couldn’t sleep, though. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Soupy and that tattooed woman writhing on the pool table. I tried to focus on the ceiling, but that didn’t work. It was too quiet and too dark. I reached under my bed and pulled out the projector. I set it up again on the kitchen counter and turned it on. The empty white square appeared on the wall. I sat down on the floor and leaned back against the cabinets beneath the sink. The projector click- click-clicked. I stared at the blank light until my eyes wouldn’t stay open anymore.
twenty-five
I woke with my face pressed against the scratchy wool braid of a throw rug. The phone was ringing. I shut off the projector and grabbed the phone. “Yeah?”
It was Joanie. She was angry. “Brendan Blake is not in the paper.”
“It’s on the front below the fold.”
“No. On the front below the fold there’s a high school wrestling story. The Blake story isn’t in the paper anywhere. I even looked through the classifieds.”
“A wrestling story?”
“By Matilda P. Spaulding.”
“Goddammit,” I said. “Goddamn Tillie.”
Tillie must have eavesdropped on me leaving the message for Kerasopoulos. That’s why she’d been smiling that smile I didn’t like. Then she’d obviously called him, and he killed the Brendan Blake story. With nothing else handy at the last minute, the printers substituted wrestling. No doubt I had a message from Kerasopoulos waiting downstairs.
“Come on,” Joanie said, incredulous. “Tillie wanted a front-page byline?”
“Of course not,” I said. A bit of the previous night’s queasiness returned. “Tillie didn’t give a damn about the wrestling story. She’s just kissing up to the bosses.”
“You’re her boss.”
“Yeah, right.”
The line went silent. Then Joanie said, “You know what? Fuck Tillie. Fuck Kerafuckface. Fuck the fucking Pilot.”
“Joanie!”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, everything’ll be fine, you’ll get all my stories in the paper. I don’t even care anymore. I’m so fucking out of here.”
She slammed the phone down before I could say anything else.
I opened a cabinet and took out my only liquor, a dusty plastic bottle of vodka. I poured a little in a coffee cup and took it into the bathroom. I dipped some tweezers in the vodka and plucked the stitches from my chin. I didn’t know the trick of removing them without pulling part of the suture back through the wound, so I applied a dab of vodka after each one came out.
I took a shower and dressed. In my bedroom closet I found the knapsack I’d used to carry the Superior transcripts out of the Detroit bus station. I filled it with underwear, white socks, three T-shirts, and two flannel button-downs. I zipped a toothbrush and toothpaste into a separate pocket.
I lifted the plywood sheet off the boxes marked Trucks and Rats. One by one I hauled them down the outside stairs. The wind whistled around me as I loaded them into my truck’s flatbed, where my hockey bag still sat, covered with snow.
I did it all without really thinking. It felt like I was getting ready to leave, but I had no idea where I was going, or even if I was going. I just felt like I might have to leave, and quickly. I had to supply the name of my Superior source by noon or face arrest. I still wasn’t sure what I was going to do, and I wasn’t stupid enough to think I could run, didn’t even think I wanted to. But something was telling me to be ready. A lot of things I’d never expected had happened in the past few days.
A few minutes before eight, the phone rang again. I picked it up expecting Joanie. “Are you in the office?” I said.
“Excuse me? Mr. Carpenter?”
“Oh, sorry. This is Gus.”
“It’s Terence Flapp, attorney for Alden Campbell.”
Flapp told me Soupy had spent a few hours in the hospital but now was back in lockup. Soupy wanted to see me. Flapp wasn’t sure why. He had advised Soupy against seeing anyone. But Soupy was Soupy.
“Judge Gallagher will have my head for this if he finds out,” Flapp said. “Although I should tell you I do not intend for this to become an interview for your paper.”
I actually had no great desire to see Soupy. But I did have some questions. “Dingus doesn’t mind?”
“You tell me. When I told him I wanted to bring someone in, his first response was, ‘Over my dead body.’ But when I told him who, suddenly it was fine.”
“Huh.”
“Yes, well, meet me at the jail at ten-thirty.”
I had another stop to make first.
Gloria Lowinski, R.N., answered the door of her pink frame house in a white housecoat decorated with faded pink flowers. Pins and curlers knitted her hair, dyed the color of rust, tightly to her scalp. I hadn’t even introduced myself when she opened the door wide and beckoned me in. “Oh, oh, oh, you’re the man from the newspaper, aren’t you?” she said. Her eyes were exceptionally bright for a widow in her eighties. “I’ve seen you at the diner. Come in, come in. Would you like coffee? I’m a tea drinker myself, but most people drink coffee. Are you like most people?”
“No, ma’am,” I said, meaning I didn’t want coffee. “Sorry to bother you so early.”
“No bother. I adore having visitors anytime. Sit.”
I sat in a wing-backed chair covered with more pink flowers. Issues of People magazine covered the end table next to me.
“I have to say, young man, you have quite a popular newspaper,” Gloria Lowinski said. “I’ve been on the phone all day every day since I was in that article. It’s been absolutely astonishing.”
“I’m glad. What you said about the president was very interesting.”
“Oh, oh, yes, the way of the tantric, I think that most definitely would help him with his, shall we say, waywardness, and it certainly would be appreciated by his wife, I can you tell from glorious experience.” She closed her eyes and pressed a hand dramatically to her breast. “As in Gloria ’s experience.”
“Yes, ma’am. I was wondering if you could help me with a story I’m working on now. It’s about tattoos.”
I had an idea about the tattoo I’d seen in the films. I’d come to hear Gloria Lowinski tell me if I was right. I wouldn’t have minded being wrong.
“Tattoos? Young man, your timing is perfect. My granddaughter just got a tattoo on-well, I shouldn’t tell you, but, oh, what the hang-it’s just above her privates on the left side. Here.” She pointed to a spot on her bathrobe. I focused on my notebook. “Would you like to speak with her? It’s Priscilla Lawlor, 1209 Fletcher Street.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Lowinski, but actually, I’d-”
“Oh, I know, I’m prattling on, you want to ask me something.” She sat down on a sofa facing me. “I should tell you, Mr., Mr…”
“Carpenter. Call me Gus.”
“Of course, Bea and Rudy’s boy. How is your mother? She used to come to our office but she stopped. She never said why.”
“She’s fine, thanks. You were saying…”
“And you, weren’t you going to marry the Bontrager girl, the buxom one, Deborah or Deirdre something?”
“Darlene.”
“Yes, Darlene. That wasn’t so long ago.”
“About fifteen years.”
