amused. 'Who has the uglies now, Mr. Noonan?'

'I do,' I said, 'and don't you forget it, you rock-throwing b.i.t.c.h.'

'What is your answer to Mr. Devore?'

'We have a deal. I shut up, the lawyers shut up, he gets out of Mattie and Kyra's life. If, on the other hand, he continues to - '

'I know, I know, you'll bore him and stroke him. I wonder how you'll feel about all this a week from now, you arrogant, stupid creature?'

Before I could reply - it was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that even at her best she still threw like a girl - she was gone.