“If you’re an FBI agent, why did you make that scene at the oral argument, with the bomb?”
“It was part of my ingenious master plan.”
I can’t tell if he’s kidding. “What plan?”
“Trust me, I’m smarter than I look.”
“Smart? It got you banished from the courthouse.”
“But it got me in good with the reporters, and that’s very useful to me right now. Please come out. We don’t have much time.”
“We?”
“
I open the door a bit. “So you’re a federal agent or a schizophrenic impersonating a Quaker.”
His expression settles into businesslike lines behind the grimy beard. “You were close to Armen, right?”
I can’t get over the incongruity of such an educated voice coming out of a bag man. “A reporter just asked me that.”
“Were you close to him?”
“Wait a minute. Does Artie know about you?”
“No. No one does, except you.”
“Why me?”
“Because I need you.”
“What for?”
His eyes look slightly bloodshot in the harsh overhead lights. “This is confidential. All of it.”
“Fine. What?”
“Are you going to work for Judge Galanter?”
“Possibly. How did you know that?”
“You told Sarah, Sarah told Artie, Artie told me.”
“They teach you that at Quantico? Whisper down the lane?”
“Hey, whatever works. It’s the only rule in this game.” He breaks into a crooked grin, but I don’t like his insouciance. Or his scummy teeth.
“You know, Artie really likes you. He worried about you when you were in jail.”
“I know.”
“He risked his career pretending to be your lawyer.”
He purses his authentically parched lips. “Don’t worry about me and Artie, okay? I have a job to do, he’ll understand.”
“Oh, I see. Manly men, ye be. So what’s the story?”
“I’m undercover in an investigation supervised by the Justice Department. I can’t tell you the details, I shouldn’t even be meeting with you myself. All I can tell you is that it concerns charges of official corruption.”
I feel my nausea resurge. “Corruption?”
“In the judiciary.”
I think of the checkbook nestled in my Carter’s at home. Armen’s checkbook. “What kind of corruption?”
“Bribery, obstruction of justice.”
Oh, God. “A federal appellate judge? Those are impeachable offenses.”
“They’re also crimes, so I couldn’t care less if he loses his job. I need you to help me look for certain evidence.”
“What’s the matter with a search warrant?”
“I don’t have enough for probable cause, not yet.” His face grows tense. “What time is it anyway? I can’t wear a watch on this job.”
I glance at my wrist. “Noon.”
“Shit. I have to be at the shelter, otherwise they run out of sandwiches. If you’d come out of the goddamn stall earlier—”
“What kind of evidence are you talking about?” I say, but he’s busy yanking out the bottom of a ratty T-shirt so that it shows under his faded WHITE WATER KINGDOM sweatshirt.
“Do I look pathetic enough? I only made seven bucks yesterday. All this bullshit about not encouraging us.”
“Tell me more about the investigation. Is Galanter the only suspect?”
“No, and that’s all you need to know. Don’t tell anybody we talked. Give me back Tom Cruise.” He slips on his rain bonnet and ties it under his chin like a babushka. “After all, I’m the Rain Man.”
“I get it.” I hand him the wallet, which he slips into a pocket sewn into the folds of his trousers. “What if I want to call you?”
“You can’t. I’m homeless, remember?” He pushes his pants down around his hips and starts to leave the bathroom. “I have to go. I’ll explain it all later.”
“Do you think Armen was murdered?”
His face falls suddenly behind its hobo’s mask. “Why do you ask?”
“Why don’t you answer?”
“Maybe.”
I feel my heart pounding. “Do you think it has to do with your investigation?”
“Maybe.”
I think of Armen, lying face forward on his desk. Did he really take money for a case? There are so many questions, and only one thing is clear. It hurts inside.
“I miss him too,” the agent says. Then he opens the ladies’ room door and slouches out.
15
Maddie’s gone outside to play, and my mother hands me her dinner dish for rinsing. The child left more peas than I thought. Puckered now, they careen randomly on the surface of the dish. “Let’s talk about Dad,” I say, taking the plate.
“Let’s not,” my mother says. She walks back into the dining room without meeting my eye. I watch her receding form, soft and shapeless in a pink acrylic sweatsuit. The back says NUMBER ONE GRANDMA. She bought it for herself.
“Why not?” I call after her.
“It’s not that time of year yet.”
At least she’s in a good mood. “What do you mean?” I maneuver Maddie’s plate into the wire dishwasher rack. Bernice, standing at her now-customary place at the dishwasher door, sniffs the plate, disappointed to find it clean already.
“You’re early,” my mother says, returning with my messy plate of waxy mashed potatoes. “You usually don’t start with those questions till Christmas.” Her mouth is a tight smile; wrinkles radiate like tiny scars from the edges of her lips.
“I could be late, did you ever think of it that way? I mean, is the glass half empty or half full?” I take the plate and she turns silently on her heel. “Depends on your perspective, Ma, right?” I watch the water splash harmlessly off an insoluble potato mound, then stow the dish in the rack to let Bernice finish the job.
My mother comes back as Bernice is in mid-meal. “Don’t let the dog do that, Grace! It’s unsanitary. We eat off those dishes. Shoo, shoo!” She bangs a glass down on the counter and takes a swipe at Bernice, who backs up, confused.
“It’s all right, Ma. It’s going into the dishwasher.”
“They’re not even cheap dishes, they’re expensive dishes. It’s unhealthy. The germs.”
“The hot water kills the germs.”
Her frown deepens as she eyes Bernice, who’s licking her chops sheepishly. “When I sit at your table, I don’t like to think I’m eating off a dog dish.”
“It’s not like I feed her from the dish.”
