‘I never wanted to do this. I only agreed because you asked me.’
‘If you didn't want to play, you shouldn't have agreed. If you back out now everything's lost, not to mention the money I've invested.’
‘I'll pay you back.’
I laughed. ‘You! You can't even afford a decent pair of shoes!’
He was so hurt I was afraid he was going to cry. ‘I'm sorry,’ I told him. ‘I'm being mean. You did enough, delving into that pit of sleaze. I love you all the more because it was so hard for you. Let me show you just how much I love you.’
How could he resist, poor boy?
Afterwards I watched him sleep, then went downstairs where there's a cigarette machine, bought a pack, returned to the room, sat down in the crummy easy chair, and watched him some more while I smoked.
I don't know what got into me. I haven't smoked tobacco in five years, not since Belle was taken. But it felt good to draw the smoke in, feel it in my lungs. I think because I felt so filthy in my soul I wanted to physically dirty myself inside.
Then T woke up, he sniffed the air. ‘You've been smoking.’
‘Yes, my sweet.’
‘I never saw you smoke anything but pot.’
‘It's a rare occurrence.’
‘Please smoke another so I can watch.’
I lit up again, sat back, inhaled deeply, blew out gusts, a few smoke rings, too.
‘I wish this were pot,’ I told him.
‘I'll bring some next time.’
‘I'm shocked, shocked that you, a teacher, a sterling example to children, partake of drugs!’
He laughed. ‘There's a girl in my house who smokes all the time.’
‘Then bring some.’
‘We’ll share, get high together.’
‘Yes, that'll be fun.’
He paused at the door. ‘Because I promised you, B, I'll try to see it through.’
‘A man of his word. I appreciate that. Just a couple more weeks and I'll release you from your vows.’
Soon as he left, I called W from the room. It was 5 p.m.. I knew just where to reach him, at the Townsend bar.
‘I know it's you,’ I told him.
‘What are you talking about, love.’
‘I bet your left eyelid's twitching as we speak.’
‘Are you crazy, Barb, or what?’
‘I've got proof. My detectives tracked the letters back to you.’
‘That's absurd!’
‘I knew you were a snake, W. But I didn't know how poisonous. I truly didn't.’
Silence. Then: ‘When you say things like that to me, you're as good as declaring war.’
‘Let there be war then. So be it.’
‘You forget one thing, love. You may be a hell of a fighter on the tennis court, but the field of battle we're talking about is mine. I was born to it, you only sucked your way up, and I can push you back into the gutter any time I please!’
‘I'm afraid you're the real guttersnipe, W, as your cozy Happy Few will soon find out! And I'd watch that left eyeball if I were you. When it starts to twitch, everyone in town knows you're lying.’
‘Meow! Bye, darling!’
‘Yeah, darling – meow to you, too.’
Correlating this delicious entry to other dateable ones, I understand it refers to events that took place on Wednesday, August 13 – the same day Dad cancelled his afternoon appointment and staked out the Flamingo to determine whether Barbara's affair with Tom Jessup was fact or fantasy.
The thought of him spying on her there raises the hairs on my neck. From what vantage point, I wonder, did he observe the arrivals of their cars, their separate entries to the balcony and room 201, Barbara's post-lovemaking descent to purchase cigarettes, and finally their separate exits?
From his car parked in the Flamingo lot? Too dangerous, I think. From Moe's Burgers across the street? The windows at Moe's were too large, creating danger if Barbara should suddenly turn and stare. Another possibility is the Shanghai Sapphire, the greasy-spoon Chinese restaurant on the other side of the lot. But the windows there were small and draped, which would have made it hard for him to see. Also, since Barbara reports she phoned Waldo as late as five, it's hard to imagine him sitting there a full three hours.
Then it occurs to me: What if Dad also checked into the Flamingo that afternoon; got himself a room on the second level overlooking the courtyard and pool; pulled a chair up to his window; drew the blinds just the right amount; and thus created a viewing post from which to observe the comings and goings of the respective parties?
This notion's so intriguing I put down the diary and call Kate Evans. When Johnny puts me through, I ask if she still has the registry ledgers from that year.
'Sorry,' Kate says, 'when we switched to computers I threw the old handwritten ones out.'
'Kate, about that drawing-'
'Yes?' I feel her growing tense.
'The man you described looked so nice, so kindly, did you think about what I asked you the other day – whether you might have gotten two different people confused?'
A long pause. 'Yes, I did think about it. Like I told you, I think that must have been what happened.'
'But who, Kate? Who might you have gotten mixed up?'
'I remember there was another man who care around that time.'
'The day of the shootings?'
'Maybe not that day exactly.'
'Well, think more about it, will you, Kate? Try to remember, okay?'
'Yes,' she promises. 'I'll try.'
Putting down the phone, I hope against hope that she decides she saw Dad when he came snooping around the motel, and, so frightened by the shooter, transposed Dad's kindly features upon his.
I pick up the diary again. On Monday, August 18, the proverbial shit hits the fan:
Monday
W's column: This morning he as much as says a certain member of his Happy Few is shagging her shrink on the old analytic couch!
Furious, I phone him up.
‘Oh, hi there, love,’ he says, all prissy and smug. ‘I wonder what's on your cute little mind this lovely sunny Monday morning.’
‘How could you write something so vile?’
‘Is it, love?’
‘You bet it is! Listen, W-’
‘No, you listen, bitch! That's just a taste – do you hear me? – the merest whiff of what I can do. So mind your manners and I'll mind mine, and get over this nonsensical notion that I sent you those nasty items in the post. That's not my style. My style of waging war is the same as yours – total! Hear what I'm saying, love?’
‘Yeah, I hear you. Sounds like you're making threats.’
‘Not threats, darling. Statements of fact. This isn't a big town, at least not our set. We don't have to adore one another, but it's better to live in peace than war. Now the good news – right after Labor Day I'm off to Europe, my usual haunts… Venice, Paris, Cap d'Antibes. As I recall, there's a certain Parisian saddlery shop you like. My intention is to stop at Hermes and pick you up a nice piece of tack, say a saddle and bridle set. Call it a peace offering, my way of saying that for all the harsh words between us, it's my profound hope that we can remain friends. So, love, what do you say?’
I ignored his peace offering, changed the subject.
