The Good Neighbor Page 22

  When she slept, she dreamed of a rampaging horse with flying hooves, and hot breath spouting from its flaring nostrils. It passed directly over her, so close that she could see its veined and rippling underbelly, and the hooves came down on her head over and over, like sledgehammers, but she felt no pain. And then she dreamed she was with the children again, all five of them, the ones who had been waiting for her since the last time they had said good bye.

  19

  ‌

  Rumors

  Colt spent that night in the apartment, spreading himself out in glorious, solitary diagonality on the bed. And for the first time

  in six years, he overslept.

  Some years ago, Forszak had initiated a standing rule in the of fice that if you made more than $100,000 in any given month, you could take the rest of the month off. Few traders hit that mark, and those that did were so flush with success that a holiday was the furthest thing from their minds. They just wanted to keep go ing, like an old lady at a slot machine that was spewing quarters. But there were no standing rules about anyone being late—that was nothing more than amateurish. Forszak had not said people could be late whenever they wanted, no matter how successful they were.

  Cursing himself for this slipup, Colt showered, dressed quickly, and dashed out to grab a cab to the office. Remembering to check the mail, he grabbed the few envelopes that were in the box and stuffed them into his coat pocket as he was going out the door. He managed to make it to work just as the opening bell rang on the

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  televisions, and for the next three hours, he sat and stared pen sively at his screens, occasionally speaking into the phone in terse monosyllables, sometimes diving for his keyboard when a plump prospect presented itself. He didn’t remember the mail again until lunchtime, when he put his coat on once more to head out with Joe, Buddha, and Raoul for some shish kebab. Glancing surrepti tiously at the envelopes, he saw that two were credit card state ments, one was junk mail, and one was from the New York State Department of Corrections. He blanched and hurriedly stuffed them back in his coat before the others could see. That was all he needed, for the other guys to know that he was getting letters from the prison people. He would never live it down. He decided to wait until he got back to the office to read it.

  Just before their orders were served, Raoul and Buddha got up at the same time and went to the bathroom. Joe took advantage of their absence to lean over and whisper, his lips nearly touching Colt’s ear:

  “Heard you went out for a drink with Forszak yesterday.”

  Colt started, nearly spilling water on himself. “You mind not breathing in my ear, please?” he said.

  “Sorry,” said Joe, pulling back. “Is it true?” “Yes, it’s true.”

  “Whadja talk about?”

  “Nothing. The usual shit. Why?”

  Joe folded his arms, doubt written on his face.

  “Just wondered,” he said. “There’s rumors in the air.”

  “So fucking what? There’s always rumors in the air. This place is worse than a high school with the rumors,” Colt said.

  “Yeah, but these rumors are different. Big shake-up coming.” “He didn’t say anything about that, Joe. And I haven’t heard a

  thing. I swear.”

  “I’m nervous, is why I ask,” Joe said.

  Colt rubbed his forehead tiredly. Even though he’d overslept, he felt like he could have used another few hours in bed. He hadn’t

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  slept that well in years. Could it be because it was also the first time he’d slept alone in years? Francie’s dreams were always ac tion adventures—she swore, laughed, lashed out, occasionally sat up and delivered lengthy monologues. If he never again had to put up with that part of being married to her, he wouldn’t miss it.

  “Joe,” he said, “you’re like an old woman, for Chrissakes. If the cleaning lady forgets to empty your trash can you think it means they’re letting you go. What do you have to worry about, any way? Your earnings been down?”

  Joe nodded—looking, despite his jowls and gray hair, like a shamefaced small boy. “A little,” he admitted.

  “Well, fuck it. You’ve been raking in coin hand over fist all your life. You oughta retire before you drop dead, anyway. Enjoy your life a little bit, before they have to zip you up in a body bag at your desk. Like what happened to that guy on the twenty-eighth floor last year, remember? Imagine that. Work all your life so you can drop dead? No, thanks. He was only forty years old!”

