Head Wounds

TEN

I DON’T REMEMBER what murky and misguided impulse got me into boxing in the first place, but I stuck with it for the gyms. My favorite was the one in New Rochelle where I met Antoine and Walter Bick and where I could always find the comfort of anonymity and the solace of organized brutality. It had been in operation since well before the war and was appropriately dank and claustrophobic and shopworn, the walls thick with overpainting and the ceilings a tangle of exposed metal rafters. But you went there for the rummy old trainers, ambitious contenders and haunted ghetto kids. And the equipment was as good as anywhere, what there was of it. A row of speed bags, a half dozen heavy bags, jump ropes, medicine balls and a ring. Showers and a ready supply of rigid white towels you could use to either dry yourself or sand down a picnic table.

For almost twenty years it was about all I did other than work. No one at the company ever knew, except Jason Fligh, the only member of my company’s board I could say was a friend. The reason was simple enough. Back when we were both trying to raise money for tuition he saw one of my few professional fights. The first up on a triple bill in Chicago. I won, thank God. Which was how Jason remembered it the day I met him, minutes before I had to pitch the board on my division’s annual budget. We were pouring coffee at an eighteenth-century serving table they’d rolled into the boardroom. Jason described the whole night in rich detail, something people with photographic memories like his are able to do.

I was glad I hadn’t asked him to keep it to himself. He just did, knowing I’d rather not have to explain such an alien thing to the lordly, white-haired board members whose notice of boxing barely extended beyond annoyance at Muhammad Ali for changing his name from Cassius Clay.

Jason was an outside director, his regular job being president of the University of Chicago. He was the only outside director who seemed to take the job seriously, and I was the only division head who didn’t treat him like an afterthought when I had to speak before the board.

Since moving out to Southampton I’d found a shabbier version of my gym in New Rochelle, if such a thing was possible, up in the scraggly pine barren north of Westhampton. It was called Sonny’s, though the name wasn’t displayed anywhere. You knew because Ronny, the guy who ran the place, told you that was the name.

When I wasn’t killing myself in the construction trades I’d go there on a regular basis to work the bags, mess around with the free weights, sit in a tiny steam room and go comatose in one of two Jacuzzis, the pride of the establishment.

After my lunch with Joey Entwhistle this seemed like the only logical thing to do.

I was a half hour into the speed bag, which was about my limit, when Sullivan appeared a step or two outside my swing. He waited while I finished the pattern. I like the speed bag. It’s strenuous work to keep your arms up and moving like that. Unlike the heavy bag, you can hit the thing as hard as you want without hurting your wrists, and it makes a great sound. And I was good at it. Keeping up a steady rhythm on a speed bag is a lot harder than it looks. It impressed the kids who were always crowding into the place, which I hoped dampened any urge to mess with the crazy old white guy.

Sullivan was less impressed, but kept a safe distance until I stopped the bag with my gloves.

“I think it’s ready to throw in the towel,” he said.

“Not this bag. Always bounces back.”

“Haven’t seen you here for a while.”

“Been pounding on crown molding.”

“I hoped you’d be working out this Milhouser thing.”

Wearing a simple gray sweatsuit without sunglasses or a sidearm, Sullivan almost looked like a standard-issue, moderately overweight gym rat. Except for the worried look on his face.

“What,” I said to him.

“I’m not supposed to talk to you about the case.”

“Okay. I know that.”

“Did you know there’s a special immunity clause that covers steam room discussions? I think I’m gonna go sit in there for a while.”

Steam closet might have been a more fitting description. I think Ronny built it that way to conserve on the cost of making steam. The bench slats, however, were real redwood and the walls an unfinished clear cedar, which reinforced the closet sensation. We almost had to share it with a young Shinnecock middleweight, but the thought of being crammed in a hot little room with two sweaty old guys wearing nothing but scratchy towels got him out of there pretty quickly.

“Are you talking to Burton Lewis?” Sullivan asked as soon as the door shut.

“Last night.”

