said.
“Who know what?”
“Enough.”
“Who are they going to tell?” Clarke said. “The police?”
“The fact that they know is sufficient.”
“What do you think, Jimmy?”
Henry said, “I’m telling you what I think.”
“And I’m asking Jimmy.”
Dorn took a drink, stared into his glass. “It’s a problem, but not a big problem.”
Clarke nodded. “We’re not stopping now. We’re close.”
Dorn said, “Close to what?”
Clarke sucked his teeth, forced a yawn.
Henry lifted a cigarette from his pack, lit a match. His hands weren’t steady. He struggled with the light. Clarke was watching. Henry could see his face reflected in the glass.
“Any further objections?” Clarke said.
Henry finally lit his cigarette, shook out the match.
“Good.” Clarke stood from the couch, stretched. “Then meeting adjourned.”
29
He began complicating his route home in the early morning, often driving a half hour around the city before crossing into Oakland. Watching his mirrors, the cars in front and behind, men passing in train windows. Looking for a face he recognized. Lonnie, Clarence, Clyde from Buffalo. A john waiting somewhere outside the apartment and following Henry to the station wagon and then following him home. A man on the street, on the sidewalk. Henry sitting in the car, the ledger on the seat beside him. Ginnie and the children sleeping and a man standing in their driveway, staring at the dark windows of the house.
* * *
The museum was housed in a boat shed on one of the wharf’s piers, a long, high-ceilinged space filled with old mechanical carnival games, telegraphs and early telephones, antique cars with exposed engines. There was a decommissioned railway passenger car at the back of the museum and Thomas headed for it immediately, unlatching his hand from Henry’s, ignoring the machines and display cases he passed along the way.
The museum was nearly empty, just a few mothers with young children, boys, mostly, working the levers of boxing and baseball games. Henry took a seat in the passenger car and watched Thomas move downthe aisle, taking tickets from invisible passengers and depositing them into an imagined slot in his own chest.
Beyond Thomas, Henry could see some movement in the windows. He lit a cigarette, tried to ignore it, but there was nowhere else to look. They weren’t the usual violent scenes of the girls and johns. Instead, there were men in suits, smoking, listening through headphones, photographing through the windows, taking notes. Henry tried to ignore them, but their movement kept drawing his attention. Their faces, their camera lenses. Finally, he looked straight at the glass, intending to meet their eyes, hoping to dispel the visions with direct confrontation. But he could see now that they weren’t watching him. They were watching Thomas, listening, observing, photographing.
Henry couldn’t catch his breath. There were more figures in the windows now, so he took his glasses off, blurring his vision. His hands were shaking. The passenger car floating, it felt like, loosed from the pull of the earth, up through the top of the shed, spinning into the open sky.
He could hear the sound of Thomas’s engine hum. Henry looked away, afraid of what he was showing, what Thomas could see. Thomas stood before him, made another sound, a high teakettle whistle, two long blasts. Henry kept his head down, the muscles in his hands and face jerking. Silence then, except for the sound of the cameras clicking, the men in the windows murmuring. Henry wanting to scream them away, wanting to stand and put his hands through the glass until he felt Thomas on the bench beside him, his son’s weight at his side, Thomas’s hand around his own, squeezing with a coupling click.
30
Alone in the office, he listens to the recording, a tape made after Elizabeth had been attacked. Dorn and Clarke talking in the Dictaphone room, thinking they were alone, unheard.
So I come
“Who know what?”
“Enough.”
“Who are they going to tell?” Clarke said. “The police?”
“The fact that they know is sufficient.”
“What do you think, Jimmy?”
Henry said, “I’m telling you what I think.”
“And I’m asking Jimmy.”
Dorn took a drink, stared into his glass. “It’s a problem, but not a big problem.”
Clarke nodded. “We’re not stopping now. We’re close.”
Dorn said, “Close to what?”
Clarke sucked his teeth, forced a yawn.
Henry lifted a cigarette from his pack, lit a match. His hands weren’t steady. He struggled with the light. Clarke was watching. Henry could see his face reflected in the glass.
“Any further objections?” Clarke said.
Henry finally lit his cigarette, shook out the match.
“Good.” Clarke stood from the couch, stretched. “Then meeting adjourned.”
29
He began complicating his route home in the early morning, often driving a half hour around the city before crossing into Oakland. Watching his mirrors, the cars in front and behind, men passing in train windows. Looking for a face he recognized. Lonnie, Clarence, Clyde from Buffalo. A john waiting somewhere outside the apartment and following Henry to the station wagon and then following him home. A man on the street, on the sidewalk. Henry sitting in the car, the ledger on the seat beside him. Ginnie and the children sleeping and a man standing in their driveway, staring at the dark windows of the house.
* * *
The museum was housed in a boat shed on one of the wharf’s piers, a long, high-ceilinged space filled with old mechanical carnival games, telegraphs and early telephones, antique cars with exposed engines. There was a decommissioned railway passenger car at the back of the museum and Thomas headed for it immediately, unlatching his hand from Henry’s, ignoring the machines and display cases he passed along the way.
The museum was nearly empty, just a few mothers with young children, boys, mostly, working the levers of boxing and baseball games. Henry took a seat in the passenger car and watched Thomas move downthe aisle, taking tickets from invisible passengers and depositing them into an imagined slot in his own chest.
Beyond Thomas, Henry could see some movement in the windows. He lit a cigarette, tried to ignore it, but there was nowhere else to look. They weren’t the usual violent scenes of the girls and johns. Instead, there were men in suits, smoking, listening through headphones, photographing through the windows, taking notes. Henry tried to ignore them, but their movement kept drawing his attention. Their faces, their camera lenses. Finally, he looked straight at the glass, intending to meet their eyes, hoping to dispel the visions with direct confrontation. But he could see now that they weren’t watching him. They were watching Thomas, listening, observing, photographing.
Henry couldn’t catch his breath. There were more figures in the windows now, so he took his glasses off, blurring his vision. His hands were shaking. The passenger car floating, it felt like, loosed from the pull of the earth, up through the top of the shed, spinning into the open sky.
He could hear the sound of Thomas’s engine hum. Henry looked away, afraid of what he was showing, what Thomas could see. Thomas stood before him, made another sound, a high teakettle whistle, two long blasts. Henry kept his head down, the muscles in his hands and face jerking. Silence then, except for the sound of the cameras clicking, the men in the windows murmuring. Henry wanting to scream them away, wanting to stand and put his hands through the glass until he felt Thomas on the bench beside him, his son’s weight at his side, Thomas’s hand around his own, squeezing with a coupling click.
30
Alone in the office, he listens to the recording, a tape made after Elizabeth had been attacked. Dorn and Clarke talking in the Dictaphone room, thinking they were alone, unheard.
So I come