False Conception Page 27

  “It matters,” I countered, “because she matters. She may be the only thing that does.”

  “What is this, a guilt trip?”

  I smiled. “Precisely.”

  Her lip curled. “Well, guess what? I choose not to play. I wish some of the stuff that happened hadn’t happened, but it did and there’s nothing I can do about it. So don’t try to load shame and humiliation on my plate; I won’t take a bite of it.”

  “You don’t have to. All you have to do is one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Play ball with Nathaniel once in a while.”

  She leaned forward and shook her head; her voice was as raw as my flesh after the night with Luke Drummond. “Don’t pull that atonement shit with me, Tanner. You don’t have the right.”

  “What did you do, tell Luke that if he married you and took the child, sooner or later it would inherit the Colbert bucks?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “It’s what he believes, you know. He reads Women’s Wear Daily, for Christ’s sake.”

  She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Let’s cut to the chase. This isn’t about Nathaniel, this is about a baby girl. Do you want to know whose she is or not?”

  In the grip of an urge neither noble nor rational nor predetermined, I fished out my wallet, threw some bills on the table, and stood up. “I’m full,” I said. “Enjoy your lunch. Enjoy your life. Just keep me out of both of them.”

  “You don’t have any idea what I’ve been through,” she sneered. “You can’t judge me.”

  “I can judge both of us,” I told her, and left the hotel by the door to the alley.

  Thirty minutes later, I was back on Santa Ana Way. The woman who opened the door was laughing so hard everything above her waist was jiggling. I asked her if Mrs. Colbert was in.

  “She’s busy.”

  “With the baby?”

  Her nod created waterfalls of flesh and the vectors from her smile threatened to burst her cheeks. “That baby is the best thing that ever happened in this house.”

  “I’m sure it is,” I said. “Please tell Mrs. Colbert I’d like to speak with her.” I gave my name and waited.

  “She says to come in,” the housekeeper said when she returned. “And don’t mind the mess—I’m about to get on it.”

  She led me to a room off the kitchen that had once been a pantry but now was a playroom. The temperature was close to eighty; the smells were of fresh paint and talc. There were enough toys lying around to fill Santa’s sleigh twice over.

  Millicent Colbert was wearing yet another Laura Ashley but now there were wet spots at the shoulder and breast and one of the buttons was missing. She was down on the floor, eye-to-eye with her tiny infant, who was lying face down on a quilt clad in one of those footless sleepers that cinch at the bottom, the kind Sweet Pea used to wear. Every few seconds the baby would raise her head to look at the strange apparition that was her mother, then make a face that approximated a smile, then put her head back down for a rest before she took another look.

  “Madonna and child,” I said in the middle of Millicent Colbert’s lilting croon.

  She rolled to her back and looked up at me. “Mr. Tanner. How nice.”

  “Just wanted to see how things were going.”

  “They’ve never gone better. I couldn’t be happier, and neither could Eleanor.” She couldn’t keep her eyes off the child, so she rolled onto her belly and bonded some more.

  “Eleanor,” I repeated.

  “We decided last night. Stuart wanted Gwendolyn.”

  “I’m glad you won.”

  She rolled back to her back. “Why don’t you join us? There’s plenty of room.”

  “Not this time.” I was breathing so hard I felt faint. “But I would like to come by once in a while to see how she’s doing. I’ve developed a paternal interest in Eleanor, for some reason.”

  “As well you should,” Millicent said happily. “Without you, we might not have gotten her back. Clara was acting so strangely.”

  “Yes, she was.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Not completely. But she won’t bother you again.”

  “I hope not.”

  “Don’t worry. So how’s Grandpa Rutherford behaving?”

  “He’s being … cute, I suppose you could say. He sent over a playpen and a stuffed animal.” She pointed at a rabbit the size of a bear.

  “So you don’t mind if I peek in once in a while?”

  She reached out a hand so I could help her up. “I insist on it. In fact, we have a favor to ask you.”

  My stomach made a fist. “What is it?”

