Epitaph

TWENTY

M r. Weeks looked even paler than before, like fine white china, the kind your aunt makes you eat from on Sunday visits, the kind that breaks into bits at the slightest pressure of your hand. You've got to be careful with china like that. He let William in without a word, as if he'd been expecting him to show up at any moment, as if they visited each other on a regular basis to discuss what's wrong with the world. Mr. Brickman had been left downstairs to wait for him, partly because he still had no idea what William was up to, and partly because strangers weren't exactly welcome in Weeksville.

"Your leg…?" Mr. Weeks said, after William had gently eased himself into a chair.

"Something's broken," William answered.

"Ah." Mr. Weeks nodded, as if he'd expected as much.

The room felt pretty much like it did the last time he was here, like a crawl space; William had to resist the temptation to duck. The air tasted medicinal, gritty as soot, and William noticed yet another drape had been plastered against the window. Mr. Weeks was fighting a war, William thought, but Mr. Weeks was losing. It was World-100. Weeks-0.

"What can I do for you?" Weeks said.

"Well, I've got a question."

"Sure."

"Just a little one."

"Okay."

"Just a little one about something you said last time."

"I'm listening."

"You were talking about that night he came in looking like a ghost, the night he told you he had the biggest case of his life. Remember?"

"Yes. I remember."

"Then you said you didn't see much of him after that. That's the way you put it. Right so far? You saw a lot less of him, you said. Except for twice. Once, when he came back from Miami and dumped that file on you. And one other time. Before that. When he came in to borrow some medicine. Recall that, Mr. Weeks? Those were your words, right? That he came in to borrow some medicine because he'd burnt himself cooking."

"Yeah."

Mr. Weeks was looking just a little edgy now, not like he was going to make a dash for it or anything. Just like he was thinking about it. But then, there wasn't anywhere to g°.

"Jean cooked a lot then?"

"Now and again."

"Really? What was he cooking that night?"

"Don't know."

"Well, what did he burn himself on? The hot plate maybe? The stove?"

"He didn't say."

"Okay, he didn't say. What did he say?"

"I'm not following…"

"Sure you are. You're following along fine. He came in to borrow some medicine. Because he'd burnt himself. That's what he said, right?"

"Right."

"He burnt himself cooking."

"Uh huh."

"But who knows what he was cooking that night. Could've been anything, right? Maybe his specialty."

"I didn't ask."

"What did you ask?"

"I asked him how I could help him."

"Sure. You were good at helping him, weren't you. That was your specialty. Take my file, Weeks, he said, and you did. Like that. Tell no one, he said. And you didn't. Until me of course. What did he want you to help him with that night?"

"I told you. He burnt himself. He wanted medicine."

"That's right. Bet it was a bad burn too. How did he burn himself so badly?"

"I told you." Yeah, Mr. Weeks was definitely not a happy camper now. "He burnt himself cooking."

"Okay. When I went to Jean's funeral, know what I did, Mr. Weeks?"

Mr. Weeks shook his head. He didn't know.

"I shook his hand. Honest to God. I wasn't supposed to open the coffin either. It was closed-those were the directions. So why did I do it? Why? There's a famous line about this old Brooklyn Dodger-I forget his name- Max something. No one liked this guy. He was a bully and a drunk and he used to piss off the sportswriters no end. Until the day he got old and was told he was traded, gone, just like that. Then he all of a sudden got friendly. And you know what one of these writers said? He said, Poor old Max. He's finally saying hello when he ought to be saying goodbye. Well, I guess I was saying hello. Understand?"

Mr. Weeks nodded this time. He understood.

"I was saying hello, fine. Only I had this weird feeling that it wasn't Jean in there. Yeah, I know it's crazy- I know it was Jean in there. But he didn't look like Jean. I couldn't figure out why. Not really. Not until today."

Mr. Weeks was looking down at his wrist. That's right, Mr. Weeks. That's right.

