Mystic River Page 10

  Like these two little pricks now, coming up beside Jimmy’s pew in the processional—two boys, shoving each other, laughing out loud, ignoring the shushes of the nuns, starting to play to the crowd, and some of the adults actually smiling back. Jesus. Back in Jimmy’s time, the parents would have stepped out of the crowd, yanked the two off the ground by their hair, swatted their asses, and whispered promises for more into their ears before dropping them back down.

  Jimmy, who’d hated his old man, knew the old ways sucked, too, no question, but, damn, there had to be an in-between solution somewhere that the majority of people seemed to be overlooking. A middle ground where a kid knew the parents loved him but were still the boss, rules existed for a reason, no really meant no, and just because you were cute didn’t mean you were cool.

  Of course, you could pass all that on, raise a good kid, and they still put you through misery. Like Katie today. Not only had she never showed up for work, but now it looked like she was blowing off her younger half sister’s First Communion. What the hell was going through her mind? Nothing, probably, which was the issue.

  Turning back to watch Nadine advance up the aisle, Jimmy was so proud he felt his anger (and, yeah, some worry, a minor but persistent niggle of it) at Katie subside a bit, though he knew it would come back. First Communion was an event in a Catholic child’s life—a day to dress up and be adored and fawned over and taken to Chuck E. Cheese’s afterward—and Jimmy believed in marking events in his children’s lives, making them bright and memorable. Which was why Katie not showing up pissed him off so much. She was nineteen, okay, so the world of her younger half sisters probably couldn’t compare to guys and clothes and sneaking into bars that had a lax ID policy. Jimmy understood this, so he usually gave Katie a wide berth, but skipping an event, particularly after all Jimmy had done when Katie was younger to mark the events in her life, was fucking lame.

  He felt the anger rising again, knew as soon as he saw her, they’d have another of their “debates,” as Annabeth called them, a frequent occurrence the last couple of years.

  Whatever. Fuck it.

  Because here came Nadine now, almost abreast with Jimmy’s pew. Annabeth had made Nadine promise she wouldn’t look at her father as she passed him and spoil the seriousness of the sacrament with something girlish and giddy, but Nadine stole a glance anyway—a small one, just enough to let Jimmy know she was risking the wrath of her mother to show love to her father. She didn’t preen for her grandfather, Theo, and six uncles who filled the pew behind Jimmy, and Jimmy respected that: she was edging near the line, not over it. Her left eye snuck toward its corner, Jimmy tracking it through the veil, and he gave her a small three-finger wave from belt-buckle level and mouthed a huge, silent “Hi!”

  Nadine’s smile burst whiter than anything her veil or dress or shoes could match, and Jimmy felt it blow through his heart and his eyes and his knees. The women in his life—Annabeth, Katie, Nadine, and her sister Sara—could do that to him at the drop of a hat, buckle his knees with a smile or a glance, leave him weak.

  Nadine dropped her eyes and clenched her small face to cover the smile, but Annabeth had caught it anyway. She dug an elbow into the space between Jimmy’s ribs and his left hip. He turned to her, feeling his face going red, and said, “What?”

  Annabeth tossed him a look that said his ass was slung when they got back home. Then she looked straight ahead, her lips tight, but jerking a bit at the corners. Jimmy knew all he’d have to say was “Problem?” in that innocent-boy voice of his and Annabeth would start cracking up in spite of herself, because something about a church just gave you a need to giggle, and that had always been one of Jimmy’s big gifts: he could make the ladies laugh, no matter what.

  He didn’t look at Annabeth for a while after that, though, just followed the mass and then the sacramental rites as each child in turn took that wafer in cupped hands for the first time. He’d rolled up the program booklet, and it turned damp with heat in his palm as he drummed it against his thigh and watched Nadine lift the wafer from her palm and place it to her tongue, then bless herself, head down, and Annabeth leaned into him and whispered in his ear: “Our baby. My God, Jimmy, our baby.”

  Jimmy put his arm around her, pulled her tight, wishing you could freeze moments in your life like snapshots, just stay in them, suspended, until you were ready to come out again, however many hours or days that might take. He turned his head and kissed Annabeth’s cheek, and she leaned into him a little more, both of their eyes locked on their daughter, their floating angel of a baby girl.

