The Executor Part 29

Connearney stood in the doorway, his head grazing the lintel.

"So what are my options," he said.

I said, "Uhm."

He stepped past me, reaching for the ziggurat of tea boxes on the counter, plucking off the topmost. " 'Elderberry Explosion."' He looked at me, soliciting comment.

"Fruity," I said.

He put down the box. "You don't recognize me, do you."

I indicated that I did not.

"How about a hint," he said. "Ready? Here goes: it is not sufficient to do that which should be morally good that it conform to the law; it must be done for the sake of the law." He smiled. "Any guesses?"

Zitelli appeared. "Party's been moved in here, I see."

I said, "Uh-"

"Final answer?" Connearney asked.

I shook my head.

"Kant and the Enlightenment Ideal." He pointed at me. "You were my TF." To Zitelli: "He was my TF."

"What's a TF?" Zitelli asked.

"It's what you people call a TA."

"We people?"

"The great unwashed," Connearney said.

"This guy ... Seventeen years in law enforcement, I've never met a c.o.c.kier b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Ha ha," I said.

"No bells ringing," Connearney asked me.

"Wh-uh. When-"

"My first semester senior year. So that's fall of oh-two."

"I. I'm sorry. I've had a lot of students over the years, and-"

"No worries," Zitelli said. "It's not like he's particularly memorable, giant redheaded Irishman with a tiny p.e.n.i.s."

Connearney laughed.

"Ha ha ha," I said.

"Was he a good teacher?" Zitelli asked.

"Oh, yeah," Connearney said. "He was great. The whole cla.s.s was great. It's sad what happened to Melitsky, you know?"

"Yes," I said. Then, sensing that more was expected: "You were a philosophy concentrator."

"Social studies."

"Isn't that like where you look at maps?" Zitelli asked.

"Not at Harvard."

"Well," Zitelli said, "excuuuse me."

"Ha," I said. "Ha ha."

Zitelli asked Connearney if I'd given him an A.

"B-plus," Connearney said.

He smiled at me.

The kettle screamed.

Back in the living room, Zitelli offered me the manila envelope. For a moment I did not move, as though by refusing to accept it I could refute whatever its contents held in store for me. I took it and lifted the flap. Inside was a photocopy of Alma's thesis.

"I'll have the original back to you soon as I can," Zitelli said. "I thought you could use this in the meantime."

"... thank you."

"My pleasure. I apologize again for showing up like this. We were in the neighborhood, and I know how it's going to sound, but I was wondering, if it's not too great an inconvenience, maybe you could give my friend here a tour of the library. He's into that kind of thing. Do you mind? Just for a few minutes."

"Right this way," I said.

I HAD GONE OVER every square inch at least a dozen times. I had no real reason to believe that the two men were there for anything other than to gawk. I strove-successfully, I think-to project ownerly insouciance. And yet I have never felt so terrified as I did during those twenty-five minutes. Oddly, what made the situation so nerve-wracking was also what enabled me to maintain a veneer of calm: the incongruity of two homicide detectives prancing around a room that had so recently served as a makes.h.i.+ft morgue was, in its own way, incredibly funny, and I kept having to swallow back the church giggles.

"Jesus," Connearney said, his big foot on the spot where Daciana's head had lain.

I stood near the globe, spinning it idly. "It's a nice thing to have."

"No s.h.i.+t."

Zitelli looked at me as if to say You believe this guy? You believe this guy?

I smiled back, waiting for him to comment on the swapped carpet, the missing chairs- "What happened to your friend?" he said.

The floor dropped out. Game over. Touring the library had been a pretext, after all; here came the axe. Your friend. Your friend. Ha ha ha. Connearney was still pretending to browse, but I knew that he'd tackle me if I tried to bolt. It would happen here and it would happen now and I could do nothing but relent. "Friend," I said. Ha ha ha. Connearney was still pretending to browse, but I knew that he'd tackle me if I tried to bolt. It would happen here and it would happen now and I could do nothing but relent. "Friend," I said.

