Rebecca Schwartz 05 - Other People's Skeletons

flipped-out freak I hadn’t even thought of it.
    But something changed in his face, flickered in his hard eyes. He said, “I loved that guy, you know?” and I almost believed him. “Look, okay, she brought him in here— that time he came to lunch— but I only saw her once. I guess in a way she introduced me to Jason, so I owe her. But if you mean this…”
    “She brought him in here? Why would she bring him if you didn’t even know her?”
    “Because she knew all about me, and I knew all about her. She wanted to meet me, she had some thing about me, she even told people we were involved.” He shook his head. “Shit. Christ. I wouldn’t be involved with somebody that young. Uh-uh. Not this boy. Women are like wine, you know what I mean? I like a gal with some vintage on her.” He leered, as he had the first time we met. It was probably a habit.
    “I feel like we’re getting off the subject. How did you two know all about each other?”
    “Because my brother was fuckin’ her.”
    “Your brother!”
    “Shit, I don’t care what happens to her. I don’t even care what happens to him.” He stared at his glass and brooded. “Dumb schmuck. Jason was my buddy.”
    “Are your brother and Adrienne in touch?”
    “You mean now? Fuck no, she left him for some faggoty kid.”
    “The kid says your brother wanted her back, he told her he’d always take care of her. Only the kid thought he was talking about you.”
    Unexpectedly, Tommy La Barre leaned back and gave a hard, bitter laugh. I had no idea what was so funny. “Why don’t you look him up? Why don’t you girls just go ask him? Fuck, I don’t give a shit.” He wrote a name and address on one of his business cards.
    As we turned toward the door, Chris said, “No lunch?”
    “I can’t eat on drugs.”
    “The coffee? Mine’s worn off.”
    “Adrenaline. I think we’re getting close.”
    She sighed. “I wish I did.”
    I looked at the address. It was in the avenues, a funny place, I thought, for a gangster’s brother to live. It was one of those stucco built-over-a-garage places that line the streets out there, that stretch in unrelieved columns for miles, that make you want to lose your lunch with the sameness, the grim plainness of it all.
    Yet they’re perfectly nice houses, suitable for raising sprawling urban families, and it came to me, as I looked at the card with Tommy’s brother’s name on it— Edward La Barre— that Edward might not be a bachelor.
    Unfortunately, the thought was a little late, having come a second or two after ringing the doorbell. The woman who answered wore jeans and a tunic-length T-shirt that looked as if it had been selected to hide a belly curve that had arrived with a baby. Her hair was black and curly, but slightly unkempt, as if she didn’t have time for grooming. It looked good that way, but I was sure she couldn’t be convinced of it, was probably embarrassed at having been caught in weekend mode. She was a handsome woman, substantial in weight, with a deep, maternal bosom, against which she held what was probably the latest of many babies.
    “We’re looking for Edward La Barre,” I said.
    “Tommy called.” Anger flared from her eyes. “How dare you invade my house? How can you be so low?”
    We started to back away.
    “Coming to a person’s house like this, after some punked-out little slut— how can you do a thing like that?”
    How could Tommy La Barre set us up like this? That was the question. “I guess we made a mistake.”
    “Get out of here! Get out of here right now, goddamn it! Just leave. Just get out of here.” The baby set up a howl I felt like joining.
    “Okay, we’re going. It’s okay.” We were more or less backing down the steps, but we didn’t dare turn our backs.
    Finally she slammed the door, and we turned toward each other to gibber in amazement at the thing that had befallen us. We had parked across the street, and I am quite sure no cars were in sight as we stepped off the curb, but we were caught slightly off guard, as we were much more interested in each other than the street. A light-colored car, no more than a blur of heavy machinery, bore down suddenly, motor purring, wind fairly whistling around it. We jumped backward, and the car flew past. It kept speeding, remained a blur, and by this time we were interested in examining our skin, making sure it was intact; getting the license number was the last thing either of us thought of.
    Yet when the shock