Read Online Waking the Dead by Scott Spencer - Free Book Online

stroll the Upper West Side with a .45 in his pants.
    “What kind of gun is that, Jerry?” I asked, casually.
    “Oh, this old thing,” he said, nudging it with his elbow. “It’s ancient. A .38.I really should get rid of it and buy a new one, but I’m always so busy. Anyhow, with all this insanity going on, I’m going to be keeping a low profile for a while. But I don’t want you to think you’re going out there to get slaughtered. I’ll be working with you, behind the scenes. I’ll be with you every inch of the way.” His merriness was increasing as his motor raced.
    “Well, I really do appreciate that, Jerry. Let’s just hope it won’t be necessary.”
    His smile broadened; now it was well past all human proportions. This was exactly the grin of a man who was going to shoot someone. “Oh come on, it’ll be necessary. No man is an island, right?” Suddenly, all this cheerfulness seemed to exact its toll and his boyish face went slack, revealing an older, more frightened face beneath it. He sat back in his chair and breathed out a long sigh. His eyes lost their focus; his skin went gray. “I’ve got a rest coming to me and I’m going to really enjoy it,” he said.
    Just then, the phone rang and he picked it up. “Yes?” he said, and then cleared his throat. “Oh, hi,” he said, sitting forward, suddenly animated again. He covered the receiver for a moment and then lipped to me: It’s my wife. “Well, how’s the sunshine, honey?” He was drumming his fingers rapidly against the arm of the chair. “Hey,” he said, “hey hey. Slow down. If they’re bothering you, don’t talk to them. That’s all there is to it.” He listened for another moment, twitching with impatience: it had been his hallmark as a public servant— Carmichael loved to talk but loathed listening. “Look, honey. I think you’re getting very carried away. If anything, the reporters are on our side. They’ve been goddamned supportive.” He fell into a reluctant silence again, nodding vigorously as he listened to his wife. “Look, Lorraine—” he said at one point, hoping to derail her. But she was used to his filibuster techniques and went right on. (Her picture hung over the fireplace. It was one of those outdoor art fair type of paintings, the kind my sister Caroline says degrades reality by reproducing it so simperingly, as if the Master of the universe was a sentimental fool in love with pastels and big-eyed bunnies. Lorraine Carmichael looked to be an attractive woman: short, Peter Pan-ish hair, a sharp nose, a shy smile. The Carmichael kids were posed with her: a four-year-old in an aqua tutu, a toddler in a candy-striped stretchie.) “OK, OK,” Carmichael was saying. “So he’s a bad egg. Then change your routine. If he’s bothering you at the pool then spend less time at the goddamned pool.” Pause. “No. There’s no one I can call.” He gripped the phone and said, in a confidential, desperate whisper, “Don’t you understand? There’s no one I can call .”
    I stood up. I had no business overhearing any of this. I put up my palm as if to indicate we could talk later. Jerry waved frantically at me and pointed to the sofa, practically ordering me to sit down and wait. I pretended to misunderstand and continued to make my way out.
    “I can’t talk to you now, Lorraine,” he said abruptly, and hung up the phone. “Fielding!” he called out, springing out of his chair. “Where are you going?”
    I was halfway down the foyer, my coat and the door tantalizingly in sight. But I had no choice but to turn around. “It’s quite a storm out there, Jerry. I better get home while I can.”
    “Hey, what’s a storm between friends, right?” He was walking toward me, his arm out as if to embrace me. He was making no attempt to keep the jacket closed over the gun. “You’re not going anywhere until we drink a toast. OK?”
    “I don’t drink,” I said.
    “Hey, come on.”
    “I don’t. I can’t.”