‘That’s weird,’ I said. ‘He has plenty of room to go around us.’
Traffic on 1-95 was light. There was no reason for anyone to tailgate, and I thought of the accident last fall when Lucy had flipped my Mercedes. Someone had been on her rear bumper, too. Fear ran along my nerves.
‘Can you see what kind of car it is?’ I asked.
‘Looks like a Z. Maybe an old 280 Z, something like that.’
He reached inside his coat and slid a pistol from its holster. He placed the gun in his lap as he continued to watch the mirrors. I turned around again and saw a dark shape of a head that looked male. The driver was staring straight at us.
‘All right,’ Marino growled. “This is pissing me off.’ He firmly tapped the brakes.
The car shot around us with a long, angry blare of the horn. It was a Porsche and the driver was black.
I said to Marino, ‘You don’t still have that Confederate flag bumper sticker on your truck, do you? The one that glows when headlights hit it?’
‘Yeah, I do.’ He returned the gun to its holster.
‘Maybe you ought to consider removing it.’
The Porsche was tiny taillights far ahead. I thought of Chief Tucker threatening to send Marino to cultural diversity class. Marino could go the rest of his life and I wasn’t sure it would cure him.
‘Tomorrow’s Thursday,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go to First Precinct and see if anyone remembers that I still work for the city.’
‘What’s happening with Sheriff Santa?’
‘He’s scheduled for a preliminary hearing next week.’
‘He’s locked up, I presume,’ I said.
‘Nope. Out on bond. When do you start jury duty?’
‘Monday.’
‘Maybe you can get cut loose.’
‘I can’t ask for that,’ I said. ‘Somebody would make a big deal of it, and even if they didn’t, it would be hypocritical. I’m supposed to care about justice.’
‘Do you think I should see Doris?’ We were in Richmond now, the downtown skyline in view.
I looked over at his profile, his thinning hair, big ears and face, and the way his huge hands made the steering wheel disappear. He could not remember his life before his wife. Their relationship had long ago left the froth and fire of sex and moved into an orbit of safe but boring stability. I believed they had parted because they were afraid of growing old.
‘I think you should see her,’ I said to him. ‘So I should go up to New Jersey.’ ‘No,’ I said. ‘Doris is the one who left. She should come here.’
11
Windsor Farms was dark when we turned into it from Gary Street, and Marino did not want me entering my house alone. He pulled into my brick driveway and stared ahead at the shut garage door illuminated by his headlights.
‘Do you have the opener?’ he asked.
‘It’s in my car.’
‘A lot of friggin’ good that does when your car’s inside the garage with the door shut.’
‘If you would drop me off in front as I requested I could unlock my front door,’ I said.
‘Nope. You’re not walking down that long sidewalk anymore, Doc.’ He was very authoritative, and I knew when he got this way there was no point in arguing.
I handed him my keys. ‘Then you go on in through the front and open the garage door. I’ll wait right here.’
He opened his door. ‘I got a shotgun between the seats.’
He reached down to show me a black Benelli twelve-gauge with an eight-round magazine extension. It occurred to me that Benelli, a manufacturer of fine Italian shotguns, was also the name on Gault’s false driver’s license.
‘The safety’s right there.’ Marino showed me. ‘All you do is push it in, pump it and fire.’
‘Is there a riot about to happen that I’ve not been told about?’
He got out of the truck and locked the doors.
I cranked open the window. ‘It might help if you knew my burglar alarm code,’ I said.
‘Already do.’ He started walking across frosted grass. ‘Your DOB.’
‘How did you know that?’ I demanded.