“Of course not,” Jimmy said. “Do you take me for an idiot…Don’t answer that.”
“Just take them,” I said.
“I will,” Jimmy said, “but I advise you to saddle up the old pony and go with us until this shit storm blows over.”
“I’ll join you in a few days,” I said.
Jimmy lifted his eyebrows. “A few days? I’m thinking maybe I don’t even need to teach one last class. I’d rather get a reprimand from the division chair, or the dean, than end up cut up like fish bait, and I’m telling you, you ought to go with us. That place is pretty isolated.”
“I think it’s best someone is on the ground here, paying attention. And I think I’m in a better position to do that than you.”
“You’ll get no argument from me,” Jimmy said.
He stood up, said, “Look, there’s phone service out there, isolated as it is. You need me, call. I can give you directions there.”
“I’ll do that,” I said.
“You’re crazy to stick around.”
“Probably.”
Jimmy gave me a hug. “Trixie calls, alibi me. Say you had me over to talk about Gabby or something. Sorry to bring it up. But, you know, I got to have some reason.”
“And why not pick one that makes me feel really shitty, right?”
“It’s something she would believe.”
“Does everyone know how nuts I’ve been about Gabby?”
“Pretty much, yeah. Sometimes me and the grocer talk about it.”
“That’s funny, Jimmy.”
“So, I got the alibi?”
“How and when did I ask you to come over?”
Jimmy took some time to consider, said, “You didn’t ask. But today, talking to you, I was worried about you, got so worried I got out of bed and came over and we talked. Big brother trying to cheer you up, get you on the right course. Does that work?”
“Well enough.”
Jimmy went out and I listened to his motorcycle roar away.
I went outside and cleaned my gas and brake pedals of blood, went back inside and sat down at my computer and tried to find the words that had been written on the wall in blood. I typed them in and clicked the mouse. The words came up. There was a site for Jerzy Fitzgerald. He had come up before in connection with Caroline. He was a poet and an occasional writer of prose. Mostly Internet poetry, and a lot of it, but he had done a couple of self-published books. He had a strong cult following. Some took him seriously; others looked at him as a kind of Ed Wood figure, bad but totally unaware of it.
I had a feeling that this whole thing was part of some bigger picture, and to borrow from one of Jerzy Fitzgerald’s poems a terse fragment: “All of life is framed in fear.”
29
At work the next day the office was abuzz, not only with the events of the day before, but with the way I had written my article on the murder and the kidnapping.
After plenty of compliments, reporters dropping by my desk, everyone but Timpson herself, Oswald came over. He stood by the edge of my desk with his hands in his pockets. He looked like he wanted to reach down my throat and turn me inside out.
“Nice article on the murder and kidnapping,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“I might have taken a slightly different approach.”
“No doubt.”
“Is that a smart remark, Cason?”
“What?”
“A smart remark. Like, I would have taken a different tack, but it wouldn’t have been any good.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you meant it.”
“What I meant is no doubt you would have gone after it differently. It is not a smart remark.”
“I do police reports here and the articles that come from them.”
“Not this time. You weren’t here, and Timpson assigned me to it.”
“I had a cold. I would have come in for something like this.”
“Talk to Timpson.”
“You could have told her to call me.”
“I suppose I could have, but that never occurred to me, and that’s not my job description. Call Oswald when a good article pops up and he’s sick. Nope, not on the list.”
Oswald took his hands out of his pockets. “Watch it, buster.”
I said, “You have highly overestimated your ability to intimidate, my friend.”
He glared at me for a moment.
“Why don’t you go sit down at your desk before I stand up and knock you down and we both lose our jobs,” I said.
“You couldn’t roll me over if I was dead, Cason.”
“You don’t want to get me stirred up, Oswald. I don’t mean that to sound like a threat or like I’m trying to be a tough guy, but I kid you not, you fuck with me, and I will knock you out of your shoes.”
Oswald considered the possibilities, decided he didn’t care for them much. “Look,” he said, “just call me next time.”
“I work here just like you. Timpson wants me to do different, and she’s not asking me to set my balls on fire or put a broken Coke bottle up my ass, I’ll do what she asks. Same as you will. I didn’t owe you a call. I don’t need to send you an e-mail or a note tied to a pigeon’s leg. No fucking flowers or a teddy bear wearing an I’M SORRY T- shirt. Got me?”
“That’s no way to be,” he said.
“Hey. Aren’t you the one who said not to bend over here because I might find something in my ass?”
Oswald nodded. “I guess I did.”
He went back to his desk and took his frustration out on a couple of ballpoint pens that he shoved around, a little notepad too. He twisted a couple of paper clips. That was showing me.
Belinda came over. When she spoke it was softly. “He’s pretty mad.”
“I seem to have that effect on people. I presume the rest of the office heard?”
“Hard not to. Both of you were speaking loudly. I was especially fond of the part about setting your balls on fire and shoving Coke bottles up your ass. Charming.”
“Sorry.”
“No apology necessary.”
I turned around and looked at the other reporters. Most of them had their heads down, pretending they were on a hot deadline. One, a fellow I had actually spoken to only once, and whose name I couldn’t remember, gave me a thumbs-up. I don’t know if it was because he was on my side or thought Oswald was an asshole. I’d settle for either.
“I got two things,” Belinda said. “First, the good news. I want to see you after work if possible. I have bought some very scanty panties and wanted to see if you are a real red-blooded male who will be overcome with passion when you see me in them.”
“That one you can count on. You can just wear your socks, and you’ll get the same results.”