"You know." Zitelli laid his index finger across his upper lip.

Silence.

I said, "My girlfriend asked me to move him. He creeps her out."

"What are we talking about?" Connearney asked.

"Nietzsche," I murmured.

"Aha." He closed his eyes. "'Pity in a man of knowledge seems almost ludicrous, like sensitive hands on a cyclops." '

Zitelli grinned. "You Harvard guys," he said. "You're all d.i.c.kheads."

As I saw them out, they thanked me profusely, swearing never to bother me again-a chip I doubted I'd be able to cash in.

I fetched half-Nietzsche from behind the file boxes in my office closet, where I'd left him. Upon return I'd been too distraught to deal with cleaning him, and in the intervening days the blood had turned to pinp.r.i.c.ks of rust. One large patch cataracted his single eye. I sc.r.a.ped at it and my fingernail came away orange. The green velvet lining the base was dyed black. I tugged it off, crumpled it up, flushed it down the toilet.

Google's preferred method for removing rust from cast iron involved dish detergent and a potato. These I obtained at the corner market. Sitting at the kitchen table, I cut open one of the potatoes, dripped soap on the exposed face, and used it to rub at the bookend until the flesh turned black, the rust slowly coming away. I sliced off the dirty layer and began anew. The police had come and gone and said nary a word. But I wouldn't be fooled. Something was up. It had to be. Once you begin to believe that the world could end you, you not only accommodate yourself to that belief but learn to feed off it. You gorge on your own fear. And when it is gone, you churn more, and gorge yourself again. I cut off another blackened slice. My friend, the policeman had called him. My friend was looking good.

23.

Between the background noise and Yasmina's sobbing, I could scarcely make out a word she was saying.

"Where are you calling from?" I asked. "Are you calling from the airport?"

"I'm on the red-eye. I get in at five forty."

"I thought you weren't coming back until Wednesday."

"I changed my flight. It's over. I told Pedram about us."

If she was expecting me to let out a victory whoop, she was to be disappointed. All I could get out was, "Really?"

"I had to. I couldn't stand it anymore." Still crying, she described the engagement party, guests packed up to the rafters of a Beverly Hills steakhouse; glistening platters of melon, crystal vases br.i.m.m.i.n.g with grapes; Pedram digging his fingers into her shoulder, making her feel like a naughty girl being kept close at hand. When it came time for her future husband to speak, she listened as he said nothing of her education, nothing of her as an individual, referring only to her sterling upbringing and her pristine family history and, above all, her beauty.

She blew her nose. "My sister found me freaking out in the bathroom."

I sat at the kitchen table, fingering my wounded cheek. The area around it was tender, warm to the touch. "I don't know what to say."

"You don't know what to say?"

"Well-"

"Say you're sorry."

"I'm s-"

"Say you're happy. happy."

"I-I am, I'm just, I'm a little surprised."

"For G.o.d's sake, I didn't plan plan it this way," she said, her voice rising above the blare of a boarding announcement. it this way," she said, her voice rising above the blare of a boarding announcement.

"I know-"

"It's not like this has been a whole lot of fun for me."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"s.h.i.+t . . ."

"I'm sorry."

She was crying again.

"Mina-"

"I thought you'd be happy."

"I am."

"You don't sound happy."

"It's surprise. That's what you're hearing. But, but-but a good kind of surprise." My right temple had begun to hammer, the room to effervesce. I shook my head hard to clear it. "Think of it like this, it's like someone jumping out of your birthday cake. It's surprising, but you're happy to be surprised, once the, the"-pain; spinning; I shook my head again-"the initial initial shock wears off. See? Listen: I'm happy. Don't I sound happy?" shock wears off. See? Listen: I'm happy. Don't I sound happy?"

"No."

"This is the sound of me happy. Really, really happy."

Silence.

"h.e.l.lo?" I said.

"Yeah." She blew her nose again. "My mother already knew something was up when she saw the necklace."

I felt equally queasy and pleased. "You wore it."

"Of course I didn't wear it. She was going through my drawers."