The Ophelia Cut Page 3

  “They killed people, too. Don’t forget David Freeman.”

  “I don’t. Not for a minute. I never said they didn’t deserve it. All of them. And if Diz and Gina and Moses had come even two minutes later, they would have gotten me, too. I get it. I really do. We had no choice, okay, but that doesn’t change the fact.” Now he did sigh. “I don’t know what they were thinking, throwing a party at Sam’s. McGuire, okay, I can see. He’s always a wild card. But Diz and Gina? They’re lawyers. They should know better.”

  “Maybe they want just to put it behind them. They think it’s not an issue anymore.”

  Glitsky blew out a frustrated breath. “They can’t think that. They know otherwise. There’s no statute on murder, and those were murders.”

  “They were homicides, Abe, not murders.”

  “That doesn’t really matter. We didn’t stick around so we could have a nice fair trial about it.”

  “They were—”

  His voice went harsh. “We can’t acknowledge it, Treya. Any part of it. It never happened. How can they not see that?” He raised both hands and gripped his head as though it were a soccer ball. “Lord. My brain is going to explode.”

  She crossed over to him, sat on the chair’s arm, put her hands over his. “Take a breath,” she said. “It’s all right.”

  He settled back against her. “How do they know they don’t have booths bugged at Sam’s?”

  “Or maybe microphones in the sand dabs,” she said.

  “You laugh, but it’s not impossible.”

  “Pretty unlikely, you must admit. I really think they just wanted to put it all behind them. You know Diz. He likes to have events, mark passages.”

  “This shouldn’t be one of them. This should be something he takes with him to his grave. And McGuire . . .”

  “What about him?”

  “God forbid he ever goes off the wagon.”

  She pulled his head closer against her. “This is exhaustion speaking. Why don’t you just call tomorrow and talk to Diz?”

  “Not on the phone.”

  “No. Perish the thought. Think of the bugging possibilities. Go meet him in the middle of Crissy Field.”

  “You’re making fun of me.”

  “Only a little. Come back to bed.”

  MOSES MCGUIRE SAT at the Formica table in the kitchen of his apartment, nursing a Guinness pint glass filled with water. With his dinner at Sam’s, he’d had cranberry juice and then club soda; after dinner, coffee. While Hardy and Gina had their Frangelico nightcaps, he went to straight water. He and Susan didn’t keep any alcohol except some wine in the apartment, but Moses wasn’t much of a wine drinker, so that wasn’t usually a problem.

  Not that the thought didn’t cross his mind.

  But he knew the danger he faced if he ever gave in to the constant urge and poured himself a real drink. He knew how he got—social, friendly, garrulous. Words came out of his mouth that should have stayed in. He’d almost mentioned the shoot-out six years ago, at least twice, before barely stopping himself. Twice was too much. Too many other lives were at stake, both of friends and of family. He couldn’t risk it anymore, and so, cold turkey, he had hooked up with Alcoholics Anonymous.

  Goddamn secrets, he thought. If he didn’t have secrets, particularly that secret, he could be drinking right now. And most of the time, truth be told, he could bear the craving. But after the Courier article, in spite of the best efforts of Diz and Gina, he hadn’t been able to shake his nerves. He wanted a drink—fuck, he needed a drink—to calm them. Susan was asleep. There was no one here at home to spill his secrets to. It was safe.

  He checked his watch. If he could survive dry for four more hours, he could make the six A.M. meeting.

  On the other hand, one little half glass of wine wasn’t going to hurt him. Was it?

  As he pushed his chair back from the table, he heard a key turn in the front door, then a whispered “Hey? Is somebody up?”

  His twenty-three-year-old daughter, Brittany.

  Moses came around the corner into the living room. “Hey yourself. Just your old man. What are you doing here?”

  “I missed my room. Is that okay?”

  “Of course.”

  “My apartment is nice, but it doesn’t always feel like home.”

  “No. I know the feeling. You could move back in here, you know.”

