confused by the question. “Who she got her stuff from?” He scratched his head. “Jesus… I don’t … she started with people I introduced her to, but after things got crazy, I put the word out to shut her down. I don’t know who she used after that. It doesn’t matter anyway—even my old dealers are all dead, gone, or in the joint by now. Why all the questions?”
“You heard she’d cleaned up, though, right?” Willy persisted, ignoring him. “You said you’d talked to Bob. You knew about my new job.”
Andy squirmed in his seat. “Damn, you really are a cop, aren’t you?” He smiled guiltily. “Okay, yeah. I did hear. I mean, I asked and Bob told me. I was curious, you know? You reach a certain age, you get married, settle down, begin to think back—you and me, ’Nam, Mary… I started to wonder. The stuff you did when you were young starts to mean more.”
“You called Bob out of the blue?”
“I had his number from when Mary was still around. She used to call him to find out about you. Pissed me off, actually. I told her to cut it out, but I kept the number. He was surprised to hear from me—I think even a little embarrassed—but he sort of gave me the condensed version of what was going on. I felt bad about putting him on the spot.”
Which explained why Bob hadn’t admitted to the phone call, Willy thought.
He noticed Andy was looking at him with a pointed seriousness all of a sudden, his drunkenness apparently evaporated.
“Enough, Willy. Why the third degree?”
Willy hesitated, pondering the value of his information and when its release could serve him best. Now seemed as good a time as any.
“She’s dead. That’s why I’m down here.”
Andy stared at him in silence for a moment, his mouth half open, his hands tight around the coffee cup.
“Jesus,” he finally murmured, barely audible amid the noise around them.
“They found her with a needle in her arm,” Willy added for effect, wondering why, right after the words left his mouth. Andy had been helpful and straightforward, undeserving of such brutality. But by his own admission, he’d also taken a fragile woman, introduced her to drugs, and then tossed her out. Regardless of his sensitivity now, he’d been as bad as Willy on this score, if in a different manner, and Willy didn’t see treating him any more lightly than he treated himself.
Andy sat back in his seat and swallowed hard. After taking a shuddering breath, he said softly, “That’s pretty cold, Sniper. Just like the old days.”
“I didn’t introduce her to the shit in that needle,” Willy said.
Andy’s face turned dark red. He awkwardly rose to his feet and glared down at him. “The hell you didn’t. You don’t know the basket case I inherited. You fucked with her head so good not even the heroin had any effect. Shit…I was just the poor dumb slob standing between what you did to her and where she ended up. She was like on autopilot all the way.” He leaned forward, his anger climbing. “Don’t you lay that shit on me, you goddamn cripple. You don’t get off the hook that easy.”
He stood there breathing hard for a moment, before finally straightening and adding as he left, “The meal’s on you, jerk. I hope it wipes you out.”
Willy sat at the table for a long while afterward, almost motionless, trying to do what he’d done so well for years: batten the hatches and bottle up the turmoil.
But as he’d suspected they might even before he’d arrived in this city, certain survival techniques were beginning to fail.
Chapter 8
S ammie Martens parked in the narrow driveway behind Joe Gunther’s car and killed the engine. Gunther lived in a converted carriage house tucked behind a huge Victorian pile on one of Brattleboro’s residential streets. The town was littered with such ornate buildings, in both the high-and low-rent districts—remnants of a past industrial age when New England and its dozens of sooty redbrick communities
“You heard she’d cleaned up, though, right?” Willy persisted, ignoring him. “You said you’d talked to Bob. You knew about my new job.”
Andy squirmed in his seat. “Damn, you really are a cop, aren’t you?” He smiled guiltily. “Okay, yeah. I did hear. I mean, I asked and Bob told me. I was curious, you know? You reach a certain age, you get married, settle down, begin to think back—you and me, ’Nam, Mary… I started to wonder. The stuff you did when you were young starts to mean more.”
“You called Bob out of the blue?”
“I had his number from when Mary was still around. She used to call him to find out about you. Pissed me off, actually. I told her to cut it out, but I kept the number. He was surprised to hear from me—I think even a little embarrassed—but he sort of gave me the condensed version of what was going on. I felt bad about putting him on the spot.”
Which explained why Bob hadn’t admitted to the phone call, Willy thought.
He noticed Andy was looking at him with a pointed seriousness all of a sudden, his drunkenness apparently evaporated.
“Enough, Willy. Why the third degree?”
Willy hesitated, pondering the value of his information and when its release could serve him best. Now seemed as good a time as any.
“She’s dead. That’s why I’m down here.”
Andy stared at him in silence for a moment, his mouth half open, his hands tight around the coffee cup.
“Jesus,” he finally murmured, barely audible amid the noise around them.
“They found her with a needle in her arm,” Willy added for effect, wondering why, right after the words left his mouth. Andy had been helpful and straightforward, undeserving of such brutality. But by his own admission, he’d also taken a fragile woman, introduced her to drugs, and then tossed her out. Regardless of his sensitivity now, he’d been as bad as Willy on this score, if in a different manner, and Willy didn’t see treating him any more lightly than he treated himself.
Andy sat back in his seat and swallowed hard. After taking a shuddering breath, he said softly, “That’s pretty cold, Sniper. Just like the old days.”
“I didn’t introduce her to the shit in that needle,” Willy said.
Andy’s face turned dark red. He awkwardly rose to his feet and glared down at him. “The hell you didn’t. You don’t know the basket case I inherited. You fucked with her head so good not even the heroin had any effect. Shit…I was just the poor dumb slob standing between what you did to her and where she ended up. She was like on autopilot all the way.” He leaned forward, his anger climbing. “Don’t you lay that shit on me, you goddamn cripple. You don’t get off the hook that easy.”
He stood there breathing hard for a moment, before finally straightening and adding as he left, “The meal’s on you, jerk. I hope it wipes you out.”
Willy sat at the table for a long while afterward, almost motionless, trying to do what he’d done so well for years: batten the hatches and bottle up the turmoil.
But as he’d suspected they might even before he’d arrived in this city, certain survival techniques were beginning to fail.
Chapter 8
S ammie Martens parked in the narrow driveway behind Joe Gunther’s car and killed the engine. Gunther lived in a converted carriage house tucked behind a huge Victorian pile on one of Brattleboro’s residential streets. The town was littered with such ornate buildings, in both the high-and low-rent districts—remnants of a past industrial age when New England and its dozens of sooty redbrick communities
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