“He was at the station after your booking. Spent a couple hours in Ross’s office. He didn’t look too happy when he left.”

“I didn’t know about that,” I told him. “I knew he wasn’t happy.”

“I’m not either.”

“There’s strong evidence of an inverse correlation between happiness and a clear perception of reality.”

“That’s what I’m unhappy about,” he said.

“What?”

“You’re not taking this seriously.”

“Christ, not you, too.”

“What the hell’s the matter with you? There’s nothing that says you aren’t going down for this thing. Nothing. Not a single goddamned thing.”

“Except I didn’t do it.”

He looked straight at me, frowning.

“I’m the one who found the stapler,” he said. “I isolated the footprints and directed forensics. I’m the one who put the foundation down on this case. How do you think I felt when the County people told me who owned that damned tool? Whose shoes were all over that site?”

“You got a brain. How can I get you to use it?”

“Careful,” he said, sitting back and folding his arms.

“Joe, I can’t do this by myself. I can’t be the only one in possession of the only two irreducible facts in this whole sorry mess. Somebody killed Robbie Milhouser and that somebody wasn’t me.”

“I’d be just as happy if you killed the stupid bastard,” he said to me, half in jest. I appealed to the better half.

“Tell Ross you want back on the case. Tell him you don’t give a crap who killed whom, that you’re a cop and this is what you do and if he thinks you won’t approach the investigation with perfect objectivity and respect for the rule of law, he doesn’t know who you are.”

It’s very hard to hide what you’re thinking when you’re only a few feet away in a tiny windowless room, even allowing for the artificial fog. From what I could see, Sullivan was thinking happier thoughts.

“Hard to argue with that,” he said.

“Tell Ross that Veckstrom will approach this with an assumption of my guilt. He won’t see anything or think anything that would interfere with that mind-set. Somebody besides me has to be open to alternative possibilities. Ross is a good man. He’s fair. Even if he wants to fry my ass, he won’t fight it.”

“He’s not big on backing down.”

“Neither are you.”

He wanted to say I was blowing smoke up his ass, but the sensation was too pleasant to mount an objection.

“Veckstrom’s not gonna like having the company,” said Sullivan. “He’s been in plainclothes for over ten years. Doesn’t like to share the big cases.”

“You call his clothes plain? Just tell Ross you want the freedom to poke around a little on your own. You won’t get in Veckstrom’s way.”

“Okay, let’s just say, theoretically, I’d be able to poke around, what exactly would I be poking into?” he asked.

“I want to know who Patrick is. Him and that crew of Robbie’s from Up Island. What’s their deal? They seem way too self-possessed.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Cocky. In command of things. I wonder about his relationship with old Robbie.”

“Okay,” said Sullivan. “I can tag him.”

“And Amanda’s house. I’d surely love to know what the County investigators think happened there.”

“They think it was arson,” said Sullivan.

“Yeah, but who, why and how? What do you think? Any reason it wasn’t Robbie and his boys? It makes the most sense.”

Sullivan started looking uncomfortable again.

“Proving that will give the ADA another motive,” he said. “She already thinks Milhouser humiliated you in front of your girlfriend.”

“That’s not how it was.”

“That’s how it’ll be when she brings it up in court.”

“I still want to know.”

“Only if Ross gives me the okay.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he said, and got up to leave. And then paused.

“You’re right. I liked you for this from the moment I got the call. I never said anything, but it probably showed. Couldn’t have helped you with Ross.”

“He got there fine on his own.”

“I like thinking now that you didn’t do it. Cops aren’t allowed to fraternize with murderers.”

“Could slow career advancement.”

“This is a better perspective. Makes me feel more confident. More self-possessed,” said Sullivan.

And then he left.

The steam room felt a lot roomier without his pinkish corpulence taking up valuable airspace. Though it wasn’t long before I regretted being left alone with my thoughts.

Or more accurately, my fears. Or was it anger?

