Guilt

“Smart man.”

When we reached the street, he continued south, turned the corner at Charleville, and entered the alley behind his building. Six garages, one for each unit, each furnished with a bolt and a combination lock.

The third garage was secured with an additional key lock. Keeping me out of view, Monahan twirled, inserted a key, stood back. “Slide it up, I’m smart enough to know my limitations.”

The door rose on smooth, greased bearings, curved inward and upward, exposing two hundred square feet of pristine white space filled with something massive and blue and stunning.

A gleaming vertically barred grille stared me in the face. The radiator cap was a sharp-edged V aimed for takeoff.

The car was huge, barely fitting into the space. Most of the length was taken up by a hood fashioned to accommodate a gargantuan engine. Headlights the size of dinner plates stared at me like the eyes of a giant squid. Hand-sculpted, wing-like fenders merged with polished running boards topped by gleaming metal tread-plates. A side-mounted spare matched four wide-wall, wire-wheeled tires. The car’s flanks were fluid and arrogant.

“Supercharged,” said Felix Monahan, pointing to a quartet of chrome pipes looping out of a chrome-plated grid. Thick and sinewy and menacing as a swarm of morays. “We’re talking zero to sixty in eight seconds in the thirties.”

I whistled.

He went on: “She cruises at one oh four in second gear and that’s without syncromesh. Max speed is one forty, and back when she was born you were lucky to get fifty horsepower out of a luxury car.”

“Unbelievable,” I said.

“Not really, Doctor. What’s unbelievable is how a country that could create this can’t come up with anything better than plastic phones that die in six months. Put together by peasants living on gruel.”

I’d come to see the car in the hope that I might pry more info from him. But the Duesenberg’s beauty held me captive. The paint, a perfect duet of convivial blues, was a masterpiece of lacquer. The interior was butter-soft, hand-stitched leather whose pale aqua hue matched the spotless top. More artisanal metalwork for the sculpted dashboard. The rosewood-and-silver steering wheel would’ve looked dandy on a museum pedestal.

Even silent and static, the car managed to project an aura of ferocity and mastery. The kind of queenly confidence you see in a certain type of woman, able to work natural beauty to her advantage without flirting or raising her voice.

I said, “Thanks for giving me the opportunity.”

Felix Monahan said, “You can thank me by dropping the whole notion of Jimmy Asherwood being some sort of criminal. A, he isn’t, and B, I don’t like anything that upsets my wife.”

“No one’s out to-”

He stopped me with a palm. “That woman you mentioned-Green-I can’t tell you about her because I don’t know her and I’m sure that applies to Grace. However, I did know Jimmy and there’s zero chance he fathered that baby or had anything to do with its death.”

“Okay.”

“That doesn’t sound sincere.”

“I-”

“When Grace inquired about you, she was told you’re quite the brilliant fellow, had a promising academic career that you traded, for some reason, for immersing yourself in the lowest elements of society-hear me out, I’m not judging you, as Jimmy told Grace, everyone should live their own life. But now I see you as intruding on Grace’s life and that worries me because of something else your former colleagues said: You never let go.”

I kept silent.

He said, “Close the garage.”

After he locked up, he faced me. His eyes were slits, and the tremor in his hands was mimicked by quivers along his jawline.

“Mr. Monahan, I’m-”

“Listen carefully, young man: Jimmy didn’t father that child or any other. He was incapable.”

“Sterile?”

“Grace doesn’t know. But I do, because Jimmy was like an older brother to me and he could confide in me in a way he couldn’t with Grace because I was able to keep my emotions in check. He and I used to motor together, drive out to where he stored his cars, pick one on a whim and go hit some great, dusty roads. One day we were out in his ’35 Auburn Boattail Speedster. Motoring in Malibu, up in the hills, in those days it was brush and scrub. The Auburn chewed up the asphalt, glorious thing, Jimmy and I took turns behind the wheel. We stopped for a smoke and a nip-nothing extreme, a taste from the hip flask and a couple of fine Havanas at a spot where the ocean was visible. Jimmy seemed more relaxed than I’d ever seen him. Then all of a sudden, he said, ‘Felix, people think I’m homosexual, don’t they? Because I like art and going to the ballet and have never married.’ What do you say to something like that? The truth was he was right. Jimmy was regarded as what was then called ‘sensitive.’ Apart from cars, his interests were feminine.”

“The paper described him as a sportsman.”

“The paper relied on information provided by Grace. The only sport I ever saw Jimmy engage in was a spot of polo in Montecito and not much of that. Now, there’s nothing wrong with liking Die Fledermaus, but combine that with his never marrying-never showing interest in women-it was a reasonable conclusion. But what I said was, ‘Jimmy, that’s rot.’ To which he said, ‘You’re not a fool, Felix. You never wondered?’ I said, ‘Your business is your own, Jimmy.’ To which he replied, ‘So you believe it, too.’ I protested and he laughed that off, stood and proceeded to unbuckle his belt and lower his trousers and his shorts.”

His eyes clamped shut. “Terrible sight. He’d been mangled. Shrapnel flyoff from a land mine on D-Day. Larger pieces and he’d have been sheared in two, fortunately he survived. However, the shards that did find their way into his body left hideous scars on his legs. And nothing much in the way of manhood.”

“Poor man.”

“When I saw it, Dr. Delaware, I couldn’t help myself, I cried like a baby. Not my style, when my mother passed I held myself in check. But Jimmy like that?”

Long sigh. “He pulled up his trousers and smiled and said, ‘So you see, Felix, it’s not for lack of interest, it’s for lack of equipment.’ Then he took a long swallow from the flask-emptied it-said, ‘You drive home.’ ”

Monahan placed both hands to his temples. “Jimmy was a man’s man. And you need to honor that and vow to not repeat this to anyone because if Grace ever learned the truth and that I was the one who told you, it would destroy her and do irreparable harm to my marriage.”

“I promise, Mr. Monahan. But there’s something you need to consider: The lieutenant I work with is honorable and discreet, but he’s also extremely persistent and left to his own devices he may eventually trace the car back to Jimmy, as I did. I have credibility with him and if I’m allowed to give him some basic details, it’s unlikely you’ll ever hear from him.”

“Unlikely,” he said. “But you can’t guarantee.”

“I’m being honest, Mr. Monahan.”

“You’re a psychologist, sir. Your allegiance should be building people up, not tearing them down.”

“I agree.”

“What would you like to tell this policeman?”

“That Jimmy was a good man whose war injuries prevented him from fathering a child. That most of his life seems to have centered around good deeds.”

“Not most,” said Felix Monahan. “All. A purer soul never walked this earth.”

His eyes swept over my face, thorough as a CAT scanner. “I choose to consider you a man of honor.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Show your appreciation by doing the right thing.”

CHAPTER 18