  “How you talk. You’re not ever gonna retire any more than I am. Besides, I’m sixty-three years old, I’m paying two alimonies, two college tuitions, and a mortgage,” said Joe. “I am not the green machine everyone thinks I am. Keep that to yourself, Coltie. That’s between you and me.”

  “Believe me, I don’t have enough free disk space in my brain to remember half the sob stories people tell me,” said Colt. “It’s al ready forgotten.”

  After lunch, walking back to the office, Buddha pulled on Colt’s coat sleeve to slow him up, while Raoul and Joe walked on. Colt yanked his arm away, irritated.

  “Unhand me,” he said. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Word is, you were out with Forszak yesterday after work,” Buddha muttered, inclining his smooth, bald forehead confiden tially toward Colt. “True?”

  “Jesus Christ, was my entire life story printed in the National Enquirer this morning? Yes, I was out with Forszak. No, I haven’t

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  heard any rumors. No, I don’t know what’s happening. Satis fied?”

  “Not in the least,” said Buddha. “In fact, you might say that I am in a heightened state of dissatisfaction.”

  “You think I’m lying.”

  “No, I don’t think you’re lying. I think you just don’t know.” “So?” Colt said.

  “So, you know how it works. The only guy who doesn’t hear the rumors . . .”

  " . . . is the guy everyone’s talking about,” Colt finished. “Holy shit, Bood, if I didn’t know better I’d think you guys were trying to make me crazy. First Joe with the questions—”

  “You talked to Joe? What did Joe wanna know?” Buddha inter rupted.

  “Nothing. Forget about it. Go molest someone else.”

  The two men walked on together silently. They entered the building and went to the elevators. Colt, as usual, headed for the stairs—part of his health regimen. He was already on the second floor when he was surprised to hear the door open and close be hind him, and then a pair of shoes scurrying upward. He didn’t even need to turn around to know who it was.

  “Coltie—” came Raoul’s voice. Colt turned.

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s true. The SEC is coming tomorrow and you’re all going to jail. Except for me. I turned state’s witness. Now fuck off.”

  Raoul paled and stared at him in panic. “Jesus, I was kidding,” said Colt.

  “Oh, man, don’t do that,” said Raoul, crumpling on the stairs. “You scared the shit outa me, Colt!”

  “Raoul, what the fuck is going on around here?”

  “I don’t know,” said Raoul miserably. “I was hoping you would.

  Everyone’s talking, but nobody’s saying anything. It’s weird.”

  “Is there some reason you should be afraid of the SEC showing up?”

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  “No. I swear there isn’t, Coltie. But that doesn’t matter. When those guys bust down the doors, it’s always the little brown guys like me they haul away first. Tell me, please, Coltie. They say there’s a big shake-up coming, that they’re cutting loose all the dead wood. Please, pal, I’m beggin’ ya. If you know anything . . . do I need to start looking for another job?”

  “You wanna know what I think?” said Colt. “I think you guys are all on crack. Nothing’s happening, Raoul. At least nothing I know about. That’s what I told the other guys and that�
��s what I’m telling you.”

  “The other guys? You mean Bood and Joe? What did they

  wanna know?”

  But Colt was already heading upward, taking the stairs two at a time.

  “I got two kids, man!” Raoul called upward. “I got a right to know!”

  “Read the Enquirer, baby!” Colt yelled down. “It’s all in there, every word!”

  ❚ ❚ ❚

  Back at his desk, Colt remembered his mail for the second time. He took the letter from the state and shoved it in his pocket; then he went into the washroom, where he ensconced himself in a stall, ripped it open, and read:

  NOTICE OF PAROLE HEARING

  I should have known, he grumbled. Had it already been three years? Jesus, how times flies. He read on:

  BE IT KNOWN TO ALL CONCERNED THAT IN THE MATTER OF THE INCARCERATION OF NOVA HART THERE SHALL BE A PUBLIC MEETING OF THE PAROLE BOARD ON DECEMER 10 AT

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  THE HOUR OF 3:00 PM. SHOULD YOU WISH TO ATTEND, PLEASE INFORM THE BOARD IN WRITING OR BY TELEPHONE AT LEAST TWENTY-FOUR HOURS PRIOR TO THE ABOVE DATE AND TIME.

