The Groaning Board

Wetzon
insisted.
    “Listen to Patrice, dearie. They like
to think they’re tough mothers, so we let them win the little ones.” She nudged
Wetzon through the door, then led her up the stairs.
    Patrice wore gold ankle-strapped,
high-heeled, open-toed platforms, sheer hose on her long, slim legs.
    When they got to the second-floor
landing, Patrice stretched her body in the gold sheath and adjusted her bosom.
“Keep ’em horny is my motto, dearie,” she whispered to Wetzon.
    A jean-clad Silvestri stood like the
wrath of God in the doorway of his apartment. Izz shrieked and scrambled over
his feet, then took flight, aiming for Wetzon, who came around Patrice to catch
Izz in midair. “I thought I lost you,” Wetzon murmured, burying her face in the
wriggling dog’s fur.
    “I left you a note and told your
doorman to tell you.”
    “Missed both,” Wetzon said.
    “Come on in. Not you, Patrice.”
    “Silvestri, dearie, I’m crushed. You
ought to be filled with gratitude.”
    “Oh, I am, I am.” He handed Patrice a
beer. “Good night.”
    Patrice took the beer and blew a kiss
at him. “Remember what I said, dearie. Honey, not horseradish,” she whispered
to Wetzon. “Ciao. “ She started up another flight of stairs.
    Silvestri’s apartment looked as if
he’d just moved in. And it smelled of stale cigarettes and beer. Cardboard
boxes served as end tables. Plastic shopping bags hung from every doorknob. A
card table held two brimming ashtrays, empty beer cans, half a salami sandwich,
and the remnants of the last game. Around the table were five folding chairs. A
lopsided, lumpy sofa sat against the long wall. No pictures on the walls, no
tchotchkes, window shades instead of blinds.
    “Do you want a beer?” he asked.
    “What’s going on with you,
Silvestri?” He looked strange to her, familiar and yet not.
    He went to the fridge, which was in a
tiny kitchen, and took out two Beck’s, opening one and handing it to her. “Sit
down,” he said. He opened his beer and took a long swallow.
    Still holding Izz, Wetzon moved one
of the folding chairs away from the card table and sat. The chair looked a
whole lot safer than the sofa. Exhaustion began to creep in with her first sip
of beer.
    “You owe me an explanation, if only
for what we had together. I think we started falling apart when Sheila Gelber was
murdered.”
    He didn’t sit. He shook a cigarette
from a half-gone pack and lit it, took a deep, deep drag. “Yeah, I’m smoking
again. It’s a long story.”
    “I’ve got all night.”
    He walked over to his window and
stared out. “Sheila called me twice before she died.”
    “I thought you said you hadn’t spoken
to her in—”
    “I didn’t take the calls, Les. I
avoided her because she was the kind of woman who wouldn’t let go. When we were
together all those years ago, she’d hang on my breath. It was flattering in the
beginning, but then it became impossible. When she called twice out of the blue
like that, I thought she was trying to get back into my life. But what she was
trying to do was get help. She turned to me and I failed her and I’m a cop.
    “You couldn’t have known.”
    “It was my job to know.”
    “But I thought you were working on
the case. Why did you take a leave from the Department?”
    “I didn’t. I went undercover.”
    “Undercover? By being Bruce Willis’
brother, the bartender, at Hem’s parties? I don’t get it.”
    “Hem Barron’s fingerprints turned up
in Sheila’s apartment.”

Chapter Fifty-Four

     
     
     
    “How THE HELL? BOY, IF MlCKLYNN HAD
KNOWN-HOW DID Hem explain it?”
    “He said he paid her a visit to talk
about funding her mail-order business.”
    “The one she and Micklynn planned
until A.T. killed it?“
    “Supposedly.”
    “I guess his fingerprints were on
file because he once worked for Lehman Brothers in mergers and acquisitions.“
    “Micklynn was Sheila’s friend,”
Silvestri said, “so she probably made the introduction. Veeder wouldn’t let
Barron say anything further.”
    “Micklynn and Sheila had a
falling-out. I think Sheila thought Micklynn was making those harassing phone
calls.“
    “For chrissakes, how do you know so
goddam much?“
    “Silvestri, Micklynn hired me to look
into Sheila’s death.“
    “Goddammit, Les!”
    “You can’t yell at me anymore,
Silvestri.”
    “Fuck that,” he said, kicking a
chair.
    “Before you close your mind, you
might consider that I know a lot more about these