The Mural. Michael Mallory
out of the driveway.
“What, Daddy?”
“I said, ‘Here we go.’”
“Didn’t sound like it.”
“I was speaking another language, punkin, the language of Dad.”
“Oh. I don’t know that one ’cause I’m a girl.”
Jack smiled. “You’re the best girl,” he said, wondering if there wasn’t some way he could wrap up all the basura in his life, take it out and dump it in a can, where it would be picked up and taken away.
They had gone only two blocks before Jack’s confidence suffered a serious challenge: a black-and-white police cruiser was coming toward him. He slowed down, giving the policemen no reason to watch him or follow him, and he made certain that the Lexus came to a complete stop at the stop sign. He even counted to five before starting through the intersection. The police cruiser passed through as well without slowing. But once it was behind Jack, he heard the siren blare on and saw in his rearview mirror the flashing lights as the cop car made a fast U-turn and charged up behind him.
“Shit!”
“Hmm?”
“Nothing, punkin.” Jack’s stomach dropping as he pulled over to the curb. Just fucking swell, he thought, bitterly, pulled over, probable DUI made worse by the fact that there’s a child in the car. If he had to call Elley from the police station, she would probably come down to retrieve Robynn and then leave him there to die. But to Jack’s tangible relief, the police car did not pull up behind him. It did not stop at all, or even slow. Instead it sped past him, apparently responding to a call that had nothing to do with him or his good buddy Sam Adams. He was guilty of nothing more than being a good citizen and pulling over to let the cop car zoom past on its way to an emergency. “Fuck me,” Jack exhaled.
“What, Daddy?”
“Nothing, Robynn.”
“You’re talking a lot of Dad stuff tonight.”
“Sorry. I’ll try to talk punkin from now on.”
“Where was that policeman going?”
“Off to catch a criminal, I guess. We just had to get out of his way so he could go.” Jack pulled the Lexus away from the curb knowing he had been spared by whatever cosmic court bothered to look down his way, but not knowing whether he deserved the pass. But having been spared, he would not temp fate further by having another one at the restaurant while waiting for the food.
That became moot since the Seafood Shanty—a dreadful name for a fairly upscale fish market and grill—did not have a bar. It was, however, packed with customers. As he had figured, Robynn was captivated by the lobsters in the slightly scummy water tank, their claws bound with rubber bands so that they would not fight. It was not a consideration for the safety of the animals, which were, after all, about to become dinner, but so that they did not mar or damage any of their succulent meat. Jack had never quite gotten used to the idea of popping a living thing, even one so ugly, into a vat of boiling water and letting it scald to death in the name of fine dining.
While waiting for his order, drinking in the enticing aromas circling around him, Jack tuned in and out of various conversations in the waiting area. Most of it was static, but one thing cut through the buzz: the word split-face. Turning around into the direction of the word, Jack spotted an older couple sitting on a bench and waiting for a table. The woman was at least seventy, badly made up, and speaking with the kind of clarion voice that indicated she was partially deaf. The man sitting with her was of equal age and appeared bored to tears. “I said, she’d be such a cute little thing if not for that hideous scar on her mouth,” the woman was shouting to him. “Looks like someone took a tomahawk to her.” Jack quickly glanced over at Robynn, who was still studying the lobsters, and he was relieved to see that she had apparently not heard the comment.
He looked back at the couple. Blood pulsed and pounded in his ears. He had taken a step toward her to confront her callousness head on when he heard his name being called. His order was ready. Collecting Robynn, Jack went to the register and paid, then picked up the bag of hot food and started to leave. But at the door he stopped. “Hang on a second, punkin, there’s something I’ve got to do,” he told Robynn. “I’ll be right back.” He walked to the table with the old couple and interrupted the woman mid-sentence. “Excuse me, lady,” Jack began, “but I heard what you said about my beautiful daughter.”
The woman looked startled. “What?” she said.
“Now you can listen to what I say. I read somewhere that three-thousand people each year die from choking on fish bones. I’m hoping that you’ll make it three-thousand-and-one, you miserable dried-up cunt.”
Even as it came out of his mouth, Jack could not believe what he had said.
The woman’s face dropped in total shock. “You...why...Harold!” she screamed at her husband. “Are you going to sit there and let this animal talk to me like that?”
Jack looked over at Harold and thought the old man was trying to stifle a grin.
“Where’s the manager?” she hollered, and Jack took that as an opportunity to head for the door. He had delivered his message, quite more forcefully than he had really intended to. Rushing back to Robynn, he took her hand and ran out to the car.
Driving back, Jack felt a rush of conflicting emotions: exhilaration at having actually taken a stand and shut the old cow up, but guilt at having done it so rudely. Mingling with those was something else: a touch of fear. His level of vituperation had shocked even him; where had it come from? Residual anger at Marcus Broarty? Or could he excuse it away by claiming that while it had been Jack Hayden speaking, the lines had been written by Sam Adams?
Ten minutes later Jack pulled the Lexus into the driveway, and then reached back and unbuckled Robynn, letting her slide out of the seat herself like a big girl. Grabbing the bag of food, he marched into the house, calling “Dinner!” upon entering. He set the bag down on the dining room table, which sat at the center of the pristine, white-walled dining room. Elley was on the other end of the table, standing like a statue. “Got your salmon,” Jack said.
“There was a phone call for you while you were gone,” she replied, frostily.
“Not Marc Broarty, I hope.”
“It was someone named Danica Lindstrom.”
“Oh...um, what did she say?”
Elley stared at him for a moment. “Not as much as the expression on your face.”
“Look, Elley—”
“I have to go pack. I’ll eat later.” She spun around and headed up the staircase, disappearing into their bedroom, whose door closed with a resounding slam.
Jack sighed.
“I’m hungry, Daddy.”
Turning, he looked at his daughter, whose warm brown eyes were opened wide like those of a cartoon character. “I’m hungry too. Let’s eat.”
Getting plates from the kitchen, he set them down on the table and started unpacking the food bag, setting out the Styrofoam container holding Robynn’s fish and chips in front of her, and putting his containing the grilled sea bass next to it, holding it carefully so as not to let any of the dark juice drip onto the snowy tablecloth.
“Isn’t Mommy coming?” Robynn asked.
“Mommy’s busy right now, she’ll be down later. But let’s you and I eat.”
“Mommy’s busy a lot.”
“I know.”
Jack scooped the fish and rice onto his plate and took a bite. It was excellent, but he was not really able to enjoy it. He had given Dani his cell and home numbers before leaving San Simeon, and gave her permission to call him if she discovered anything about the mural, but he had not expected her to do