"You know, Jean never, ever, hid it. Just the opposite. He wore short sleeves in summer. Always. Even in winter he'd roll his sleeves up to the elbow-screw the temperature. So it was always there for anyone to see. Anyone did. If you met him, or talked to him, or hired him, you saw them. His numbers were out in the open, his souvenir from the Germans, yes? But here's what I remembered today. Here's why he looked funny to me. When I shook his hand at the funeral home, they weren't there. That's right. Gone, poof, not a sign of them. Okay, I admit it-the other funny thing was I didn't even notice it. Not at first, not then. Not until today. But today I did. Today I remembered. Jean burnt himself, sure he did-but he didn't burn himself broiling a fillet, did he? Did he, Mr. Weeks? He burnt off his numbers. Jean went somewhere. Jean went somewhere and had those numbers burnt off his arm."

Mr. Weeks remained silent, like his tomb of a room, dead quiet. But among the things he didn't say was you're wrong. You're mistaken. You're telling tales. Mr. Weeks was quiet, but Mr. Weeks wouldn't shut up.

"Okay," William said. "Okay. So where'd he go? The family doctor, the neighborhood dermatologist, the local tattoo parlor. Where?"

"A clinic."

So. Weeks speaks.

"A clinic? What kind of clinic?"

Mr. Weeks sighed, a good and heavy sigh, a sigh that sounded like the last gust of a passing thunderstorm.

"A bad kind," he said, "that's what kind. They did some job on him. They used acid-okay."

"Did he tell you he was going to do that?"

"No." Weeks shook his head. "It was just like I told you. I hadn't seen him for weeks. Then one night he knocked on my door. He was in a lot of pain. He showed me his arm and told me what he'd done. I was a medic in the war so I knew it was bad. Even if I hadn't been a medic, I'd have known. It was infected. They'd burnt his skin off but they'd left it exposed. He needed attention."

"So you gave it to him."

"I told him to go to a doctor. I told him to go to one immediately."

"But he didn't."

"No. He thought that was funny. I've already been to a doctor, he said. He thought everything was funny that night. He was… manic, possessed almost, you understand? He wanted me to fix him up, no one else."

"So you did."

"Yeah. As best I could. I have a first aid kit here, quite a large one. I don't go out, so I have to, you understand. Just in case."

Just in case the gumshoe gourmet had a cooking accident.

"I cleaned it out and put a salve on it. Then I wrapped it up good and gave him some penicillin. He was lucky, that's all. It worked."

"Yeah," William said. "He died, but not of that." Mr. Weeks didn't have the fans going today; it felt as if he were sitting inside a collapsed tent-that's what it felt like. "Okay, Mr. Weeks. He came to you screaming in pain and you fixed him up and you sent him on his merry way. Now bear with me-here's the sixty-four- thousand-dollar question. Why? Why, after all those years, did Jean go and do that?"

"He said he'd earned it. That's what he said."

He'd earned it.

"Okay-I give up. Earned it how?"

"He didn't say."

"What did he say? Don't tell a soul, Weeks? It's between you and me? Be a pal? Let's just say I burnt myself cooking?"

"He said he'd earned it. I thought he'd earned the right to keep it to himself."

So, William thought. It hadn't been Jean who'd made him promise. Weeks had made a promise to himself, and Weeks had gone and kept it.

"I don't know why he burnt his numbers off," Weeks said. "I don't know why after fifty years it was suddenly so important to him. He didn't ask me to understand him. He just asked me to listen to him."

Mr. Weeks was certainly odd and maybe even crazy, William thought, but he was loyal as they come. And in this world, at this time, that had to count for something. Sure it did. He couldn't imagine what Jean had done to deserve Mr. Weeks's loyalty, probably not much, other than to visit him occasionally and remain careful not to laugh at him. But it had been enough, more than enough for Weeks, who'd gone in like a faithful hound to bury his master's secrets. He'd taken the photos and he'd taken the file, and he would have taken this last secret to the grave with him. That too. The only thing more surprising than humanity, William thought, is the human beings it's wasted on.

He used the cane to lift himself up off the chair.

"Thanks, Mr. Weeks."

Weeks blinked at him. "What for?"

"When I find out, I'll tell you."

This time, the doorman didn't wave him through like a ticket-taker. This time he made him wait.

"Miss Coutrino has company," he said, with something resembling a sneer, then went back to his newspaper.

Okay, the sneer spoke volumes. Thin ones though, with titles like People I Am Better Than and People I Look Down On. People like Johns, and old Johns doubly so. And even though William was a William, and not a John, he had no intention of protesting today. He was tired, okay, he was tired and he was hot and he was old. Yes he was, no doubt about it, and getting older by the second.

