The Accidental Pallbearer Read Free

other night, they were babies. But when he left his wife the kids were in their thirties.”
    Rintrona,
con grande passione
: “Man to man, Eliot: He loves his high school sweetheart, and so forth, adores the kids, so forth, but for unknown reasons in 1967 the seed of restlessness stirs in the groinal area, which is also the guilt area. Once those babies achieve their thirties they’re not allthat lovable, take it from me. And neither is the high school sweetheart. Forget the high school sweetheart! Then the seed has no choice but to burst out!”
    “But your kids make such a fuss over you, Bobby.”
    “The point, Katie, as if you didn’t know, I make no fuss over
them
. I desisted years ago. Katie wouldn’t look twice at us, Eliot. What a shame. You married by any chance?”
    “Was.”
    “Intelligent man here, Katie.”
    “Kids?”
    “Formerly.”
    “FORMERLY!” Laughter out of control giving way to a coughing, phlegm-disgorging fit. “This is a man, partner, who can handle the give and take of life. FORMERLY!” Laughing, coughing, hawking up into a handkerchief. “Here we are and here’s my card. Anything I can do, hey! you never know, don’t hesitate. I’d be honored to lend assistance within so-called legal limits.”
    Cruz says, “Who, by the way, was the tenor today who wasn’t in good voice?”
    “Roberto Alagna.”
    “Kind of dreamy, though not in Luciano’s vocal class.”
    Conte thinks she’s kind of dreamy.
    “Eliot,” Rintrona asks, softly, plaintively, “Confirm something for me, will ya?”
    “I’ll try.”
    “Is my partner busting my balls as usual, or is the King of the High Cs dead?”
    “Pavarotti is dead.”
    “Since fuckin’ when?”
    “September the 6 th , 2004.”
    “WHAT?!”
    “Yes.”
    “Where the fuck have I been?”
    Eliot and Cruz exchange a look and bite their tongues.
    “I don’t like it, Eliot.”
    “Detective, neither do I.”

CHAPTER 3
    He boards the train in Albany at twilight, in a downpour that will not cease for three days. The milk train, they’d referred to it in his youth, which covers the ninety miles to Utica in three hours and twelve minutes. He contemplates his image in the window’s filthy glass – the rain-matted hair, the rain-styled bangs. Frankenstein’s Monster. Darkness and heavy bags under the eyes. Conte has been an insomniac since his undergraduate days.
    Across the aisle from him, a Caucasian male, his wife, his child – fifteen months old. Younger than Conte’s when he left them. In the row in front of the little family, a black man, ancient and feigning deep sleep, daydreaming of striking out Willie Mays with the bases loaded. The ancient black man won’t stir for three hours and twelve minutes. Several rows beyond, a Muslim woman, veiled, motionless. She’ll remain motionless throughout what will ensue. At the other end of the car, a smiling teenage girl, eyes closed, in a Yankees cap, swaying in her seat and aurally shielded from what will ensue by a headset blasting misogynistic rap into her brain. Across from the teenager, a Mexican immigrant who, in about an hour, will beg the Virgin to protect the innocent, that theymay come unto her. There are no other witnesses. There are no witnesses. “This car Utica only, folks. Utica only.”
    The baby begins to cry, full-throated, with piercing tone, as the train pulls out of Albany. The man (the husband, the father) slaps the baby across the face. His wife offers the baby her spectacular breast, but the baby will not suck – it prefers to cry – and when the woman is slow to cover herself the man slaps her, hard on the ear. The baby cries. The daddy slaps twice. Pinches and twists as he pinches the baby’s chubby thigh. The baby cries.
    Conte, in flight, recalls a televised interview with Pavarotti in which the tenor says that proper breathing technique can be learned by any singer who can execute, while singing, what he does daily, pushing down in a bowel movement. In a