  “I was going to do this formally but, well, I was talking to Stuart and I, we, would like you to be Eleanor’s godfather. Mr. Coppola ruined the term with his film, of course, but nevertheless we’re serious about it. Will you agree to serve us in that capacity, Mr. Tanner?”

  I felt myself redden. “I’m not sure what a godfather does, exactly.”

  “He supervises religious instruction, I believe. And sponsors the child at baptism.”

  I drew in as much air as my lungs would accept. “That doesn’t sound like something I’d be very good at. Now when she’s ready for membership in the 49er Faithful …” The mechanics of my smile didn’t work.

  Millicent put her hand on my arm. “Do consider it, will you, Mr. Tanner? We truly would like to honor you in some way.”

  “I’ll give it some thought.” As soon as I could, I bid mother and child good-bye.

  I did think about it. And then I did research on the subject, to the point that I discovered that when E. M. Forster was asked to serve as godfather to the son of some close friends, he declined the invitation.

  After I read the catechism that described Forster’s difficulty in deciding the right thing to do, I called Millicent Colbert. “I’ve been reading about godfathers,” I said when she came on the line.

  “What have you found out?”

  “Mostly it has to do with religion, like you said. But E. M. Forster said that one of the roles of godfathers is to tell their godchild ‘about the things that they have liked in life.’”

  “How nice.”

  I paused. “I think maybe I could do that for Eleanor: tell her about the things I have liked in life. Not so much about God or anything abstract. But about black-faced sheep. And Peter and the Wolf. And The Bobbsey Twins. And strawberry junket. And playing catch. I think I could do something like that once in a while if you want me to.”

  “I think that would be wonderful.”

  “I think so, too,” I told her. Wonderful, and excruciating.

  SCRIBNER PROUDLY PRESENTS

  PAST TENSE

  Stephen Greenleaf

  Available in Hardcover from Scribner

  The following is a preview of Past Tense….

  ONE

  It was midmorning of a chilly winter weekday. Time was glutinous and so was I—there were things I should have been doing but I wasn’t doing them; there were places I should have been going but I was too soporific to move. Instead, I was drinking coffee and wondering if my net worth could finance a trip to somewhere sunny, somewhere like Mexico. I like Mexico, Mexico is cheap, if I were any kind of a success at all I could spend March in Guadalajara or Guanajuato without even blinking an eye.

  I opened my checkbook. Cash on hand: $973.28; rent past due: $500.00; reliable receivables: zip. Bottom line: I make do with remembering the last trip and pray that baseball arrives on time. I was so despondent I almost didn’t pick up the phone when it yelled at me.

  But I did, because answering phones is something I do: I don’t cheat on my taxes, I don’t sleep with other men’s wives, and I don’t hide behind technology. I’m not sure I’m the better for any of those vows, incidentally; some of the happiest people I know violate all three and then some.

  “Marsh?” The voice was raspy and unnerved: a fighter after a knockout; a drunk after a night in the tank.

>   “Yeah?”

  “What the hell.”

  “What the hell what?”

  “Charley.”

  “Sleet?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about him?”

  “You ain’t heard?”

  “I guess not.”

  “He’s been busted.”

  “Charley?”

  “Yeah.”

  I laughed because it was time for the exchange to turn funny. “Busted for what? Cornering the market on doughnuts?”

  The offer wasn’t accepted. “Murder, most likely.”

  “Murder? Charley? You’re kidding.”

  “I wish to hell I was.”

  And suddenly everything in my life wasn’t mundane and dull and unexceptional, everything was odd and electric and awful. “This is bullshit. Right? Who is this, anyway?”

  “Clem Bittles, Clerk for Judge Newell. Used to be the admin officer down at Vallejo Street back in ’seventy-eight, ’seventy-nine. I’d see you once in a while when you’d come in to see Sleet. Charley called me Peanut; maybe you remember.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Peanut. So what happened? Someone set Charley up on a frame?”

