Iris shrugged. “Strictly speaking, they did as they were told. This is their attempt to do an end run around us. Oh, and catch this. This reporter said ‘the people’ quote marks had no intention of paying. She seemed pretty sure of herself on that score.”
“Well, shit. I don’t like this.”
“Me, neither. I told her the tape was bullshit, just a bunch of us fooling around, but she was all long-faced and serious. She wanted to know who I’d talked to, but I didn’t think it was any of her business.”
“What’s her name again?”
“Hang on. I have it written down.” Iris got up and reached for her purse, where she had the scratch paper where the reporter had written her name and a local phone number. She took out the folded paper and handed it to him.
Joey glanced at it. “I thought she was from LA. This is a local number.”
“She says she can be reached up here. I guess just in case I want to unburden myself and confess all, I have a way to get in touch.”
“You think she’ll pursue it?” Joey asked.
“She’s probably being paid to, don’t you think? I mean, this wasn’t idle curiosity. She was banging away on it. On the other hand, journalists don’t accomplish much of anything as far as I can tell, so what harm can she do?”
“I don’t know. That’s just it.” Joey sat for a moment, mulling over the information, his expression dark. “I was going to suggest it was time to follow up, but now I think we should lay low.”
“I’m not sure about that. Maybe.”
“No maybe to it. Here’s the deal. We do nothing. We don’t fuel the situation by doing something dumb. We just hang loose until we see how smart she is. Chances are we got nothing to worry about.”
“Ha. You hope.”
“Don’t look at me. It’s your game plan,” he said.
“My game plan? Where were you all this time? Last I heard, you loved the whole idea.”
“I wouldn’t say I loved the idea, but I could see your point. Guy gets out of prison and acts like, ho hum, all done, time to get on with life. Where does he get off?”
“Exactly.”
“Other hand, eight years is a chunk of his life any way you look at it. Ask him to cough up a whack of cash on top of that? Might be taking it too far.”
“What are you talking about? You’re not the one who was sexually abused. Everybody in my support group thinks I should hose the guy but good.”
“You discussed this with them? You never told me that. Jesus.”
“Not this. I didn’t say we were blackmailing the guy. Just that it makes me sick to think he can get away with it.”
“What did he get away with? He went to prison.”
“He’s still guilty of having sex with a minor. Now he’s acting like it’s no big deal. He should suffer the way I did.”
“Would you give it a rest? The first date we ever had, you told me this story. Anytime we meet someone new, you manage to work it into the conversation. Sexually abused by a family friend. Someone you knew.”
“Well, it’s true. People should be aware.”
“You’re not making a public service announcement. You get sympathy. That’s why you do it.”
“You’re denigrating my experience. Minimizing the impact. Guys are famous for putting women down. Why don’t you get over it? Why can’t you let it go?” she said mockingly. “What you really mean is, ‘Why make me eat shit for something that happened to you?’”
“How did this turn into a fight between us? I’m on your side. I’ve told you that a hundred times. We’re talking about Fritz.”
“It’s all the same thing. You say ‘Fritz McCabe,’ I hear ‘rape.’”
“Let’s talk about something else,” he said.
“Fine with me. Like what?”
“How about if the money comes through and we use it to take a trip, where would we go?”
8
Tuesday, September 19, 1989
Tuesday afternoon, I closed the office at five. I had toted my portable Smith Corona as far as the door, and I was about to punch in the alarm code when the telephone rang. I was tempted to let the machine pick up, but my conscience got the better of me. I dumped my shoulder bag by the typewriter and went back to my desk, picking up the handset on the third ring.
“Kinsey, it’s Lauren. I wasn’t sure I’d catch you.”
“I was just on my way out.”
“Well, I’ll try not to keep you long. We have a problem.”
“You heard from the extortionist?”
“It’s not that. It’s Fritz. Last night we told him what was going on and he’s not happy with us.”
“Unhappy with you? How so?”
“He’s angry because we’re unwilling to meet the demand. We’ve gone over our reasoning countless times and we’re getting nowhere. We thought he should hear it from you. Is there any way you could pop over here tonight?”
“Of course, though I’m not sure what good it will do. I’ve never met him and I don’t see why my opinion would carry any weight.”
“He says he’ll take off if we don’t come through for him.”
“What, like he’ll run away from home?”
“He says he can’t handle another legal battle.”
“You’re not fond of the idea yourself.”
“I know, but we’re not the ones who’ll end up in jail. He’s come up with a claim about the tape that we think he’s fabricated, but there’s no arguing the point. Maybe you can talk some sense into him. It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”
I could feel myself rolling my eyes. I pictured myself in a verbal tussle with the kid, which would be a colossal waste of time. Then again, she’d written me a check for twenty-five hundred bucks, and so far I didn’t feel I’d earned my keep. “What time?”
“Seven, if that works for you.”
“Sure. I’ll return the tape while I’m at it. I’ll see you then.”
I brooded about the idea during the drive home. To me, it sounded like Fritz was taking control, asserting his point of view over the objections of his parents, who seemed to be throwing up their hands. Did they have no authority? Granted, the kid was twenty-five years old and by rights should have been out on his own, but his years in prison had set him back. With no job and no prospects, he was living with his mommy and daddy again and probably chaffing at his dependency.
I found a decent parking space, hauled the typewriter out of the backseat, and took it with me, pausing at the mailbox on my way through the gate. I extracted a fistful of junk mail, bills, and catalogues, separating my mail from Henry’s as I rounded the corner to the backyard.
This is the sight that greeted me.
Pearl was barefoot, wearing a bedsheet wrapped around herself toga-style. Her shoulders and arms were exposed, her boobs threatening to flop out if she didn’t watch herself. She’d apparently done a load of laundry and she was hanging wet clothes on a makeshift line she’d strung between two of Henry’s fruit trees. She navigated a short path back and forth, bending down to retrieve garments from the laundry basket as she swung herself across the dirt on her crutches. Either she was extremely adept at such maneuvering or she wasn’t as incapacitated as she implied. Her jeans were the size of denim sails and the bra trailing down from the line was large enough to store watermelons. The two shirts she’d pegged to the clothesline looked too small for her, but I wasn’t well acquainted with her wardrobe.