"Baltimore Blues" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lippman Laura)

Chapter 6

That night, Tess ran her hardest route.

She ran along Boston Street and into Canton. Past the expensive condos thrown up along the waterfront when Canton had been touted as the next hot neighborhood. It had never quite happened, so only a few high rises squatted among the row houses, Gullivers in Lilliput. It would be sweet, Tess thought, if the residents awakened one day to find their expensive homes staked to the ground, swarming with those who now lived in their shadows.

She increased her speed. Although the sun had gone down, it was still humid, and sweat poured off her. She had hoped a hard run would be cool and cleansing, but she felt sleazy and dirty, haunted by junk food and junk memories. The pizza slices and hot dogs of the past week oozed out of her pores, while her head was filled with unsettling images. She saw Ava pushing lingerie into her briefcase, saw the big head of Michael Abramowitz, floating on top of his tiny body like some unwieldy helium balloon, bouncing across the Renaissance lobby toward his assignation with Ava.

She had been right in her instinctive dislike for Ava, but she found little pleasure in being right. How had she failed to anticipate this moment? For Kitty had seen it all too clearly. From the first Tess had hoped Ava was up to no good and relished the chance to prove it, thinking it would be a good and lucrative deed to break up Rock's engagement. She had imagined what it would be like to trail Ava, and she'd come to enjoy doing it. She had killed long hours thinking about what she would do with the money Rock was paying her. But she had never imagined what it would be like to report back to Rock.

The thought of Rock's face made her run faster still.

She couldn't do it, not for any sum of money. But she didn't want to give up the money. And she wanted Rock to know what she had discovered, just not the responsibility of telling him.

There was only one way. Ava must confess, and Tess would have to trick her into it.

Back in her apartment, showered and dusted with talcum powder, Tess dialed Ava's number. A machine picked up. She started to hang up, then had a quick inspiration. She knew what could get Ava to pick up a telephone, assuming she was there and screening her messages.

"Miss Hill?" she asked in the high, almost too-clear tones of a young college girl, the type of voice that goes higher still at every sentence's end.

"This is Denise at Nordstrom? I waited on you the last time you were in? Well, I wanted you to know we are having a very special sale on Donna Karan, a two-day preview sale for very special customers, and I just wanted to give you the details? We're taking up to seventy-five percent off some of the fall suits?"

Ava picked up. "Yes, I'm here. Do you have many things left in a size four?"

Stunned by the success of her plan, Tess realized she hadn't figured out what to say next. She fell back on the truth.

"I'm not a Nordstrom sales girl. I'm a private investigator-a kind of one, anyway, and I've been following you. I think it would be in your best interest to meet with me."

Ava hung up. Tess called back and got the machine again, but she knew Ava was standing there, listening.

"I have some information, Miss Hill," she said, hoping her voice sounded cool and experienced. "Information about your…lunchtime activities. Information I plan to provide to my client if you don't meet with me."

She could feel Ava waiting, considering, only blocks away. After a week of following her, Tess felt strangely close to her prey. She still didn't like her, but she sensed something sad and fucked-up in her, which made her harder to hate. She wanted to hear Ava's side of the story, even as she doubted she would believe it. But she did not tell her any of this, did not say anything more as she hurtled toward the beep and another disconnection.

Ava picked up just before the tape on the machine ran out. "Sunday," she said. "Eight P.M. I can't meet until then."

"Fine. Meet me at The Point."

"The Point?"

"It's a bar, also known as Spike's Place, out on Franklintown Road, near where I-70 dead-ends."

"I'm sure I can find it. I look forward to meeting you. I've never met a female dick before." And she slammed the phone down again.

Let her have this round, Tess decided. The next one is mine. She sat down at her computer and wrote two short plays, both for two characters. Tess and Rock, Tess and Ava. The only trick would be getting them to follow scripts they didn't know existed.

The next morning, an overcast Saturday, she grabbed Rock's hand as they left Jimmy's.

"Take a walk with me," she said. They had not talked about Ava at breakfast. They had been not talking about Ava for ten days now, which meant they had practically stopped talking. It was the only subject in the world.

"Do you know something?" he asked.

"Yes, but it's hard to tell."

He swallowed hard, pale beneath his tan. Tess led him down the pier to a small bench overlooking the harbor.

"I've been watching Ava off and on for almost a week now. I think I know what's bugging her."

Rock's eyes held hers, but he was incapable of saying anything. He reminded Tess of an old dog, trusting a beloved master not to put him to sleep-unless the master absolutely had to.

"She shoplifts. Little things, things she can't possibly need. I saw her take underwear and camisoles, stuff that wasn't even her size."

As she had expected Rock considered this good news. He sighed, the air escaping from his massive lungs as if he had been holding his breath for several days. It was bad, but it wasn't as bad as he had feared. He could fix this. He could help her. He straightened up, ready to take action.