  THE GUY with the samurai sword stood at the edge of the park, his back to the Pen Channel, one foot raised up off the ground as he pivoted slowly with the other, the sword held at an odd angle behind the crown of his head. Sean, Whitey, Souza, and Connolly approached slowly, giving one another “What the fuck?” looks. The guy continued his slow pivot, oblivious to the four men approaching him in a loose line along the grass. He raised the sword over his head and began to bring it down in front of his chest. They were about twenty feet away now, the guy having pivoted 180 degrees so that his back was to them, and Sean saw Connolly put his hand to his right hip, unsnap the buckle of his holster, and leave the hand resting on the butt of his Glock.

  Before this got any nuttier and someone got shot or the guy went all hara-kiri on them, Sean cleared his throat and said, “Excuse me, sir. Sir? Excuse me.”

  The guy’s head cocked slightly as if he’d heard Sean, but he continued that deliberate pivot, revolving in increments toward them.

  “Sir, we need you to lay your weapon on the grass.”

  The guy’s foot dropped back to the ground and he turned to face them, his eyes widening and then clicking on each of them—one, two, three, four guns—and he held out the sword, either pointing it at them or trying to hand it to them, Sean couldn’t tell which.

  Connolly said, “The fuck—you deaf? On the ground.”

  Sean said, “Sssh,” and stopped moving, ten feet from the guy now, thinking about the blood drops they’d found along the jogging path about sixty yards back, all four of them knowing what the drops meant, and then looking up to see Bruce Lee over here brandishing a sword the length of a small plane. Except Bruce Lee had been Asian and this guy was definitely white, youngish, maybe twenty-five, with curly black hair and shaven cheeks, white T-shirt tucked into gray sweats.

  He was frozen now, and Sean was pretty sure it was fear that kept that sword pointed at them, the brain seizing up and unable to command the body.

  “Sir,” Sean said, sharp enough for the guy to look directly at him. “Do me a favor, okay? Put the sword down on the ground. Just open your fingers and let it drop.”

  “Who the hell are you guys?”

  “We’re police officers.” Whitey Powers flashed his badge. “See? So, trust me here, sir, and drop that sword.”

  “Uh, sure,” the guy said, and just like that it fell from his fingers, hit the grass with a damp thud.

  Sean felt Connolly starting to move on his left, ready to rush the guy, and he put out his hand, kept the guy’s eyes locked with his, and said, “What’s your name?”

  “Huh? Kent.”

  “Kent, how you doing? I’m State Trooper Devine. I need you to just take a couple of steps back from the weapon.”

  “The weapon?”

  “The sword, Kent. Take a couple of steps back. What’s your last name, Kent?”

  “Brewer,” he said, and backed up, his palms held up and out now like he was sure they were going to draw their Glocks all at once and unload.

  Sean smiled and threw a nod at Whitey. “Hey, Kent, what was that you were doing out here? Looked like some kind of ballet to me.” He shrugged. “With a sword, sure, but…”

  Kent watched Whitey bend by the sword and pick it up gently by the hilt with a handkerchief.

  “Kendo.”

  “What’s that, Kent?”

  “Kendo,” Kent said. “It’s a martial art. I take
it Tuesdays and Thursdays and practice in the mornings. I was just practicing. That’s all.”

  Connolly sighed.

  Souza looked at Connolly. “You’re dicking me, right?”

  Whitey held out the sword blade for Sean to see. It was oiled and shiny and so clean it could have just come off the press.

  “Look.” Whitey slid the blade across his open palm. “I’ve had sharper spoons.”

  “It’s never been sharpened,” Kent said.

  Sean felt that bird in his skull again, screeching. “Ah, Kent, how long you been here?”

  Kent looked at the parking lot a hundred yards behind them. “Fifteen minutes? Tops. What’s this about?” His voice was gaining confidence now, a shade of indignation. “It’s not illegal to practice kendo in a public park, Officer, is it?”

  “We’re working on it, though,” Whitey said. “And that’s ‘Sergeant,’ Kent.”

