Head Wounds

“Then come with me.”

“No.”

“I’m going anyway.”

“Not without me.”

“Great.”

“What are you trying to prove?” she asked.

“My innocence.”

“By talking to the victim’s father?”

“I just want to ask a couple of questions.”

“This ought to be a treat.”

I had her meet me at the corner coffee place in the Village so we could drive together over to Milhouser’s.

She was wearing her stable-girl outfit, complete with barn jacket and cowboy boots. It must have been the influence of the big horse show they had in Bridgehampton every year, because that was the closest she’d ever been to an actual horse.

Her massive ball of strawberry-blonde hair struggled against a pair of black plastic barrettes. Her lips were the color of a freshly waxed fire engine

“Hey, Annie Oakley. Where’s Trigger?”

“You’re thinking of Roy Rogers.”

“Not in that lipstick.”

“Get your coffee and let’s go,” she said. “I want to get this over with.”

As we drove she asked me why I wanted to talk to Jeff Milhouser.

“Robbie’s crew told me they’re now working for the old man. I just want to know if he realizes who he’s dealing with.”

“That’s all?”

“Until I think of something else.”

When we got to Milhouser’s office I was glad I brought Jackie along. It wasn’t hard to imagine what kind of reception I was going to get. I just hadn’t let myself think about it until I saw his name on the sign: “Jefferson Milhouser, Construction Management, Floors Refinished and Installed, Real Estate, Fine Arts.”

I went ahead and knocked.

I heard a yell from inside telling me to come in. Jackie glowered at me as I opened the door.

“Hello Mr. Milhouser. I’m Sam Acquillo.”

“Sammy Acquillo,” said Milhouser, looking at me over the top of his Newsday.

You could probably trace the roots of my boxing career to elementary school when some jerk thought he could call me Sammy and get away with it. But I figured hearing it from an old man who thought I’d killed his son was worth a pass.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked me.

“That’s my question,” I heard Jackie murmur.

“This is Jackie Swaitkowski. She’s my attorney. We tried to call but the line was busy.”

“So that gave you the idea you could just drop by?”

“People call me Sam, Mr. Milhouser. And I didn’t do it.”

I hadn’t offered my hand and he hadn’t moved from his desk. He looked better than I thought he would. I guessed his age to be around seventy, but he was still slim and reasonably good looking, with a full head of wavy white hair and delicate, Anglo features that made him look a lot more like Burton’s father than Robbie’s.

“They call me Jeff. And why should I believe you?”

“Because I want to talk to you. And I can’t see you talking to somebody you think is capable of such a thing.”

“That was a poor choice of words. Capable is exactly what you are.”

His eyes were light blue, like the color of a robin’s egg. A random sprinkling of age spots spread across his pale skin.

“He just wants to talk with you,” said Jackie. “If you’re uncomfortable with that we’ll leave immediately.”

“That’s a switch. Hardly heard a word out of him when he was a kid. Surly little bastard, is how I remember it. Big chip on his shoulder.”

Jackie arched an eyebrow at me, but didn’t say what I knew she was about to say. Milhouser took the moment to surprise us both.

“You like iced tea?”

“Not especially,” I said.

“I love it,” said Jackie.

“I do, too. They got an excellent iced tea at the pizza place next door. I was about to go get some and sit out in the sun. It’s too nice to be cooped up in here.”

“Can we join you?” Jackie asked.

“It’s a free country.” He looked at me. “At least if you’re not about to rot in jail for the rest of your life.”

When he stood and grabbed a jacket I was surprised again, this time by his height, which was a lot less than I remembered.

I got a cup of coffee and followed Milhouser and Jackie with their iced teas around to the back of the building where there was a round plastic table with folding chairs and evidence of recent meals and cigarette breaks. Milhouser moved quickly, with a straight posture and his son’s bearing.

The coming spring was apparent in the cool sea breeze and light green fuzz on the boxwoods that lined the back of the building. Despite the breeze the sun was warm enough to heat up your face and throw a glare off the lawn furniture. Jackie and I put on our sunglasses. Milhouser just squinted.

“You’re probably wondering why I haven’t called the cops or thrown you out on your asses,” he said after we sat down.

He looked from me to Jackie and back again while he stirred a packet of artificial sweetener into his tea.

“A little,” I admitted

“You want to talk to me. Maybe I want to talk to you.”

“About what?” asked Jackie.

“I want to know why he did it.”

“I didn’t,” I told him. “No reason to.”

“Not according to Ross Semple.”

“You talked to Ross?” Jackie asked.

“Hell no. I read it in the paper. I’m no fan of Semple’s, but he can’t be wrong all the time.”

“He usually isn’t. He’s just wrong this time.”

“My wife’s dead, did you know that?”

“No.” said Jackie, quicker to catch the implication.

“Too bad. Might’ve made Acquillo here think twice before taking the only other thing that mattered to me.”

“I’ve got a daughter. I couldn’t imagine losing her,” I told him.

He watched me carefully as he took a sip of tea. In the bright sunlight he looked more his age, his pale eyes nearly bleached white, the age spots on his cheeks and forehead more noticeable, drawing attention to a pattern of broken capillaries at the tip of his nose.

“So this is why I can talk to you,” he said. “You can’t do me any more harm. Even if you came here to kill me.”

“Honestly, Mr. Milhouser,” said Jackie.

I just let the comment sit where it fell.

“So you’re taking over Robbie’s project,” I said.

“Projects. You wouldn’t believe all the things that kid had going on.”

“I was thinking about the place over on Bay Edge Drive,” I said.

“Beautiful house. Just beautiful. It’s Robbie’s monument.”