His reflection sat directly across from him framed in gilt, like a still outside the old Bijou, from a horror matinee perhaps. The Creature from Astoria maybe, or the Phantom of Forest Hills. Okay, maybe he was being a bit too harsh here, he didn't look quite that bad. Not like the monster yet, just the monster's assistant-the one who limps after the mad doctor with a hump on his back. Only William was carrying something else on his back, a burden of a slightly different kind, although every bit as debilitating.

Among his burdens, in fact, was Mr. Brickman, who'd been dumped off again like an unwanted child. At an ice cream parlor this time, with instructions to wait, his suspicions only half mollified by William's insistence that he was simply visiting a shut-in who disliked company. Which described Mr. Weeks to a T, though not Miss Eat Your Heart Out at all. These things were getting pretty interchangeable though, his bag of lies, getting where one would do just as well as the other.

He waited over twenty minutes, or until a rather flushed-looking businessman came striding out through the lobby, or actually slinking through it, looking neither left or right, but more or less down at his shoes. Maybe business hadn't been good today, maybe he hadn't closed the deal quite the way he'd imagined, or maybe like any good businessman he was just wary of competitors.

The doorman let him through now, the sneer still amazingly intact, as if it were frozen on.

"Oh," was the very first thing she said. "It's you."

She was dressed for business too, which meant half dressed, black spike heels and a leather skirt up to there. Her blouse was unbuttoned to her navel, and the faintest sweat covered her cheeks.

"Back as a customer this time?" she said, half sarcastically, but half not. He had the impression she'd thrust just a little more white thigh out at him.

"Afraid not." Not as a customer, or as a drunken mourner, or as a new acquaintance here to talk about the latest developments in Chechnya. "This time I'm here as a detective." And if he'd shocked her with that simple declarative statement, just imagine how it sounded to him. Faintly ridiculous, is the way it sounded, especially given that reflection of someone light-years past his prime that he'd just torn himself away from-faintly ridiculous and more than faintly pathetic. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, he thought. Besides, he could be mistaken, but he didn't believe he'd actually heard her laugh.

What she actually did, was say "Who hired you-Rip Van Winkle?" So, okay, maybe she did yuk-yuk just a little.

She swung the door open though at the very same time, and let him in.

The first thing he noticed was that she had a new carpet. Then she noticed him noticing.

"Don't worry," she said, "I needed a new one anyway." Then she said, "You are sober this time, aren't you?"

"Completely."

"Of course you are. You're here as a detective this time, isn't that what you said-correct me if I'm wrong."

Okay, he didn't much like her tone now. Laugh's a laugh, but she was starting to erode what little self- confidence he had left-her and that reflection, a brutal tag team.

"What exactly can I do for you, detective?"

"For starters, you can stop making fun of me. Okay- I'm old, I'm Methuselah, okay. I should be playing mah- jongg, I know. I should be in a retirement community asking Ethel how the chicken was last night. I'm not. I'm here. I've got some broken ribs and a bum toe, and that's not even going into the usual aches and pains. No one's hired me but me, but here I am and I'm pretty serious." All that was what he wanted to say.

What he really said was: "I saw those pictures Jean took of you." Half because he felt like pricking that smug veneer and half because he needed to ask her something.

But it didn't seem to work. She didn't look happy, okay, but she didn't look unhappy either. She looked like someone who'd just spent half an hour on her knees to some guy she despised, and was now having to listen to some other guy she didn't much care for either. It was a chore.

"Congratulations," she said. "Did you get off on them?"

"No."

"Oh come on, sure you did. I've got primo legs. You haven't seen legs like that since when…?"

"I've got a question for you, okay?"

"Not okay. See, that's how it works in here. I tell you what's okay, and you say May I."

"I've got a question for you."

"I've got a question for you. Why don't you take that cane and fuck yourself with it."

"You mad at everyone today or just me?"

"Just you."

"Maybe I should come back."

"Maybe you should retire again."

"I've got a question for you."

"You said that already."

"Whose idea was it?"

"Whose idea was what?"

"How does it work exactly? You just go pick out that outfit because you feel like Eva Braun that day. It could be the school mistress or the lady cop but you're feeling a little Aryan, so you say what the hell, I'll go for the swastika today?"

