Carmen’s mother’s home had a sun porch across the front with a wide-open view of Lake Huron, gray as the sky, nothing to see. Richie stood there, giving the woman a look at his ironworkers-build-America jacket before turning to the living room again: dark in here, full of old furniture and pictures of birds all over the dark-paneled walls, color prints of birds and some that looked like a little kid had drawn them with crayons. Richie figured there were about thirty bird pictures in here, all different sizes and all framed. It was warm in here, too. He could hear a radiator hissing steam.
Richie said, “You like birds, huh? I notice you have feeders out’n the yard.”
“I’ve always loved birds,” Lenore said. “My mother named me from a poem about a bird. I guess I just love nature.” She gave a girlish shrug, but then looked at him hard through her glasses and said, “Don’t you?”
Like she was testing him. Richie felt he’d better say yes if they were going to get along. He said, “You bet. I even have a friend named Bird,” and gave the woman a smile, though loving nature made no sense to him. What was there to love about it? Nature was just
Lenore gestured toward the crayon drawings and said, “Matthew did those when he was little. I’ve kept them.”
Like he was supposed to know who Matthew was. “They’re nice,” Richie said.
“He’s in the United States Navy, aboard an aircraft carrier.”
Richie nodded along, wondering about a kid who liked to draw birds and ended up joining the navy, the kid sounding like a fucking re-tard. So it caught him by surprise when the woman said:
“What job are you working on?”
“Oh, well, we been on different ones.”
He’d better be careful, stay alert.
This woman’s eyes reminded him of Donna’s the way they seemed magnified by her glasses, her eyes hard and dark in silver frames. She was all red and grayish, red lips and rouge on her cheeks and grayish-blond hair to the shoulders of her flowery blouse. Another one trying to look girlish, but in a different way than Donna worked it. This one was a lot older and heavier, more like a foster mom he’d had named Jackie, who worked hard with six of her own kids in the house and was always sweating. Had little beads of perspiration on her upper lip like this one. Jackie could look you in the eye and tell if you were lying.
“I was wondering if you might be working on that Cobo Hall expansion.”
This woman seemed to know the business.
“As a matter of fact we were,” Richie said, hoping she wasn’t setting him up, trying to trip him. She didn’t appear suspicious. He’d still better cut the chitchat before he got in trouble. It was funny how he had the feeling of being back in a foster home.
“Anyway, what I started to tell you, I don’t see what difference it makes who mails the check, you or us. But the boss says we have to do it. I guess since it’s up to the company. You understand it’s not the boss doesn’t trust you. I told him you were a nice lady to offer in the first place.”
“And I told you,” Lenore said, “I don’t have their address. She never gave it to me. The only thing I have’s their phone number.”
Richie felt an urge to slap this old woman across the face and tell her to, goddammit, wake up. Why didn’t she say so on the phone and save them a trip? He had to wait till he could act natural and sound surprised before saying to her, “You didn’t mention that, did you, you have their number?”
“Not on the phone I didn’t,” Lenore said. “I wasn’t absolutely positive whom I was speaking to. I’ve had some problems with the wrong kind of people calling me, if you know what I mean.”
“I understand,” Richie said, forgiving the woman now that it seemed so easy. “You can’t be too careful.”
“Anything the least bit suspicious I report to the Annoyance Call Bureau. That’s what they’re for.”
“I don’t blame you,” Richie said, not knowing what she was talking about, but wanting to get this deal moving. “Well, I don’t see any problem now. You know we’re like family. Ironworkers build America and they look out for each other. Let’s call and get that address so we can send Wayne his check.”
“Ironworkers drink more than anybody in America, too,” Lenore said. “You give him that check, you know where he’ll cash it, don’t you? The nearest bar.”
“You’re saying Wayne drinks?”
“You know an ironworker doesn’t?”
“I barely touch it myself,” Richie said, thinking, Wait a minute. Jesus, is that all ...And said it, “Is that all you’re worried about, he’ll spend it on liquor?”
“The way I look at it,” Lenore said, “if he doesn’t have extra money to spend, he won’t be tempted beyond what little willpower he might have. I don’t see why I should make my little girl’s life any harder than it is, with all she has to put up with.”
Man, here was a woman who could ruin your life knowing what was best for you.
Richie felt himself on the verge of causing her pain. Ask her to tell him the number. If she wouldn’t, bend her old-woman arm behind her back till she did. Or grab a handful of that skin hanging from her throat and give it a twist. He wouldn’t hit her. He had never hit a woman with his fist. Well, maybe once or twice. He’d punched Laurie that time, trying to find out if Kevin had been fucking her; but that was different, they were married. He was thinking of what he might do here, like start tearing her clothes off . . .
When Lenore said, “There’s only one way I’d consider making the call.”
It stopped Richie, just as he saw himself about to rip open her flowery blouse.
“And that’s if I leave it up to Carmen. If she says send the check, she can use it, then all right, it’s okay with me. But I won’t tell Wayne about it if he answers and I won’t let you talk to him, either.”
“That’s fine with me,” Richie said, experiencing a relief and then a tender feeling as they went to the phone sitting on a table and the woman bent over to look in her address book. Richie laid his hand on the warm, moist material covering her back and gave it a few gentle pats.
Lenore said, “Have you ever had back trouble? Mine is just killing me.”
Richie moved his hand down her old-woman spine, exploring. “Where? Right there?”
Ferris stood in the doorway to the hall: hands on his hips, no sport coat today, wearing a white shirt with the three top buttons undone, the short sleeves turned up to show more arm and muscle, and a big revolver snubbed high on his right hip.
The pose, Carmen thought. Saying, Look at me, Ferris Britton, Deputy Marshal. Dumb enough to be a TV star, he had the hair, the build, the fake
boyish grin. ... The only trouble was he was real.
“I rang the bell.”
Carmen waited.
“You heard it, didn’t you? You can’t say I just walked in on you.”
“What do you call it?” Carmen said. “I didn’t notice anybody opened the door for you.” She stood between the window and the sofa only half-turned to him, arms folded in her own kind of pose.
“I bet you even saw me drive up. Ernie, you heard me ring the bell, didn’t you?”
Molina, seated again, said, “Yeah, I heard it.”
“Then why didn’t you come to the door?”
“I don’t live here no more.”
“I guess that’s true enough, Ernie, but you could’ve answered the door, couldn’t you?”
Ferris serious was annoying as Ferris grinning. “The reason we didn’t open the door,” Carmen said, “was because we didn’t want you to come in. It’s that simple.”
“Why not?”
“Jesus, what difference does it make? Just leave, okay? Take your shoulders and your wavy hair and
Ferris raised one hand to his head, frowning. “My
The phone rang in the kitchen, the sound coming from behind him. Ferris held up his hand.
“I got it—don’t nobody move. It’s prob’ly for me.” The phone rang again. “If it isn’t, I bet it’s a wrong
