Last Rites

Thirty-five

The first thing Resnick did, after bending to scoop up the post, was sneeze. And sneeze again. It could have been the beginning of an unseasonable cold, far more likely a reaction to cat hairs and dust. He’d tried paying a woman to come in and keep the place under control, clean and tidy; had tried several times, in fact, without avail. If they’d been any good they’d soon moved on to more profitable things, less than good and he would swear when he looked around the house was in more of a state than it had been before. And they lost things, moved things, broke a cup that had belonged to his grandfather and which had survived the journey from Poland, snapped an arm from a statue of Duke Ellington his favorite uncle had given him for his twenty-first.

So Resnick kept the dirt at bay as best he could; his favored method being to wait until the dust had collected itself into wispy balls in the room corners and along the skirting boards, then reach down and snag them as he passed.

On the way home, he’d stopped off at the deli and bought a small container of sun-dried tomatoes, a larger one of marinaded aubergine. He dipped a finger into the oil at the bottom of the latter and brought it to his mouth-coriander, garlic, and something else he couldn’t immediately identify.

A swig of beer and he cut two slices of rye bread and covered each lightly with mayonnaise; scorning a fork, he laid the slippery flesh of the aubergine across one of the slices and several of the skinny strips of tomato here and there over that. Licking his fingers clean, he ferreted around for what else he could find. There was a thickish piece of smoked ham, from which he stripped away the fatty edge; the fat he shared with Bud, the smallest of the cats, the rest of the meat he smeared with mustard before placing it on the second slice of bread. From various and sundry chunks of cheese, he selected a soft Taleggio, cutting away the orange rind before setting the cheese on top of the ham. The rind he dropped on to the floor, where it was argued over by the cats.

All Resnick’s sandwich needed now was something crunchy at its center and he cut a dill pickle in two, eating one piece there and then before placing the other on top of the cheese and swiftly pressing the whole thing together. Holding it together with one hand, he cut the sandwich in half with the serrated edge of the bread knife and carried it on a plate into the front room.

Among the stacks of black and brittle 78s Resnick’s uncle had allowed his young nephew to browse through whenever he had visited the house, along with others by Dinah Washington, Billie Holiday, the Ink Spots, and Ella Fitzgerald, there had been several records by the Mills Brothers. “Dinah,” “Swing it, Sister,” “You Always Hurt the One You Love.” Resnick had liked the smooth sweep of their voices, had been intrigued by the way they mimicked the sounds of instruments with their mouths.

He set the CD he’d bought from Raymond to play and was biting into the second half of the sandwich and listening to “Paper Doll,” when the phone started to ring. Twisting in his chair, he could just reach the receiver.

It was Hannah. She was going to the eight-thirty performance at Broadway and wondered if he’d like to join her. A film some friends from school had seen and said was a lot of fun. Big Night, that’s what it was called. Two brothers trying to keep their Italian restaurant going despite the competition. You’ll love it, Charlie, great food scenes, apparently. Music, too. If he hadn’t already eaten, they could go across to Mama Mia’s afterwards for a little supper.

Resnick couldn’t think of a reason for saying no.

There was time for a drink in the Café Bar before taking their seats. The movie was warm, funny, an unalloyed delight. Sandwich or no, the constant shots of food made Resnick’s mouth water, his stomach rumble. And the music-the music was by Louis Prima, another who’d featured in his uncle’s collection. Louis Prima and Keely Smith with Sam Butera and the Witnesses. “Just a Gigolo,” “Buona Sera,” “Come Back to Sorrento.”

When it was over, they crossed the street to Mama Mia’s and Resnick, thinking he would drink espresso while he watched Hannah eating, ordered lasagna and finished every mouthful. On the pavement outside, Hannah kissed him and he kissed her back and without questioning he drove with her back to her house in Lenton, where they divested themselves of most of their clothes before reaching the upper floor and bed.

How is it, Resnick remembered thinking just before falling asleep, life can sometimes be as easy, as joyous as this?

Lorraine had gone out into the kitchen to stack the dishes midway through the evening and seen the hire car parked across the street, Evan’s shape behind the wheel. Derek and Sandra were laughing together at something on the television; Sean was upstairs, getting ready for bed.

Evan wasn’t going to listen to reason; and sooner or later he might stumble on the truth.

She thought about carrying out her threat and contacting the police. Remembered Resnick, his bulk as he stood against the French doors looking out into the garden; tried to imagine herself telling him and failed. Suppose he talked to Evan, took him seriously-she didn’t want to be responsible for getting Michael captured again. Returned to prison.

Out in the hall, voice hushed, she called Maureen and asked to speak to Michael. Listen, she said, and gave him the address of Evan’s hotel, the number of the car. Her hands were shaking when she hung up the phone.

Resnick was suddenly awake and for that instant uncertain where he was. Then he heard Hannah’s breathing, low and even beside him, and he settled down again against her warmth, her hand opening in sleep to take his as his arm curled round her body. “Charlie,” she said, not waking, and he fell back to sleep at the sound of his name, the smile still on his face.

Drew Valentine was sitting in the Caribbean restaurant run by one of his aunties and her ex-wrestler boyfriend, his back angled toward the wall. The doors were locked, the blind pulled down, the kitchen still open. Two of his acolytes sat across the narrow aisle, drinking rum cocktails and sharing a spliff. Valentine had already polished off a plate of salt cod and ackee, and now he was tucking into jerk chicken and festival dumplings with okra on the side. A little Red Stripe to wash it down. After, he wouldn’t mind another smoke himself. Get properly relaxed.

