“It’s over, Anthony,” he said.
Breer felt a motion in his lower belly, as though some jittering thing had suddenly twitched and perished in there. He followed the European’s exit with upturned eyes. Matter, not tears, gathered at their rims.
“Forgive me,” he begged his savior. “Please forgive me.” But the European had gone, quietly, closing the door behind him.
There was a brawling on the windowsill. Breer looked from door to window. Two pigeons had squabbled over some morsel, and were now flying off. Small white feathers settled on the sill, like midsummer snow.
66
“It is Mr. Halifax, isn’t it?”
The man inspecting the boxes of fruit in the breezeless, wasp-woven yard at the back of the shop turned to Marty.
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
Mr. Halifax had been out sunbathing, and injudiciously. His face was peeling in places, and looked tender. He was hot and uncomfortable and, Marty guessed, thin of temper. Tact was the order of the day, if he hoped to win the man’s confidence.
“Business OK?” Marty asked.
Halifax shrugged. “It’ll do,” he said, unwilling to be drawn on the subject. “Lot of my regular customers are on holiday at this time of year.” He peered at Marty. “Do I know you?”
“Yes. I’ve been here several times,” Marty lied. “For Mr. Whitehead’s strawberries. That’s what I came for. The usual order.”
Halifax registered nothing; he put down the tray of peaches he was holding. “I’m sorry. I don’t supply any Mr. Whitehead.”
“Strawberries,” Marty prompted.
“I heard what you said,” Halifax replied testily, “but I don’t know anyone of that name. You must be mistaken.”
“You do remember me?”
“No, I don’t. Now if you’d like to make a purchase, Theresa will serve you.” He nodded back in the direction of the shop itself. “I’d like to finish here before I cook in this bloody heat.”
“But I’m supposed to be picking up strawberries.”
“You can have as many as you like,” Halifax said, spreading his arms. “There’s a glut. Just ask Theresa.”
Marty could see failure looming. The man wasn’t about to give an inch. He tried one final tack. “You don’t have any fruit set aside for Mr. Whitehead? You normally have them packed, ready for him.”
This significant detail seemed to mellow the dismissal on Halifax’s face. Doubt dawned.
“Look . . .” he said, “. . . I don’t think you quite understand . . .” His voice dropped in volume, though there was nobody else in the yard to hear. “Joe Whitehead is dead. Don’t you read the newspapers?”
A large wasp alighted on Halifax’s arm, navigating the ginger hairs with difficulty. He let it crawl there, undisturbed.
“I don’t believe everything I read in the newspapers,” Marty replied, quietly. “Do you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the other man returned.
“His strawberries,” Marty said. “That’s all I’m after.”
“Mr. Whitehead is dead.”
“No, Mr. Halifax; Joe is not dead. You and I both know that.”
The wasp rose from Halifax’s arm and careered in the air between them. Marty swatted it away; it came back, its buzz louder.
“Who are you?” Halifax said.
“Mr. Whitehead’s bodyguard. I’ve told you, I’ve been here before.”
Halifax bent back to the tray of peaches; more wasps congregated at a bruise on one of them. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you,” he said.
“You took them already, did you?” Marty laid a hand on Halifax’s shoulder. “Did you?”
“I’m not at liberty to tell you anything.”
“I’m a friend.”
Halifax glanced round at Marty. “I’ve sworn,” he said, with the finality of a practiced bargainer. Marty had thought the scenario through as far as this impasse: Halifax confessing that he knew something, but refusing to provide the details. What now? Did he lay hands on the man; beat it out of him?
“Joe is in great danger.”
“Oh, yes,” Halifax murmured. “You think I don’t realize that?”
“I can help him.”
Halifax shook his head. “Mr. Whitehead has been a valued customer for a good many years,” he explained. “He’s always had his strawberries from me. I never knew a man love strawberries the way he does.”