I remembered reading once that the physiological effects of fear and anger were nearly identical. Evolution had it rigged so while the brain decided between fight or flight, the body was charged up and ready for action either way. All the blood ran into the arms and legs, and engorged the heart and lungs, while draining out of the brain, leaving just enough to fire the reflexes, but little for deliberative, analytical thought. Which is why mortal threats make you stupid. Stupid and dangerous, as the adrenal glands pump your bloodstream full of epinephrine, flushing your cheeks and drying out your mouth.

I don’t know if Nature also stirred in a dose of shame to go along with the fear and anger, or if that was an entirely human creation. Though I wasn’t ashamed to admit, at least to myself, that Milhouser and his boys, especially Patrick, had frightened me. I knew the type. Once challenged, or worse, embarrassed, they’d never stop. They’d never let it go. I got the drop on Patrick that night, but that wouldn’t happen again. Next time he’d own the surprise. Then it’s not a matter of who knows how to box, but who’s younger, stronger, meaner and as yet, un-brain damaged.

A reminder that we’re really only animals after all. Inflicted with the curse of cognition. Capable of moral reasoning, but prone to mindless violence. Mindless in its heedless ferocity, but also in its lunacy. Often begging the question, how could you do such a thing?

What were you thinking?

——

The only sure way to counter the wholesome, cleansing effects of an afternoon at the gym was an evening at the Pequot. I went home first to check on Eddie, fill his bowls with food and water and make sure he had the cottage under control. I don’t know how old he was when I sprang him from the pound, but probably no more than two or three. In those formative years he’d learned to be basically self-sufficient. He was always glad to see me when I showed up, but not so much that you’d think he couldn’t live without me. He’d often run up from the beach or bolt out of the wetlands to the west of the property when I drove in the driveway. I never asked what he was doing in there, and he never told.

For some reason, though, he was unusually attentive that night, wagging his broad sweep of a tail and making low, friendly noises. He normally ran around the yard after eating dinner, but this time he trotted over to the Grand Prix and waited by the door.

“In the mood for a little seafood?” I asked him.

He spun around once and looked expectantly at the back door. I let him in and he jumped over the console into the front, where he whined at the closed window. I opened it for him after I started the car.

“Anything else I can do for you?”

There’s no more hysterical prohibition than dogs in public eating areas, except in places like the Pequot, where Hodges’s Shih Tzus were skilled in squirting out from under the feet of exhausted deep-sea fishermen, and Eddie would routinely curl up under my stool at the bar or one of the little round tables where I read Beckett and Camus under the existential glow of the red-shaded lamps mounted along the wall.

Hodges had already gone home to his boat, part of a plan to keep his work time to something under ten hours a day. This left Dorothy in command of the joint. A tall Croatian with thick jet-black hair named Vinko was cooking in the back and helping serve tables while she held sway at the tattered pine bar. She’d dressed for the occasion, wearing her best black leather corset and matching accessories.

“Love the collar. Do you sharpen those spikes yourself?” I asked her, sitting down to the jumbo Absolut on the rocks she’d poured before I was halfway across the floor.

“My dad calls them hickey deflectors. He doesn’t know the guys I date. They actually dig the sharp little points. What’s the dog drinking?”

“Same as me. Hold the vodka.”

I ordered us both a burger, which Eddie preferred without the bun, and settled in with Immanuel Kant’s Observations on the Feeling of the Beautiful and Sublime, neither of which I was feeling myself, but I was willing to give it a go.

People must have come in, had some food and drink, and left again while I was sitting there at the bar. I just didn’t notice. I was absorbed in Kant, except when attacked by mini explosions of anxiety that would suddenly seize my mind. I promptly stuffed them back down into my lower consciousness, temporarily subdued, but poised to strike again at the next opportunity. This was one reason I liked to read stuff with a little meat on the bones. Better for distracting my brain. Keep it from wandering into dangerous places.

The shrink I was forced to see once told me, attempting an analogy I might understand, that my brain was like a little Briggs & Stratton engine. Would run fine all day under a load, but as soon as you disengaged the clutch it would spin up to unsustainable rpm’s, overheat and eventually blow a rod. That’s not exactly how he said it, because he didn’t know anything about small, air-cooled two-cycle engines. But that’s what he was getting at.

