pause. I heard a match being struck. In the receiver it sounded like a bomb going off. "Where are you?" I repeated.
The cigarette had apparently helped a bit. At least I could understand him on the first sentence now. "I'm at his apartment."
"Whose apartment?"
"Reeves's."
"Reeves's? Stephen, what the hell are you doing there?"
By now Donna was awake, whispering, "Is he all right?" She had a daughterly affection for Wade. At moments such as these it would translate into terror.
"Came over to 'pologize," he said.
"So what happened?"
There was a long sigh and then a silence and then a sigh again. "Fucker's dead."
"Dead?"
Another sigh. When he spoke again, he sounded miserable and lost. He sounded on the verge of tears. "I don't know what happened over here, Dwyer. Please come over right away. Please."
With that, he hung up the phone.
Chapter 3
Â
T he closer we got to Reeves's apartment, the more Pizza Huts and Hardee's and Long-John Silver's we saw. In the rain all the neon had a certain beauty.
Reeves lived in a neighborhood on the edge of what had once been the Czech section of the city. Now some of the Czechs had moved out (literally), looking down on the houses they'd left behindâhouses today occupied by people with NRA and country-and-western radio station stickers on their bumpers. It had become a lower-class white bastion. Blacks knew better than to move in. Reeves's place was just on the dividing line. White upper-class couples had recently started refurbishing some of the rambling old houses into mock-Victorian apartment houses. We found Reeves's building.
The run through the rain, from the driveway to the porch, got us soaked. In the vestibule we looked for his name along the row of ten mailboxes, and then we went up the curving staircase. The place smelled of fresh paint.
Reeves's apartment was in the rear. A silver number 11 identified it. If you looked closely, you could see that the door was ajar.
"Boy," Donna whispered, taking my hand and placing it over her breast. "Feel my heart."
It was racing, pounding, and I didn't blame it a damn bit.
I eased the door open. It squeaked so loudly I could imagine lights going on all over this side of town.
"Maybe we should just call the police," she whispered again.
"Don't you want to help Wade?"
I knew that would get her. She looked instantly guilty. She liked and, more importantly, felt sorry for Wade. She made a grim little expression with her mouth and nodded for me to proceed.
The first thing I noticed inside was the aquarium. It surprised me only because Reeves spent so much time playing the cool theatrical wizard. What the fuck would a cool theatrical wizard be doing with a tank full of fishies?
Light from the big fish tank was the only illumination in the front room. The rest of the place ran more to my expectations. The walls were decorated with posters from plays he'd directed as well as photographs of himself and the semi-famous actors he'd worked with at the Bridges Theater. Bookcases made of bricks and boards ran the length of the rear wall and were crammed with plays and quality paperbacks by writers as varied as Aristophanes and Neil Simon. That was the only time Simon would ever keep company with Aristophanes.
The furniture reminded me of my own stuff. A green couch that didn't at all match the green overstuffed chair that clashed with the dark blue drapes. In other words, a salute to Goodwill stores everywhere.
Three halls led off from the living room. One went to the kitchen, which was empty and smelled of dishes left in the sink for days. Another went to a screened-in porch at the back that smelled of new spring grass and rain. The third hall led to his bedroom and that's where we found him, sprawled across the bed. A butcher knife stuck out from between his shoulder blades, and a dark puddle of blood had seeped from the wound.
As Donna and I moved closer she started saying "Boy" and then "God," and then alternating the
The cigarette had apparently helped a bit. At least I could understand him on the first sentence now. "I'm at his apartment."
"Whose apartment?"
"Reeves's."
"Reeves's? Stephen, what the hell are you doing there?"
By now Donna was awake, whispering, "Is he all right?" She had a daughterly affection for Wade. At moments such as these it would translate into terror.
"Came over to 'pologize," he said.
"So what happened?"
There was a long sigh and then a silence and then a sigh again. "Fucker's dead."
"Dead?"
Another sigh. When he spoke again, he sounded miserable and lost. He sounded on the verge of tears. "I don't know what happened over here, Dwyer. Please come over right away. Please."
With that, he hung up the phone.
Chapter 3
Â
T he closer we got to Reeves's apartment, the more Pizza Huts and Hardee's and Long-John Silver's we saw. In the rain all the neon had a certain beauty.
Reeves lived in a neighborhood on the edge of what had once been the Czech section of the city. Now some of the Czechs had moved out (literally), looking down on the houses they'd left behindâhouses today occupied by people with NRA and country-and-western radio station stickers on their bumpers. It had become a lower-class white bastion. Blacks knew better than to move in. Reeves's place was just on the dividing line. White upper-class couples had recently started refurbishing some of the rambling old houses into mock-Victorian apartment houses. We found Reeves's building.
The run through the rain, from the driveway to the porch, got us soaked. In the vestibule we looked for his name along the row of ten mailboxes, and then we went up the curving staircase. The place smelled of fresh paint.
Reeves's apartment was in the rear. A silver number 11 identified it. If you looked closely, you could see that the door was ajar.
"Boy," Donna whispered, taking my hand and placing it over her breast. "Feel my heart."
It was racing, pounding, and I didn't blame it a damn bit.
I eased the door open. It squeaked so loudly I could imagine lights going on all over this side of town.
"Maybe we should just call the police," she whispered again.
"Don't you want to help Wade?"
I knew that would get her. She looked instantly guilty. She liked and, more importantly, felt sorry for Wade. She made a grim little expression with her mouth and nodded for me to proceed.
The first thing I noticed inside was the aquarium. It surprised me only because Reeves spent so much time playing the cool theatrical wizard. What the fuck would a cool theatrical wizard be doing with a tank full of fishies?
Light from the big fish tank was the only illumination in the front room. The rest of the place ran more to my expectations. The walls were decorated with posters from plays he'd directed as well as photographs of himself and the semi-famous actors he'd worked with at the Bridges Theater. Bookcases made of bricks and boards ran the length of the rear wall and were crammed with plays and quality paperbacks by writers as varied as Aristophanes and Neil Simon. That was the only time Simon would ever keep company with Aristophanes.
The furniture reminded me of my own stuff. A green couch that didn't at all match the green overstuffed chair that clashed with the dark blue drapes. In other words, a salute to Goodwill stores everywhere.
Three halls led off from the living room. One went to the kitchen, which was empty and smelled of dishes left in the sink for days. Another went to a screened-in porch at the back that smelled of new spring grass and rain. The third hall led to his bedroom and that's where we found him, sprawled across the bed. A butcher knife stuck out from between his shoulder blades, and a dark puddle of blood had seeped from the wound.
As Donna and I moved closer she started saying "Boy" and then "God," and then alternating the
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