“Can you believe this shit?” he asked, pointing at all the cars already parked in neat rows on the east lawn. “So much for that intimate little memorial service, huh?”
“Let’s hang out here and maybe the MetLife blimp will show up for overhead coverage.”
“Too cloudy for that. Snow’s in the air.”
I looked up. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Here are your claim checks, gentlemen,” a very polite, dark-skinned East Asian kid said, handing us our receipts.
The claim tags were playing card-size renderings of Sashi Bluntstone paintings. Just amazing. Inside, they probably had life-size Jell-O molds of Sashi’s paintings.
“You see these guys parking the cars, Prager? All freakin’ Indians and Chinks. What’d she do, hire the high school chess and math teams? Un-fuckin’-believable.”
I didn’t bother saying anything to him about his not so subtle racism. Some guys bring their racism to the job. Sometimes the job brings the racism to them. And no matter which way you were infected, alcohol made things worse.
“You think this thing’s catered?” he asked.
“Given that there’s valet parking, I’d say the chances are pretty good.”
“I hope they have those little hot dogs. It’s not a party without the little hot dogs.”
“It’s not a party,” I reminded him.
“You think?”
“Come on, let’s get inside before it starts snowing.”
I put my hand on McKenna’s shoulder and urged him forward. Closer to him now, I could smell the alcohol strong on his breath. He wasn’t staggering, but he was tight. Apparently I hadn’t been the only one struggling with his part in this whole ordeal.
A very large, head-shaven, well-dressed black man stood guard at the door. He kept his hands at his side and wore a practiced expression that walked the line between dispassion and threat. His suit jacket was cut loosely enough to hide the sidearm he was no doubt carrying beneath it, but given the circus atmosphere, I wasn’t sure whether he was here to keep the press in or out. McKenna took one look at the guy, blew air loudly through his lips, and shook his head in disdain. He did it specifically so the security man would notice. If he had noticed, he didn’t show it.
“What the fuck, Prager? They think a fight’s gonna break out here or what?”
“I think it’s just a precaution. Rich people can get pretty weird about security, especially if paparazzi are involved.”
“Who even gives a shit anymore?” he said. “The kid’s old news. You have any idea how many other little girls have been murdered over the last few weeks?”
It was a question that required no answer, but I answered anyway to try and move him off the subject: “Too many.”
“One is too many.”
“You’ll get no argument from me.”
“Gentlemen,” the security man said, politely nodding his head and opening the door.
We stepped in.
“They’re really gonna screw me, Moe.”
“Who is?”
“The fucking bosses. My rabbi says they want to stick me in IA and there’s nothing he can do to protect me. Me, in Internal Affairs! Jesus, I might as well put in my papers or eat my gun.”
“Don’t be an ass. Come on, let’s see what’s what.”
It was apparent pretty quickly what was what. There were bars set up in the main hallway at the base of each of the two staircases. At one of the bars, I recognized the faces of some local female TV reporters, their heavy makeup looking ridiculous under normal lighting. What was a circus without clowns, right? I guess the news vans were parked around the rear of the house. At least I didn’t see any cameras, but that didn’t mean the cameramen weren’t setting up in the room where the memorial was to be held. There was a small army of tuxedoed servers passing trays of hors d’oeuvres. None of the silver trays seemed to contain those little hot dogs. This didn’t much please McKenna nor did the presence of the media.
“Fuck this! I’m getting a drink.” He walked away. I didn’t try to stop him. He was a man on a mission.
On the other hand, I had no intention of drinking. While I’d made a dent in the bottle of fancy scotch on New Year’s Eve, I hadn’t overdone it. I meant to keep it that way, but when I saw Sarah walking towards me, I changed my mind on the notion of temporary sobriety. She was holding someone’s hand as she approached. That someone was Paul Stern. I was painfully aware of her taking note of the disapproval in my expression before I even realized exactly what it was I was feeling.
“Hi, Dad.” She leaned over and kissed my cheek.
“Moe,” Paul said, letting go of Sarah’s hand to shake mine. I shook it. I wasn’t happy, but I wasn’t a complete idiot.
“We’ve been seeing each other since Christmas Eve,” Sarah said. “Be happy about it, Dad.”
“You don’t need my approval to date.”
“Yes, we do,” Paul said. “You know we do.”
“Well, I need a drink. I’ll see you guys later.”
I walked over to one of the bars where Randy Junction was milling about with a rather spectacular blond. She wasn’t young, but the forty years or so she’d managed to live hadn’t laid a glove on her. She had that perfect Morgan Fairchild nose and violet eyes that were impossible not to stare at. She saw me staring, but she was used to being stared at. Junction was used to men staring at her.
“Mr. Prager,” he said, after I collected my scotch, “this is my wife, Jill. Jill, Moe Prager. He’s the-”
“-man that found Sashi’s killer, yes.” Her voice was as husky as she was lean. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She offered me her hand. “Thank you for finding out what happened, though I wish things had turned out differently.”
“Me too.”
“A lost child of any kind is a tragedy,” she said.
That cut deep. I remembered back to Katy’s miscarriage, how it tore her up inside, how it caused the first subtle cracks in our marriage. I took a prodigious gulp of scotch. “It’s awful for everyone.”
“Except for my husband and the cunt throwing this strange little affair.”
“Jill!” Junction snapped.
“Don’t Jill me! You and that dried-up bitch will need your own private bank tellers now that Sashi’s dead.”
“Okay, that’s quite enough from you.” He grabbed his wife’s arm, but she pulled away from him.
“Again, Mr. Prager, a pleasure to meet you.” She sauntered off into the crowd.
“You’ll have to excuse my wife. She’s had a little too much to drink already.”
“Seemed in control of her faculties to me.”
“It’s Sashi. You see, she can’t have children,” he said with blame in his voice. It wasn’t that they couldn’t have children. She couldn’t have them.
“She can’t have children and you can’t keep your dick in your pants. I think I’ll take her side in this.”
“You don’t understand. Sure, she’s very beautiful, but-”
“Save the explanations for someone who gives a shit, okay? And by the way, I got some of the paintings back.”
You’ve got to love human reflex because in spite of himself and his surroundings and his wife’s commentary on his greed, Randy Junction’s eyes got big and he smiled a big wet juicy smile. Money makes the world go around, the world go around, the world go around
… The best part was watching him struggle to wipe his face clean of joy. He just couldn’t do it and I guess he figured it wasn’t worth the effort. I wasn’t worth it.
“Try not to ejaculate right here, Randy,” I said, waving my glass at the bartender for a refill. “A double.” The bartender more than obliged.
Junction was gone before the words were out of my mouth. No doubt to hunt for Sonia Barrows-Willingham