I didn’t like the guy at all, but he had a point. It probably wasn’t a coincidence that I never put in less than a twelve-hour day when I worked for the company. That I sought out the most difficult technical problems and consumed countless hours studying densely detailed engineering texts, seminar papers and quantitative analyses.

I was afraid to stop.

Dorothy came up and leaned over the bar to check on Eddie. He was keeping a low profile, tangled around the legs of the barstool, his head on the brass foot rail, his extravagant tail tucked safely under his butt.

“Should I get him some more water or let sleeping dogs lie?” she said.

“If he wants more he’ll ask.”

She leaned back and looked at the cover of my book.

“He never left his hometown,” she said.

“Who?”

“Kant. Established most of the philosophical fundamentals of his time, back when philosophers were like the only guys thinking about anything, and the dumb sonofabitch never saw London or the Mediterranean Sea. So, is that a work of genius or a con job by a neurotic stay-at-home?”

“I grew up on Long Island and still haven’t been to Hicksville. Name scares me.”

“Not to confuse Kant with that chick poet who never left her house. That’s a clear case of Calvinist gender oppression. Pre-empowerment. You want another one?”

She left me alone to penetrate Kant, which wasn’t as hard as I thought until I hit a wall about fifty pages in. I looked around to see if anyone else in the place was studying eighteenth-century European philosophy and was rewarded by the sight of Patrick and two of his oversized friends walking through the door.

They sat on either side of me at the bar. Patrick to my left, the other two guys to my right. I dropped my feet off the brass rail and put one on either side of where Eddie was sleeping. I didn’t want any of the lugs to slide into him with their stools.

“So, it’s old Vice-Grip,” said Patrick, forgetting the name had been forged at his expense.

“Feel free to call me Sam. And be careful with your feet. There’s a dog under my stool.”

Patrick looked down at Eddie.

“He bite?”

“No, but I do.”

“I figured you for all bark,” said one of the guys on the right.

“No, no,” Patrick answered. “Sam’s an old punch-drunk. Professional, right? That’s what we’re told.”

To avoid the problem of looking from one side to the other I just looked straight ahead at the glass shelves behind the bar that held Hodges’s modest liquor inventory—all but a few bottles of Absolut he kept for me in the freezer.

“Long time ago. And not much of a career.”

“Explains the nose,” said Patrick. “Nowadays you can fix those things.”

“Yeah, but that won’t fix the problems on the inside. Though by the look of you boys, outside ugly is the bigger issue.”

“We ought to change your name to Death Wish,” said the other right-side guy.

“Somebody already got there. As you can see, not all wishes come true.”

Dorothy came out of the kitchen and saw the fresh faces at the bar. She gave them each a menu and a bottle of Budweiser.

“That’s a nifty lookin’ thing you’re wearing there, darlin’,” said Patrick when she dropped the beer down in front of him. “You got matching whips and spurs?”

“No, darlin’, but I do have a matching black belt and no tolerance for sexist abuse. You gonna read that menu or do you already know what you want?”

After collecting their orders she went back into the kitchen.

“What kind of bitches you hang out with, man?” asked Patrick after the kitchen door stopped swinging.

“Post-empowerment.”

While the guys drank their beers I wondered how I was going to get from the Pequot to my car and then home again without the possibility of a situation presenting itself. As I pondered this, I stalled for time.

“How well did you guys know Robbie Milhouser, anyway?” I asked, looking straight ahead at the bottle-filled shelves.

“A couple’a years. Long enough to consider him a major friend,” said Patrick.

That set off nods all around.

“What happened to him wasn’t right,” said one of the right-siders.

“I agree with that,” I told them. “I didn’t do it, by the way, just to set your minds at ease.”

“So they just arrested you for the fuck of it,” said Patrick.

“A little misunderstanding. It’ll be taken care of.”

“Taken care of. That’s exactly what it’s gonna be,” said the other right-sider.

