The Confessors' Club

THIRTY-THREE

The outbound train was a midday plodder that stopped at every crossing on its way west. I could have used the time to review what I’d learned about the men in the heavy cream – the three who died, the fourth who’d gone missing, and the fifth, my ex-father-in-law, whose evasiveness clung to everything, blurring it like thick, black smoke – except I’d learned nothing. So mostly, I looked out the window and let my mind drift back to old times, when laundry was hung on lines and semi-chewable steaks could be served up with rock-hard potatoes and yellowed toast for two bucks.

A black Chevrolet Impala, the kind of car Federal agents drive, was parked a few yards past the turret. There was nobody inside. It didn’t matter; I knew who it was. Such a car parked outside my turret was like old times, too.

I headed into the kitchen to rummage in the cardboard box where I keep my dry food. For lunch, I had the choice between Cinnamon Toast Crunch, which I usually ate dry, or peanut butter, which I usually ate sticky. Sparks of culinary creativity, borne of financial deprivation, fired into my skull. I put two scoops of peanut butter into a plastic cup, shook in ten of the little sugared cereal squares, grabbed a plastic spoon, and went down to the river.

ATF Agent Till, who’d just given me a bum’s rush downtown, had beaten me back to the turret and was sitting on the bench. A brown lunch bag was beside him. He was throwing scraps of a sandwich at a duck.

It was no surprise that he’d remembered the way. He’d come around often, frequently and futilely, when I’d been recuperating from the lacerations and burns I’d suffered in the explosion Till was investigating. I hadn’t wanted to talk, for fear of incriminating those who didn’t deserve incrimination. Amanda and a friendly doctor kept him away from me, citing my need to heal.

That did not deter Till. For two weeks, he came every day at noon, to sit on the bench and throw bits of his lunch at the ducks, and to threaten me with his relentless presence. New cases finally forced him to give it up, and he quit coming around.

I sat next to him on the bench and ate the first of my peanut- buttered Cinnamon Toast squares.

The sandwich Till was tearing had little green tendrils poking out from under the bits of wholewheat bread. Each time Till tossed a piece, the duck would circle it, floating in the water. The river was calm that afternoon, barely moving. Bits of sandwich surrounded the duck.

‘The duck isn’t eating, Till,’ I said, after a moment.

‘He’s waiting for the green things to wash off.’

‘What are they?’

‘Alfalfa sprouts. My wife says they’re good for arthritis.’ He ripped off another piece and tossed it at the duck.

‘Are you going to throw away your whole lunch?’

‘It’s called recycling. I throw this into the water, the duck eats it, and converts it to something better: duck shit.’

‘But the duck’s not eating.’

‘Then it’s going to get arthritis.’

‘And you?’

‘I stopped for two chili dogs on the way here.’

‘Ah,’ I said. I spooned up more peanut butter and Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

‘What are you eating?’ Till asked after a time.

‘What’s available.’

‘Ah,’ Till said.

We sat silently on the bench until all of Till’s sandwich lay floating around the duck. Then he folded up his brown bag, put it in the jacket pocket of his brown suit, and stood up.

‘Are you going to tell me what I want to know?’ he asked, of that long-ago explosion.

‘No,’ I said.

‘Arthur Lamm is in big-time trouble,’ he said. ‘He took customer deposits from an escrow account holding insurance premiums.’

‘Embezzling?’

‘Absolutely. Sometimes clients pay their premiums to an insurance brokerage agency. That agency is supposed to put the money into a reserve account for forwarding to the insurance company. Lamm tapped the keg for personal expenses like upkeep on his mansion and beauty treatments for his lady friends, replenishing it with new escrow payments as they came in. The IRS also likes him for giving freebie insurance to his heavyweight pals in Chicago and for not returning client overpayments. They’re getting indictments ready.’

‘Sounds like reason enough for Lamm to run.’

‘Lamm’s on the lam.’ He laughed, delighted by his wit. ‘He hasn’t been seen for some time.’

‘Isn’t the IRS out looking for him?’

‘They need warrants first.’

‘You found all that out awfully fast,’ I said.

‘Only took one phone call. I did it in the car, between chili dogs.’

‘Thank you.’

‘That tree’s dead,’ he said, looking up at the ash.

‘Not yet,’ I said.

‘Soon,’ he said, and walked away.