The diploma on the wall solved the riddle. Gerald Cobb Jr. I was dealing with the son.
“Are you sure you want to pay me for this?” he said. “Death certificates are a public record. Go online. It might take a few hours if you don’t know how to search, but it’s really easy.”
“I’d prefer not to do it,” I said.
“It’s your money. I’ll have Sharon get right on it.”
I assumed Sharon was the paralegal in the outer office. Cobb leaned back in his chair. “Michael Ronan. There’s a name I haven’t heard in forever. I was up at Seton Hall in my second year when all that happened. My Dad called him, you know, thought he should sue that girl, what was her name …?”
“I don’t remember.”
“…he thought he should sue her for defamation. Even if she had no money, he could’ve hit the parents’ homeowner policy’s liability limit. An easy hundred grand, but he didn’t bite. You’ve got to respect that. It’s amazing no lawsuits ever came out of that tragedy.”
I nodded, keeping quiet about the letter I’d received from Laura Carpenter after the success of Midnight Chair. It was rabid, rambling, at times incoherent, the pain of a lost child hovering over every word. I’m going to sew your rich stupid, sleeping ass, she wrote. (People assumed I had earned more money than I had.) After five pages of invective, she said she’d drop it for $987.16. An odd figure—I assumed she was looking at a past due notice when she wrote the letter. I sent her a check for $1,000 and didn’t hear from her again for eight years (except for the cashed check, returned from the bank with Fuck You scrawled in the memo line.) Over the years I’d sent her nearly five grand, chump change considering what I’d taken from her.
“When did he die?” Cobb asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“Well, that might make the search a little longer, probably cost you another billable hour. You’re sure you want us working on this?”
There it was, my out, if I wanted it, a tempting justification for maintaining my habit of avoidance: it was too expensive! But no—it needed to be done.
“Okay, we’ll get right on it. I’m guessing $750 gets you a copy of the death certificate.” He typed a few notes into his computer. “Sharon’s the best—she’ll knock this one out quick. We should have something for you by tomorrow afternoon.”
Cobb stood and shook my hand.
“My Dad will get a kick when he hears about this one. Michael Ronan. Jesus!”
. . . . .
I planned to stop at the Jaybird before meeting Kelly at the Inn, but as I stepped out of the rental car and headed for the entrance, I saw Nancy at the end of the block walking toward me, her one and only arm swinging a big black pocketbook as she wobbled along the sidewalk. It was the first time I’d seen her in normal clothes, black pants and a neat floral blouse, her short grey hair fluffed up in a brave attempt at a style. She was far enough away that I couldn’t be certain, but it sounded like she was singing the old Monkees song “Daydream Believer,” loud and off-key. Uncle Dan had mentioned that sometimes she “helped out” at The Jaybird, and perhaps this was one of those days, the late afternoon rush still a few hours off as she trudged toward her job, ready to help her older brother with her one good hand.
A sea plane buzzed overhead, one I had never seen before, an all-white biplane with a “Summer Blowout!” banner trailing its fin. I couldn’t tell if Nancy had seen me yet, and I almost waited for her—how could it hurt to say ‘hi?’—but the closer she came, the more I felt the incipient burn of the sun against my neck, the more I sensed the hard concrete pushing against my feet, and though I should have walked over and greeted her, I should have said ‘hello,’ I crossed the street instead, and then I started running.
-12-
From “New Jersey Beach Patrol – Pilot Episode” by Michael Reiken and Alex Clyde.
EXT.A NEW JERSY BEACH – DAY
Two hot-bodied college girls in skimpy bikinis stand on the beach holding hands. They look out at the ocean, then face each other and start kissing.
CUT TO:
POV – BOOKER
Through a pair of binoculars, we see the two hotties making out. We PULL BACK and see OFFICER KYLE BOOKER, handsome, upright, morally clean, standing on the boardwalk holding the binoculars, watching the little sluts in their PDA.
His partner, OFFICER ALAN STYLES, experienced, wise, somewhat jaded, pokes his shoulder.
STYLES
Hey, let me see them.
Booker hands him the binoculars.
BOOKER
God forgive them.
Styles looks through the binoculars. POV-STYLES – through the binoculars he sees the girls still making out. One of them has her hand on the other’s ass.
STYLES
They might be little sluts, but those are some really nice legs.
BOOKER
Come on Alan; don’t forget municipal ordinance 22.405 against public displays of a sexual nature. What if the children see them?
STYLES
You’re right, we must think of the children. You always keep me honest, Kyle.
BOOKER
No, God keeps us honest.
STYLES and BOOKER
(Simultaneously)
Serve
