An Accidental Corpse Page 2
With thanks for his suggestion, the family said goodbye to Finch and headed to the car. As they passed Pollock’s driveway, they saw the big green Olds convertible parked beside the house.
“Wow,” said TJ, impressed, “a Rocket 88. Bet it can go a lot faster than it did this morning.”
“That was plenty fast enough,” Nita said, with a hint of reproach in her voice. “Wonder why he was in such a rush.”
“Finch seems to think that’s his usual speed,” replied Fitz. “No traffic lights and few stop signs on these country roads, I’ve noticed. Hardly any streetlights, either. Have to watch yourself with drivers like Pollock around, especially at night.”
Five.
“He’s still asleep,” said Ruth Kligman as she descended the stairs to the living room in Pollock’s house, where her friend Edith Metzger was waiting. The two women had changed into their bathing suits and were ready to hit the beach, but since neither of them knew how to drive, they were relying on Jackson to take them.
Edith sighed with impatience. Some weekend in the country, cooped up in a crummy old farmhouse, full of weird abstract paintings, with Ruth’s drunken boyfriend. He’d already been three sheets to the wind when he’d picked them up at the train station that morning, piled them into the car, and raced back to the house like his tail was on fire. She thought he might stop at the little fair they passed, but he didn’t even slow down. She and Ruth had to walk over there just to get some lunch, while he moped around the house sipping gin. He said he’d take them to the beach when they got back, but he’d gone upstairs for a nap and hadn’t come back down. Now it was three o’clock and he was still dead to the world.
Ruth was full of apologies. “I’m really sorry, Edie. He’s just worn-out, that’s all. He’ll be okay after he gets some rest. When I called to ask him if it was okay to invite you for the weekend, he was really glad to hear that you were coming.”
“He has a great sense of hospitality,” replied Edith sarcastically. “I guess I can catch up on my reading while he sleeps it off.” She pulled a movie magazine out of her beach bag and headed for a chair on the back lawn. Ruth had told her that the creek behind the house was too shallow for swimming, and anyway the bank was all muddy. At least she could sit outside and get a little sun.
Ruth followed her into the yard. “We can go to the beach tomorrow. I’m going to call Dreesen’s market and order a delivery of some steaks, vegetables, maybe an apple pie. I’ll cook a nice dinner, and Jackson will be fine once he gets some food into him. I won’t let him drink any more,” she announced with confidence.
“He told me he wants to take us to a chamber music concert tonight,” she continued. “It’s in a private home, one of his rich art-collector friends is hosting it. You’ll get to meet some of the interesting people he hangs around with. We’ll have fun!”
Edith’s idea of fun was an evening at a Midtown nightclub with friends her own age, not stuck in a gloomy country house with a bunch of stuffed shirts. They were all bound to be at least as old as Jackson. Ruth had told her that, though he looked older, he was only forty-four. To her, at twenty-five, he was ancient, almost as old as her father would have been if he had lived.
Ruth had built him up as a romantic genius, the greatest artist in America, but Edith saw only a bald, overweight, disheveled alcoholic wreck—a sorry excuse for a boyfriend. And that beard! It looked less like he’d grown it deliberately than like he couldn’t be bothered to shave, or had forgotten how. Apparently he’d also forgotten that he had guests. She resigned herself to a weekend of boredom and looked forward to Sunday night’s train trip home.
“Let’s go over to Jackson’s studio,” suggested Ruth. “I want to show you more of his paintings. The brilliance, the energy, the power! Then you’ll understand why I love him so deeply, so passionately,” she gushed. Taking Edith by the arm, she led her across the yard to the converted barn where Jackson worked—or rather where he used to work. It had been more than a year since he had touched a paintbrush.
