Deceit

THIRTY-SEVEN

There’s something spooky about driving straight through the night and out the other side.

You join a kind of spirit world that exists only while the real world sleeps-populated by meth-fueled truckers, fleeing spouses, lonely salespeople, drunken frat kids, all trying to get somewhere before daybreak.

I wondered which category I fit into.

I’d left in the middle of the night, pasted a note on the refrigerator in case someone started to worry about me. I couldn’t imagine who that someone might be. When I got there, I would call Norma. It was going to take awhile, because I was going where I should’ve gone all along.

It had taken me some time to understand the story was there.

Follow the money, the twin deities of investigative journalism once proclaimed.

I was.

I was following the wallet.

I couldn’t help picturing a dazed and doped-up Dennis Flaherty walking out of a cornfield and asking if this were heaven.

No, Dennis.

It’s Iowa.

SOMEWHERE IN THE NEVADA DESERT I PULLED OVER AT A TWENTY-FOUR-hour Stop ’n’ Shop.

It was too easy to give in to the monotonous rhythm of uninterrupted motion. My mind was beginning to ramble, lapsing into autopilot for miles at a time.

I was in dire need of a sugar fix.

I bought a pack of pink Sno Balls, ripped into them with the wrapper still half-attached.

I munched away while I leafed through a rack of retro-style postcards, all with that Technicolor look that made them seem half-painted.

Hoover Dam.

The Las Vegas Strip.

A shot of Sammy, Frank, Dino, and Lawford at the Sands.

Then a different kind of sands, in another part of Nevada.

And I suddenly remembered why I was going back to Iowa and what I’d spent the entire previous night doing. Dredging up the noxious past, the kind of thing you have to do with your nose covered and eyes half averted.

It doesn’t really help.

You can still smell the sick beds. You can still see the dying. What’s the universal sign for the noble practice of medicine? Two serpents coiled around a winged staff.

Only they were strangling it to death.

They were devouring their own.

I wouldn’t stay too long out here, Herman Wentworth said. Remember, I am a doctor.

IOWA DIDN’T LOOK LIKE HEAVEN.

It looked flat and brown. The air felt oppressively humid, as if it were responsible for flattening the landscape from its sheer numbing weight. Black funnel clouds blew across the horizon like tumbleweeds.

The sameness put me to sleep. You couldn’t really delineate one section of Iowa from another. Only the cities broke the stultifying monotony-they flew by in minutes. Then back to amber waves of grain without a hint of purple mountains’ majesty.

I pulled over at a rest stop to nap, and when I woke up, a boy was making faces at me outside the window.

I stared back at him until his father appeared and gave him a vicious swat across the back of his head. The boy seemed used to it; he walked back to the family car without a sound.

It took me a while to get going.

I felt disoriented and sluggish, as if I were moving in slow motion, the way I turned the steering wheel, stepped on the gas.

According to the map, I still had at least an hour to go.

I cranked the window wide open, letting the air slap me awake.

When I saw the sign for Ketchum City, I felt neither happiness or relief.

Just dread.

MRS. FLAHERTY MUST’VE THOUGHT I WAS SELLING SOMETHING.

She took awhile to answer the door, and when she did she was already telling me she wasn’t interested.

I could see why.

She had the worst trailer in a tumbledown trailer park-a salesman would’ve been sheer out of luck.

When I interrupted her to inform her who it was that was standing there, her demeanor changed from wary annoyance to genuine warmth.

“Tom,” she said, like someone who’d known me for a long time. “What are you doing here?”

“I want to talk to Dennis,” I said.

“Why didn’t you call? You came all the way from California,” she said, as if that were a second miracle-first getting her son back, now this.

She didn’t invite me inside. I could see she wanted to, that she knew that’s what you do when someone arrives at your front door-especially someone who’s just driven twenty-nine consecutive hours. She was embarrassed about where she lived.

“I wanted to talk to him in person, Mrs. Flaherty.”

“Why?”

She was wearing a shapeless and washed-out shift. Her legs were threaded with spider webs of inky varicose veins.

“I’m trying to find out how someone ended up in that car with Dennis’s wallet.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?” she said, affecting an almost coquettish tone.

“Somebody died. I’d like to know who it was.”

“Well, how’s Dennis going to know that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he can help me find out.”

I heard someone calling her from inside the trailer.

“Is that him?” I asked her.

She nodded.

“Dennis,” she said. “Come on out. Tom Valle’s here.”

He stepped out in the doorway, tired and bleary-eyed, dressed in boxers and what used to be referred to as a wifebeater before political correctness ruined all the fun. His mother gazed at him as if he were standing there in top hat and tails.

“Who’s Tom Valle?” he asked, as if I wasn’t right there in front of him.

“I talked to you on the phone,” I said. “Remember, Dennis? I’m a reporter.”

“Huh?”

“I called to ask you about your wallet.”

“Huh?”

“He’s still a little groggy,” Mrs. Flaherty said. “Aren’t you, Dennis?”

“Uh-huh,” he said. “What’s your name again?”

“Tom. Tom Valle. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“About what?”

“About where you might’ve lost your wallet. About who might’ve taken it?”

