that other subject.”
“Fine. I’d much rather eat,” Chico said.
Trace had a terrible desire to order a double vodka on the rocks, but he ordered a carafe of wine and drank it by himself while watching Chico eat. He nibbled at his cheese sandwich but had lost his appetite.
When they got back to their room, Trace again called Sarge’s home and office numbers but got no answer.
“No answer from Sarge,” he said. “I’m starting to worry.”
“So he’s out. He’s a big boy,” she said.
“What did you mean by that?”
“Mean? I mean that he is big and grown up and why are you worrying about him as if he’s a child?”
“Because, dammit, he’s probably out getting laid. With women he picks up on the street. I don’t know what he’s up to, but I’m sure it’s no good.”
Chico sighed. “I’m going to sleep,” she said.
Trace sighed, too. “Maybe I will later. If I can.”
12
Trace’s Log:
Tape Recording Number Two in the murder of Tony Armitage, Plaza Hotel, midnight, Thursday.
Something hangs heavy on my heart, Miss Crabtree. I feel about as much like making this report as I do running and weight lifting and doing pushups and gourmet cooking and not drinking enough and not smoking enough to even sustain a morning cough. My life has gone to hell in a hand basket.
Trusting other people’s judgment is not good. Like I trust Chico’s judgment and she says Sarge and Martha Armitage had an affair, and I guess she’s right and I don’t like it one little bit.
And where is he now? He’s never home anymore when I call. While my poor mother is suffering away the days and nights in Las Vegas, losing money at her specified rate of two dollars in nickels each and every hour, no more than five hours a day.
I’m very disappointed in you, Sarge.
I guess somehow I never thought of my father being involved with anybody physically. Except my mother. And that doesn’t count. That’s a romantic act, I don’t know, kind of on a par with docking a steamship in New York. A series of intricate maneuvers to be accomplished as rapidly and with as little excitement as possible.
I guess I’m overreacting. Do other people think about one of their parents making it with somebody? I don’t know. Maybe people don’t. Maybe I’m just one of the few, cursed by being half-Jewish, condemned to a life of worrying about things that are none of my business. Maybe it’s part of my becoming a big thinker with big thoughts about life and love and parenting and family.
My two kids. What’s-his-name and the girl. Do they ever think of me in bed with somebody? Do they ever consider that I’m off rutting around with some Eurasian beauty? Yeah, I’m sure they do. I think that Madame Defarge doesn’t miss a chance to tell them that their father is a degenerate. Maybe they’re too young to care about degenerates. How old are they anyway? I don’t know. The girl is something and What’s-his-name is older. Or at least he’s bigger, the last time I saw him. I wish I knew their birthdays, if they have birthdays. Maybe they’re a year older on January first, like horses. I’ll have to ask my mother. She keeps track of trivia like that. What else does she have to do beside being a cuckoldette?
I’m going to put this out of my mind. I’m not going to think of my father, the philanderer. Instead I’m going to do what I’m supposed to be doing here. Working.
So I met Martha Armitage today at Sarge’s office. I’m glad I was there because if I hadn’t been, they probably would have groped each other on the office floor. Splinters would serve them right.
I’ve got a whole bunch of tapes in the master file. Not one of them tells me a damn thing. First one is Martha, sweet Martha, flirting with my father in front of my very eyes. So she wants us to look into her son’s murder so we can find the killers before her husband does, ’cause he might get into trouble. Okay, I’ll buy that. So far so good.
“Fine. I’d much rather eat,” Chico said.
Trace had a terrible desire to order a double vodka on the rocks, but he ordered a carafe of wine and drank it by himself while watching Chico eat. He nibbled at his cheese sandwich but had lost his appetite.
When they got back to their room, Trace again called Sarge’s home and office numbers but got no answer.
“No answer from Sarge,” he said. “I’m starting to worry.”
“So he’s out. He’s a big boy,” she said.
“What did you mean by that?”
“Mean? I mean that he is big and grown up and why are you worrying about him as if he’s a child?”
“Because, dammit, he’s probably out getting laid. With women he picks up on the street. I don’t know what he’s up to, but I’m sure it’s no good.”
Chico sighed. “I’m going to sleep,” she said.
Trace sighed, too. “Maybe I will later. If I can.”
12
Trace’s Log:
Tape Recording Number Two in the murder of Tony Armitage, Plaza Hotel, midnight, Thursday.
Something hangs heavy on my heart, Miss Crabtree. I feel about as much like making this report as I do running and weight lifting and doing pushups and gourmet cooking and not drinking enough and not smoking enough to even sustain a morning cough. My life has gone to hell in a hand basket.
Trusting other people’s judgment is not good. Like I trust Chico’s judgment and she says Sarge and Martha Armitage had an affair, and I guess she’s right and I don’t like it one little bit.
And where is he now? He’s never home anymore when I call. While my poor mother is suffering away the days and nights in Las Vegas, losing money at her specified rate of two dollars in nickels each and every hour, no more than five hours a day.
I’m very disappointed in you, Sarge.
I guess somehow I never thought of my father being involved with anybody physically. Except my mother. And that doesn’t count. That’s a romantic act, I don’t know, kind of on a par with docking a steamship in New York. A series of intricate maneuvers to be accomplished as rapidly and with as little excitement as possible.
I guess I’m overreacting. Do other people think about one of their parents making it with somebody? I don’t know. Maybe people don’t. Maybe I’m just one of the few, cursed by being half-Jewish, condemned to a life of worrying about things that are none of my business. Maybe it’s part of my becoming a big thinker with big thoughts about life and love and parenting and family.
My two kids. What’s-his-name and the girl. Do they ever think of me in bed with somebody? Do they ever consider that I’m off rutting around with some Eurasian beauty? Yeah, I’m sure they do. I think that Madame Defarge doesn’t miss a chance to tell them that their father is a degenerate. Maybe they’re too young to care about degenerates. How old are they anyway? I don’t know. The girl is something and What’s-his-name is older. Or at least he’s bigger, the last time I saw him. I wish I knew their birthdays, if they have birthdays. Maybe they’re a year older on January first, like horses. I’ll have to ask my mother. She keeps track of trivia like that. What else does she have to do beside being a cuckoldette?
I’m going to put this out of my mind. I’m not going to think of my father, the philanderer. Instead I’m going to do what I’m supposed to be doing here. Working.
So I met Martha Armitage today at Sarge’s office. I’m glad I was there because if I hadn’t been, they probably would have groped each other on the office floor. Splinters would serve them right.
I’ve got a whole bunch of tapes in the master file. Not one of them tells me a damn thing. First one is Martha, sweet Martha, flirting with my father in front of my very eyes. So she wants us to look into her son’s murder so we can find the killers before her husband does, ’cause he might get into trouble. Okay, I’ll buy that. So far so good.
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