Gladly the Cross-Eyed Bear

13

“Well,” Bannister said, “that was one hell of a confession, Matthew.”

“Look,” I said, “you know me well enough to...”

“Oh, I know you well enough,” he said.

He was impeccably dressed in a hand-tailored blue tropical suit with a faint green shadow stripe. Blue shirt. Green tie. Highly polished black shoes. He and his wife had been having dinner with a state senator when he took my call. I’d told him I had a confession in the Toland murder case. I’d told him I wanted to do a videotaped Q and A in my office.

So here we were.

And Etta Toland had recanted.

Pete Folger, who looked like Phil Gramm and sounded like Phil Donahue, looked at his watch. His expression said this had been a waste of time and he wanted to go home to his wife and kiddies in time to catch the eleven o’clock news. Skye Bannister, who looked like Dan Quayle and who, in fact, sounded like him, was wearing an expression that said he knew me well enough to realize I was smart enough not to have dragged him down here if I didn’t have what is known in the trade as “real meat,” in which case why the hell was he here?

“Matthew,” he said, “I’m going to assume she told you something you wanted us to hear...”

“Didn’t sound that way to me,” Folger said.

“Pete,” I said, “she recanted. What the hell’s wrong with you?

“What’s wrong with me is we’ve got your lady cold and you’re dragging in somebody you claim...”

“He’s not stupid,” Bannister said sharply.

“What?” Folger said.

“I said he’s not stupid. Make that mistake, and you’re in trouble. What’d she tell you, Matthew? And what do you want us to do about it now that she’s turned her back?”

“He told her just what I said he told her.”

“Who? And what?”

“Bobby Diaz. Said her husband broke off his affair with Lainie Commins this past Christmas.”

“And?”

“You want it exactly the way she told it?”

“I’d be much obliged,” Bannister said.

She doesn’t know quite how to answer Bobby’s accusation.

It’s not something that hasn’t crossed her mind before, the hours Brett and Lainie spend together late at night, poring over designs at the office, the possibility has occurred to her. She supposes Lainie is an attractive woman, in a lost-waifish sort of way, if that kind of thing appeals to you. Brett has always had a roving eye, but his taste runs more to sleek, sophisticated women. Still, it’s entirely possible that what Bobby is telling her is true, though she won’t reveal this to him by even the faintest flicker of recognition on her face, the tiniest glimmer of suspicion in her eyes. Instead, she tells him to get the hell out of her house, and the moment he’s gone she calls the boat.

“This was now about ten to eleven,” I said. “In her earlier deposition, she told me she called the boat at eleven forty-five. That was to cover her tracks.”

Calls the boat at ten to eleven and gets no answer.

Wonders why he isn’t answering the phone.

Wonders if he’s already on the way home.

In which case, why hasn’t he called to say how the meeting went?

Wonders then why he asked Lainie to meet him on the boat in the first place. Instead of here at the house.

Wonders why he didn’t even mention this hot little tape in his possession, his hot little bimbo doing herself for all the world to see, wide open.

Has he been watching his hot little tape in private?

Does it recall memories of his hot cross-eyed little bimbo, wantonly spread and energetically enticing?

Does she excite him to tumescence?

Incite him to action?

Meet me on the boat again, hmmm?

Wonders, in fact, if his cockeyed little bitch isn’t doing herself right there on Toy Boat right this very minute, doing him in the bargain, shouldn’t be a total loss, no wonder no one’s answering the phone.

She decides that if this is true...

If he really did have an affair with Lainie...

If he is still having an affair with her...

She will kill him.

It is a decision she makes in the snap of an instant.

She will kill him.

As simple as that.

In the state of Florida, you do not need a license to purchase and own a gun. Or guns. There is a Colt .45 automatic aboard Toy Boat and there are two guns in the Toland household, one of them a Walther P-38, which Brett keeps in the nightstand on his side of the bed, and the other a .22-caliber Colt Cobra, which Etta keeps in the nightstand on her side. Her gun is fully loaded. Six-shot capacity. She plans to shoot her husband with it, if what Bobby Diaz told her is true.

There is no question about this.

It is a firm decision.

If he is cheating on her, she will kill him.