“My wallet?”

“The wallet that was stolen. That turned up in a car with a dead body.”

Dennis was still rubbing his eyes; he appeared to be listing left, like someone on a sinking ship.

“There was an accident, Dennis. A car was set on fire-someone was in it. He had your wallet on him. They thought you were dead-your mom thought you were dead. Remember?”

Mrs. Flaherty reached over and rubbed Dennis’s arm, as if making sure he was actually there and not six feet underground.

“My wallet, huh?”

It was like talking to the elderly-to Anna’s father, maybe. Someone who’s misplaced their mind.

“If you give me a minute, I’ll invite you in,” Mrs. Flaherty said.

She retreated into the trailer and I heard the clatter of things being moved from one place to another. Dennis remained in the doorway, staring down at me with a slightly puzzled expression. A man walked out of the next trailer, nodded in Dennis’s direction, then leaned against a garbage can and lit up a joint.

“You said you didn’t have your wallet in the hospital. Are you sure?”

“The hospital?”

“The VA hospital.”

“I let myself out, man.”

“They didn’t officially discharge you?”

“I let myself out.”

“Okay, Dennis.”

Mrs. Flaherty reappeared in the doorway. She’d changed into a skirt that looked twenty years too young for her.

“Come on in, Tom,” she said.

When I walked inside, I was immediately assaulted by the astringent smell of household cleaner-the cheap kind they use in hospitals. She’d attempted a quick makeover to impress me.

She needn’t have bothered. Ty Pennington wouldn’t have been able to do much with the place.

It looked like a FEMA shelter. Yellow water stains trailed down the walls. A relic of a fridge emitted a constant hum. The screen door meant to separate the kitchen from the bedrooms hung half off its metal track. There was a kitchen table of sorts, but its linoleum top had mostly disappeared.

“Sit down, Tom,” she said.

“That’s all right,” I said. It was unbearably hot-not even a fan to move the fetid air from one part of the trailer to another.

Dennis had remained pretty much where he was, simply turning his body so he could keep staring at me as if I were an alien who’d shown up for breakfast.

“Would you like something to eat?” Mrs. Flaherty asked me, as if she were thinking the same thing. “You must be hungry driving all that way.”

“No, thank you. I had something on the road.” I could still taste the rancid sweetness that even hours later stubbornly stuck to my tongue. I turned back to Dennis.

“Before you went into the hospital, you said, you were living on the streets. Which ones?”

“Dunno.”

“You must know what city you were in?”

“Ummm… Detroit. I think.”

“Detroit. Great. What part?”

“By the park.”

“What park?”

“The ballpark.”

“Comerica Park? Where the Tigers play?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay. How long were you there?”

“Dunno.”

“Well, was it a year? Two years? Three?”

“Not sure.”

“How’d you survive-how’d you eat?”

“At the Marriott.”

“You ate in a hotel?”

“Behind the Marriott. Where they threw out the garbage.”

Mrs. Flaherty put her hand to her mouth to keep something from coming out. She probably hadn’t asked Dennis what life was like on the streets-she wouldn’t have wanted to know about that.

“Okay, Dennis. Did you have your wallet there? In Detroit?”

“Think so. Time for my pill, Mom.”

“You already had your pill, Dennis.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, son. You did.”

“What’s he taking?” I asked her. “Lithium?”

She shrugged.

“Okay, Dennis. You think you had your wallet when you were in Detroit? When you were living by Comerica Park.”

Another blank stare.

“Let’s say you did.”

“Okay.”

“Where’d you go after Detroit? Take your time. Think about it.”

“Seattle, maybe. I think.”

“How long were you in Seattle?”

“It rained a lot.”

“Yeah. How long were you there, Dennis?”

“Dunno. It rained a lot.”

“Did you still have your wallet? In Seattle?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you know?”

“I showed it at the VA.”

“You remember that. You’re sure? You showed your wallet at the VA office in Seattle?”

“Mom, I need my pill.”

“No, Dennis. You had your pill. I gave you one this morning.”

“Okay.”

“Dennis,” I said. “Why did you show your wallet at the VA?”

“I showed them my VA card. I needed help.”

“So they put you in the hospital there? In Seattle?”

“Nope.”

“You went to a VA hospital, Dennis.”

“Yeah.”

“In Seattle.”

“Nope. I need my pill, Mom. It’s time for my pill.”

“Dennis, listen. Your mom says she gave you your pill already, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Where was the VA hospital, Dennis? The one you went into?”

“Dunno.”

“It wasn’t in Seattle? You went to the VA office in Seattle. That’s what you just told me. You needed help, isn’t that what you just said?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“The computers were down. It was raining.”

“They didn’t help you in Seattle?”

“Nope.”

“Okay. Where was the hospital, Dennis? We’re making progress here-we know you had your wallet in Seattle. You took it out and showed your VA card. You remember doing that. Where was the hospital? Where’d you go after Seattle?”

Dennis was slumping, swaying with his eyes half-closed, like a music lover lost in his favorite symphony.

“He needs to take a nap,” Mrs. Flaherty said. “It’s the pills.”

“Can you stay awake a little longer, Dennis?”

