What I failed to see as the afternoon wore on was anything that raised the specter of Frankie. There was no mention in her manuscript of the ordeal that would eventually end her life. I supposed it was too much for her to contemplate. Perhaps, she hoped, it would pass with time.
I was nearing the end of Beryl’s book when Mark suddenly put his hand on my arm.
“What?” I could barely tear my eyes away.
“Kay. Take a look at this,” he said, lightly placing a page on top of the one I was reading.
It was the opening of Chapter Twenty-five, a page I had previously read. It took me a moment to see what I had missed. It was a very clean photocopy, and not an original typed page like all of the others.
“I thought you said this was the only copy,” Mark quizzed me.
“I was under the impression that it was,” I replied, mystified.
“I wonder if she made a copy and mixed up two of the pages.”
“That’s the way it looks,” I considered. “But where is the copy, then? It hasn’t turned up.”
“Got no idea.”
“You sure Sparacino doesn’t have it?”
“I’m pretty sure I would know if he did. I’ve turned his office inside out during his absences and I’ve done the same to his house. Besides, I think he would have told me, at least when he thought we were buddies.”
“I think we’d better go see PJ.”
It was, we discovered, PJ’s day off. He was not at Louie’s or at home. Dusk was settling over the island before we finally caught up with him at Sloppy Joe’s, by which time he was three sheets to the wind. I grabbed him at the bar and led him by the hand to a table.
I hastily made introductions. “This is Mark James, a friend of mine.”
PJ nodded and lifted his longnecked bottle of beer in a drunken toast. He blinked several times, as if trying to clear his vision, while he openly admired my attractive masculine companion. Mark seemed oblivious.
Raising my voice above the din of the crowd and band, I said to PJ, “Beryl’s manuscript. Did she make a copy of it while she was here?”
Taking a swig of beer and rocking to the music, he replied, “Don’t know. She never said anything about it to me, if she did.”
“But is it possible?” I persisted. “Might she have done this when she photocopied the letters she gave to you?”
He shrugged, beads of perspiration rolling down his temples, face flushed. PJ was more than drunk, he was stoned.
While Mark looked on impassively, I tried again. “Well, did she carry the manuscript with her when she went out to photocopy the letters?”
“… just like Bogie and Bacall …” PJ sang along in a hoarse baritone, slapping the edge of the table in rhythm with the mob.
“PJ!” I cried loudly.
“Man,” he protested, his eyes riveted to the stage, “it’s my favorite song.”
So I sank back in my chair and let PJ sing his favorite song. During a brief break in the performance, I repeated my question. PJ drained his bottle of beer, then replied with surprising clarity, “All I remember is Beryl had the
knapsack with her that day, okay? I gave it to her, you know. Something she could use down here to haul her shit around in. She headed off to Copy Cat or somewhere, and she sure as hell had the knapsack with her. So, yeah.”
He got out his cigarettes. “She might’ve had the book in the knapsack. And she might’ve made a copy of it when she copied the letters. All I know is she left me the one I handed over to you whenever it was.”
“Yesterday,” I said.
“Yeah, man. Yesterday.” Shutting his eyes, he started slapping the edge of the table again.
“Thank you, PJ,” I said.
He didn’t pay any attention as we left, pushing our way out of the bar to escape into the fresh night air.
“That’s what’s known as an exercise in futility,” Mark said as we began walking back to the hotel.