Toward that end, she dresses for the part before leaving the house. Pulls on a pair of black tights and a black leotard. No bra. Black Nike running shoes. Takes from her closet a black silk cape she wore over a long black gown to the Snowflake Ball last Christmas. Until last Christmas, your husband was having an affair with Lainie Commins. Finds a sassy black slouch hat she bought at Things Amiss on St. Lucy’s Circle not a month ago. Pins her hair up. Puts on the cape and the hat and looks at herself in the mirror-lined wall of the bedroom she may now be sharing with a philanderer. She looks like the Phantom of the Opera. The walnut stock of the Cobra feels cool to her touch. The fifteen-ounce gun is light in her hand. She drops it into a black tote, drops the cassette into it as well, and slings the bag over her shoulder. Gloves. Remembers gloves. Basic black needs basic black gloves. She finds a pair she bought in Milan last September, soft black leather, slips into them. Looks at herself in the mirror again. Yes, she thinks.

Her greenish-black Infiniti J30 is parked in the driveway outside. She loves the name Nissan has given the color: Black Emerald. She fires up the engine.

The time on the dashboard clock is 11:10 P.M.

This time of night, with no traffic on the road, she makes it to the club in ten minutes flat.

Her car is known here. She cannot have it recognized and later remembered, not if what Bobby Diaz told her is true, not if she is going to kill her husband. She plans to confront him with the tape. Ask him why he kept the tape from her. Ask him if it’s true that...

Is it true?

Is it?

Ask him.

She parks the car on the shoulder of the road outside the club. Moves in the shadow of the trees inside the stone wall, black as the night, her hands beginning to sweat inside the buttery-soft silk-lined gloves. The black leather tote bangs against her hip as she works her way toward the parking lot. She is starting across it, out of the shadows, when...

A white Geo.

Parked under the single lamppost at the far end of the lot.

Lainie’s car.

The time is eleven-twenty.

Etta nods bitterly.

Strides determinedly across the lot to the boat. The dock is silent. The boat is silent. As she moves swiftly up the gangway, past the empty cockpit, she hears cries from below, the unmistakable sounds of a woman moaning in ecstasy, hears a woman’s voice now, Give it to me, yes, Lainies voice, yes, do it, do it, and there is no longer any need to ask her husband anything at all.

She will kill him.

She is starting down the ladder leading to the saloon when she hears their voices again. He is reminding her of the tape he now has in his possession. He is telling her the tape can be very damaging to her career. He is suggesting that she might care to drop her infringement suit before all of kiddieland learns about that tape.

——What are you saying, Brett?

——I’m saying drop the suit or I’ll send copies to every company in the field.

——What?

——I think you’re hearing me, Lainie.

——Five minutes ago...

——Yes, but...

——You told me you still loved me!

——I know, but drop the suit.

——You son of a bitch!

——Drop the suit, Lainie.

Etta almost loses her resolve. If he lured Lainie to the boat only to threaten her with exposure if she didn’t...

In which case, why did he make love to her?

In which case, why did he tell her he still loved her?

——You told me you still loved me!

——I know, but drop the suit.

She hears more angry words from Lainie, hears her shouting she’ll never drop the suit now, go to Ideal, go to Mattel, go to hell, you rotten bastard, and realizes she’s about to leave the stateroom, her voice is at the stateroom door, she is hurling these last words at him as she storms out. Etta knows this boat, knows every corner of it, every curve. There is a head adjacent to the saloon, and she slips into that now, closes the door swiftly behind her, and listens, waiting.

Her wristwatch reads eleven-thirty.

There are footfalls rushing past in the passageway outside, hurried footfalls moving through the saloon and onto the ladder leading above. The gangway creaks under Lainie’s weight as she goes ashore. Etta stands still and silent behind the bathroom door, listening for the sound of a car starting, but she hears nothing. Has she gone? Has she really gone? She waits.

Her watch reads eleven thirty-five.

At last, she opens the door.

From the stateroom at the far end of the passageway, she can hear the sound of the shower running. Good, she’ll do a Psycho on him, kill him in the fucking shower. Her hand dips into the shoulder bag. Her fingers find the Cobra. Tighten around the walnut stock. She comes down the passageway. The stateroom door is open. The shower is still running. She comes stealthily into the room. Kill him in the shower, she is thinking. And sees several things on the bedside table. Brett’s side of the bed. Sees all these things in the very next instant.

Sees the time on the digital bedside clock.

11:38.

