“You’re so important to me,” he whispered. “Please believe me.”
“Let’s make sure your trunk is on,” I said quickly, fighting back the tears.
We walked toward the Greyhound silverside with an illuminated placard that read MOBILE above the windshield. We stood together under the umbrella and watched as his trunk was loaded into the bay of the coach.
I looked at Patrick. “Candace Kinkaid or Agatha Christie?”
He laughed. “Definitely Candace Kinkaid. Way more fun. F. Scott Fitzgerald or Truman Capote?” he asked.
The last call rang out for Mobile.
“Oh, please. Fitzgerald. Of course Fitzgerald. Get on your bus.”
Patrick handed me the umbrella. He wrapped his arms around me and planted a kiss straight on my lips, hard and long. It felt like I was watching the kiss instead of being inside of it. He ran out from underneath the umbrella to the interior shelter of the bus steps. “See you at Christmas!” he called.
I watched as he made his way down the aisle to a window seat near the waistline of the bus.
The doors hissed, then folded closed. Water rolled down the top of the bus, falling in streams over Patrick’s window. He smiled and put his finger on the glass, signaling biography.
I signaled back. Poetry.
The bus rolled, taking Patrick Marlowe, and his secret, with it. I stood and watched it drive away. I thought of the line from Keats and my discussion with Mr. Hearne.
I love you the more in that I believe you have liked me for my own sake and for nothing else.
The rain plunked atop my black umbrella.
FORTY-NINE
I swept the tile floor between the shelves. Moving the books had unlocked bits of fossilized dust. Patrick had only been gone a few days, but the shop was strangely still and lifeless. I made a note to bring the radio from Patrick’s house. It would keep me company.
The bell above the door jingled.
“Well, hello there. I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d pop in to see what’s news,” said John Lockwell.
I leaned on the broom. “You seem to be in the neighborhood a lot these days.”
“Yes, did I tell you I have a place over on St. Peter?”
“Several times.”
He looked around the shop. “Are you closing?”
“It’s temporary. We’ll reopen after Christmas. The owner passed away, and Patrick is visiting his mother in the West Indies.”
“How bohemian of him. But then literary folk always are. Great for parties, always good to have a few eccentrics on hand to entertain the stuffy Uptown crowd. So, you’ll be needing a job, then. Sure you won’t reconsider? Some nice dresses, and you’d be a little clothes pony in the office. You’d have your own desk, typewriter, and of course cocktail privileges with the boss after hours.”
“I’m fine for now, but I’ll certainly keep it in mind.”
“You do that. I thought I couldn’t wait to get rid of you, but there’s something about you, Josephine.” He gave me a moist smile. “Well, I better shove. I’ve got an engagement.”
Lockwell walked out, passing a tall man in a dark coat entering the shop. He dwarfed Lockwell, who turned around and looked up at him before walking off.
“I’m sorry, sir, we’re closed. Death in the family. We’ll reopen in a few months. Doubleday has acquired most of our books. They’re on the six hundred block of Canal.”
The man said nothing. He stood motionless in the doorway, hands in the pockets of his long black coat. His frame was enormous, at least six three, with shoulders so broad they could carry a family of four. His hat cocked slightly, and his left eye, damaged in some way, floated in toward the bridge of his flattened nose.
I moved forward with the broom. “We’re—”
“Where’s your mother?” he said.
“I’m sorry, do I know you?” I eyed his hands, which remained in his pockets.
“Where’s your mother?” he repeated, slow and loud. His tone frightened me.
“In California,” I said.
“Yeah, see, that’s a problem. Your mother owes the boss money.”
“I wasn’t aware—”
“Her boyfriend borrowed it to buy her alibi, get them out of a murder rap. He said he’d pay the boss back, but then skipped town. The boss has a Los Angeles crew looking for them, but they’re ghosts. The boss wants his money, it’s already overdue, so now the marker falls to the family—boyfriend has no family, so it falls to you. That’s called inheritance. The boss paid four thousand for the dame’s rap. With juice, you owe five thousand. I’m here to collect.”
The more he talked, the more his left eye floated. I stood there, clutching the broomstick. “There must be some mistake.”
“Why people always gotta say there’s a mistake? There’s no mistake. Your mother was pegged for murder, she got off—pay up.”
“I never made an agreement with your boss.”
“You didn’t have to. You owe, and you’ll pay. We’ve been watching you and your fruitcake friends. Saw the teary good-bye at the Greyhound station, suckin’ sodas with the motorcycle kid, palling around with the caramel-colored driver. Willie Woodley knows the boss. They’re cordial, but she don’t do no business with him. This debt’s yours, see? You don’t go to none of them. You flap your gums to them, we take ’em out. I personally would love to clip the old driver today, but since this is my first call, and I’m in a good mood, I’ll give you seven days—that’s called a courtesy. You get the money however you need to, but you don’t tell no one who you owe. You only talk to me, Tangle Eye Lou. You can find me at Mosca’s on Highway 90.”
He turned and walked out onto the sidewalk. A black car pulled up. He got in the back. The door closed, and the car drove off.
I dropped the broom and grabbed the chains. I locked and bolted the door, my hands trembling. I turned off the lights and ran to my room. I dragged my desk in front of the door and sat huddled on my bed against the cold plaster wall, clutching the baseball bat.
I stayed that way all afternoon, into the evening, and all through the night. I didn’t sleep and wasn’t tired. Carlos Marcello said I owed him. Tangle Eye’s words about Cokie terrified me. Not Cokie.
I waited until the sun rose. I sharpened the bookbinding knife and put it in my pocket. I crept out of the shop, chained and bolted the doors on the outside, and ran down the street.
I looked at the house. I couldn’t remember which window it was, but wagered it was the one with the crankshaft on the sill. I whistled. Nothing. I found a pebble and tossed it at the window. Still nothing. I found a slightly larger stone and tossed it up. The stone catapulted through the window and the sound of breaking glass echoed across the slumbering street.
Jesse’s torso appeared in the window. I waved him down.
He came out the front door, barefoot and shirtless, buttoning the fly of his jeans. He raked his sleepy hair with his fingers and squinted at me. “What gives?”
“I need your help,” I whispered.
He walked down the stairs and met me on the sidewalk. “Jo, you’re shaking.”
“Please understand, I can’t tell you everything.” My voice quivered. “It’s my mother. I need the shop boarded or shuttered, and it has to happen this morning. Can you do that for me?” I handed some crumpled bills in his direction.
He took my hand. “Sit down.”
“I don’t have time.”
Jesse’s grandmother appeared in the doorway.
“Go back to sleep, Granny. Everything’s fine,” said Jesse.
The old woman called out at us. “There’s murder all around her. I can see it. Girl, you have to get the murderer to confess, to free the dead man’s spirit. Put a saucer of salt on the murderer’s chest while they sleep. They’ll confess.”
I started to cry. Jesse ran up the steps and shooed his grandmother back into the house. I turned and walked away.
“Jo, wait,” said Jesse.