In the anteroom where the artist kept his tools and art storage, one wall was lined with racks full of stretched canvases dating back to the 1930s. No one wanted the figurative and semi-abstract stuff from before he started slinging paint around like a wild man, throwing it in the critics’ faces, so to speak. Jack the Dripper, they called him. After a string of negative reviews the figures came back, but with a sinister twist. That didn’t work out too well—the critics liked them, but the collectors didn’t. So he started casting about for a new direction, finally returning to his earlier abstract technique, before the liquid paint pouring that got him all that notoriety. Then it all just fell apart when he dove into the bottle and couldn’t climb out.
Ruth urged Edith into the studio proper. All around the room Pollock had propped up a virtual exhibition—big canvases and small ones, a couple of early works that he kept out as reference points, and a few drawings tacked to the walls. Sunshine streamed in through a big window in the north wall, bathing the whole space in natural light.
“See what I mean, Edie?” Ruth gasped with delight. “Magnificent! No one can touch him for sheer daring! All the other painters were stuck on Picasso, couldn’t get past him, but Jackson just flew right over him!” She threw out her arms and whirled around, as if she were about to take wing herself.
How Ruth could get so excited over a bunch of meaningless paintings, nothing but overblown doodles, was beyond Edith’s ken. She was used to her friend’s extreme moods—either over the moon about something or down in the dumps of self-pity—but it was usually prompted by something Edith could understand, like a call from her father, a philanderer whom she glamorized, or a fight with her boss at the art gallery where she worked as a receptionist. Lately it had been all about Jackson, her devotion to him, how thrilling it was to be the lover of such a genius. That was the upside. The downside was his drinking, his mood swings, his inability to paint, her doubt that she could get him back on track.
Edith tried and failed to look enthusiastic. “I’m sorry, Ruthie,” she conceded, “I just don’t get it. You tell me he’s a great artist, so you make allowances, and I guess you really love him or you wouldn’t put up with him, but I don’t see a future for you.” Her own situation made her wary.
“After all,” she reminded her, “he’s married.”
Six.
While Nita and Fitz relaxed in canvas chairs under large umbrellas on the Sea Spray’s beach, TJ was busy building a sand castle and burying his father’s feet with what he excavated from the moat. Although he knew how to swim, he had strict instructions not to go in without one of his parents—this far east, the ocean was much more treacherous than at Coney Island or in the Rockaways. The water was colder out here, too, and they had been warned about rip currents, especially now during hurricane season. Even when the local weather was calm, a storm far out at sea could churn up the water along the shore. Back in the old days, they were told, when bathing suits were much bulkier, stakes with long ropes attached would be driven deep into the sand. Bathers would cling to the ropes to keep from getting dragged under.
As the afternoon wore on, they began to think about dinner.
“Let’s take Officer Finch’s advice and go up to Jungle Pete’s,” suggested Nita. “Do you think we need a reservation?”
“I’ll go check,” said Fitz. “There’s a pay phone in the lobby.” He shook the sand off his feet, threw on a robe, and headed for the inn.
He returned with the news that the restaurant didn’t take reservations. In fact Nina Federico, the owner’s wife, who had answered the phone, had been amused by the suggestion.
“This is Springs, honey. Just walk on in, and come as you are.” He told her he was wearing a bathing suit. “Then maybe you’d better slip on a pair of long pants, and wear a shirt so you don’t get the ladies all het up. Us Bonac gals are pretty hot-blooded,” she teased.
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�Don’t worry,” he assured her. “My wife will see to it I’m decent, and she can beat off any competition.”
Nina’s response was a hearty laugh. “This lady I gotta meet. If she likes to dance, the music starts around eight, eight thirty, depending on when the band turns up, and whether they’re sober. If they are, it takes ’em a while to warm up.”
Fitz returned to the beach with his report: show up any time, and wear your dancing shoes. “Sounds like fun, though I don’t know how much TJ will enjoy it.” He turned to his son. “What do you think, buddy?”
“It’s okay, I like to watch you and Mom dance,” the young diplomat replied, earning chuckles from his parents. They often took a turn or two after dinner, especially if one of the Big Bands was on the radio. Like most of his schoolmates, TJ preferred rock ’n’ roll, but he appreciated Benny Goodman’s off-beat rhythms and exciting clarinet solos. And he enjoyed the way his folks glided around the living room in each other’s arms, his dad handsome and manly like Gene Kelly and his mom as graceful as Cyd Charisse.
