I paused for effect.
“But I think you know.”
“This is ridiculous,” Epstein said.
Still I ignored him.
“Spider’s real name was John Charles Lowery.”
Epstein and Schoon both looked surprised. Epstein regretted it. Forced his face blank.
“But you claim
Placing my forearms on the table, I leaned in.
“But John Charles Lowery never went to Vietnam. Did he, Reggie?”
Still Cumbo avoided my eyes.
“You remember Spider. You were cousins. You went to school together. Played baseball together. Wasn’t it you who encouraged Spider to join the team?”
Cumbo’s thumbnails were clicking double-time.
“Want to know how Spider died? He tied a rock to his ankle and drowned himself. His body’s lying in a morgue in Montreal. The tag on his toe says John Doe.”
A bit loose with the facts, but close enough.
Epstein flapped a hand, dismissive. “We’re finished here. This woman is clearly misinformed.” He gripped the arms of his chair and began to push back.
“You’re right and you’re wrong.” Cumbo’s eyes bore into mine.
“Mr. Lapasa, I strongly advise—”
Without turning, Cumbo raised a finger, a teacher demanding silence.
Epstein frowned disapproval.
Unhooking the elastic loops from his ears, Cumbo removed the mask.
I forced myself still.
Cumbo hadn’t worn protection out of fear of infection. The lower half of his face was grotesquely disfigured. His chin skewed right at an unnatural angle, and his lower jaw appeared way too small. I guessed most of his mandible had been surgically removed. His neck had a cavernous indentation, and a scar jagged diagonally across his throat.
“That make us even? Your face is shit too.”
I kept my eyes steady on Cumbo’s.
“You nailed it,” he said. “I’m not Al Lapasa. And I’m not Spider.”
“You’re Reggie Cumbo.”
“Haven’t been Reggie Cumbo for over forty years.”
“You reported for military service in Spider’s place.”
“He didn’t want to go. I did.”
“Spider went to Canada.”
Cumbo shrugged. “He liked snow.”
“Did you keep in touch?”
“For a while. I forwarded his mama’s letters. Quit when I headed to Nam.” Cumbo’s mouth executed a slippery sideways maneuver. “Still got some of her crap in a box.”
“The army wasn’t what you expected.”
Cumbo’s eyes narrowed.
“Combat. Hot, stinking jungle. You wanted out.”
“That war was stupid.” Defensive.
“So you murdered Xander Lapasa.”
“What? Am I watching a rerun?” Cumbo tossed the mask. It did a lopsided roll across the table, then dropped to the floor.
I switched topics.
“You own a bar in Oakland called the Savaii.”
“That a crime?”
“Savaii is a town in Samoa.”
“Now we all get an A in geography.”
“The Savaii is a hangout for members of a street gang called Sons of Samoa.”
