Death of the Black-Haired Girl

26

STACK PUT OFF CALLING Salmone and the idea of going to the college. Attacks of dizziness kept striking him down, and in his grief, in despair, he felt older than he had ever been.

Then one day Salmone called him and said, “Eddie, I owe you the trip down. We still don’t have the driver.”

In another time and season they would have gone to Belmont or Shea from Stack’s house. They had gone to those places on one or another of Salmone’s visits years before, when Maud and her mother were alive.

Stack embraced his ex-partner and said there was nothing to drink; he was doing one day at a time. So they drank coffee, which agreed with neither of them terribly well.

Before they had talked very much Stack asked his dreadful question.

“You knew my brother-in-law?” Stack asked. “Charlie K.?”

“Yeah, yeah. I didn’t know him. I heard about him years ago. I guess I knew he was your in-law.”

“What did you hear about him, Sal? I have to ask this.”

“Years ago, you know. Long time. Just who he was. Who he knew. Like his exploits.”

“Listen. What I’m asking. Is there, was there — as far as you’re aware — any possibility of malice against this family? Maybe Maud paid for a mistake.”

“The mistake she made was fucking Brookman. The fucking guy Brookman, I mean. What do you mean, Charlie Kay?”

“His exploits in the thing happened downtown.”

“You mean that—”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Eddie.”

“Help that might have gone to Maud in college. Minuscule amount. Fucking minuscule. Through him as her uncle.”

Salmone was silent. Studied him.

“Never,” he told Stack. “Not a shadow. Not a whisper. Ever. Not that I would. I wouldn’t have heard such a thing. Put it out of your mind, for Christ’s sake.”

Stack was burning in front of him.

“They’ll get the driver, Eddie. They’ll give it their attention. I will.”

“I’m sorry. I’m fucked up.”

“Look, tell me. What do you know about the relationship with Brookman? Was it violent?”

“I didn’t ask her. I couldn’t ask her. I wouldn’t have asked that, Sal. Why?”

“Oh, there was a kid — a couple of kids, actually — thought they seen him push her.”

Stack stared at him.

“I couldn’t put that together,” Salmone said. “Other people said they didn’t see that. There’s no case for that.”

“No?”

“Won’t stand up. But the guy did time.”

“What the fuck?” Stack said.

“Yeah. It was… like it was technical. But the guy did federal time.”

“What the fuck? The guy did federal time? This professor? He’s what? He’s some ‘I was there’ writer?”

“He’s a big skinhead white guy. He was a fisherman.”

Stack endured a moment’s struggle for breath.

“Sal,” he said when he had regained control of his voice. “You gotta run this down. This could be a very bad guy, brother. Placed where he is. He could hurt a lot of kids. It sounds like these students saw something. I mean… you gotta run this down.”

“Eddie,” Salmone said, “rest assured, man. If this fucking guy put a hand on her, he’s going up. This is family to me. He’s our number one person of interest as of this time. If there’s more to find out, we’re gonna find it out.”

Salmone was thinking that he could hardly promise his friend Brookman’s head on a plate. Surely Eddie Stack must have a sense of how difficult, how nearly impossible, a conviction would be in the case as it seemed to stand.

“This guy,” Stack said, “this Brookman…” He broke off to use his inhaler.

“What if he walks away from this, Sal? He’s laughing. He’s… laughing.”