hat.”
“Tell me where you were when the fires started, and maybe I can get them off your back.”
“I was right here. Alone. Watching my shows just like every night. So unless Bill O’Reilly can see me through the TV, I ain’t got no alibi.”
“What about the fire in the rooming house? That one was in the afternoon.”
“I was at the firehouse. That’s what I told those two
“Okay, Jack. Here’s what I want you to do. I want you to get out of that chair and go fishing.”
“It ain’t fishin’ season.”
“It is somewhere. Alaska, maybe? Florida? Pack up your gear, get on a plane, and don’t tell anyone where you’re going. Hold on to your airline and hotel receipts, and the next time there’s a fire, you’ll have your alibi. I’ll call your cell and let you know when it’s okay to come back.”
“Hell, Liam. I ain’t got that kinda money.”
“It’s on me.”
“Can’t let you do that.”
“Sure you can.”
“No, Liam. I can’t.” His voice was stern now, letting me know he meant it.
I sighed, crossed my arms, and thought for a minute. Then I slipped two Cubans out of my pocket and offered him one.
“No thanks,” he said, “but you go ahead.”
I clipped the tip with my cigar cutter, fired it up, leaned back in the chair, and blew a couple of smoke rings.
“Look, Jack,” I said. “They’re probably going to question you again. If they do, don’t say anything. If they ask you to go with them to the station, ask if you are under arrest. If they say no, don’t go with them. If they say yes, ask for a lawyer, and don’t say a word until he shows up. You can do that for me, right?”
“Yeah. I can do that.”
“And don’t tell Polecki and Roselli I told you not to talk, okay?”
“Got it.”
“This won’t last forever, Jack. One of these days, the arsonist will make a mistake. He’ll get caught. And you’ll have your life back.”
“I hope you’re right, boy.”
I smoked some more, he drank some more, and we reminisced some more about my father. When the cigar burned down to the ring, I dropped it into the tumbler and got up to leave. Jack rose to see me to the door.
“Wish your dad was around to talk to,” he said. “I can’t tell you how this feels, the neighbors lookin’ at me the way they do.”
As I stepped into the hall, he snapped off the light and pulled the door closed. I trudged down the stairs, picturing him alone in the dark, drinking from his tumbler of whiskey.
24
That evening, when the cops came for Sassy/Sugar, Ralph and Gladys Fleming barricaded themselves inside their little house.
Guns drawn, the cops tried to negotiate with them through a megaphone. When that didn’t work, they lugged a battering ram to the front door. As they swung it, they slipped on the icy stoop and toppled onto the crusted snow, giving Logan some great footage for the six o’clock news. The cops scrambled to their feet, picked up the ram, and were about to swing it again when Martin Lippitt, the dog’s presumed rightful owner, pointed out that they were being ridiculous. For a while, a dozen cops stood around looking sheepish. Then they jumped into their prowl cars and drove off.
Logan ended his report with the news that Channel 10 had stepped in to settle the dispute. X-rays of the dog’s legs and an examination of the pads on its feet could determine conclusively whether Sassy/Sugar had crossed the country or only crossed the street. Tufts University’s Cummings School of Veterinary Medicine in Grafton, Massachusetts, would do the examination, Channel 10 would foot the bill, and Lippitt and the Flemings had agreed to abide by the result.
“You know,” I said as the TV over the bar broke for commercial, “it’s a sad commentary that an idiot like Logan has more sense than the Providence Police Department.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier for somebody to get in touch with those people out in Oregon and see if they still have the dog?” Veronica said.
Edna Stinson told me a week ago that Sassy had been dismembered by a logging truck, but it was a little late to be bringing that up. So what I said was, “Hardcastle tried, but the Stinsons took off for their annual fishing trip to British Columbia and aren’t expected back for a month.”
Veronica fished a pack of Virginia Slims from her purse and put one between her lips. I leaned over with the Colibri and gave her a light. She took a puff, then thought better of it and ground the cigarette out in the ashtray.
“Can’t smoke at work anymore,” she said, “so this is a good time to quit.”
I was craving another Cuban, but this seemed like a bad time to fire one up.
Veronica rose from her chair, fed quarters into the jukebox, and punched up some slow songs. When the Garth Brooks cover of Dylan’s “To Make You Feel My Love” came on, we got up and danced a little in a cramped space between the tables, our shoes making scraping sounds on the gritty wooden floor. I loved the way her body fit against mine. Then we walked out of Hopes hand in hand into the first clear night in a month.
A bright moon floated over city hall. We stood on the sidewalk and kissed. It was still early, but we agreed we’d both had too many late nights lately. We got into our separate cars and drove to our separate apartments.
25
After bedding Secretariat down for the evening, I climbed the narrow flight of stairs to my place, where Veronica’s toothbrush still sat reassuringly in the porcelain fixture.
I tuned the TV to a
Clint Eastwood owns the movie rights.
I must have dozed off, because the rap on the door startled me. Half asleep, I padded barefoot across the cold linoleum, turned the dead bolt, and found Sharon Stone wiping her white vinyl boots on my straw welcome mat. That was odd. I wasn’t expecting anyone from Hollywood. The only person I knew who’d even
“Well?” said Sharon Stone. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“Excuse my manners, Gloria,” I said as synapses fired and a handful of brain cells clicked on. “If I knew it was you, I would have put on a shirt.”
“Nice pecs,” she said as she stepped across the threshold.
