went to the door. He turned and faced all of us.
'The way I figure it,' he said, 'this thing has taken an unexpected turn. All I've got to say is- and Kev, I'm not trying to speak for you, so disagree if you want- all I'm saying is that it now appears to be a Mob action. Therefore I'm turning any business I may have had with this thing, or any I might have in, the future, over to the O.C. unit. As far as I'm concerned, it's a local killing- as much as I loved Johnny, Sam, and I mean that. I'm out of it and the state is out. Let O.C. handle it if they want. Good-bye.'
He turned and left and got into his cruiser. We all stared after him.
'What the hell was that all about?' asked Brian.
'I have no idea,' said Kevin, 'except I don't believe it.'
We walked the rest of them out to their cars. Kevin got in the shotgun seat next to Joe. Mary stuck her head in and kissed her brother; her long black hair hung down and cascaded all over the door. Most women over forty say they can't wear their hair long. But Mary can. She looks under thirty. She leaned back and brushed her hair aside and Joe motioned me over with his finger.
'Doc, stay away from this business. Stay away from it!'
He and the others drove off, and Mary and I went back into the house. She sat down and put her chin on her lists.
'What's the O.C.?'
'Organized-crime unit. But I can't understand the sudden turnaround. Nobody liked Johnny better than Joe. And he was keen on this case too, especially since it involved us. Can't understand it.'
'I can.'
'What?'
She narrowed her eyes and glared at me. 'Not telling!'
'Why not?'
'You know why. Remember, I said I'd get even with you. Well here's round one: Joe told me why he's dropping the whole thing, and why he's upset. But I'm not telling you and neither will he. Then maybe next time you and Janice- '
'How'd you know that- uh- what makes you think I-'
She waved her hand through the air impatiently.
'I just know, Charlie. And the next time you get even a pinky finger near her it's going to be all she wrote!'
She jumped up and stomped out, leaving me to clean up the luncheon mess. I opened another Bass and regarded the task before me, contemplating recent vicissitudes.
The needle wasn't moving up out of the Dead Zone. Sumbitch appeared to be stuck.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I finished cleaning up, relighted my pipe, and went to find Mary. It was time for a Long Talk, in which I would tell her that I really hadn't meant to grab Janice like that. I would explain that it was all her fault, not mine. That's all.
Swell, Adams.
To hell with it, I decided as I passed the door of her workroom. Besides, Long Talks are like summit meetings; when they're over things are more screwed up than they were before. I went for a medium-long run, did a hundred sit-ups on the inclined board, and took a sauna. I dressed and left the house as the first of the insurance claim officers arrived, and I left a warm note for Mary which explained that I would be at the residence of Morris Abramson, M.D. I thought it best to communicate by diplomatic note until the crisis d la frottage au derriere blew over.
There was a darkening cloud cover, with a chilly blowing drizzle, as I turned into Walden Breezes trailer park. It's right across from Walden Pond, where Thoreau wrote the famous tract. But old Henry David would get the fantods if he glimpsed the horrendous assemblage of mobile homes permanently parked across Route 126 from the pond. Most are vintage fifties and sixties, with a few more recent additions. Moe's dwelling was at the end of the circle, right by the deep pine woods. This was a good thing because he keeps two Nubian goats in a miniature corral and they can be noisy. I got out of the car and felt better immediately. Although I have no firsthand knowledge of how good a therapist he is, I can say that being with him is good therapy for me. After being in his company even briefly, you begin to sort out what's important and what isn't. And it's amazing how many things in twentieth-century middle-class American life aren't at all. I sauntered down the tiny gravel path lined with myrtle and climbed the two narrow wooden steps to the side door of the old Airstream trailer.
One could say that Moe is antimaterialist. He claims that cluttering your life with too many possessions fetters your mind and soul. Aside from the old Airstream and the battered Dodge sedan
(1963, white over blue), he has nothing.
I rang the little cowbell and waited. Above the door, painted in Gothic letters, was the vehicle's name: 'Der Schleppenwagen.'
Moe says that there are three basic ways to measure a person: by what he is, by what he does, arid by what he has. The first is the most important, the second slightly less so, and the third almost meaningless. America's primary fault, he says, is that it foolishly persists in paying attention solely to the third item. Remembering this made me feel guilty again that I had so much, and I thought of Bartolomeo Vanzetti in his little rented room in Plymouth, giving the kids dimes. Moe was like him. Moe was like Thoreau too, with a modern-day, riveted-aluminum version of Henry David's hut.
A gravelly, irritable voice answered my yank on the cowbell.
'Who's dat?'
'Electrolux!' I chirped.
'Oh yeah? Well make like a vacuum and suck. I'm busy.'
'It's me.'
The curved slab of aluminum opened and Moe's angular, bearded face peered out. He was dressed in a soaked running suit.
'Oh hiya, Doc. What brings you here? Some masochistic desire for humiliation at the chessboard?'
I entered the tiny residence, which was akin to boarding a miniature, stationary airplane. I stood next to him but detected no locker-room stink from the sweat-soaked garments which I hadn't been washed in weeks. Moe runs over fifty miles a week and his sweat has about as much poison in it as distilled water. He rattled a metal Band-Aid box at me. It had a coin slot gashed in the lid and was wrapped with tape. It was his charity-of-the-month box. I heard the rattle of the coin of the realm inside. I pointed at the battered tin box.
'What this time?'
'Saint Bonaventure's Home for Runaways.'
'Since when are you giving to Catholic charities? You're not Catholic.'
'So? A runaway is a runaway. Let's have it.' He rapped my trouser pockets with his knuckles. No coins. He glared at me. 'It'll take folding green, Adams. Gimme a bill. One wit' double digits?
He took my ten-spot and folded it quicker than a beer vendor at Fenway, stuffing it into the slot. We were standing in the tiny galley kitchen of the trailer, whose cracked and crumbly linoleum counters were littered with banana peels, orange rinds, yogurt cartons, sprouts, granola, chocolate bars, and thick dark breads. All around us hung bags and baskets of dried fruit. On the tiny icebox was a photo of Albert Einstein. Underneath was a clipped headline message that said SMARTY PANTS. I grabbed a handful of dried apricots and followed Moe through a bead curtain, past the minuscule bathroom, and through his bedroom.
'Is someone in there?'
'Uh-huh. My friend is taking ga shower in there. Come on out back.'
Whoever his friend was, he was a shrimp; the tiny shoes Moe kicked aside showed that. We went through a rear door of the Airstream, which connected it to the addition Moe had built to double the size of his dwelling, leaving it tiny rather than microscopic. The addition was a single room, twenty feet square. Three of its walls were bookshelves, broken only by windows, paintings, and stereo equipment. The fourth was glass and screens that slid