"You did get off on those pictures, Grandpa, didn't you?"

"Or was it him? Did he give you the day's script and say I'll play the Holocaust victim and you'll play the SS?"

"This getting you hot?"

"How did it work?"

"You didn't say May I."

"Who set the roles? Who said I'll be this and you'll be that?"

"Who said I have to tell you?"

"He was on a case," William said. "Remember? He was old, like me. He talked a lot, he was maybe going dotty. But he was on a case. The biggest case of his life-that's what he told you."

"He told me a lot of things."

"That's right. A lot of things. But this thing he told you was true. Just like his selling runaway kids, just like his giving that up. He didn't always tell the truth, but he always told the truth to you."

"So what?"

"Whose idea was it?"

"I don't remember. Maybe it was mine."

"Yours?"

"Maybe it wasn't."

"How did it work?"

"I think it was his."

"He told you how to do it? He said let's play Nazi. He said-"

"Yeah, I almost forgot. Silly me. The customer's always right. Right?"

"Maybe not this customer. This customer had a number tattooed on his arm-sure, you saw it. This customer was in a concentration camp. This customer's family died in a camp. So what was this customer doing asking you to dress up as the family executioner?"

"Who do you think I am-Dr. Ruth? The guy who walked out of here ten minutes ago is wearing my panties. I don't ask them why. I tell them how much. Understand how it works?"

"Yeah. I was just wondering how it worked with him."

"Sometimes he asked for that. Sometimes he didn't. Sometimes we just talked. At the end, we just talked."

"At the end?"

"Yeah."

"At the end, when?" Something had just occurred to him. "The night he told you about the case-the biggest case of his life? That night?"

"Sure. Who the fuck remembers. Why not."

Yes, why not.

"He burnt off his numbers," William said. "When he got this case he went and burnt off his numbers and when someone asked him why he did it, he said he'd earned it. And then he came to you and he said kick off those boots why don't you and let's chat. I just want to talk now-about things, the weather maybe, the unemployment rate, oh yeah, and this case, did you know it's the biggest one I've ever had-can't tell you what it is, but it is."

I've earned it.

That's what Jean said, it was becoming clearer now, even if Miss Coutrino-see, he knew her name now- was only half listening, even if he was half wrong, it was becoming clearer.

"Jean comes to you for who knows how long and he positively licks your boots. He pinches runaways off the streets and hits up their parents for payoffs. Then something happens…"

I've earned it.

"He stops. He stops selling kids, he stops playing kneel- to-the-Nazi. He goes and burns his numbers off. Why…?"

I understand, Jean. I do.

"Because he's earned it. Because he's earned the right. Because this case has earned it for him."

There. He'd put two and two and two together and it sounded suspiciously like six, like it added up. Even she looked impressed now, okay, maybe just curious, about where he was going with all this maybe, and whether or not he was going to throw up on her carpet again. He was a little curious about that himself; even stone sober he felt more than a tinge of nausea here. Maybe it was the smell-the smell of sex, of sweat and semen and crisp dollar bills, or maybe it was this other nagging notion. This strange idea that the closer he got to making sense of all this, the closer he got to Cherry Avenue. This call- me-crazy feeling that getting to the bottom of one was going to land him at the bottom of the other. Again. Okay-call him crazy. He'd answer to it-to Crazy, to Hopeless, to Old Man, to Will. Which is what Rachel used to call him. Only Rachel. He wouldn't mind answering to that at all right now. She could call him Will or Sam or Joe or Tiny Tim. But she wouldn't call him anything because she wouldn't call at all. Because she was dead, possibly, or surrounded by grandchildren, probably, or maybe just sitting next to whoever it was that had finally given her a life. Definitely. Okay, Rachel, this one's for you. Even if you don't want it, even if you won't know about it. It's for you too. The woman, Miss Coutrino, was staring at him. "Finished?" she said. "No." He'd been looking ahead. All this time he'd been looking in the here and now. But he'd gotten it backward. He'd been looking the wrong way. About-face. "No." When you looked the other way you saw a bunch of old friends. Sure. There was Santini and Jean and Three Eyes and Mr. Klein. "No." And the hospital. The hospital was there too. The one that had taken a walking dead man and tried to make him forget the unforgivable. "I ought to be saying goodbye," he said. "Goodbye." But I'm saying hello.