“I’m tired.”

“I know you’re tired. Maybe you can stay awake a few more minutes. I need to know the name of that hospital.”

“I’m tired. I’m taking a nap, Mom.”

“Okay, Dennis.” She brushed past me and took him by the arm, leading him into the recesses of the trailer as if he were blind. As if he were still two years old and she still told him bedtime stories in the middle of the afternoon. Maybe the whole thing wasn’t as sad as it looked. She’d been deserted, by death or divorce; her son had come back to her; and now she got to be a mother again. Maybe a better one than she’d been before.

“Maybe you should go,” Mrs. Flaherty said when she reappeared.

“How long does he usually nap for?” I asked.

“All those questions tired him out. He’s not used to that. I think you should go. Okay?”

“I need him to tell me what hospital he broke out of. Maybe I’ll wait till he wakes up.”

“What difference does it make? Who cares what hospital?”

She sat down at the kitchen table. She looked out the screened-in window, which was letting in the pungent smell of homegrown weed.

“Would you like some coffee?” she asked. “It’s instant-but it’s okay.”

WHEN DENNIS WOKE UP, WE TOOK A WALK AROUND THE TRAILER PARK.

It was murderously hot inside the trailer and only a little less brutal outside. The air felt like a wet towel.

Dennis said he’d been in Desert Storm and that the petrochemicals in the air had poisoned him.

“Saddam’s killed me, man.”

“Did they check you out for that?”

“Huh?”

“For chemical poisoning?”

“Don’t think so. They have no clue.”

Dennis seemed a little more coherent after his nap. Mrs. Flaherty said he had moments like this, where lucidity flooded back and Dennis seemed more or less like his old self.

“Can we talk about the hospital, Dennis?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you lost your wallet there. Somebody stole it, maybe.”

“Could be. That marine fucker, maybe.”

“Who was that?”

“He was nuts,” Dennis said, as if he himself were perfectly sane. “Those marines are fucking crazy.”

“Why do you think it was him?”

“I don’t know. His wife went commando on him. When he was overseas, man. Eighty-sixed his kids.”

“She killed his children?”

“That’s right. Buried them somewhere along Route 80. Then shot herself in the fucking head. He went AWOL looking for their bodies for like a year. Couldn’t find them.”

“Why do you think he stole your wallet?”

“Dunno.”

“Well, why’d you say it was him?”

“I showed him my son-in my wallet.”

“So you did have your wallet there. See, Dennis-we know you had it with you in the VA hospital.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You showed him a picture of your kid. How old is your son, Dennis?”

“Dunno. She won’t let me see him. Fucking bitch.”

He was obviously referring to the other Mrs. Flaherty, the one his mother couldn’t say enough bad things about.

“What happened when you showed the marine the picture in your wallet?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay. So why do you think he stole it?”

“Dunno. Maybe he wanted the picture.”

“What would he want a picture of someone else’s kid?”

“He’s a crazy fucker-I told you.”

“Well, was he still there when you left?”

“Sure. He’s crazy.”

“So it wasn’t him, Dennis. Your wallet ended up with someone in California.”

“No kidding.”

“Was the marine black?”

“No.”

“Okay. Forget about the marine. Think about it. You had your wallet and then you didn’t. What happened?”

He shrugged.

“Did they discharge you, Dennis?”

“I let myself out.”

“You took off.”

“I let myself out.”

“How’d you get the pills?”

“Huh?”

“The medication. They gave you your dose every day, right?”

“Affirmative.”

“So how’d you get the pills? The ones you have with you?”

“Oh, that.”

“Oh that what?”

“I requisitioned them.”

“You stole them.”

“I need them, man.”

“What are you going to do when you run out?”

“Huh?”

“When you run out of your pills, where are you going to get more?”

“We have a problem, Houston.”

“Where was the hospital, Dennis?”

“Hard to say.”

“You remember the marine.”

“Affirmative.”

“You remember showing him a picture of your son in your wallet.”

“Affirmative.”

“Where’s the hospital, Dennis?”

“Dunno.”

His mind played hide-and-seek with him. Maybe it was the drugs, or maybe it was the petrochemicals from Iraq, or maybe he was just as crazy as the marine-searching the labyrinthine pathways of his cerebrum for memories, the way the marine searched Route 80 for his dead children.

“Well, we know it wasn’t Seattle.”

I thought about calling every VA hospital in America, but federal psych patients were protected by privacy and I didn’t hold out much hope they’d tell me anything. In most mental hospitals, patients weren’t even listed in the registry.

“Remember which direction you went in when you left Seattle? How did you travel, anyway?”

“My thumb, man.”

“You hitched.”

“Affirmative.”

“Remember who picked you up?”

“A man.”

“Yeah, I don’t think a woman would’ve stopped for you.”

We’d come to a playground. It wasn’t much-just two swings and a see-saw-but there were several small kids there, enough of them to make some of them have to wait their turn. A few mothers, chain-smoking cigarettes and looking old beyond their years, were standing off to the side watching them with little interest.

“South,” Dennis said.

“What?”

“The direction I went in. I went south. There’s not a lot of north left when you’re in Seattle.”