“All right! Cut it out. You’re making my hands sweat. ”
By the time I pulled into the parking lot, we’d worked ourselves into such a state of indignation, I was surprised he was willing to keep the appointment. I sat in the dentist’s waiting room after Henry’s name was called. Except for the receptionist, I had the place to myself, which I thought was faintly worrisome. How come the dentist only had one patient? I pictured Medicaid fraud: phantom clients, double-billing, charges for work that would never be done. just a typical day in the life of Dr. Dentifrice, federal con artist and cheater with a large sadistic streak. I did give the guy points for having recent issues of all the best magazines.
From the other room, over the burbling of the fish tank, which is meant to mask the shrieks, I could hear the sounds of a high-speed drill piercing through tooth enamel straight to the pulsing nerve below. My fingers began to stick to the pages of People magazine, leaving a series of moist, round prints. Once in a while, I caught Henry’s muffled protest, a sound suggestive of flinching and lots of blood gushing out. Just the thought of his suffering made me hyperventilate. I finally got so light-headed I had to step outside, where I sat on the mini-porch with my head between my knees.
Henry eventually emerged, looking stricken and relieved, feeling at his numbed lip to see if he was drooling on himself. To distract him on the ride home, I filled him in on the cardboard box, the circumstances under which it originated, Mickey’s paranoia, the John Russell alias, and my own B & E adventure at Ted Rich’s place. He liked the part about the dog, having urged me repeatedly to get one of my own. We had the usual brief argument about me and household pets.
Then he said, “So, tell me about your ex. You said he was a cop, but what’s, the rest of it?”
“Don’t ask.”
“But what do you think it means, his being delinquent with his storage fees?”
“How do I know? I haven’t talked to him in years.”
“Don’t be like that, Kinsey. I hate it when you’re stingy with information. I want the story on him.”
“It’s too complicated to get into. Maybe I’ll tell you later, when I’ve figured it out.”
“Are you going to follow up?”
“No.”
“Maybe he got lazy about paying his bills,” he said, trying to draw me in.
“I doubt it. He was always good about that stuff.”
“People change.”
“No, they don’t. Not in my experience.”
“Nor in mine, now you mention it.”
The two of us were silent for a block, and then Henry spoke up. “Suppose he’s in trouble?”
“Serves him right if he is.”
“You wouldn’t help?”
:’What for?”
‘Well, it wouldn’t hurt to check.”
“I’m not going to do that.”
“Why not? All it’d take is a couple of calls. What’s it going to cost?”
“How do you know what it’d cost? You don’t even know the man.”
“I’m just saying, you’re not busy, at least, as far as I’ve heard. .”
“Did I ask for advice?”
“I thought you did,” he said. “I’m nearly certain you were fishing for encouragement.”
“I was not.”
I see.”
“Well, I wasn’t. I have absolutely no interest in the man.”
“Sorry. My mistake.”
“You’re the only person in my life who gets away with this shit.”
When I got back to my desk, the first thing my eye fell on was my address book lying open to the M’s. I flipped the book shut and shoved it in a drawer, which I closed with a bang.
FOUR.
I sat down in my swivel chair and gave the carton a shove with my foot. I was tempted to chuck the damn thing, salvage the personal papers and dump the rest in the trash. However, having paid the twenty bucks, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It wasn’t so much that I was cheap, though that was certainly a factor. The truth is, I was curious. I reasoned that just because I looked through the box didn’t make me responsible for anything else. It certainly wouldn’t obligate me to try to locate my ex. Sorting through the items would in no way compel me to take action on his behalf. If Mickey’d fallen on hard times, if he was in a jam of some kind, then so be it. C’est la vie and so what? It had nothing to do with me.
I pulled the wastebasket closer to the box, pushed the flaps back, and peered in. In the time I’d been gone, the elves and fairies still hadn’t managed to tidy up the mess. I started tossing out loose toiletries: a flattened tube of toothpaste and a shampoo bottle with a thin layer of sludge pooled along its length. Something had leaked out and oozed down through the box, welding articles together like an insidious glue. I threw out a hodgepodge of over-the-counter medications, an ancient diaphragm, a safety razor, and a toothbrush with bristles splayed out in all directions. It looked like I’d used it to clean the bathroom grout.
From under the toiletries, I excavated a bundle of junk mail. When I picked up the stack, the rubber band disintegrated, and I plunked the bulk of it in the wastebasket. A few stray envelopes surfaced, and I pulled those from among the discarded magazines and dog-eared catalogs, bullshit from the look of them: a bank statement for an account I’d closed many years before, a department store circular, and a notice from Publisher’s Clearing House telling me I’d been shortlisted for a million bucks. The third envelope I picked up was a credit card bill that I sincerely hoped I paid. What a disgrace that would be, a blot on my credit rating. Maybe that’s why American Express wasn’t sending me any preapproved cards these days. And here I’d been feeling so superior. Mickey’s payments might be delinquent, but not mine, she said.
I turned the bill over to open it. Stuck to the back was another envelope, this one a letter that must have arrived in the same post. I pulled the second envelope free, tearing the paper in the process. The envelope itself bore no return address, and I didn’t recognize the writing. The script was tight and angular, letters slanting heavily to the left, as if on the verge of collapsing. The postmark read SANTA TERESA, APRIL, 197. I’d left Mickey the day before, April Fool’s Day, as it turned out. I removed the single sheet of lined paper, which was covered with the same inky cursive, as flattened as bent grass.
Kinsey, Mickey made me promise not to do this, but I think you should know. He was with me that night, sure, he pushed the guy, but it was no big deal. I know because I saw it and so did a lot of other people who are on his side. Benny was fine when he took off. Him and Mickey couldn’t have connect after because we went back to my place and he was their till midnight. I told him I’d testify, but he says no because of Eric and his situation. He’s completly innocent and desperetly needs your help. What difference does it make where he was as long as he didn’t do it? If you love him, you should take his part insted of being such a bitch. Being a cop is his whole life, please don’t take that away from him. Otherwise I hope you find a way to live with yourself because your runing everything for him.
I read the note twice, my mind blank except for a clinical and bemused response to all the misspellings and run-on sentences. I’m a snob about grammar and I have trouble taking anyone seriously who gets “there” possessives confused with “there” demonstratives. I didn’t “rune” Mickey’s life. It hadn’t been up to me to save him from anything. He’d asked me to lie for him and I’d flatly refused. Failing that, he’d probably concocted this cover story with “D” whoever she was. From the sound of it, she knew me, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember her. D. That could be Dee. Dee Dee. Donna. Dawn. Diane. Doreen….
Oh, shit. Of course.
There was a bartender named Dixie who worked in a place out in Colgate where Mickey and some of his cop buddies hung out after work. It wasn’t uncommon for the guys to band together to do their after-hours drinking. In the early seventies, there were frequent watch parties at the end of a shift, revelries that sometimes went on until the wee hours of the morning. Both public and private drunkenness are considered violations of police discipline, as are extra-marital affairs, failure to pay debts, and other scurrilous behavior. Such violations are punishable by the department, because a police officer is considered “on duty” at all times as a matter of public image and because tolerating such conduct might lead to similar infractions while the officer is formally at work. When complaints came in about the shift parties, the officers moved the drink fests from the city to the county, effectively removing them from departmental scrutiny. The Honky-Tonk, where Dixie worked, became their favorite haunt.