  “You account for your whereabouts late last night, early this morning?” Sean asked.

  Kent looked nervous again, racking his brain, holding in a breath. He closed his eyes for a moment, then let out the breath. “Yes, yes. I was, I was at a party last night with friends. I went home with my girlfriend. We got to sleep about three. I had coffee with her this morning and then I came here.”

  Sean pinched the top of his nose and nodded. “We’re going to impound the sword, Kent, and we wouldn’t mind if you dropped over to the barracks with one of the troopers, answered a few questions.”

  “The barracks?”

  “The police station,” Sean said. “We just got a different name for it.”

  “Why?”

  “Kent, could you just agree to go with one of the troopers?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  Sean looked at Whitey and Whitey grimaced. They knew Kent was too scared to be telling anything but the truth, and they knew the sword would come back from Forensics clean, but they had to play out every string and file a follow-up report till the paperwork looked like parade floats atop their desks.

  “I’m getting my black belt,” Kent said.

  They turned back and looked at him. “Huh?”

  “On Saturday,” Kent said, his face bright under beads of perspiration. “Took me three years, but, ah, that’s why I was down here this morning, making sure my form was tight.”

  “Uh-huh,” Sean said.

  “Hey, Kent?” Whitey said, and Kent smiled at him. “I mean, not for nothing, right, but who really gives a fuck?”

  BY THE TIME Nadine and the other kids flowed out through the back of the church, Jimmy was feeling less pissed off at Katie, and more worried about her. For all the late nights and sneaking around with boys he didn’t know, Katie wasn’t one to let her half sisters down. They worshipped her, and she in turn doted on them—taking them to movies, Rollerblading, out for ice cream. Lately she’d been firing them up about next Sunday’s parade, acting as if Buckingham Day was a nationally recognized holiday, up there with Saint Pat’s and Christmas. She’d come home early Wednesday night and trooped the two girls upstairs to pick out what they were going to wear, making a mini-production out of it as she sat up on her bed and the girls came back and forth into the room modeling their outfits, asking her questions about their hair, their eyes, their manner of walking. Of course, the room the two girls shared turned into a cyclone of discarded clothing, but Jimmy didn’t mind—Katie was helping the girls mark yet another event, using the tricks Jimmy had taught her to make even the most minor things seem major and singular.

  So why would she blow off Nadine’s First Communion?

  Maybe she’d tied on one of legendary proportions. Or maybe she really had met that new guy with movie-star looks and attitude to spare. Maybe she’d just forgotten.

  Jimmy left the pew and walked down the aisle with Annabeth and Sara, Annabeth squeezing his hand and reading the clench in his jaw, his distant gaze.

  “I’m sure she’s fine. Hung over, probably. But fine.”

  Jimmy smiled and nodded and squeezed back. Annabeth, with her psychic reads of him, her well-placed hand squeezes, her tender practicality, was Jimmy’s foundation, plain and simple. She was his wife, mother, best friend, sister, lover, and priest. Without her, Jimmy knew beyond a doubt, he’d have ended up back in Deer Island or, worse, out in one of the maximum pens like Norfolk or Cedar Junction, doing hard time, his teeth rotting.

  When he’d met Annabeth a year after his release, two to go on his probation, his relationship with Katie had just begun to jell, in increments. She had seemed to have gotten used to him being around all the time—wary, still, but warming—and Jimmy had gotten used to being permanently tired—tired from working ten hours a day and scuttling all over the city to pick up Katie or drop her off at his mother’s, at school, at day care. He was tired and he was scared; those were the two constants in his life back then, and after a while he took it for granted they’d always be there. He’d wake up scared—scared Katie had managed to roll over wrong in her sleep at night and smother herself, scared the economy would continue cycling downward until he was out of a job, scared Katie would fall from the jungle gym at school during recess, scared she’d need something he couldn’t provide, scared his life would continue as this constant grind of fear and love and exhaustion forever.