  “Hard to see a frame in it. He gunned some guy down this morning.”

  “What guy?”

  “Some guy in the courthouse, don’t know his name. I’m not talking City Hall, you know, ’cause that’s closed for repairs, but the Annex or whatever they call it. The building on MacAllister. That’s where it happened.”

  “Out front, you mean. Some sort of shoot-out on the street.”

  “Naw, this was inside. Judge Meltonian’s court.”

  “Charley shot a guy in open court?”

  “Yeah. Twice, is what I heard. First one missed high; second nailed the guy square in the back of the head. Popped like a muskmelon, I heard; dude was dead before he hit the carpet. So much brain spattered on the bench it looked like Meltonian chucked up his lunch.”

  My heart was beating so loudly I could hardly hear Clem’s grating whisper over the troubled thumps within my ear. “What was it,” I tried again, still struggling for a benign explanation, “some nut got a weapon past the metal detector and Charley had to take him out?”

  “Naw, all he was was a defendant in a civil case. Sitting at the table with his lawyer, listening to the legal bullshit, and Charley ups and drills him. Court reporter took shrapnel in the shoulder—bullet must have fragmented.”

  “I don’t … Did you see this go down, Clem? You sure someone isn’t playing with you?”

  “I wasn’t there but I know it happened. Joyce Yates told me. She was covering the case for the Chronicle.”

  “So Yates saw the whole thing?”

  “Happened right in front of her. Way she tells it, Sleet might have taken out the whole room except some guy grabbed his arm and wrestled him. By the time Charley shucked him off, he must have figured he’d done all the damage he needed to do ’cause he tossed down his piece and dropped to the floor and waited for them to come take him.”

  “Anyone hurt besides the court reporter?”

  “Naw. Meltonian made like a rabbit and scooted back to his chambers and the lawyers dove under the table. No heroes in that bunch, right? Some paralegal turned his ankle when he jumped in the jury box, is all.”

  “Where was the clerk?”

  “Finnerty. Marjie. She stayed put. I hear she said she didn’t think Charley had a beef with her and if he did, he’d wait till after hours and take it up with her at Cafe Vince. Marjie’s got more balls than most men, let me tell you. Cute as a cornflower; maybe you know her.”

  “I’ve seen her out there. Was a jury in the box?”

  “Naw. Motion for summary judgment. Supposed to be over by noon.”

  “Who else was there? Anyone you know?”

  “Not that I heard. Maybe some of the regulars—you know, the pension guys—but I don’t know any by name. Marjie can probably tell you, she likes those old farts. There was some other media in there, too.”

  “Why all the media?”

  “It was some sort of sex case. Sex brings out media like shit brings out flies.”

  “What kind of sex case?”

  “Who knows? Someone probably cut something off, if you know what I mean.” Clem chuckled his way to an uneasy silence.

  There were still questions to ask, of course, but Clem Bittles wasn’t the person who could answer them, so I didn’t make an effort.

  As I clutched the phone in a sweaty hand and cast about for a plan of action, images flooded my senses, an image of Charley looming large over a fallen corpse was succeeded by a vision of Charley behind bars, being preyed upon by a gang of felons who had reason galore to wreak havoc with him. I waited for the pictures to penetrate to the regions of the brain that thin our terrors and dilute our dread, but for some reason they wouldn’t sink.

  “Where’s Charley now?” I asked.

  “Don’t know for sure. Holding cell, most likely. Hall of Justice.”

  “Has anyone talked to him? Has he got a lawyer yet?”

  “Don’t know that either. Hey. I got to get going, jury’s coming back from break. Just wanted to let you know about Sleet, Marsh; figured you’d know why he done it.”

  “No idea.”

  “Yeah? Me, neither. Well, I’ll be seeing you, Marsh.”

  “Yeah, Clem. Thanks for the call.”

  Clem didn’t hang up. “You going down there? To see Sleet, I mean?”

  I told him I probably was.