  Well, that was just charming. And more than a little coinciden tal. The hearing was just ten days away.

  How about it, Coltie? came the voice. You gonna get me sprung this time?

  “Fat fucking chance,” he mumbled, his voice echoing off the bare walls of the washroom. “You made your bed, now you lie in it.”

  Aw, Coltie. That’s not very filial of you.

  A cough in the next stall told him that someone was in there. Hurriedly Colt stuffed the envelope in his pocket again and exited the washroom before they could see who he was. The last thing he needed now was for people to know he was talking to himself in the bathroom.

  ❚ ❚ ❚

  In the afternoon, after a dead morning, Colt sold ten thousand shares of telephone stock at a twenty-seven-cent-per-share profit, a good note on which to end an otherwise troubling day. He put on his coat without bidding good-bye to any of his deskmates, all of whom had been behaving in a subdued manner ever since lunch, anyway; and he made a point of sailing past Forszak’s of fice without so much as looking at it, lest he give rise to a new spate of gossip. Once on the street, he got into a cab and pulled out his cell phone. He told the driver to head uptown and then called Bucks County information. An operator gave him the num ber of an excavating company, then connected him.

  “Steinbach Brothers,” said a voice in his ear.

  “Yeah,” said Colt. “You guys have backhoes and stuff like that?”

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  “Who’s this?”

  “Name’s Hart. I got some digging I need done.” “Well, sure we got backhoes. What kinda digging?”

  “A cemetery. In my backyard. I need it dug up and gotten the fuck outa there.”

  There was a long pause. “This a joke?”

  “Hell, no. I’m dead serious. I just bought a house, and then I find out there’s a cemetery on the property. Which the goddam real estate agent neglected to mention.”

  The man on the other end blew out a long breath. “Well,” he said. “Where d’you live?”

  “You know Highway 112? That old house that used to belong to the Musgroves?”

  “Hold on a minnit,” said Steinbach. Colt could tell from the way he talked that the man was overweight, a smoker. “You wanna dig up that cemetery?”

  “Damn straight. Can you do it or not?” “Can I ask why?”

  Colt knotted his free hand into a fist and pounded his leg. “Be cause,” he said calmly. “I dislike it. Its very presence in my life of fends me. I don’t like the idea of having dead strangers in my backyard. That’s why. Clear enough?”

  “I guess. It’s just—I know the guy who used to take care a that place.”

  “Oh, you’re a chum of Mr. Flebberman’s, are you?”

  “Yeah,” said Steinbach in his chubby voice. “You know Randy?” “We are acquainted,” said Colt. “Delightful fellow. Listen, I’m really enjoying the hell out of this little chat, but I’m terribly

  afraid I have to get off the phone now. What are your rates?” “My what?”

  “How much do you charge.”

  “Well, for somethin’ like that, it’s gonna run you a little extra. There’s exhumation permits we gotta get. At least I think there is.

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  We ain’t done anythin’ like this before. Well, once. But that was just one grave. That was back in ’eighty-five, when my dad was still—”

  “How much?” Colt said, through gritted teeth. “One fifty an hour, plus permit costs.”

  “Fine,” said Colt. “Be out there tomorrow morning at nine A.M. sharp.”

  “Now, hold on there,” said Steinbach. “We’re booked solid for a month and a half. I won’t be able to get a crew out there until Jan uary at least, and then the ground’ll be like rock, an’ we’re gonna hafta—”

  “Three hundred dollars an hour,” said Colt. “Plus a small bonus for yourself, Mr. Steinbach, if the work is completed in a timely fashion. Beginning tomorrow. Will that effectively resolve any scheduling conflicts?”