Sees an empty black vinyl cassette holder.

Idle Hands.

Sees a woman’s scarf lying on one of the upholstered stateroom chairs.

Blue scarf, red-anchor design.

And sees Brett’s pistol.

Everything suddenly comes into clear, sharp focus.

She smiles.

Actually smiles.

And drops the Cobra back into the tote.

The digital clock reads 11:39.

The shower stops.

She moves swiftly to the side of the bed, picks up the forty-five in her gloved right hand. The bathroom door opens. She turns toward it. Brett is wearing only a towel. His eyes open wide in surprise.

“Etta?” he said. “What...?”

Her first shot misses him.

The next two take him in the face.

The digital clock on the bedside table reads 11:40.

Before she leaves the boat, she slips the cassette into its holder, carries it across the room to the bookshelves holding similar cassettes and places it there in plain view. Let them find it, she thinks. Let them link it to Lainie’s scarf and conclude she was here to get the tape from him. Let them link it with this, she thinks, and tosses the forty-five onto the bed. She looks down at Brett where he lies bleeding on the carpet, the towel open now, his penis looking shriveled and shrunken and small.

Good, she thinks, and leaves the boat.

She drives home in twelve minutes.

Gets there at eleven fifty-five.

Changes her clothes.

Leaves the house again at midnight.

Is back at the club again by twelve-sixteen.

Which is when she discovers her husband’s body.

“She told you all this, huh?” Folger asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I wouldn’t have brought her here otherwise.”

“Too bad she wouldn’t repeat it,” Skye said.

“Too bad,” I said.

“What do you want from us, Matthew?”

“Drop the charges against my client...”

“No way.”

“...pending full investigation of Etta Toland.”

“Can’t do that,” Folger said, shaking his head.

“Why not?”

“Make us a laughingstock,” Skye said.

“And suppose we come up empty?” Folger said.

“How can you?” I said. “Get a warrant to search her closets. The night watchman saw someone dressed in black...”

“She may have burned the clothes by now,” Skye said.

“Subpoena her phone bills. In her deposition, she told me she called the boat at eleven forty-five, and got to the club at twelve-sixteen. Instead, she really placed the call...”

“How does that prove she killed him?” Folger asked.

“It proves she’s a liar.”

“So? You never lie?”

“Pete, I’ve got her calling the boat at ten to eleven, and leaving the house ten minutes later. Dressed to kill, I might...”

“No,” Skye said. “The phone bills may show when she called the boat, but they won’t show when she left the house. That’s all in your head so far.”

“It’s in her head, too, Skye.”

“If it is, she’s not letting anybody else in there.”

“How do you see the timetable?” Folger said.

“Full cast?”

“A to Z.”

“From the top?”

“From minute one.”

I took a lined yellow legal-sized pad from the top drawer of my desk. I picked up a pencil and began writing.

“Toland tells him to buzz off,” I said. “Says he doesn’t need the tape.”

“He called her from home,” I said. “Not from the boat as Etta later claimed.”

“Why would she lie about that?”

“She lied about everything, Skye. She killed him.”

“So far, I have no evidence of that. Let’s see the rest of the timetable.”

I began writing again.

“Here’s where it begins to get speculative,” Skye said. “Bear with me,” I said.

“None of this jibes with the deposition you took on the eighteenth,” Folger said.

“She was lying under oath, Pete.”

“The rest of her story is true,” I said.

“I ask you again, Matthew. What do you want us to do?”

“You know what he wants,” Frank said. “He wants you to stay all proceedings until you further investigate Etta Toland. That’s what he wants.”

“Show me a way out,” Skye said.

“You’ve got the black clothes...”

“Maybe.”

“...and a witness who saw her going aboard twenty-five minutes before the murder,” Frank said. “You’ve got her lying about Brett calling Lainie from the boat instead of the house, where she overheard the call. “You’ve also got her lying about when she herself called the boat. “You’ve got witnesses who saw a dark, expensive car parked on Silver Creek Road, which is where she herself told Matthew she...”

“What she told Matthew doesn’t interest me!”

“She says she didn’t get to the club till twelve-sixteen. Witnesses saw this dark, expensive car between eleven-thirty and midnight. Etta drives a dark green Infiniti. That puts her at the club while the murders...”

“You call that reliable?” Folger asked. “A half-hour time span?”