  She sighed. “I don’t think so. It’s just some nights.”

  “Okay. But the offer’s good anytime. So where have you been?”

  “Out.”

  “Anyplace specific?”

  She half shrugged. “Just out, Dad, with some guy.”

  “Does he have a name?”

  “Not really,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. And you don’t have to feel like you need to protect me.”

  Moses felt his jaw tighten. God forbid he should worry about his daughter. “No protection implied, just a mild fatherly interest. You show up here, needing the comfort of your old room, I think something might have made you unhappy.”

  “No. I’m happy. I’m fine.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Even gladder to see you. How about a little hug, no questions asked?”

  Her shoulders rose and fell. “I don’t see how that could hurt.”

  2

  ON THE FIRST day of February, a Wednesday, the guy pushed through the door to Peet’s coffee, having shown up now four days in a row.

  All Brittany could guess about him was that he was some kind of professional—the coat and tie and clean short haircut proclaimed that. Good hair, thick and almost blond; then again, the more she saw of him, the more she realized that this guy, looks-wise, was pretty much good everything—an honest-to-God cleft in his chin, a killer smile, no apparent body fat.

  One of the blessed golden few.

  Brittany was at the back of the shop today, selling beans by the pound, whole or ground. The last three days she’d been up at the front counter, taking orders for drinks on the premises or working the machines, and he’d come in with a couple of other suits around his age and ordered his latte and then sat with his back against the wall, where she saw him surreptitiously glance at her a few times.

  Which meant, of course, that she was sneaking the occasional look at him, too.

  Yesterday when he’d ordered, she said, “Sure. Can I please see your ID?”

  He went to reach for his wallet, then stopped, cocked his head. “Excuse me?”

  “Just teasing. But I almost had you, didn’t I?”

  He paused, looking straight at her, and said, “You could have me any time you want. But in the meanwhile, I’ll go with my regular latte.”

  “One latte, coming up.”

  Now, one step inside the store and alone this time, he scanned the front counter with the drink servers, and his expectant expression faded. Brittany found herself fighting against waving to get his attention, but she needn’t have bothered. She was with another customer, grinding French roast, and when she turned around, he was next in line at her counter.

  “Are you allowed to go out with customers?” he asked.

  “Not when I’m working.”

  “I meant when you weren’t working.”

  “I don’t think there’s a rule against it. Who would the customer be?”

  “That would be me.”

  “Ah. I have a rule, though, that I don’t date people until I know their name and they know mine.”

  “That’s a good rule. I’m Rick Jessup.”

  “Brittany McGuire.” She reached a hand over the counter and shook his. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” He let go of her hand and hesitated. “So . . . ?”

  “So?”

  “So would you like to go out someplace?”

  “I’d consider it. Yes. When?”

  “Today? Tomorrow? Friday?”

  “Do you drink anything besides lattes?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “Do you know the Little Shamrock, out on Lincoln?
”

  “Sure.”

  “How about there on Friday around seven?”

  “Done. I’ll be there.”

  AT A QUARTER to five that afternoon, Rebecca Hardy—known as the Beck to family and friends—two years older than her cousin Brittany, sat on a stool at the city’s oldest bar, otherwise empty except for a solo dart player in the back room. On the other side of the rail, Brittany’s father, Moses, shook some bitters into a shaker, then turned around, grabbed a flat bottle filled with light green liquid from the shelf behind him, and measured out a careful portion with his jigger. “The return of absinthe is a beautiful thing,” he said. “And I might add that in spite of my own rather checkered history, I’m proud to see the younger generation of my family embracing it. In fact, embracing cocktails in general.”

  “Cocktails rule,” Rebecca said, “especially Sazeracs. I could drink them all night. In fact, don’t tell my dad, but I have drunk them all night. Not, however, recommended.”

  “No, you want to be a little careful. Especially with the hard stuff.”

  “I’ve learned. Or at least I’m learning. I think.”

