Wynkowski's
mansion, a new house built in a pseudo-Tudor style out of place in a
treeless subdivision. Apparently, Wink had not emerged all day, nor had
he provided any response to the Beacon-Light 's
allegations. The TV reporters' only hope to advance the story
was to get a reaction. They couldn't duplicate the kind of
reporting Feeney had done over the last several weeks. Besides, why
look at some boring old court documents or chat up sources when you can
chase someone across his own front lawn, screaming, "How do
you feel?"
"Be too bad to lose the basketball
team because of the newspaper," Tommy said to the TV screen.
"Woulda helped our business?"
"You seem awfully proprietary
about things around here, Tommy. Someone might think you
didn't care if Spike never woke up."
Tommy plucked nervously at his lower lip.
"You're treading on thin ground, Tess. I
don't see where you get off, talking to me like that.
I'm around more'n the rest of the fambly.
More'n you ."
"Where did the dog come from? Why
was Spike beaten? How are the two things connected?"
He turned away and began fiddling with the
beer tap. The regulars were drifting in, providing Tommy with enough
distractions to ignore her for hours. Slowly, with great ceremony, he
shook miniature pretzels into wooden bowls along the bar, then slapped
down coasters, which no one in the history of The Point had ever used.
Behind the bar, Tommy looked as fresh as the coasters, in his bright
yellow shirt and black pants. He even looked taller. Tess peeked over
the Formica top and saw he was sporting a pair of high-heeled
caramel-colored ankle boots with side zippers, circa 1976.
"Spiffy shoes," Tess
said.
"Oh, yeah, well, you know I
can't wear loafers. Thin ankles."
"Don't those heels hurt
after a day on your feet?"
"You know what they
say—a hard man's day is never done."
Tommy looked bewildered when everyone laughed, but Tess suspected he
was playing to the crowd. It wasn't the first time she had
heard this particular Tommyism.
Esskay had also put in a hard day, shredding
paper towels and toilet paper, gnawing on the pieces, then spitting up
clumps behind furniture and in corners. Tess found a particularly
large, soggy chunk in the center of her pillow. Her pillow, not the one
Crow used, which was actually closer to the door. Did Esskay know which
side of the bed Tess preferred? And if so, was this fealty, or a veiled
threat?
Later, after a hot bath, she was still
plucking bits of paper from odd places when the phone rang.
"Tesser! You told me to call you,
so here I am, calling you." Whitney, a little too hale and
hearty. The rah-rah team captain persona was usually reserved for
strangers, strangers Whitney wished to keep strangers.
"Here you are," Tess
echoed, without much enthusiasm.
"Can you come out and
play?"
"Now?"
"Why not? It's only
eight-thirty, spring is coming, and I haven't been taking
enough people out on my expense account. They'll lose respect
for me if it's under three figures for the month. Come be my
recalcitrant source. I'll make it worth your while."
Tess studied the wad of soggy paper towels
in her hand. "I'm in my bathrobe and feeling kind
of cranky. Can't you buy some bourbon, bring it over here,
and put that on your expense account?"
She was counting on being refused. Tess
couldn't give Whitney a receipt or a credit card slip. She
couldn't even validate parking.
"Okay, but be ready to throw a
coat over your bathrobe. I want to sit out on your terrace, at least as
long as we can take it. See you in twenty minutes."
Tess's apartment took up only half
of the space of the two floors below. The rest belonged to a flat,
unremarkable roof, reached through French doors off her bedroom. A more
ambitious tenant might have filled this pseudo-patio with pots of
geraniums, or splurged on wrought-iron café chairs and a
matching table. Tess left two vinyl lawn chairs out year-round,
sponging them off as necessary. The harbor view was so spectacular
mansion, a new house built in a pseudo-Tudor style out of place in a
treeless subdivision. Apparently, Wink had not emerged all day, nor had
he provided any response to the Beacon-Light 's
allegations. The TV reporters' only hope to advance the story
was to get a reaction. They couldn't duplicate the kind of
reporting Feeney had done over the last several weeks. Besides, why
look at some boring old court documents or chat up sources when you can
chase someone across his own front lawn, screaming, "How do
you feel?"
"Be too bad to lose the basketball
team because of the newspaper," Tommy said to the TV screen.
"Woulda helped our business?"
"You seem awfully proprietary
about things around here, Tommy. Someone might think you
didn't care if Spike never woke up."
Tommy plucked nervously at his lower lip.
"You're treading on thin ground, Tess. I
don't see where you get off, talking to me like that.
I'm around more'n the rest of the fambly.
More'n you ."
"Where did the dog come from? Why
was Spike beaten? How are the two things connected?"
He turned away and began fiddling with the
beer tap. The regulars were drifting in, providing Tommy with enough
distractions to ignore her for hours. Slowly, with great ceremony, he
shook miniature pretzels into wooden bowls along the bar, then slapped
down coasters, which no one in the history of The Point had ever used.
Behind the bar, Tommy looked as fresh as the coasters, in his bright
yellow shirt and black pants. He even looked taller. Tess peeked over
the Formica top and saw he was sporting a pair of high-heeled
caramel-colored ankle boots with side zippers, circa 1976.
"Spiffy shoes," Tess
said.
"Oh, yeah, well, you know I
can't wear loafers. Thin ankles."
"Don't those heels hurt
after a day on your feet?"
"You know what they
say—a hard man's day is never done."
Tommy looked bewildered when everyone laughed, but Tess suspected he
was playing to the crowd. It wasn't the first time she had
heard this particular Tommyism.
Esskay had also put in a hard day, shredding
paper towels and toilet paper, gnawing on the pieces, then spitting up
clumps behind furniture and in corners. Tess found a particularly
large, soggy chunk in the center of her pillow. Her pillow, not the one
Crow used, which was actually closer to the door. Did Esskay know which
side of the bed Tess preferred? And if so, was this fealty, or a veiled
threat?
Later, after a hot bath, she was still
plucking bits of paper from odd places when the phone rang.
"Tesser! You told me to call you,
so here I am, calling you." Whitney, a little too hale and
hearty. The rah-rah team captain persona was usually reserved for
strangers, strangers Whitney wished to keep strangers.
"Here you are," Tess
echoed, without much enthusiasm.
"Can you come out and
play?"
"Now?"
"Why not? It's only
eight-thirty, spring is coming, and I haven't been taking
enough people out on my expense account. They'll lose respect
for me if it's under three figures for the month. Come be my
recalcitrant source. I'll make it worth your while."
Tess studied the wad of soggy paper towels
in her hand. "I'm in my bathrobe and feeling kind
of cranky. Can't you buy some bourbon, bring it over here,
and put that on your expense account?"
She was counting on being refused. Tess
couldn't give Whitney a receipt or a credit card slip. She
couldn't even validate parking.
"Okay, but be ready to throw a
coat over your bathrobe. I want to sit out on your terrace, at least as
long as we can take it. See you in twenty minutes."
Tess's apartment took up only half
of the space of the two floors below. The rest belonged to a flat,
unremarkable roof, reached through French doors off her bedroom. A more
ambitious tenant might have filled this pseudo-patio with pots of
geraniums, or splurged on wrought-iron café chairs and a
matching table. Tess left two vinyl lawn chairs out year-round,
sponging them off as necessary. The harbor view was so spectacular
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