The Plot полностью

“I said sorry. ’Cause I cursed.”

“Oh. That’s okay.” It was more than okay. It relieved him of having to start the conversation. “Why’d you curse?”

The woman held up her phone. The photo on the screen showed two cherubic girls, cheeks together, both grinning, but the acid green bar of a text message cut off the tops of their heads. Fuck you, it said.

“Adorable,” he said, pretending not to have seen.

“Well, they were, back when the picture was taken. Now they’re in high school. I guess I ought to be grateful about that, anyway. Their older brother wouldn’t go back after tenth grade. He’s over in Troy doing god knows what.”

Jake had no idea how to respond to that, but he wasn’t about to decline the clear overture of such an unrestrained neighbor.

Her drink arrived, though Jake hadn’t heard her actually order. It was something overtly tropical, with a slice of pineapple and a little paper umbrella.

“Thanks, doll,” the woman said to the bartender. Then she put away half of it in a single long swallow. Jake didn’t imagine it was doing her any good. Thus fortified, she turned back to Jake and introduced herself. “I’m Sally.”

“Jake. What kind of drink is that?”

“Oh, something they put together for me, special. It’s my brother-in-law’s place.”

Score, thought Jake. He’d done nothing to deserve it, but he’d take it.

“Your brother-in-law named Parker?”

The woman looked at him as if he had just insulted her. She had long and suspiciously bright yellow hair, so thin her scalp showed through in patches.

“Parker was the name of the guy who had it before. He died, though.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.”

She shrugged. “Not my favorite person. Grew up here. We both did.”

Jake detoured to ask Sally a few of the questions she plainly wanted him to ask. He learned that Sally had moved to Rutland as a kid, from New Hampshire. Two sisters, one dead. She was raising her late sister’s kids, she told Jake.

“That must be hard.”

“Nah. Good kids. But fucked up. Thanks to their mother.” She lifted her empty glass, half in salute, half as a signal to the bartender.

“So you grew up with the guy who owned this place before?”

“Evan Parker. Couple years ahead of me in school. Dated my sister.”

Jake was careful not to react. “Really? Small world.”

“Small town. Also, he dated pretty much everyone. If ‘date’ is really the word. I’m not sure he isn’t the father of my nephew if you want to know the truth. Not that it matters.”

“Well, that’s …”

“That was his spot, behind the bar.” She held up her already half-drained glass and tipped it toward the far end of the room. “Knew everybody who came in.”

“Well, the owner of a bar has to be social. Part of the job, listening to people’s problems.”

She grinned at him, but it was far from a happy grin. “Evan Parker? Listen to anyone’s problems? Evan Parker didn’t give a shit about anyone else’s problems.”

“Is that right?”

“Is that right,” Sally mocked him. She was slurring, ever so slightly, he noticed. It occurred to him that the tropical beverage wasn’t her first drink of the evening. “Yeah, that’s right. Why do you care, anyway?”

“Oh. Well, I just had dinner with an old friend. We’re both writers. And my friend said the guy who used to own this bar was a writer, too. He was writing a novel.”

Sally threw back her head and laughed. She was so loud that a couple of conversations around them stopped, and people turned to look.

“Like that asshole could ever write a novel,” she finally said, shaking her head, declining further amusement.

“You seem surprised.”

“Come on, the guy probably never even read a novel. Didn’t go to college. Wait, maybe community college.” She leaned forward on the bar and looked down to the end. “Hey Jerry,” she yelled. “Did Parker go to college?”

A burly man with a dark beard looked up from his own conversation. “Evan Parker? Rutland Community, I think,” he shouted.

“That your brother-in-law?”

Sally nodded.

“Well, maybe he took a writing class or something and decided to give it a try. Anybody can be a writer, you know.”

“Sure. I’m writing Moby-Dick, myself. What about you?”

He laughed. “I’m definitely not writing Moby-Dick.”

Now she was slurring even more, he noted. “Dick” had been rendered as “deek,” and “myself” as “my shelf.” After a moment, he said: “If he was writing a novel, I wonder what it was about.”

“Sneaking into girls’ bedrooms at night, probably.” Her eyes were half closed.

He decided to try something else before he lost her entirely.

“You must have known his whole family if you grew up together.”

She nodded glumly. “Yep. The parents died. We were in high school.”

“Both died?” Jake asked, as if he didn’t already know.

“Together. In the house. Wait.” She leaned forward on the bar again. “Hey Jerry?” she yelled.

Down at the end, the brother-in-law looked up.

“Evan Parker’s parents. They died, right?”