Two Time

TWENTY-SIX

LIKE JONATHAN ELDRIDGE’S,Gabe Szwit’s office was above a storefront. The only difference being the view, which for Gabe included the east end of Main Street and halfway down Job’s Lane in Southampton Village. And the store was a little different, since it sold $10,000-a-whack couture instead of $3.95 meatball grinders, unless you wanted a salad, which would add another $1.85.

It was early and few people were on the street. The shops wouldn’t open until about ten, so the sidewalks were mostly given over to early risers grabbing the Times at the cheese place, or couples walking their his-and-hers dogs down to the corner for breakfast and coffee. The light was diffused by the morning mist, and the angle of the sun as it tried to clear the trees and rooftops of the shops, offices and restaurants that lined the street.

As far as I could tell, you reached the office by an outside run of stairs at the back of the building, which also had a small private parking lot. I had to assume Gabe would come in this way, though I didn’t know for sure, or even if he would show up for work that day. For all I knew, he only worked every other day. Or just kept the office for show, while spending the days cruising in his Jag and hanging out with grief-stricken widows.

I had the biggest size cup of coffee you could get from the place on the corner, and a fresh pack of cigarettes. WLIU promised to play jazz all morning, and the Grand Prix was the closest thing you could have to a rolling living room, so the wait didn’t promise to be that hard.

Still, after about three hours I was ready for Gabe to make an appearance. I could usually busy myself noodling out construction plans for the addition, or writing postcards to Allison, or casting about for ways to divert my mind from the litany of worries and regrets it would chew on if left to its own devices. It gets harder when all you’re looking at is the back end of a building, a Dumpster and a flight of rickety wooden stairs.

I gave myself to twelve noon, which is about the time Gabe pulled his Jag into the reserved parking lot, got out and locked the car, then plodded up the stairs, wearing a tan summer suit, his attaché held to his chest like a heavy bag of groceries. I waited until he was through the door at the top of the stairs before following him. The door had a translucent pane of glass in the top panel. It let in light, but you couldn’t see through it. I tried the doorknob, but it was locked. I recognized the door hardware—you could open it with a key, and it would still lock behind you. Made sense for Gabe Szwit.

I bumped the door with my shoulder to test its mettle. Its mettle was more than up to the task, so I went back down to the Grand Prix and got my little three-pound sledge and a cat’s paw that had a hardened wedge at the other end. I wrapped a piece of terry cloth around the cat’s paw, stuck the wedge in the door next to the doorknob and gave it a hearty smack.

The door gave it up on the second hit, swinging into a dark passageway that led to another door with a translucent panel. As I walked down the hall the inside door swung open and Gabe was standing there, his suit coat off and mouth agape.

“Oh dear God,” he said, looking at the sledge in my hand.

I came at him quickly, holding the hammer at eye level.

“Shut up and get back in there.”

He almost leaped back into the office as I followed him, shutting the door and throwing the deadbolt. We were in a tiny waiting room and Gabe was trying to punch a number into a black office phone that was on a side table next to a stack of Fortune magazines. I swung my right arm and brought the sledge straight down into the middle of the phone. Gabe made some kind of groaning animal sound in his throat and cringed back against the wall, staring stupidly at the phone receiver in his hand, now dangling a disconnected cord. I used the hammer to wave him through the next door.

“Come on, keep going.”

He went through and I followed him. It was a standard lawyer’s office—sturdy walnut-veneered desk in the center of the room, shelves lined with law books, expensive carpet, Currier & Ives prints on the wall and the faint smell of cigars. There were two Hitchcock chairs in front of the desk with the seal of his alma mater, Boston University, stamped on the backrests. A desktop computer was on a work surface perpendicular to the desk, and a large credenza lined the wall behind, the surface of which was decorated with a pair of small aquariums. To the left, under a large bay window, was a red chesterfield. I pointed to it.

“Sit over there.”

“Have you lost your mind?” he asked.

“Yes. I have. You’re going to help me get it back.”

He kept his eyes on me as he backed into the couch and sat down. His face, usually tinted a faint green, had gone solid white.

“You’re going to jail,” he said as he sat down.

I pulled over one of the Hitchcock chairs.

“One of us is.”

He looked like he didn’t know whether to scream, clam up or pass out.

“You mind if I smoke?”

“Yes, I do.”

I took out a cigarette and lit it, leaning back in the Hitchcock and snatching a piece of pottery off the bookshelf to use as an ashtray.

“That’s a McCoy,” he said. “I’m calling the police.”

“Go ahead. While you’re doing that, I’ll call Appolonia.”

He stayed put on the couch, fear and fury in his eyes.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“To talk a minute.”

“You expect me to talk to you when you’re threatening me with a cudgel?”

I looked at the hammer.

“It’s a three-pound sledge. Here. You can have it.”

I tossed it in his lap. Half standing, he grabbed it with both hands and flung it to other side of the couch, as if I’d just popped it out of a kiln.

“Settle down,” I told him. “I just want to talk.”

“You could have made an appointment.”

“I just did. Does Appolonia know?”

“Know what?”

“Any of it.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You lied about Butch Ellington. You said you never met him. You’ve known him all along.”

He sat a little straighter on the couch as he regained some of his professional poise.

“Who I know, or don’t know, is my concern.”

“Fair enough. I’ll just fill in the blanks myself and check it out directly with Appolonia.”

He didn’t like that.

“She loathes her brother-in-law,” he said. “I didn’t want her trust in me clouded by that association.”

“Nothing like a big lie to build trust.”