  “It’s a process.” McGuire upended the shaker and emptied its strained contents into a flat-bottomed cocktail glass. He added a lemon twist and set the drink on the bar. “Enjoy.”

  She picked up the glass, held it out to him in a quick silent toast, then took a sip. “Perfect,” she said. Then added, “I should have known.”

  “Known what?”

  “That you’d make this perfectly.”

  McGuire’s craggy face cracked, showing off his teeth under the oft-broken nose. “Sweetie, after forty years of bartending, I like to think I’ve got a basic handle on the profession. Drinks-wise, anyway. It’s the other stuff . . .”

  “What do you mean? What other stuff?”

  His face went sober and he raised a hand. “Nothing.” Then shrugged. “Nothing to do with bartending, anyway.” He added, “Daughters.”

  A smile played around Rebecca’s mouth. “Uncle Moses, your daughters are great.”

  “Right. I know. That’s what everybody tells me. But Erica’s in Thailand, as you may remember, having dropped out of UCLA with no apparent plans to return, or to work, or anything, and Brittany . . .”

  “Brittany’s good.”

  “I know, I know.” He added, “But she’s making minimum wage, Beck. With a bachelor’s in engineering, and she’s working in a coffee shop.”

  “At least that’s a job, Uncle. Do you know how many people don’t have jobs? Me, for example.”

  “You’re in law school, Beck. That’s different. You’ll get a job when you graduate. I mean, a real job.”

  “Not necessarily.” She sipped at her drink. “It’s all different now. Having a law degree doesn’t mean you automatically have a job. And Brittany’s got résumés out. Something will come up. She’s looking.”

  “Mostly for guys, it seems to me.”

  “Well, the line is long,” Rebecca admitted, then brightened up. “But the wait is short.”

  McGuire winced. “That’s what I mean,” he said.

  Rebecca reached out and touched her uncle’s hand where it rested on the bar. “I know, but really, I wouldn’t worry about her. I see her all the time, and she’s fine. She’s just searching a little bit right now. At twenty-three, that’s her job, right?”

  “Says her much older and wiser cousin.”

  “Older, anyway.” Rebecca checked her watch. “Aren’t my parents supposed to come down here today? It’s Wednesday, right?”

  “Wednesday it is.” Date night was a sacred ritual at Chez Hardy. Dismas and Frannie arrived at the Shamrock for a civilized drink or two right about cocktail hour, then usually repaired to one of the city’s restaurants to round out the evening. “And see,” McGuire said, “that’s what I mean. Your parents inviting you along on their date night. Brittany would never want to come along with her mother and me, assuming we ever had a date, which we don’t have too many of.”

  “Except,” Rebecca said, “that my parents didn’t invite me along to wherever they’re going next. They invited me to join them for a drink here. The end.”

  “But you’d go with them if they asked, wouldn’t you?”

  “Well, sure. But they won’t.”

  “Still,” McGuire said, “there’s your difference.”

  BRITTANY WASN’T ON as much of an existential search as the Beck had implied to McGuire. In the eight months since she’d graduated from Cal Poly, she’d shredded her way through six different suitors. These did not include any number of casual hookups, to which her father was not privy. Brittany had played this unlucky half dozen as if they had the potential to become actual boyfriends. The longest-lived of any had been one of her mother’s cello students, Ben Feinstein, a sweet, funny, smart, handsome guy who loved poker and bike riding and music, and whom Moses thought was a great guy. Ben had lasted three whole weeks before Brittany decided she needed to move on.

  She didn’t want—her phrase—to waste the pretty.

  Brittany could get away with this attitude and behavior because she was distractingly beautiful. She was tall, just under five eight, and both so slender and so buxom that her father more than once had heard her crueler friends refer to her as Barbie. That voluptuous figure would have been enough to attract a host of men even if Brittany were not blessed with the loveliest Black Irish face in the kingdom—fair, finely pored skin like Venetian marble over perfect cheekbones, jet-black hair setting off luminous green eyes. A strong aquiline nose and naturally pouty lips gave her countenance an edge that would forever elevate her above mere prettiness.