“Did Robbie hire you as a crew, or one at a time?” I asked.

“What’s it to you?” Patrick asked.

“He suggested you were a package deal. Just curious.”

“You’re curious about a lot of things.”

“I know most of the builders out here. Thought you might like a reference. That house is almost done and Robbie’s not building any more.”

“Tell that to his old man,” said a right-sider. “It’s all his deal now.”

I looked at Patrick in time to see him frown at the guy who’d just spoken.

“You’re not supposed to inherit shit from your kids,” said Patrick. “Supposed to be the other way around. Fucked up.”

“Said he’s got plenty of work as long as we need it,” said the same right-sider, I thought with some defiance. “Makes me want to settle down here, build my own place. Sit on the beach, do a little fishing.”

“Go to the discos,” said the other right-sider. “Do a little coke. Fuck an heiress.”

“The old man’s got another project?” I asked the first right- sider.

“At least. More after that. Said he’s tappin’ a steady supply.”

“Hey, bonehead,” said Patrick, like he meant it. “That’s the man’s confidential information.”

The other guy didn’t seem inclined to escalate. He just shut up and went back to sucking on his beer. I asked him to tell me more about old man Milhouser, just to stir the pot, but before he could answer Dorothy and Vinko came out of the kitchen with their food. This would have made for a good distraction, a little time for me to think, if the aroma hadn’t woken up Eddie. He jumped up and was immediately charmed to see we had company. Everyone was introduced and given the opportunity to scratch his head. He sniffed at the air and looked around to see if anyone had thought to get an extra burger for him. With no bun, and two or three fries.

“I didn’t think you were allowed to have dogs in restaurants,” said the other right-sider.

“It’s not a restaurant,” said Dorothy. “It’s a bar and grill.”

That seemed to satisfy him. Everybody quieted down while they worked on their food. I was glad to see Dorothy staying behind the bar. She washed out some glasses, slopped a wet rag over the bar surface and otherwise fiddled around with things. I thought it might be the best time to get out of there, but I wasn’t sure. And I didn’t like the idea of leaving Patrick and his boys there without Hodges to look after Dorothy and Vinko. I watched her busy herself and tried to send her telepathic messages. It worked so well she disappeared again into the kitchen.

“Come here often?” I asked Patrick.

He was polite enough to finish chewing before answering.

“Nah. First time. Lucky break bumping into you. Give us a chance to renew old acquaintances.”

“Can’t say it’s been an incredible pleasure, but I’m getting ready to shove off,” I told him. “Hey Dotty,” I yelled at the kitchen door. “I need my check.”

“Not a problem. I think we’re done here, too,” said Patrick. The other guys looked at their half-finished meals. “I heard this was a tough neighborhood. We should escort you to your car.”

“Thanks, but I’m all set. It’d be bad for my bodyguard business. Send the wrong signal.”

Patrick looked like he was considering that.

“Not when they see you got an armed escort,” he said, looking down at his lap. I followed his eyes and saw that he was holding an open five-inch buck knife flat against the top of his thigh. “Much more impressive, huh?”

“Sure. Would get my attention. Already has.”

“So, what say we just pay our bills and get on out of here. I could use the air. This place stinks of fish.”

Dorothy came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on a dishrag, followed by Vinko carrying a plastic pail, which he filled with dirty glasses stowed below the bar. She stood at the register and printed out my check. Patrick asked for his, too. She nodded without looking over and continued to punch in the bill.

“I want all of you to look at these carefully,” she said, slapping little slips of paper down in front of each of us. “I’m not sure I got it right.”

Patrick picked his up and looked at it like he’d never seen a check before. When he looked up again he saw Vinko with the business end of Hodges’s 12-gauge pump-action shotgun pointing at his chest.

“Hands on the bar everybody,” said Dorothy quietly. Vinko racked a shell up into the firing chamber as further inducement. We all complied.

“Not you, Sam.”

She stood on a step stool and looked over the bar.

“Say, Vinko, guess what Mr. Personality’s got in his lap.”