“Jonathan never found it necessary to reveal such a trivial thing. I presumed that was his wish and have merely honored it. And no one cared more about Appolonia’s well-being than him.”

“How about Belinda? She in on it, too?”

“Heavens no. And what difference could it possibly make? Is that all this is about? You break into my office, threaten and assault me, simply because I’ve preserved a client confidence?”

“Watch the allegations, Gabe. If I’m going down for assault anyway, I might as well bash you on the head and make it worth it.”

Whatever color had found its way back into his face drained off again.

“And all that legal crap doesn’t work with me. Part of my engineering training.”

“Crap?”

“Yeah, you’re already making your case. Won’t work with Appolonia either since it won’t change the fact you’re hiding your relationship with Butch. Which I can prove, so don’t waste our time practicing jury summations. You’re busted. Concentrate on what you want to do about it.”

“Do about it?” he asked, his voice getting hoarse, as if his throat was starting to constrict.

“Answer my questions or I’m leaving now and heading directly to Appolonia’s.”

“If I do, will you leave her alone?”

“You’ve know Butch since college. BU. Maybe before. When did you meet Jonathan?”

He looked away.

“About the same time.”

“Butch is the one who had the mother committed. Needed you for the legalities. Still does.”

“The parents split up when they were young. Butch lived with the mother, so he knew how troubled she was, how she’d never function safely on her own. That she belonged where she is now. Jonathan didn’t like it, but he acquiesced. Jonathan hardly knew her. He was raised by his father. Didn’t know enough to contest the decision. But he liked me administering the details. Didn’t trust Butch to do it properly.”

“Who pays the bills?” I asked.

“The bills?”

“Who pays the Sisters of Mercy?”

He looked reluctant to answer the question, thinking about it longer than he should have.

“Arthur. Butch. He always sent the checks. I didn’t question it. No need.”

“No. I suppose not. As long as she was looked after. Butch was more her kid, if you think about it. Whatever happened to Arthur Senior?”

“Their father? I don’t know.”

“The cops think he’s dead.”

“Then I suppose he is. They should know.”

“Where’d they live, Jonathan and his father?”

Gabe finally let himself sit back in the sofa, looking a little less braced for an imminent blow.

“What difference does it make?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Just curious.”

“I think mostly around Riverhead and the North Fork. The father was an accountant. Commuted to somewhere up island. Put in long hours. Jonathan was on his own a lot. Made him very self-reliant, he claimed. Toughened him up. Although you probably know that already. You seem to know a lot.”

“I know my name is Sam and I live in a house with a dog.”

“That’s really about all you know,” said Gabe, suddenly getting up a head of steam. “You’re just fishing. Trying to bully everything out of me. It’s pathetic.”

“Did Jonathan know you were in love with his wife?”

That got his color back. Should’ve thanked me for asking him.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Come on, Gabe, you think it’s that hard to tell? He must’ve seen it, too.”

“I’m not listening to this.”

“Probably part of his calculation. He knew you’d do anything to protect her, keep her safe and secure. He’d known you for years. Knew you were a good administrator, could handle things. He spent a lot of time on the road. Needed a professional go-to guy back at the ranch. Gave you a lot of face time with Appolonia. Enough to get in deeper and deeper. But also enough to know you hadn’t a prayer of getting what you really wanted. She was completely devoted to Jonathan and he knew it. Didn’t have to worry. Must’ve made you feel extra special, if you ever let yourself think about it.”

Gabe was probably a pretty good lawyer. Had the poker face for it. But if you shook him up a little and looked closely, you could see it written into his countenance. The frustration and anger. Bitterness and resentment, or maybe desperation. The curse of an intelligent man who wanted to live with a delusion, but his intelligence wouldn’t let him.

“Must be nice now to have her all to yourself,” I said. “Kind of.”

He looked about to answer that, but stopped himself. Instead he just stared, occasionally darting his eyes over toward the phone on his desk.

“Nothing’s really changed,” I said. “You still got plenty of face time, but you’re no closer to the prize. Was it worth it?”

“You’re not suggesting?”

“Should I be?”

He actually smiled and wagged a finger at me.

“Now you’re really overreaching, Mr. Acquillo.”

“How come you didn’t sue Ivor Fleming after he stiffed Butch? You had a good case. Did you work out a deal?”

“Now who’s making false allegations? Not going to work,” he said.

“We could try it out on Ross Semple. See what he thinks.”

What was left of Gabe’s smile faded away.

“He’ll want to talk to Appolonia,” he said. “You promised to leave her out of it.”

“I didn’t, but I will. For now.”

I stood up and picked my sledge up off the couch, making him blanch again.

“Not leaving it here,” I said. “Might need it again.”

“It won’t do you any good. You’re a fool if you think it will.”

“What do you mean?”

He pointed at me.

“That’s what I mean. You have no idea what you’re doing. And no amount of brutality will change that.”

Looking down on him sitting in the couch he looked small, but defiant, assuming a posture he’d likely learned in childhood, fighting with his parents over finishing his carrots and peas. I’d pushed him as far as he could be pushed, at least for now. I knew that about smaller, physically weaker men, especially the smart ones, who’d had a lot trouble in the schoolyard. They usually had a reservoir of indignation, compensated for by a panoply of intellectual weaponry, not the least being a particularly vicious form of subterfuge. A penchant for the sneak attack, the shiv in the back.

“You should repair my door,” he said. “But I’d prefer if you didn’t come back again.”

I left him in his office, alone again to think thoughts I wished I could read, though only from a safe distance.