“Gentlemen, I need proof,” Skye said. “You can’t expect me to...”

“Will tire tracks do?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Matching tire tracks?”

“Do you have matching tire tracks?”

“I have a cast of the track found where the witnesses say they saw the car.”

“Does the track match the tires on Etta Toland’s car?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Well, when you do know...”

“You can find out quicker than I can, Skye.”

“Oh? How can...?”

“The police department’s been sitting on the cast since Wednesday.”

“Who’s got it?”

“Nick Alston.”

“Find him,” Skye snapped.

Folger went to the phone.

“If we get a match...” I said.

“You get a stay,” Skye said.

We got a match.

Nick Alston reported that he’d heard from the FBI late that afternoon, and that the tire in question was a Toyo A05 all-season, steel-belted radial tire in size P215/60R15 manufactured by Toyo Tire and Rubber Company Ltd. as standard factory-issued equipment on Nissan’s Infiniti J30 luxury sedan — the car Etta Toland drove.

Pete Folger merely asked for a court order to seize the car.

The rest was a piece of cake.

Patricia, I said, there are things we have to talk about. I know I have a reputation for being a sensitive, understanding, violin-playing, macho-loathing male, but I have to tell you I learned a great many things about myself after my accident — if you can call getting shot an accident — and I’m not sure the person who got out of that hospital bed is the same person who... no, please let me finish.

To begin with, I no longer have any patience with stupidity. I cannot abide stupid people. Nor can I abide amateurs. I’m not saying you’re a dumb amateur, don’t misunderstand me. In fact, I respect and admire you as a highly intelligent professional, which is really the only sort of woman I’ve ever been involved with... well, that’s not entirely true, I have known some pretty dumb broads, to tell the truth, and if you take exception to the use of that word, I can tell you here and now I don’t give a damn. Anyway, that was in another country, and the wench is dead, so to speak. That was then and this is now, and what we’re talking about, Patricia, is now.

So if I seem impatient with the trivia of life and living, it’s because I was in that valley, Patricia, I was walking in the valley of the shadow of death, and there was no one walking beside me, no one who’d gladly bear the cross of extinction for me. I wandered all alone in that valley with the clouds gathering black on the horizon, I came this close, Patricia, and I don’t ever want to come that close again. Ever.

So, yes, I may be cranky and grouchy these days, I may be a fucking grizzly, I may be short-tempered with all the ignorant, insolent, intolerant, self-centered, self-righteous, abusive, oblivious, suspicious, distrustful, blithely unaware people who would enjoy nothing better than to impose their narrow views and beliefs upon me, who would love to limit my right to choose a path appropriate to my needs and my wishes — which are very strong these days, my needs and wishes, I can tell you that, Patricia, very strong. I see things a lot more clearly now, Patricia. Getting shot did that to me. Coming close did that. I don’t care who marches in the St. Patrick’s Day parade. I just don’t want to march in any parade but my own.

Which brings me to what I’ve been trying to express for the past four months now, ever since I got out of the hospital, but which for a lawyer who’s been called glib at times, I’ve had a difficult time putting into words. I have to tell you I’ve been noticing other women, Patricia... no, please, no objections, counselor, let me finish, please. I’ve been noticing their legs and their thighs and their breasts, I sound like someone ordering a bucket of fried chicken, I know. And I know it’s politically incorrect and possibly sexist to take notice of a woman’s parts, but I really don’t care about political correctness anymore, I don’t care about any labels anymore. In fact, I find them boring. In fact, they piss me off.

A lot of things piss me off these days.

My own mortality pisses me off.

Patricia...

What I’m trying to say...

I’m okay now.

I’ve been okay for the past four months.

I want to make love to you.

I want you to stop feeling I’m not quite whole, I want you to stop thinking of me as an invalid. I was there, Patricia, but I’m back.

I’m here now.

I’m alive.

Can we start again?

Please?

“Okay,” she said.

On Monday, the twenty-fifth of September, a hot, sunny, sticky Rosh Hashanah morning, Judge Anthony Santos handed down his decision in the Commins v. Toyland, Toyland copyright, trademark, and trade dress infringement action. It read in part:

Impatiently, I began scanning the document.

I kept turning pages...

And turned yet more pages...

My heart sank.

I kept searching ahead.

And once again...

I took a deep breath.

And finally...

Some you win, some you lose.