He stepped back a pace, then leaned over to take a look.

“Eez big knive,” he said.

“That’s what I thought. Sam, see if you can pick it out of there without getting your arm in his line of fire.”

First I put my left hand through Eddie’s collar. He hadn’t moved from the foot of my stool, but I felt better getting a grip on him. Then I reached in and picked up Patrick’s knife by the heavy wood and chrome handle. It had the heft and wear of an old weapon. Locking blade notched on the back, razor sharp. I pressed the release, folded it up and stuck it in my pocket.

“I’ll mail it to you.”

As Vinko watched me extract the knife, the barrel of the shotgun drifted toward the left. I reached up and gently moved it back in Patrick’s direction.

“Okay, fellas,” said Dorothy, “it’s time to move on. Your meal’s on the house. Our way of greeting new customers. Sorry about the knife. House rules. If I didn’t enforce ’em those fish heads over there would be flashing all kinds of hardware in here, wouldn’t you Pierre?”

We all turned around to look at Pierre, who was leaning back in his chair, enjoying the show.

“For sure, Dotty. Filleting all day you forget and slip ‘em right in your pocket. Isn’t that true?” he asked the half dozen fishermen sitting with him at the table, all of whom nodded enthusiastically.

“Better to listen to Dotty, is what I’m thinkin’,” said one of them. “We all seen Vinko handle that thing.”

“Shoot the pecker off a mallard at a hundred yards,” said Pierre.

Not surprisingly, Patrick saw the wisdom in making an orderly withdrawal. Which is how he did it. Calm and easy, with a grin. His boys looked less sure of themselves, but had the forethought to bring along their uneaten burgers. Before he backed out the door, Patrick gave Dorothy the same little bow I saw him give Jackie at the job site. Both had an air of uncompleted business. Vinko used the end of the shotgun to wave him along and he left.

A ragged round of applause came from the twenty or so men and women sitting around the bar and grill, most of whom I assumed were fishermen or mechanics from the marina. Dorothy gave a bow of her own and took the shotgun from Vinko and stowed it back behind the bar.

“Shit, Dotty, I ain’t never bringing this in here again, I swear,” said Pierre, holding up a greasy-looking filleting knife. His chorus of fellow fishermen repeated exaggerated denials and waved around their own knives. She told them all to shut up and handed out a free round of beers.

“Once I start giving things away, I can’t stop,” she said to me as she filled the mugs. “Though it’ll keep them in their seats until Will Ervin gets here. Vinko’s calling him now.”

“Ervin know about the shotgun?”

“Sure. It’s not the first time it’s been above the bar. I think you should let him follow you home.”

“What about you?”

“Pierre’s one of my roommates. Half of these other guys live on my street. Not a problem. Here, you get one more on the house, too. Shotgun special.”

“Black belt?”

“All my belts are black,” she said.

Will Ervin showed up soon after that, and I didn’t argue with him when he offered to follow me home. He’d bought the basic story we’d told him at the Pequot, which included everything but Patrick’s knife. That’d be too much for the cops to ignore. As much as I hated it, I needed Patrick out on the streets, free to act. I didn’t know enough yet. Even if he easily made bail, he’d just go to ground.

So I told Ervin I understood why Robbie’s boys would be sore at me, and that I was hoping we could just forget about the whole thing. Ervin shared Sullivan’s zeal to protect his North Sea flock, though with a guileless, forthright style of his own. It took some convincing for him to let it go, aided by a promise that I’d report everything to Sullivan in the morning.

He hung in the driveway while I checked the house then took a brisk walk with me to look around Amanda’s. It was still dark and empty.

I kept Eddie in the house that night, shutting him off from his secret door. He didn’t seem to care. Especially since I let him up on the bed, which I normally didn’t do. Mostly because he usually snored, or acted out his dreams with twitches and weird little barks, which would fill my own dreams with phantasms, or wake me up and leave me lying there for an hour or two at the mercy of whatever litany of dreads thrust themselves on my weakened state, suspended between uneasy wakefulness and nightmarish sleep.