  “Well, tell him I know whatever he did, he had a reason. I mean, Charley’s not the kind of guy who, well, you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. Charley’s not the kind of guy who shoots someone without a good reason.”

  I put the phone in its cradle and spent the next ten minutes trying to guess what that reason could be. When I didn’t come up with anything I could make myself believe, I applied some psychological salve to the sting of my scalded emotions.

  There are certain verities you count on: The sun will come up in the east; the Warriors won’t get a big man; traffic will get worse; Republicans will toady to big business. But the surest verity of all is that Charley Sleet wouldn’t hurt a fly unless the fly carried a virus that would wipe out the world if it was allowed to keep flying. Which meant what I’d heard from Clem Bittles was irrational and incomplete, suggestive of farce or incompetence; which made it, someway, somehow, wrong.

  Of the people I know, Charley is the least likely to take a life. It’s a revealing statement to make in his case, since as opposed to most of us, his job as a San Francisco police officer presents him with the opportunity to commit homicide nearly every day. But time after time, in situations that would terrify or inflame a normal man, Charley passes on the prospect of violence and keeps his weapon holstered. Charley enforces the law with his courage and his wits.

  His personal life is similarly pacific. He’s opposed to both the death penalty and abortion, one of the few people who have consistent positions on those issues. He devotes his off-hours to counseling kids at risk; he donates more money than he can spare to homeless shelters and free clinics; he helps a buddy run a halfway house for Labrador retrievers that takes strays from the pound and finds them new owners. And suddenly this man guns someone down apropos of nothing? Not bloody likely, as the Brits would say.

  My initial impulse was to try to make sense out of the nonsense Clem Bittles described, quickly enough so the nonsense wouldn’t be regarded as truth, whether by the D.A., or the media, or by the Office of Citizen Complaints. The only way I could think of to do that was to put his conduct in context, and the only way to do that was to head for the Hall of Justice, to get a context from the horse’s mouth.

  TWO

  The quickest way to the Hall of Justice was by cab—I got lucky and hailed one in five minutes, at the corner of Columbus and Montgomery. The cabby groused about traffic and the new mayor and the Warriors; I stayed silent and pis
sed him off. When he dropped me at Sixth and Bryant I tipped enough to make amends for my dearth of municipal animus.

  The Hall of Justice houses the city’s criminal courts. Like all such buildings, there is an aura of doom about the place, a sense that violence is near eruption, that mores and morality are checked at the door, that no one gives a damn what happens inside the building because most of its customers deserve what they get and then some. I’d spent all the time I cared to in the place, offering testimony, serving subpoenas, shepherding witnesses, even spending time in the jail in the basement when I was cited for contempt of court back when I was a lawyer instead of a P.I.

  Persons like Charley, who are under arrest and awaiting trial, are held in the San Francisco city jail in San Bruno, ten miles south of town. The jail is sixty years old and is under indictment from the Grand Jury, which declared it to be seismically unsafe, disgustingly unsanitary, and unfit for human habitation even by humans accused of criminal misconduct. It teems with rats, roaches, and raw sewage. Its heat and hot water come from a boiler on the back of a truck that is parked outside the building. And it’s vastly overcrowded. To handle the surplus, the city fathers are reportedly considering putting inmates on barges, just like they do in New York.

  Since prisoners are always going back and forth from San Bruno to court, the Hall of Justice needs a city jail to house them till their trial is called or their hearing comes up or their public defender drops by to touch base. The jail I’d inhabited after my allegedly contemptuous performance had been in the basement, but the current Hall of Justice jail is a brandnew structure adjacent to the hall itself, a model of its kind so they claim. Given the public mood these days, being a model jail may mean they’ve brought back the racks and screws.

  The third person I saw was a sheriffs deputy named Gil Harrison who’d been a jailer for twenty years. Anyone who’s been a deputy that long knows Charley Sleet and probably me as well, so he didn’t have to be told why I was there.

  “Shitty deal,” he said without preamble.

  “Yeah.” I gestured at the steel door to the rear of his desk. “He back there?”