  Jimmy carried that exhaustion into the church the day one of Annabeth’s brothers, Val Savage, married Terese Hickey, both the bride and groom ugly, angry, and short. Jimmy pictured them having a litter as opposed to kids, raising a pack of indistinguishable, pug-nosed rage balls to bounce up and down Buckingham Avenue for years to come, igniting. Val had worked for Jimmy’s crew back in the days when Jimmy had a crew, and he was grateful to Jimmy for taking a hard two-year fall and another three suspended on behalf of the whole crew when everyone knew Jimmy could have dimed them all out and skated. Val, tiny-limbed and tiny-brained, would have probably idolized Jimmy outright if Jimmy hadn’t married a Puerto Rican chick, and one from outside the neighborhood, too.

  After Marita died, the neighborhood whispers said, Well, there you go, don’t you? That’s what happens when you go against the way of things. That Katie, though, she’ll be a real looker; half-breeds always are.

  When Jimmy had gotten out of Deer Island, the offers rolled in. Jimmy was a pro, one of the best second-story guys to ever come out of a neighborhood that had a Hall of Fame roster’s worth of second-story guys. And even when Jimmy said no, thanks, he was going straight, for the kid, you know, people nodded and smiled and knew he’d come back to it the first time things got tough and he had to choose between a car payment and Katie’s Christmas present.

  Didn’t happen, though. Jimmy Marcus, B & E genius and a guy who’d run his own crew before he was old enough to legally drink, the man behind the Keldar Technics heist and a ton of other shit, stayed so straight it got to where people thought he was taunting them. Hell, rumor was Jimmy had even been discussing buying out Al DeMarco’s corner store, letting the old man retire as owner-in-name with a chunk of the money Jimmy’d allegedly stashed away from the Keldar job. Jimmy as shopkeeper, wearing an apron—okay, sure, they said.

  At Val and Terese’s reception at the K of C on Dunboy, Jimmy asked Annabeth to dance, and folks there saw it right away—the curve of them as they leaned into the music, the tilt of their heads as they looked right at each other, bold as bulls, the way his palm lightly caressed the small of her back and she leaned back into it. They’d known each other as kids, someone said, though he’d been a few years ahead of her. Maybe it had always been there, waiting for the Puerto Rican to pack up, or God to pack up for her.

  It had been a Rickie Lee Jones song they’d danced to, a few lines in the song that always got to Jimmy for some reason he didn’t understand—“Well, good-bye, boys/Oh my buddy boys/Oh my sad-eyed Sinatras…” He lip-synced them to Annabeth as they swayed, feeling loose and at ease for the first time in years, lip-synced again at the chorus along with Rickie’s mournful wisp of a voice, “So long,
lone-ly ave-nue,” smiling into Annabeth’s crystal green eyes, and she’d smiled, too, in a soft, hidden way she had that cracked his heart, the two of them acting like this was their hundredth dance instead of their first.

  They were the last ones to leave—sitting outside on the wide entrance porch, drinking light beers and smoking cigarettes and nodding to the other guests as they walked to their cars. They stayed out there until the summer night had chilled, and Jimmy slid his coat around her shoulders and told her about prison and Katie, and Marita’s dreams of orange curtains, and she told him about growing up the only female Savage in a house full of maniac brothers, of her one winter dancing in New York before she figured out she wasn’t good enough, of nursing school.

  When the K of C management kicked them off the porch, they wandered over to the after-party in time for Val and Terese’s first screaming match as a married couple. They clipped a six-pack from Val’s fridge and left, walked off into the dark of Hurley’s Drive-in and sat by the channel, listened to its sullen lapping. The drive-in had shut down four years before, and squat yellow diggers and dump trucks from Parks and Recreation and the D.O.T. convoyed onto the land every morning, turned the whole area along the Pen into an eruption of dirt and torn cement. Word was they were turning it into a park, but at that point it was just a mangled drive-in, the screen still looming white behind mountains of brown dirt and black-and-gray cakes of disgorged asphalt.

  “They say it’s in your blood,” Annabeth said.

  “What?”

  “Stealing, crime.” She shrugged. “You know.”

  Jimmy smiled at her around his beer bottle, took a sip.

  “Is it?” she said.

  “Maybe.” It was his turn to shrug. “Lotta things are in my blood. Doesn’t mean they have to come out.”