He comes to Government Square, and that’s where his legs finally give out. He doesn’t so much sit on one of the benches as collapse there. He glances around dully at the empty expanse of concrete, realizing that he’d probably look mighty suspicious to any cops passing in a squad car. He’s not supposed to be out this late anyway (like a teenager, he has a curfew), but what does that matter? Shit don’t mean shit. Let them send him back to Waynesville. Why not? At least there he won’t have to deal with his fat fuck boss anymore. Or pee while Ellis McFarland watches.
Across the street is the Happy Cup, where he had so many pleasant conversations about books with Andrew Halliday. Not to mention their last conversation, which was far from pleasant. Stay clear of me, Andy had said. That was how the last conversation had ended.
Morris’s brains, which have been idling in neutral, suddenly engage again and the dazed look in his eyes begins to clear. Stay clear of me or I’ll call the police myself, Andy had said . . . but that wasn’t all he said that day. His old pal had also given him some advice.
Hide them somewhere. Bury them.
Had Andy Halliday really said that, or was it only his imagination?
“He said it,” Morris whispers. He looks at his hands and sees they have rolled themselves into grimy fists. “He said it, all right. Hide them, he said. Bury them.” Which leads to certain questions.
Like who was the only person who knew he had the Rothstein notebooks?
Like who was the only person who had actually seen one of the Rothstein notebooks?
Like who knew where he had lived in the old days?
And—here was a big one—who knew about that stretch of undeveloped land, an overgrown couple of acres caught in an endless lawsuit and used only by kids cutting across to the Birch Street Rec?
The answer to all these questions is the same.
Maybe we can revisit this in ten years, his old pal had said. Maybe in twenty.
Well, it had been a fuck of a lot longer than ten or twenty, hadn’t it? Time had gone slip-sliding away. Enough for his old pal to meditate on those valuable notebooks, which had never turned up—not when Morris was arrested for rape and not later on, when the house was sold.
Had his old pal at some point decided to visit Morris’s old neighborhood? Perhaps to stroll any number of times along the path between Sycamore Street and Birch? Had he perhaps made those strolls with a metal detector, hoping it would sense the trunk’s metal fittings and start to beep?
Did Morris even mention the trunk that day?
Maybe not, but what else could it be? What else made sense? Even a large strongbox would be too small. Paper or canvas bags would have rotted. Morris wonders how many holes Andy had to dig before he finally hit paydirt. A dozen? Four dozen? Four dozen was a lot, but back in the seventies, Andy had been fairly trim, not a waddling fat fuck like he was now. And the motivation would have been there. Or maybe he didn’t have to dig any holes at all. Maybe there had been a spring flood or something, and the bank had eroded enough to reveal the trunk in its cradle of roots. Wasn’t that possible?
Morris gets up and walks on, now thinking about McFarland again and occasionally glancing around to make sure he isn’t there. It matters again now, because now he has something to live for again. A goal. It’s possible that his old pal has sold the notebooks, selling is his business as sure as it was Jimmy Gold’s in The Runner Slows Down, but it’s just as possible that he’s still sitting on some or all of them. There’s only one sure way to find out, and only one way to find out if the old wolf still has some teeth. He has to pay his homie a visit.
His old pal.
PART 3: PETER AND THE WOLF
1
It’s Saturday afternoon in the city, and Hodges is at the movies with Holly. They engage in a lively negotiation while looking at the showtimes in the lobby of the AMC City Center 7. His suggestion of The Purge: Anarchy is rejected as too scary. Holly enjoys scary movies, she says, but only on her computer, where she can pause the film and walk around for a few minutes to release the tension. Her counter-suggestion of The Fault in Our Stars is rejected by Hodges, who says it will be too sentimental. What he actually means is too emotional. A story about someone dying young will make him think of Janey Patterson, who left the world in an explosion meant to kill him. They settle on 22 Jump Street, a comedy with Jonah Hill and Channing Tatum. It’s pretty good. They laugh a lot and share a big tub of popcorn, but Hodges’s mind keeps returning to Tina’s story about the money that helped her parents through the bad years. Where in God’s name could Peter Saubers have gotten his hands on over twenty thousand dollars?
As the credits are rolling, Holly puts her hand over Hodges’s, and he is a little alarmed to see tears standing in her eyes. He asks her what’s wrong.
“Nothing. It’s just nice to have someone to go to the movies with. I’m glad you’re my friend, Bill.”
Hodges is more than touched. “And I’m glad you’re mine. What are you going to do with the rest of your Saturday?”
“Tonight I’m going to order in Chinese and binge on Orange Is the New Black,” she says. “But this afternoon I’m going online to look at more robberies. I’ve already got quite a list.”
“Do any of them look likely to you?”
She shakes her head. “I’m going to keep looking, but I think it’s something else, although I don’t have any idea what it could be. Do you think Tina’s brother will tell you?”
At first he doesn’t answer. They’re making their way up the aisle, and soon they’ll be away from this oasis of make-believe and back in the real world.
“Bill? Earth to Bill?”
“I certainly hope so,” he says at last. “For his own sake. Because money from nowhere almost always spells trouble.”
2
Tina and Barbara and Barbara’s mother spend that Saturday afternoon in the Robinson kitchen, making popcorn balls, an operation both messy and hilarious. They are having a blast, and for the first time since she came to visit, Tina doesn’t seem troubled. Tanya Robinson thinks that’s good. She doesn’t know what the deal is with Tina, but a dozen little things—like the way the girl jumps when a draft slams an upstairs door shut, or the suspicious I’ve-been-crying redness of her eyes—tells Tanya that something is wrong. She doesn’t know if that something is big or little, but one thing she’s sure of: Tina Saubers can use a little hilarity in her life just about now.
They are finishing up—and threatening each other with syrup-sticky hands—when an amused voice says, “Look at all these womenfolk dashing around the kitchen. I do declare.”
Barbara whirls, sees her brother leaning in the kitchen doorway, and screams “Jerome!” She runs to him and leaps. He catches her, whirls her around twice, and sets her down.
“I thought you were going to a cotillion!”
Jerome smiles. “Alas, my tux went back to the rental place unworn. After a full and fair exchange of views, Priscilla and I have agreed to break up. It’s a long story, and not very interesting. Anyway, I decided to drive home and get some of my ma’s cooking.”
“Don’t call me Ma,” Tanya says. “It’s vulgar.” But she also looks mightily pleased to see Jerome.
He turns to Tina and gives a small bow. “Pleased to meet you, little ma’am. Any friend of Barbara’s, and so forth.”