‘Absolutely.’
‘What about a cassette player? You got one of those? If you do, I’ll play you something that’ll make you chortle.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard that word actually used in conversation, John.’
The grin shone out again, and I noticed what a lot of freckles he had. Sheriff Andy’s boy Opie grows up to serve at the bar. ‘I’m a lawyer. I use words in conversation that haven’t even been invented yet. You have a tape-player?’
‘Of course I do.’ I hefted the cooler. ‘Steaks?’
‘You bet. Peter Luger’s. They’re — ‘
‘ — the best in the world. You told me.’
As we went into the terminal, someone said, ‘Michael?’
It was Romeo Bissonette, the lawyer who had chaperoned me through my deposition. In one hand he had a box wrapped in blue paper and tied with a white ribbon. Beside him, just rising from one of the lumpy chairs, was a tall guy with a fringe of gray hair. He was wearing a brown suit, a blue shirt, and a string tie with a golf-club on the clasp. He looked more like a farmer on auction day than the sort of guy who’d be a scream when you got a drink or two into him, but I had no doubt this was the private detective. He stepped over the comatose collie and shook hands with me.
‘George Kennedy, Mr. Noonan. I’m pleased to meet you. My wife has read every single book you ever wrote.’
‘Well thank her for me.’
‘I will. I have one in the car — a hardcover . . . ‘ He looked shy, as so many people do when they get right to the point of asking. ‘I wonder if you’d sign it for her at some point.’
‘I’d be delighted to,’ I said. ‘Right away’s best, then I won’t forget.’ I turned to Romeo. ‘Good to see you, Romeo.’
‘Make it Rommie,’ he said. ‘Good to see you, too.’ He held out the box. ‘George and I clubbed together on this. We thought you deserved something nice for helping a damsel in distress.’
Kennedy now did look like a man who might be fun after a few drinks. The kind who might just take a notion to hop onto the nearest table, turn a tablecloth into a kilt, and dance. I looked at John, who gave the kind of shrug that means hey, don’t ask me.
I pulled off the satin bow, slipped my finger under the Scotch tape holding the paper, then looked up. I caught Rommie Bissonette in the act of elbowing Kennedy. Now they were both grinning.
‘There’s nothing in here that’s going to jump out at me and go booga-booga, is there, guys?’ I asked.
‘Absolutely not,’ Rommie said, but his grin widened.
Well, I can be as good a sport as the next guy. I guess. I unwrapped the package, opened the plain white box inside, revealed a square pad of cotton, lifted it out. I had been smiling all through this, but now I felt the smile curl up and die on my mouth. Something went twisting up my spine as well, and I think I came very close to dropping the box.
It was the oxygen mask Devore had had on his lap when he met me on The Street, the one he’d snorted from occasionally as he and Rogette paced me, trying to keep me out deep enough to drown. Rommie Bissonette and George Kennedy had brought it to me like the scalp of a dead enemy and I was supposed to think it was funny —
‘Mike?’ Rommie asked anxiously. ‘Mike, are you okay? It was just a joke — ‘
I blinked and saw it wasn’t an oxygen mask at all — how in God’s name could I have been so stupid? For one thing, it was bigger than Devore’s mask; for another, it was made of opaque rather than clear plastic. It was —
I gave a tentative chuckle. Rommie Bissonette looked tremendously relieved. So did Kennedy.
John only looked puzzled.
‘Funny,’ I said. ‘Like a rubber crutch.’ I pulled out the little mike from inside the mask and let it dangle. It swung back and forth on its wire, reminding me of the waggy clock’s tail.
‘What the hell is it?’ John asked.
‘Park Avenue lawyer,’ Rommie said to George, broadening his accent so it came out Paa-aak Avenew lawyah. ‘Ain’t nevah seen one of these, have ya, chummy? Nossir, coss not.’ Then he reverted to normal-speak, which was sort of a relief. I’ve lived in Maine my whole life, and for me the amusement value of burlesque Yankee accents has worn pretty thin. ‘It’s a Stenomask. The stenog keeping the record at Mike’s depo was wearing one. Mike kept looking at him — ‘
‘It freaked me out,’ I said. ‘Old guy sitting in the corner and mumbling into the Mask of Zorro.’
‘Gerry Bliss freaks a lot of people out,’ Kennedy said. He spoke in a low rumble. ‘He’s the last one around here who wears em. He’s got ten or eleven left in his mudroom. I know, because I bought that one from him.’
‘I hope he stuck it to you,’ I said.
‘I thought it would make a nice memento,’ Rommie said, ‘but for a second there I thought I’d given you the box with the severed hand in it — I hate it when I mix up my gift-boxes like that.
What’s the deal?’
‘It’s been a long hot July,’ I said. ‘Put it down to that.’ I hung the Stenomask’s strap over one finger, dangling it that way.
‘Mattie said to be there by eleven,’ John told us. ‘We’re going to drink beer and throw the Frisbee around.’
‘I can do both of those things quite well,’ George Kennedy said.
Outside in the tiny parking lot George went to a dusty Altima, rummaged in the back, and came out with a battered copy of The Red-Shirt Man. ‘Frieda made me bring this one. She has the newer ones, but this is her favorite. Sorry about how it looks — she’s read it about six times.’
II ‘It’s my favorite, too,’ I said, which was true. ‘And I like to see a book with mileage.’ That was also true. I opened the book, looked approvingly at a smear of long-dried chocolate on the flyleaf, and then wrote: For Frieda Kennedy, whose husband was there to lend a hand. Thanks for sharing him, and thanks For reading, Mike Noonan.
That was a long inscription for me — usually I just stick to Best wishes or Good luck, but I wanted to make up for the curdled expression they had seen on my face when I opened their innocent little gag present. While I was scribbling, George asked me if I was working on a new novel.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Batteries currently on recharge.’ I handed the book back.
‘Frieda won’t like that.’
‘No. But there’s always Red-Shirt.’
‘We’ll follow you,’ Rommie said, and a rumble came from deep in the west. It was no louder than the thunder which had rumbled on and off for the last week, but this wasn’t dry thunder. We all knew it, and we all looked in that direction.
‘Think we’ll get a chance to eat before it storms?’ George asked me.
‘Yeah. Just about barely.’
I drove to the gate of the parking lot and glanced right to check for traffic. When I did, I saw John looking at me thoughtfully.
‘What?’
‘Mattie said you were writing, that’s all. Book go tits-up on you or something?’
My Childhood Friend was just as lively as ever, in fact . . . but it would never be finished. I knew that this morning as well as I knew there was rain on the way. The boys in the basement had for some reason decided to take it back. Asking why might not be such a good idea — the answers might be unpleasant.
‘Something. I’m not sure just what.’ I pulled out onto the highway, checked behind me, and saw Rommie and George following in George’s little Altima. America has become a country full of big men in little cars. ‘What do you want me to listen to? If it’s home karaoke, I pass. The last thing on earth I want to hear is you singing “Bubba Shot the Jukebox Last Night.”‘
‘Oh, it’s better than that,’ he said. ‘Miles better.’
He opened his briefcase, rooted through it, and came out with a plastic cassette box. The tape inside was marked 7-20-98 — yesterday. ‘I love this,’ he said. He leaned forward, turned on the radio, then popped the cassette into the player.
I was hoping I’d already had my quota of nasty surprises for the morning, but I was wrong.
‘Sorry, I just had to get rid of another call,’ John said from my Chevy’s speakers in his smoothest, most lawyerly voice. I’d have bet a million dollars that his bony shins hadn’t been showing when this tape was made.