  Sometimes, catching her in an unexpected light, Moses would find himself stopping short—his wife was lovely and he himself wasn’t ugly, but Brittany’s face was insane. Her junior year, a casual shot of that face in full smile had lit up the cover of Cal Poly’s admissions brochure, in the wake of which she’d turned down three offers to come to Hollywood for screen tests, all of them, to Brittany’s mind, flighty and not serious. She might be pretty, she’d told her father, but she was a serious person, majoring in engineering, after all, carrying close to a four-point. These people wanted to use her face, and her face alone, basically to sell soap.

  She was a lot more than a pretty face, and if none of these people could see it, to heck with them.

  Now, possibly a little bit drunk and before any crowd had come in, Brittany sat at the end of Little Shamrock’s bar, baring her soul to her long-suffering father, who loved his girl to distraction, although—as he’d told the Beck—he worried about her, about her choices, about her life.

  Lord, how he worried.

  She was going on about the new guy, whom she’d laid eyes on, by Moses’s count, a total of four times. “Even across the counter, I could feel the chemistry. I think he could be the real deal.”

  Moses sat on the high stool that he pulled behind the bar when it was slow. “The real deal,” he said with minimal enthusiasm. “Really?”

  “Sometimes you can just tell.”

  “If I remember correctly, wasn’t Ben the real deal for a while there, too?”

  “Ben’s a great guy, Dad. That just didn’t work out.”

  “Brit. It didn’t work out because you dumped him after . . . what was his name?”

  “Paul.”

  “Paul, right. Who lasted how long? A month?”

  “Well, this is different.”

  “Okay. I’ll keep an open mind. What’s his name again?”

  “Rick.”

  “And what does he do besides drink lattes?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Moses had to keep himself from rolling his eyes. “I mean, does he have a job? A life? Anything? Do you know where he lives? Or works? Is he married?”

  “No. I’m sure he’s not married. No ring, and besides, he doesn’t act married.”

  “Married people act different than other people?”

 
“Guys, yes, quite a bit, actually. You can tell, or I can. And he’s not.”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t know why you’re being so negative.”

  Moses slumped on his stool. “Because your poor father cares about you, that’s why. You meet a guy three or four times and suddenly decide you need him in your life. You don’t know him at all. He could be an ax murderer and you’d have no idea.”

  “Come on, Dad.” Brittany sighed. “You don’t have to be so dramatic. Look. He wears a coat and tie. He’s got friends his own age, and that can tell you a lot right there. He’s got a sense of humor, and he’s incredibly good-looking. What more do you need?”

  “Depth, intelligence, sensitivity, taste?” At Brittany’s dismissive glance, he said, “Just throwing out some random possibilities.”

  “You don’t know him.”

  Moses couldn’t hold back a laugh. “This just in, Brit. You don’t know him.”

  “I’ll find out.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you will. That’s what I’m worried about.”

  “You don’t have to worry. I’m a big girl, Dad. Really. All grown up and everything.”

  “I know you are.” He let out a sigh. “Here’s the deal, Brit. I’m not worried about this guy in particular. I’m just concerned about . . . about you getting hurt, I suppose, more than anything. You’re all grown up, granted, but you’re still my baby. Is it so bad a thing that I want to make sure you’re all right?”

  “No. I love that. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Brittany drained her cosmo. “Maybe I shouldn’t tell you all this stuff. Maybe it’s TMI.”

  “Not to me, it’s not. I want to be in your life. I’m glad you feel you can confide in me. I just worry about all the drama. In the long run, drama’s not as much fun as people think.”

  “Better than boring.”

  “Maybe sometimes. Not always. And the opposite of drama isn’t necessarily boredom. It might be contentment. You could try to look at it that way. Go for something good and solid.”

  “Maybe Rick will turn out that way.”

  “Maybe,” Moses said. “That would be nice.”