Page 90 of The Furies

“I’ll make the call,” he said, finally.

“Thank you.”

“In return, I’d like to ask you something.”

“Go ahead,” I said.

“Maybe I’m speaking out of turn, but I get the feeling you don’t like me. I never did anything to alienate you, yet you treat me like I got shit on my pants. I was wondering why that might be?”

I didn’t try to deny it. It would have humiliated both of us.

“I don’t know,” I said, “but I’ll think on it.”

“You got some balls,” said Reggio, and hung up the phone.

“Well?” said Louis.

“He’ll do it.”

“Is he happy about it?”

“Not so much.”

“Are you?”

I stood to leave.

“Not so much, either,” I said.

CHAPTER XXII

Pantuff and Veale had been in the game for long enough to know that the hardest part of any job was the waiting period that preceded it. Keeping busy helped: going to a movie, playing pool, anything to remain distracted. Sleeping worked, too, if one could manage it. Younger, inexperienced guys struggled with that last one because they were so wired, but Pantuff, as previously noted, could sleep anywhere, and Veale had learned the value of at least closing his eyes and trying to relax. The plan, therefore, had been to return to the Braycott and kick back, but that was before Pantuff became worried that Nate Sawyer’s widow might be laboring under the misapprehension of being a smart bitch.

This was a problem that needed to be addressed.

* * *

PANTUFF WAS GRINDING HIS teeth as he drove, which was what he did when under stress. He was grinding so hard that Veale expected him to begin spitting pieces of enamel before too long.

“The question,” said Pantuff, “is to whom she’s been talking.”

That was how Pantuff spoke. He used formulations like “to whom” and “of whom,” and even occasionally quoted lines from poetry and plays, although Veale had noticed that they were always the same lines, which led him to believe Pantuff probably didn’t know more than a handful. Pantuff had spent a year at some midwestern liberal arts college before he was shown the door for unspecified transgressions. From what Veale knew of him, Pantuff’s misconduct probably involved girls. Had he committed such acts now, he might have been arrested and charged, but back in the last century educational institutions had taken a more pragmatic approach to rapists and molesters. Reputation was everything. Well, institutional reputation was everything. A woman’s reputation counted for considerably less. Actually, Veale thought, maybe things hadn’t changed very much after all, not that it bothered him either way.

“Could be her sister or brother,” said Veale, “or a friend. Someone close.”

Not that Veale had any personal experience of this, being without siblings and virtually without friends, Pantuff excepted. But even if he was in trouble, he didn’t think he’d ask Pantuff for help, not unless it was really bad trouble. He’d just sort it out himself by dealing with whoever was causing him difficulties—or was it “whomever”? Jesus, he was spending too much time in Pantuff’s company—until they either stopped causing them or died, whichever came first.

“Or the cops,” Veale added, “but you didn’t think that was an option for her.”

“It’s always an option,” said Pantuff, “but one she’d be reluctant to choose. As for friends, or the kind of friends that might concern us, she lost them when it was discovered that her husband had turned snitch.”

“She might have made some new ones since then.”

Pantuff ground his teeth again.

“No, not her, not with her past. She’s reinvented herself. She may even have learned about human behavior from her time with her husband, even if only not to make the same mistake twice.”

A shard of enamel came off a tooth at last, as Veale had anticipated. Pantuff plucked it from his tongue and held it up for his partner to see.

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