  “Three—”

  “—hundred dollars an hour. Plus.”

  “Uh,” said Steinbach. “Hm. Well, I think we can figure out a way to make it work. Sure. Tomorrow? Nine A.M.?”

  “Correct,” said Colt. “Call me on this number if you have any problems.” He gave Steinbach his cell number and hung up.

  “Where ju wanna go, main?” asked the cabdriver.

  Colt thought. He wanted Scotch badly. Scotch, and a nice, fat, expensive illegal cigar. He gave the name of a bar on Eighty-third where he could find these things, and more.

  20

  ‌

  Cruelty

  The next morning, after two Scotches, a Macanudo, and an other blissful night alone in the apartment, Colt was back in the

  office—at the proper time. The market was to open at 9:30. At 9:28, his cell phone rang. Colt had just typed in several buy orders that he intended to execute as soon as the bell rang, and he already had his hands poised over the necessary keys. These buys were hot picks—Internet stocks he’d been watching for weeks, stalking them as a panther stalks a fat, wounded gazelle. Part of him wanted to ignore the ringing, but he’d never been able to bring himself to leave a phone unanswered. After all, one never knew who it might be. The president, maybe, calling to commend him for being an upstanding American citizen. Stranger things had happened.

  “Hello?” he said.

  “You asshole,” said Francie.

  “Oh, hi, honey,” Colt said, in a voice loud enough for Raoul, Buddha, and Joe to hear, since they were all listening anyway. “Everything okay?”

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  “There’s some kind of machine in the backyard, and they’re digging up the cemetery,” Francie said. “So, no, everything is not okay. Coltrane, why is this happening?”

  “I’m sure I haven’t the foggiest idea,” Colt said. “Was there any thing else? We’re about to open for the day, and I’m just the teen siest bit busy right now.”

  “Colt, how could you do this?” she said. “I thought we were go ing to talk about it, at least!”

  “It’s my house, isn’t it?” Colt said.

  Joe, Buddha, and Raoul all looked up. On television, the bell clanged and the shouting started. Colt stabbed frantically at his keyboard.

  “I have to go!” he said. “Market’s open!”

  Francie sighed. “Coltrane, I was hoping to tell you this in per son, but . . . I want a divorce.”

  Colt swallowed the acid that rose in his throat. “Yeah?” he said as he punched at his keyboard. Errors sprang up on the screen.

  “Yes. I do. I’ve been thinking about it, and . . . well, bearing in mind everything that’s happened between us recently, and . . . the fact that we do seem to be drifting . . .”

  “Well—Francie—this isn’t
really the time to talk about it.” “See? You think even the market opening is more important

  than discussing your marriage! That’s called mental cruelty, Coltrane!”

  “Francie,” Colt said, lowering his voice, fighting the urge to jump through the phone and throttle her, “I hate to break it to you, but the market opening is more important than talking to you. Okay? This is how I make my living. You know that country house you love so much, that you happen to be sitting in right now? Well, I bought it. With money I earned from this job. If you prevent me from doing my job, you are preventing me from earn ing money. Which means I can’t buy things. And neither can you. You know the fucking market opens at nine-thirty. So you call me with one minute to go, and you make me miss it? That is mental

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  cruelty. It’s also really fucking stupid!” He barely managed to keep his voice down.

  “How could you get a vasectomy without telling me?” Francie shrieked, so loud that Colt was afraid the three stooges could hear. He looked at them quickly, but they were all pretending to ignore him. “How could you do it? That’s what I call cruelty!”

  “Right, well, I have to get off the phone now,” Colt said.

  “No! No! I will not be put off by you again! I demand your full and complete attention right now, Coltrane! This is not just a job I’m talking about here. It’s more important than that! It’s our lives!”

  “I have to go, goddammit,” Colt said.

  “Coltrane, I have never in my life felt so betrayed. By anyone.” He could hear the tears coming in her voice.