"I bet there's someone up at Phipps who knows about kleptomania," he said, referring to Johns Hopkins's psychiatric wing. Tess turned her face away so he wouldn't see her smile. He was so predictable. Of course he had immediately jumped to the conclusion that Ava's thefts were a sickness, and therefore curable. She had planned on such a reaction.

"I've already done that. Dr. Hauer is the leading expert on this kind of disorder." The lie stung a little, delivered so smoothly to a trusted friend, but the name was correct, taken from one of the media guides Johns Hopkins distributed to the newspaper every year.

"I've heard of him. He has a great rep."

"Yes, he does. His advice may be difficult for you to follow, though. He says it's important not to confront her about this. I told him what I had observed, and he said it's his opinion she's reaching a crisis point. If you're patient, she'll confide in you soon enough."

"But what if she gets arrested? It could ruin her career. She'd never be admitted to the bar."

Tess had anticipated this question, too. "I don't think she will. Get caught, I mean. I saw her because I was already observing her, Rock. Clerks don't watch her. She dresses well; she looks like a nice young professional woman. They're too busy chasing around the kids playing hooky to watch someone like Ava. But if she is arrested Dr. Hauer said he'd be able to get the charges dropped. He does it all the time."

A preposterous claim. No psychiatrist, no matter how highly regarded, could get charges dropped down at the police station. But Tess counted on Rock's lack of experience with police officers or bail hearings.

Still, he was uncomfortable. She knew Rock would have trouble doing nothing. This was the riskiest part of her plan-trying to keep Rock from confronting Ava until tomorrow night.

She took his left hand in both of hers. The palm thick with calluses. A rower's hand. It was like holding a huge Brillo pad.

"Trust me," she said, knowing she no longer deserved his trust. "Give it a week. If she hasn't come to you by then and told you everything, we'll go to Plan B."

"Plan B?"

"An intervention, like they do for addicts. But give it a week. Promise?"

"Well, if Dr. Hauer thinks this is the right thing… I won't say anything to her, not for a week. You have my word."

And his word, Tess knew, was actually worth something. It was as good as the check he pressed in her hand, made out for $1,080. Her first one-act play had gone off without a hitch. Now all she had to do was mount and produce the second one. Sequels were always tricky.

Tess hadn't been to The Point for months, a fact Spike lost no time reminding her of.

"Hey, Tesser, you finally come to see your old Uncle Spike? You still like mozzarella sticks? I tell you what. For you I'll have Tommy change the oil. And a Rolling Rock, right? In a bottle, no glass. See, I remember, even if you don't come see me so often."

"You've got a great memory, Uncle Spike. Who do you get that from?"

"I got nothing from nobody, Tesser. You know that." He turned up the sound on the Orioles game, then disappeared into the kitchen to personally supervise her mozzarella sticks.

Spike was a relative, but no one was sure whose, for neither side of the family would claim him. Tess's father always insisted he was a cousin from some weak branch of the Weinstein family tree. Her mother maintained she had never met him until marrying into the Monaghan clan. Spike himself was closemouthed about the connection, though his looks favored Momma Weinstein's springer spaniels. Pale, with an astonishing array of liver spots, Spike was notable primarily for his bald head, which came to a point. Hence the name of his tavern, decorated throughout with silhouettes of his bald head, cut from black construction paper by the dishwasher.

Tess adored him and his bar. When she was fifteen he had given her an open invitation to The Point, telling her it was important to learn to drink among people one could trust.

"You miscalculate here, the worst that happens maybe you wake up on my sofa, some crumbs on you," Spike said. "You drink too much out there-" He pointed with his chin to the world beyond Franklintown Road and didn't bother to explain what could happen to a drunk teenager out there. Accidents, vehicular and sexual.

Spike's plan, while unorthodox, worked well. By the time Tess went off to Washington College, she knew exactly how much she could drink. It was a prodigious amount. Her dates were far more likely to pass out than she. On occasion a few did. A lady, she never took advantage of them.

Tonight she had chosen Spike's Place because she hoped it would throw Ava off balance. She was ready for a second Rolling Rock before Ava arrived, ten minutes late and unapologetically so. She stalked in, wearing a white unitard, a turquoise thong, suede boots, and a leather jacket. Her black hair was pinned up on top of her head in a geyserlike ponytail. It was quite unlike anything ever seen at The Point. One of the older men fell off his bar stool as Ava walked by.

"Don't get too full of yourself," Tess told her, looking at George on the floor. "He does that all the time."

"I know you," Ava said, but her look told Tess she couldn't place her. They had met only a few times. Rock's life was neatly compartmentalized, and Ava had shown little interest in rowing, which only happened to be his reason for existence.