After thirteen years of marriage, Nita and Fitz still sparked when they embraced, and the music made it all the more romantic. Just when TJ would be thinking how goopy grownups could be, they’d beckon him to join in, and all three of them would hi-de-ho with Cab Calloway or swing and sway with Sammy Kaye.
By the time the family had washed off the sand and salt in the cottage’s outdoor shower and changed their clothes, it was nearly seven, but TJ wasn’t quite ready for dinner.
“Please,” he asked, “can we go to the inn and watch The Gene Autry Show?” While exploring the Sea Spray on arrival he had spotted the television set, donated by ballroom dancing entrepreneur Arthur Murray and his wife Kathryn, in the main lounge. The Fitzgeralds had no set of their own, but some of their friends did, and Saturday evenings often found them clustered on a neighbor’s couch, soaking up the adventures of the Singing Cowboy and his horse, Champion.
“How do you know that’s what other folks will want to watch?” asked Nita. “After all, there are two other networks to choose from. Maybe they’ll be tuned to something else.”
TJ was undeterred. “Por favor, please, let’s just go see,” he begged, and Fitz gave in. “Sure, why not take a look,” he agreed. So off they went to the inn, while Nita put the finishing touches on her makeup. Not that her warm skin tones, heightened by her afternoon on the beach, needed enhancement. The sun had brought out a sprinkling of freckles on her smooth cheeks, which only added to her allure. She thought they made her look immature, so she tried to hide them with foundation, which just sat on the surface of her skin like a mask. She wiped off the makeup in disgust.
Accepting her sun-kissed condition, she contented herself with a light touch of lipstick. I’ve got to wear a big hat from now on, she decided, or I’ll never hear the end of it back at the station. They’ll be calling me las pecosas behind my back, and maybe right to my face!
A little after half past seven Fitz returned, with a delighted TJ in tow. They had caught The Gene Autry Show’s season finale, which had attracted every youngster at the Sea Spray and plenty of adults as well.
“Let’s go get dinner. I could eat a horse,” Fitz announced, “a big one like Champion!” Over TJ’s protests, he began to describe the various cuts of horsemeat and how to cook them.
Nita interrupted before things got too grisly. “Fish is on tonight’s menu—remember where we are. The local specialties are the best.”
The guys concurred. “Fish it is, then. Off we go.”
Seven.
As they pulled into the Jungle Pete’s parking lot, four men were piling out of a jalopy. One carried a saxophone, and two others struggled with a double bass jammed into the backseat and a drum kit in the trunk. The fourth man, apparently the piano player, held some sheet music, a pack of cigarettes, and four bottles of beer. This wasn’t their first stop of the evening.
“Looks like our timing is good,” observed Fitz. “Let’s get a table.”
They stepped inside to find an unadorned interior, a single large room lined with knotty pine and lighted by imitation candle bulbs in shaded lamps. A mirrored bar ran the length of the wall opposite the entrance, and a small raised bandstand with an upright piano occupied one corner. A large window air conditioner struggled against the evening heat.
A lively crowd nearly filled the room, where Nina Federico met them with a genial greeting.
“You the fella who called from the Sea Spray?” she asked Fitz. “C’mon in, and welcome. This must be that tough cookie you’re married to, right?” She cast an appraising eye at Nita, who blushed and asked her husband, “What have you been telling her?”
“Just that you’d protect me from the predatory females in this neighborhood,” he confessed. “I told her you could handle any unwanted advances they might make.”
“Sure she can,” piped up TJ. “My mom’s a cop!” In spite of the surrounding chatter, his voice carried far enough to cause a lull in the conversation, while men and women alike turned to take a good look at the newcomers. Nita blushed even more deeply. “Not so loud, TJ,” she scolded, and advised their hostess that she was strictly off duty.
