Read Online Past Due by William Lashner - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: William Lashner
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a chance. And yet, why did I feel, as I went through them, that I had missed my opportunity? Why did I feel the familiar pang of regret fostered by the sight of a woman whom I spy once in the street and who captures me wholly and who then disappears from my life without a trace. Some great gap existed in my life and these pictures somehow sounded out its depth. That was why I hadn’t given them to Beth. I was protecting them, and myself, at the same time.
One picture showed the woman’s torso, frontally, at ease, one leg languorously bent, a picture from the knees to the shoulders with the dark triangle, luxurious and mysterious, at its center. She was tall, thin, athletic, unselfconscious. Her hair was dark, her legs long,her breastbone high, her fingers delicate and smooth. It was intoxicating, that picture, that center, that mystery. I couldn’t turn away.
Was it poor dead Tommy G. with the suitcase and the ring who had taken these photographs? It seemed likely, yes. And so who was she to him? More than a model, that was clear. A girlfriend, still maybe pining for her lost love? A wife, still mourning her missing husband, still waiting for him to return? Well, he wasn’t returning, was he? Maybe I should find her, tell her what had happened so long ago, see if, maybe, she wanted to go out for coffee.
How pathetic was that?
Yet, still, there was something to it. Joey Parma had finally broken free of the world that had failed him as much as he had failed it, but I was still around to shoulder the burden of his past, and these pictures, that girl, was part of it. If I was to find out who had reached out from decades past to slit poor Joey’s throat, then I could find worse places to start than her. Worse places indeed.
Chapter
10
“I HAD SEEN her before,” said my father between rasps of breath. “But this time she walked by me. South Street. She walked right by me. And I smelled her. Christ, I can still smell her.”
I had fought to avoid it, this telling of my father’s sad lovesick tale. I had turned on the television, I had made calls from his phone, I had tried to start a conversation about the Eagles. In Philadelphia, if a guy comes at you with a shiv in his hand, demanding your wallet, just say something like “How about them Eagles,” and next thing you know you’ll be in a bar, drinking wits together, debating the merits of the stinking West Coast offense. But even the Eagles couldn’t derail my father. Once, when he started again with his story, I jumped out of my chair and intercepted the lovely Dr. Mayonnaise, whom I had been scheming to run into all night, and beguiled my way into escorting her downstairs to the cafeteria for a cup of joe, on me, no, no, I insist, please, you’re already doing so much for my father.
I carried the tray to a table in the corner and set out the cups and napkins and spoons like a fussy bald waiter at a French bistro. We talked about my father’s condition and then slipped into the short and imperfect histories two people give when they’re first eyeing each other. She winced when I told her I was a lawyer, but it was the kind of wince that let you know she didn’t really mind, thatlawyerdom fit her notion of an acceptable vocation, not as good as an accountant but better than grave-robbing scum, which only showed how little she knew of the profession. Her name was Karen and she was from Columbus, Ohio. I had never before met someone from Columbus, Ohio, but I figured it must be very sincere out there in the heart of the heartland because Karen Mayonnaise was a very sincere person. She sincerely cared about being a doctor, she sincerely cared for her patients, she was sincerely concerned about the state of the world. But despite all that I kind of liked her and when she had to leave she gave me a smile that I took to be an invitation to call.
So I was feeling pretty cheery when I stepped back into my father’s room and sat down. And then he began again about
One picture showed the woman’s torso, frontally, at ease, one leg languorously bent, a picture from the knees to the shoulders with the dark triangle, luxurious and mysterious, at its center. She was tall, thin, athletic, unselfconscious. Her hair was dark, her legs long,her breastbone high, her fingers delicate and smooth. It was intoxicating, that picture, that center, that mystery. I couldn’t turn away.
Was it poor dead Tommy G. with the suitcase and the ring who had taken these photographs? It seemed likely, yes. And so who was she to him? More than a model, that was clear. A girlfriend, still maybe pining for her lost love? A wife, still mourning her missing husband, still waiting for him to return? Well, he wasn’t returning, was he? Maybe I should find her, tell her what had happened so long ago, see if, maybe, she wanted to go out for coffee.
How pathetic was that?
Yet, still, there was something to it. Joey Parma had finally broken free of the world that had failed him as much as he had failed it, but I was still around to shoulder the burden of his past, and these pictures, that girl, was part of it. If I was to find out who had reached out from decades past to slit poor Joey’s throat, then I could find worse places to start than her. Worse places indeed.
Chapter
10
“I HAD SEEN her before,” said my father between rasps of breath. “But this time she walked by me. South Street. She walked right by me. And I smelled her. Christ, I can still smell her.”
I had fought to avoid it, this telling of my father’s sad lovesick tale. I had turned on the television, I had made calls from his phone, I had tried to start a conversation about the Eagles. In Philadelphia, if a guy comes at you with a shiv in his hand, demanding your wallet, just say something like “How about them Eagles,” and next thing you know you’ll be in a bar, drinking wits together, debating the merits of the stinking West Coast offense. But even the Eagles couldn’t derail my father. Once, when he started again with his story, I jumped out of my chair and intercepted the lovely Dr. Mayonnaise, whom I had been scheming to run into all night, and beguiled my way into escorting her downstairs to the cafeteria for a cup of joe, on me, no, no, I insist, please, you’re already doing so much for my father.
I carried the tray to a table in the corner and set out the cups and napkins and spoons like a fussy bald waiter at a French bistro. We talked about my father’s condition and then slipped into the short and imperfect histories two people give when they’re first eyeing each other. She winced when I told her I was a lawyer, but it was the kind of wince that let you know she didn’t really mind, thatlawyerdom fit her notion of an acceptable vocation, not as good as an accountant but better than grave-robbing scum, which only showed how little she knew of the profession. Her name was Karen and she was from Columbus, Ohio. I had never before met someone from Columbus, Ohio, but I figured it must be very sincere out there in the heart of the heartland because Karen Mayonnaise was a very sincere person. She sincerely cared about being a doctor, she sincerely cared for her patients, she was sincerely concerned about the state of the world. But despite all that I kind of liked her and when she had to leave she gave me a smile that I took to be an invitation to call.
So I was feeling pretty cheery when I stepped back into my father’s room and sat down. And then he began again about
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