"Maybe you think you know me because I've been watching you for so long. You've probably seen me several times, yet it never registered until now. I've noticed you don't really pay much attention to the world around you."

Ava slid into the booth, arranging herself so only a tiny strip of her tiny behind made contact with the smeared and cracked vinyl. She glanced at a menu, shuddered slightly, then put it aside. Tess had planned to recommend the veal chop, eager to watch her try to cut the rubbery meat. She also hoped she would order a Chardonnay. The white wine at The Point tasted like vinegar, bad vinegar at that.

But Ava had an innate sense for the right thing, even in the wrong place. She ordered-never had the word seemed quite so apt to Tess-a Black Label draft, helped herself to one of the mozzarella sticks on Tess's plate, then sat back and raised an eyebrow. Your move, the eyebrow said.

Fine, Tess thought, I don't have time for this either.

"I have information you're having an affair with Michael Abramowitz."

Ava looked puzzled, but only for a second. Then she gave Tess one of her full-force smiles. "Information? Possibly. But do you have proof?"

"Of course."

"Really? I'd love to see it, or hear it. I hope I came out nicely in the photographs." She took a dainty sip of beer.

"My proof is for my client. I am interested, however, in any explanation you might want to offer."

Ava ate another mozzarella stick, very slowly. She appeared to be considering something, and she didn't speak again until she had swallowed the last bite of fried cheese, then patted her lips dry with a paper napkin.

"You know, I thought I knew who you were working for when you called, but the person I was thinking of would have hired someone good, someone who knew how to do things-assuming there was anything to do. So who are you working for?"

"Whom. Whom am I working for."

"Whatever. Whomever."

"Why don't you tell me who you thought my client was, and I'll tell you if you're right."

"I'm not convinced you work for anyone. You're probably just a grubby little blackmailer, out for yourself."

"I work for Darryl Paxton. Your fiancé, I believe. Or thinks he is."

"Well, I like that," Ava said. "I thought engaged people were supposed to trust each other." She seemed offended but also a little relieved. Who was her original suspect? Tess wondered. Abramowitz, famous for his monastic devotion to his career, had been single all his life. He had no wife to check on him.

"Does a woman deserve her fiancé's trust if she's having an affair?"

"Do I deserve to endure this conversation when you don't have any proof?"

"I said I did. I've been following you. I saw you in the Renaissance Harborplace with him. I saw you at the Gallery. Do you steal the underwear to wear for your boss? Or is that an unrelated hobby?"

This was more unnerving, Tess could tell. Cheating on your fiancé was one thing, but it didn't keep one from being admitted to the bar. When Ava looked up, her eyes were filled with tears and her lips trembled. Save it for your next speeding ticket, Tess thought.

"Are you going to tell Darryl?" Her voice actually quavered.

"That's my job. He hired me to find out why you were acting so weird. I think I have an answer."

"But Michael has nothing to-" she started, then stopped abruptly, her face shifting back into its normal, haughty expression. The tone of her voice also changed, suddenly amused and airy.

"Of course you have to tell him," she agreed. "But I need to talk to him first." Tess smiled, a playwright watching happily as the curtain line approached. But she had never anticipated the actress might ad-lib.

"Yes, I'll call him and tell him how my boss has been making me sleep with him so I can keep my job. I'll tell him it's Anita Hill all over again and it freaked me out, which is why I started to shoplift. Darryl will believe me and Darryl will forgive me. It won't matter what you tell him."

"You're a lawyer. I assume if you were a victim of sexual harassment, you'd know how to handle it a little better than that."

"Did you hear about that case in Philadelphia? A woman lawyer sued this big-shot partner, and the jury found in her favor, then gave her nothing in damages. What good is that? A victim deserves compensation, don't you think?"

"Are you a victim?"

"At this point it's a matter of opinion, and I think I am," Ava said. She stood up, pulling her purse close to her body, making no move to put money down for her beer. "A court may not agree with me, but I'm sure Darryl will. That's the only jury I need to persuade."

Tess was flustered, incapable of a response. She had assumed Ava would rush to tell Rock her version, burying herself by revealing too much. She had counted on Ava being more concerned about her affair than her tendency to steal underwear. But in her version the sex, unwanted, was making her shoplift. What if Rock believed her? What if she was telling the truth?

George fell off his bar stool again as Ava walked by, knocking her down with him. The tangle of arms gave Tess some pleasure, but Ava, even trapped beneath the 300-pound frame of a sometimes incontinent alcoholic, kept her Princess Grace cool. As she stood up, brushing off her now not-so-white unitard, she looked smug, untouchable.

"On your mark, get set, go," she called back. By the time Tess figured out what she meant, and ran to the door of the tavern, Ava was already in her silver Miata, dialing her car phone as she made an illegal left turn out of the parking lot.