Straits of Fortune - Anthony Gagliano [99]
“What can I do for you, Mr. Vaughn?” she asked. Neither of us touched our tea. The glasses were just a pair of witnesses. I put the football down next to the recliner, then reached into my pocket and got out the cashier’s check for forty grand and put it on the table.
“I would have put it in the trust fund, but the woman at the bank told me it had been transferred someplace else. She didn’t know where. Anyway, I figured it might come in handy for the boy’s college or something.”
She picked up the check, studied it for a moment, then slid it back to me across the polished teak surface of the coffee table. Her face was hard, but it wasn’t anything I hadn’t expected. It wasn’t as hard as the lid of a coffin.
“That’s all right, Mr. Vaughn. We’re doing just fine. We don’t need any of your money. I’ve already forgiven you, as the Lord says we must. If you can’t forgive yourself, then there’s not a blessed thing I can do for you.”
I took a sip of iced tea and set the glass on the table. I stared down at the carpet for a moment and tried to think of something else to say. When I looked up, Beth Stuart was staring at me defiantly.
“You’re right, Mrs. Stuart,” I said. “I’ll be going now. Sorry to interrupt your day. Thanks for the tea.”
“You’re most welcome.”
She stood up. The message was clear: Hit the road, Jack.
I started to reach for the check, but instead I sat back.
“Look,” I said. “Maybe you can help me out. I don’t know. I’m trying to do something here. Can you understand what I’m saying?”
She met my eyes, and her lips started to tremble, but she’d had much practice in being tough, and the tremor vanished without a trace. I don’t know what she was seeing. Maybe she saw a man at the end of his rope, because something changed in her face. And then, as though driven by a force of nature, the front door flew open and a boy of about ten with a basketball under one arm burst into the living room. He started to run up the stairs but stopped short when he saw me. I stood up.
“Who are you?” he asked boldly. He was tall for his age. He wore the baggy satin shorts of a basketball player. I could see his father in him.
I glanced at his mother. Our eyes locked.
“This is Mr. Vaughn,” Beth Stuart said. She hesitated for a moment, then said, “He knew your father.”
The boy’s eyes widened, and he came slowly down the stairs and studied me intently for a moment, as though I were an unexpected statue in a strange city. I looked at his mother in confusion. She nodded. The boy and I shook hands. I didn’t know what to do or what to say.
“You knew my father?” he asked incredulously, as though his father had been some great hero out of antiquity, some Hercules so powerful and remote that anyone who had known him was lifted automatically to the level of myth, to legend. It took everything I had in me to keep my bearings.
“Sure I knew him,” I said. “Anyway, I was just stopping by to give my regards.”
“You’re a police officer?” the boy asked. This, too, was incredible.
“I was. I’m retired now.”
“You’re too young to be retired,” he said.
“Maybe you’re right,” I said.
“You better go get cleaned up for church, Mr. Robert,” his mother said. “Mr. Vaughn is coming with us. Isn’t that right, Mr. Vaughn?”
Our eyes met again, and I nodded. “Whatever you say, Mrs. Stuart.”
Two hours later, after the service, Beth Stuart and her son walked me out to where the Thunderbird sat waiting in a light rain. Robert had already loosened his tie and seemed anxious to shed his suit and become a basketball player again. He said good-bye and ran off toward the house, shedding his jacket before he reached the front door. I watched him go with a mixture of relief and sadness. I didn’t think I would ever see him again. Of course, you see people every day whom you won’t ever see again, but it’s different when you know it.
“I guess you’ll be heading home now, Mr. Vaughn,” Beth Stuart said, her hand over her head to shield it from the rain. “You think this old rustbucket