“You’re okay, honey, as long as you’re not armed. This bunch can get pretty rowdy, especially on a Saturday night, but we stop short of gunplay.”
“I’m relieved to know that,” Nita replied, “and anyway, I left my service revolver in my beach bag.” She scowled at TJ, who looked appropriately sheepish. “I hope we can sit somewhere out of the limelight.”
“Right over here,” said Nina. “Pete’s just clearing a table for you.” They stepped past the crowd at the bar and headed to a somewhat quieter corner. After the first flush of curiosity had passed, the locals went back to their conversations and the band began to set up.
Pete Federico returned with menus and a boat cushion for TJ’s chair.
“Tonight’s special is striped bass,” he announced, “just caught today. Comes with mashed potatoes and coleslaw.” Turning his attention to TJ, he added, “Or we got spaghetti and meatballs if you don’t like fish.”
“Striped bass sounds great,” Fitz told him. “That good for you, too, son?”
“Sure, Dad,” said TJ. “Can I have a ginger ale?”
“And for the grownups?” asked Pete.
“My wife and I will take Knickerbocker, if you have it.” Pete said he did, and promised to bring their drinks over right away. Meanwhile the piano player was warming up, the drummer was assembling his kit, and the two other musicians were at the bar ordering lubrication.
As the quartet assembled, a few taps on a glass brought relative quiet, and Pete made his announcement.
“Hey, everybody, you’re in for a treat tonight. We got our own Buzzy Hand at the keyboard, Roy Conway on the bull fiddle, Russ DiGate on drums, and on sax we got a special guest artist all the way from Southampton, Larry Rivers. These boys are real versatile, so just shout out what you want to hear and they’ll play it.”
“Blue Moon!” came a loud voice from the bar, and the band launched into an upbeat rendition that brought several couples to the dance floor. Nita and Fitz decided to sit out until after dinner, which arrived not long after their drinks.
“Here’s your fish, broiled up nice and crisp,” said Pete as he placed the dishes before them. “The missus does all the cookin’. She spreads a little Hellmann’s on top so it gets a tasty crust, and it keeps in the juices.” He turned to Nita. “Tell me how you like it.”
She took a mouthful of the plump fillet and savored it. “This is the best fish I ever tasted,” she declared, obviously sincere. Fitz and TJ were nodding in agreement, and Pete’s smile lit up the room.
“Finest kind,” he said, using a Bonac expression of hearty approval. “Nothin’ beats striped bass the way my Nina fixes it. You folks enjoy, and let me know if you want anything else.”
“I got a rowboat tied up behind the General Store,” Mike told his new friend, “and if the weather holds I’ll be goin’ out on the crick tomorrow after church. You’re welcome to come along, I got an extra rod.” Fitz gave his permission, and the date was made.
It was after ten, past TJ’s bedtime, when they headed out to the car. Even after dark it was sultry, the still air heavy with humidity. Nita had no need of the sweater she’d brought in case the evening turned chilly. Fitz cast an admiring glance toward her bare shoulders, still dewy from dancing. Since she’d won promotion to detective, she no longer had to wear the unflattering policewoman’s outfit that hid her shapeliness. Fitz much preferred her out of uniform. And out of that pretty dress, too, he said to himself, anticipating the night to come.
“What a great place,” he remarked as they crossed the parking lot. “I’m sure glad Officer Finch told us about it.” He opened the passenger door and pulled over the front seat so his son could climb in back. In spite of his excitement at the prospect of tomorrow’s fishing trip, TJ was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. He flopped on the seat and promptly fell asleep.
Fitz looked down at his small limp body and felt a wave of emotion sweep over him. The boy was growing so fast, eager to learn, excited by every new experience, yet still so young, innocent, and vulnerable. He knew that, for TJ’s sake as well as his own, he had to keep his protectiveness in check, had to encourage his son’s independence and self-reliance, but it was a struggle. The love he felt for his only child sometimes overwhelmed him.