A tall blonde, not so many pounds this side of anorexic, came through the curtains at the rear and clicked toward him on brittle heels. She was wearing a shiny blue dress that shimmered as she walked. Valentine could have closed one of his hands around her thigh and touched finger to thumb. When she sat opposite him and smiled, there was white powder frosted across her gums.

“Eat,” he said, pushing the plate of chicken toward her, but she shuddered and reached for her pack of Marlboro Lights.

Sooner or later, Valentine was thinking, he would have to get around to facing down Anthony Planer and he needed to be sure he’d figured all the angles right. Too many stories of other dealers getting ripped off after doing business with Planer; smiles and handshakes in the upstairs room of that fancy gaming club he fronted, champagne cocktails and cigars, and back out on the street it was cars and guns, and someone else making off with both drugs and money.

“Tell you what, Anthony,” Valentine had said. “You an’ me, we been doin’ business all this time, how come you never invited me out to that place of yours? Southwell, i’n’t it? Near the Minster. What you say? Meet the wife and kids. Catch a glimpse, you know, how the other half live.”

Planer smiling as he shook his head, smiling with his lips, eyes hard and staring, understanding what it was Valentine was saying, the threat that he was making. Anything happens, we know where to reach you, how to hurt you, and we will. And Planer not caring, throwing it back at him, “How would you like it, Drew, eh? Me coming waltzing into hearth and home. No. Not right, is it? Not on.” Planer, the smile on his face like a cheap shirt from the market.

“Just ’cause we’re forced to do some of our business in the gutter, doesn’t mean we want to open our doors to it, watch it ruining the Wilton.”

Valentine bit into a piece of chicken, wiping the juice from around his mouth. He wasn’t afraid of Planer; Planer would learn to be afraid of him. Delicately, he spat a piece of chicken bone down into his hand before depositing it on his plate. If only things had gone right out on the Forest, if that uppity nigger Jason hadn’t stuck him just as he was pulling the trigger, then Jason Johnson would be good and dead, and a clear message to Planer and anyone like him. And now there was this kid, Raymond Cooke, Ray-o he believed they called him, sneaking round whispering in corners, sending messages, something he’d got that Valentine wanted, worth paying good money for. Okay, so he’d send a message back, an invitation, you want to do business, fine, bring the merchandise, let’s see what it’s worth. The kid had the balls to walk in there, face to face, maybe they could do a deal.

Valentine checked the clock on the wall against his Rolex: not like Paul Finney to be late for an appointment.

Neither of them had bothered with the blinds, and when Resnick woke again a low level of light illuminated the room. The green digits on Hannah’s clock radio read 5:47. Above the even sound of her breathing, he could hear birds, busy between the trees bordering the recreation ground. He would have to go back to his own house before reporting for work. The level of Hannah’s breathing changed and he realized that she was stirring awake, peering at him through partly opened eyes. His hand moved across to rest on her thigh and with a small smile Hannah lowered her face down on to his chest.

“Charlie …”

“Mmm?”

“It’s good that you’re here.”

He thought they might make love again, but the moment passed, as these moments do. Before the hour, Hannah was slipping out of bed to use the bathroom and Resnick, in boxer shorts and barefoot, was padding down to the kitchen to make coffee.

They sat in Hannah’s small back room eating toast and some of Hannah’s mother’s homemade marmalade, runny and sweet.

“How was she?” Resnick asked. “When you told her about your dad. Marrying again.”

Hannah shook her head. “At first, I didn’t think she’d heard. Or understood. But then, when I mentioned it again later, she almost bit off my head: I know, you’ve already told me once-do you think I’m totally stupid or merely deaf? I found her later in the garden, pretending to deadhead some flowers. She was crying. She said it made her feel old, dried-up. I hated to leave her there, drive back.”

“I had half a thought you might have called round.”

“I did.”

Resnick looked at her.

“There was another car, parked outside. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Resnick smiled. “It was only Lynn.”

“Only?”

“Her father, there’s been some kind of relapse. She’d just heard.”

Hannah cut the last piece of toast in two. “I thought the treatment had been successful. I thought he was all right.”

“Yes, so did she.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yes.” He didn’t know where he’d left his watch. Jacket pocket? Upstairs beside the bed? “Look, it’s probably time I was going.”

There was no more than a hint of resignation in Hannah’s smile. “I know. The cats.”

“And other things.”

At the door she said, “Maybe next time you’ll call me?”

“Yes. Okay. I will.” He kissed her on the cheek, close alongside her mouth.

“Charlie …”

“Yes?”

“Nothing. Take care. Have a good day.”

“You too.”

She didn’t watch him walk to the end of the narrow strip of path, turning where it broadened out and met the road. Back inside the house, she busied herself with clearing away.

Resnick all the way home thinking about two men, two fathers, Lynn’s and Hannah’s, close in age; the one seriously ill, possibly dying; the other rejuvenated, living a new life in a new country, about to remarry. By the time Resnick arrived back at his own house, the cats were clamoring to be fed and the telephone was ringing insistently. Some things didn’t change.