hack quantum computers that are the current Holy Grail of cybernetics.
Whatever happened, we know from the anonymous surveillance tape that the man coming out of Keener’s house minutes after his murder was a thug and trigger-man well-known to Jonny Bing. Did Bing really order the hit? Apparently that’s one of the sordid little details that will never be known to civilians like us.
And what about Taylor Gatling, Jr.? Did he really kill himself or did he have help? It may not make any difference to the late Mr. Gatling, but I really want to know, Chinatown or not. I’m the chief factotum around here and would like to set the record straight. Call it housekeeping if you like.
Naomi says, in her maddeningly remote way, that I need to develop more patience, and that despite our best intentions, sometimes the bad guys get away with it, even after they’re dead and buried.
Oh, speaking of bad guys getting away with it, consider the case of that snake-in-the-grass Glenn Tolliver. At this point I can barely stand to write the creep’s name, so I’m just going to include a transcript of Piggy’s last interview with Jack Delancey, duly recorded at Cigar Masters without the Pigster’s knowledge. Such undisclosed recordings may be against the privacy laws, but as Piggy himself might say, in his ever-charming way, tough titty.
JACK: Hey. Looks like you started without me.
TOLLIVER: Hope you don’t mind. Couldn’t resist the Padron. [sound of puffing, groan of pleasure] Ah! Scotch tonight, though, not the cognac. Figured your boss would spring for the single malt, considering.
JACK: Yeah? Considering what?
TOLLIVER: My continued cooperation.
JACK: Oh yeah. That.
TOLLIVER: You sound a bit snippy, my son. What’s got you down? I hope it’s not having to shoot that low-life Killdeer. You did the world a favor, Jack. You should stand proud on that one.
JACK: I’m fine with that. Just wish I’d hit him sooner. I’d have been there in time if you hadn’t decided to haul me in for questioning that morning.
TOLLIVER: Can’t be helped. How was I to know?
JACK: Naomi has a theory about that. Gatling’s outfit picked up Shane’s cell phone call to me, from his end, and let you know.
TOLLIVER: [laughing] That’s crazy talk.
JACK: Is it? Quite a coincidence, you having me picked up minutes after Shane called requesting backup.
TOLLIVER: That’s all it was, a coincidence.
JACK: Really? My boss has a theory on that.
TOLLIVER: Full of theories, ain’t she?
JACK: Yeah, and this particular theory is, if something impossible is supposed to have occurred, look very deep, because the impossible doesn’t happen. That’s why it’s impossible.
TOLLIVER: Very profound. Almost as deep as that old wisdom dude in
JACK: Excuse me?
TOLLIVER: Pat Morita. Popular character actor. Probably croaked by now. Great movie.
JACK: We’re discussing movies?
TOLLIVER: Don’t get your boxers in a twist. Have a malt. Relax. Damn, these are great cigars!
JACK: As I was saying, we looked deep. And guess what we found?
TOLLIVER: Go on, astound me.
JACK: The bloody shirt. It was completely impossible for Shane to have returned to his motel room and left the bloody shirt behind, because by the time he got back to the motel it was already under surveillance.
TOLLIVER: So you say. But they found the shirt on the premises, so I guess it wasn’t impossible.
JACK: The motel was under surveillance by your men. Dispatched by you, as it turns out.
TOLLIVER: Sure. Just passing the word from Homeland. You knew that already.
JACK: There was no word from Homeland. The order originated with you. You dispatched your men to stake out the motel, and you went in with a warrant when it arrived. You were the first one through the door. The first one to discover the bloody shirt. Which, as we’ve already established, was impossible. Therefore we’re left with one really unpleasant conclusion: you planted it, Piggy.
TOLLIVER: Hey, son, watch your mouth. And that’s bull, about planting the shirt. Why would I do a thing like that?
JACK: Don’t ask a question you don’t want answered, Piggy, my boy. My brother. My son. You planted the shirt-handed to you by one of Gatling’s operatives, I’m guessing, because they had the professor under surveillance and were the first to be aware of his death, and because Gatling couldn’t pass up a chance, a gift, at revenge on Randall Shane. Or maybe they gave you a vial of the victim’s blood, and you used that on an item of Shane’s clothing. However you did it, you risked a felony conviction because you’d applied for early retirement so you can take a job with, drum roll, Gatling Security Group.
TOLLIVER: You’ll never prove none of that. It’s just a bullshit theory cooked up by some private investigator.
JACK: She didn’t make up the part about you retiring to take a high-paying job with GSG. Right there in your jacket. You put in your papers a month before Keener was killed.
TOLLIVER: So? No crime in that. It’s all legit. I got a daughter, a smart little angel, she deserves to go to a good school.
JACK: She deserves an honest father. Too bad she didn’t get one.
TOLLIVER: Screw you, Mr. Fancy Pants.
JACK: She deserves someone who didn’t try to frame an innocent man, for money. Who didn’t, in effect, delay the return of an abducted child to his rightful mother.
TOLLIVER: I never did that!
JACK: Sit down before you fall down, you big fool. Sure you did. Your actions helped Gatling put Shane out of commission. Left to his own devices, Randall Shane would have recovered Joey Keener while he was still being held in Prides Crossing, and at least one and possibly two human beings would still be alive.
TOLLIVER: No way. You can’t lay that on me.
JACK: I just did. Have a nice retirement, Piggy. I hope your little girl gets into a good school, I really do.
TOLLIVER: You’ll never prove it!
JACK: I’m not going to try. Why bother? You’re already dead to me.
TOLLIVER: Jack, come on.
JACK: The tab is in your name, by the way. I made sure of that.
You have to admire the style. That whole “you’re dead to me” thing reminds me why I’d never want to get on the wrong side of Jack Delancey. And unfortunately it’s true that we can’t prove Piggy planted evidence, even though he was the only one to have the opportunity. Dane Porter has explained the difficulties, no doubt she’s correct in the legal sense, but still it irks, knowing a high-ranking officer betrayed his oath and got away with it, and caused incalculable harm in the process.
It burns me, it really does.
Naomi says I need to cultivate a belief in karma. She invites me into her studio one afternoon to chat while she attempts her daily watercolor, and so far it is going remarkably well. The watercolor, I mean. It’s just an average still life, a Chinese vase with flowers, but she’s getting the light just right, a beam of late-afternoon sun that catches one particular blossom, a white lily, making it look illuminated from within.
I’m holding my breath, hoping for once she’ll accept the inevitability of imperfection she mentioned and let the pretty little painting survive.
“Piggy will find his own karma,” she says, wetting her softest brush. “Think of it this way. He gets the money, and whatever further corruption his new career provides, and we get the music.”
“The music is good,” I say.
Mozart trills airily from the soft echo chamber of the Zen garden, the next room over from the studio. The keyboard kid is practicing under the watchful, grateful eye of his mi ma. The mother and child have been offered
