“Very clever,” I said.
Two teenage girls in shorts and bikini tops rode their bikes past the house. Clyde’s eyes took them in, spit them out. He pulled off his sunglasses and slid them into his pocket.
“I’ve been thinking…me and a buddy on the force, we’ve got this idea,” he said. “A TV show about cops at the Jersey Shore. You know anything about getting a show on TV?”
After the minor success of Midnight Chair my agent warned me that everyone I knew, no exceptions, would pitch an idea for a movie, a play, or a TV show. He was mostly right.
“I never worked much in TV,” I said. When I first moved to California, I’d had a staff job on a sitcom that lasted six episodes. That was it. “My connections are mostly in theater and a few in film. It’s been a while.”
Even that was an exaggeration. It had been forever. My current top connection was a cardboard guy who hooked me up with pizza boxes at a 20% markdown.
“My buddy, he wrote something up, like a pilot,” Clyde said. “Maybe you could look at it and, you know, make sure the commas are in the right places.”
“Absolutely; commas can make or break a script.” I should have told him to fuck off, but I needed information. “Sure, Clyde, I’d be happy to read it.”
“I’ll drop it off later,” he said, the absence of a “thank you” impossible to miss.
I put down the book. “Jill told us there’s a guy stalking the house.”
“No, she’s just playing into her mother’s delusions. There’s no stalker. I told you: Ronan is dead.”
“What if it’s someone else?”
“It’s bullshit. Look, I drive up and down this block every day. This is my town. If some asshole was stalking them, I’d know about it.”
“You don’t believe your own daughter?”
“She’ll say whatever her mother wants to hear.” A mosquito buzzed his face, and Clyde swatted it away. “You really are a gullible shit for brains. How the hell did you ever write a Broadway play?”
It was off-Broadway, but I didn’t correct him.
“You’re an arsonist,” I said. Had we still been in high school he would have punched me clean, and for a moment I sensed him thinking about it. “You burned down Mr. Ronan’s house. That’s a felony, Mister Po-lice Man.”
He leaned back in the chair and pulled out a cigarette, which he popped between his lips but didn’t light.
“You’re wrong, but let’s say you’re not,” he said. “The statute of limitations is five years. Ancient history, bub.”
The unlit cigarette dangled from his lips. The window of Amy’s second-floor bedroom, open to catch the afternoon breeze, was ten feet above us. I kept my voice low.
“You knew Mr. Ronan had been cleared. Even back then you thought Amy was a nut. Why’d you do it?”
“I didn’t,” he said, “but I’ll play along, for shits and giggles. Why did I do it? Simple: she gave me a blow job. Your precious Amy took my dick into her hot little mouth and it was quid pro quo. I was eighteen. I would have burned down St. Patrick’s Cathedral for a blow job. Isn’t that obvious, shit for brains?”
He wanted a reaction, but I held my best poker face.
“Burning it down—that was a mistake,” Clyde said. “But playing along with your little fantasy, all we wanted was to scare the son of a bitch. The fire got out of control. There was no intent to endanger anyone. Ronan wasn’t home. We knew that. And there were other reasons, too, beside the blow job—not that I’m admitting anything. But if I did set that fire, I had a good reason. I’m a cop’s son—we’re raised to serve and protect. Ronan got what he deserved.”
“Sarah Carpenter drowned. He had nothing to do with it.”
“Sarah Carpenter’s disappearance is not the only bad thing that ever happened in this town,” Clyde said. “You think you know everything, but you don’t know jack, Donnie Boy. Even about your precious Amy. You think you’re so close? I was married to her. We have a child together. Maybe she and I don’t get along anymore, but we’ve shared things you can’t even imagine.”
The rental car arrived in front of the house, Kelly and Jill back from the store; Clyde bit down on the cigarette as he stood, reaching for his sunglasses like he was auditioning for the remake of Cool Hand Luke. Freed from his weight, the chair rocked gently back and forth.
“Ask her about Art Therapy,” Clyde said. “Look, I was an asshole to you in high school. I get that—I was an asshole to everybody. So you don’t like me, and that’s okay since I don’t like you much, either. But I’m not the bad guy here. I never was.”
He took a deep breath and stepped off the porch.
“What happened in Art Therapy?” I said. “If you know something, and you obviously do, why not just tell me?”
“It’s not for me to tell—it’s her choice,” he said. “I’m only here to serve and protect.” He eyed his daughter in the rental car before turning back with his signature smirk. “I’ll drop off that script later tonight. Maybe you can help spruce it up. My buddy, he’s a talented guy. It’d be pretty damn funny if we all got rich together.” He gave me the finger and headed for the cruiser. “Go ahead. Ask your precious Amy about her drawings.”
Kelly walked up the driveway, arms wrapped around two groceries bags, while Jill stayed in the car, head down, ignoring her father’s presence. Clyde nodded, giving Kelly the standard local cop “afternoon, ma’am” as he strutted past her, turning to gawk at her ass before climbing back into his cruiser.
I grabbed one of the grocery bags as Kelly glanced back at Clyde.
“Everything okay?”
“He’s leaving, so now it is.”
“Jill really doesn’t like him. When she spotted his car, she wouldn’t even look up.”
“Smart girl.”
“God knows what her
