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Driver pointed to the tables. “If I was a zombie skell out there living off this stuff, and I found outyouwere the one cooking it? Man. It would send me straight. It would send me so straight so fast I’d have a job within a week, a family and a mortgage within a month, and a healthy 401K within a year.”
The two cooks looked at each other; Marris was trying to figure out how to respond to the tapeworm comparison, and Pooney just trying to follow Driver’s multipart sentences.
“You just stick to your job, Poon,” Driver said and held out a reassuring hand. “Those guys clad the house. You two cook the crank. I manage the business side of things. There’s no need for anybody to start changing lanes.”
Pooney started nodding, which made Driver feel queasy inside. The meth cook had the look of someone with a plan. And Pooney with a plan was like a toddler with a handgun.
“You just need a demonstration,” Pooney said. “Well, we got one coming. We’re gonna show you how useful we are, Marris and me.”
“Get out of my face, Pooney,” Driver said, finally seizing on a jar of coffee in a cupboard over the oven. “I can’t afford to keep listening to you. I’m getting dumber by the second.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE LAWN AT the house in Needham was full of people. Newly widowed Shauna Bulger had to strain to remember a time the house had been this loud. Maybe at Henry’s christening, more than forty years earlier. She remembered being as concerned then as she was now about guests encountering dusty bookshelves or bare patches in the lawn, about cups running empty and not being refilled.
She’d sat quietly this morning on the end of the bed in her funeral outfit, smoothing the coverlet, trying to think of everything that needed doing. Everything she would be allowed to do. A couple of busybodies from her craft circle had taken over the kitchen and insisted on cooking everything, which gave her absolutely nothing to do with herself now that everyone had arrived at the house. Shauna had wanted to bury herself in jobs, to avoid all the earnest clutching of her hands. All therepetitions of “I’m sorry for your loss” and kind words about her late husband, Mark.
She stood behind the lace curtains at the window of the sitting room, literally hiding from them all, chastising herself for every second that passed. She saw Mary McKinnon out there talking to someone, pointing into a garden bed. Probably at Shauna’s wilted asters, or a weed that had slipped under her radar.
When her gaze fell on Bill Robinson, Shauna felt a slight lift in her mood. Here was someone who might understand. She remembered that Bill had lost his wife to a terrible accident a few years ago, though the specifics escaped her. Memory was funny like that. Sorting, picking, discarding. For instance, Shauna couldn’t remember where exactly she’d first met Mary McKinnon. Or the name of the short woman in her knitting circle. But her mind was flooded with details about her late husband, Mark. His crimes. They’d all come rushing back to her as she sat rigidly in the front pew of the church during the funeral service, listening to speeches about what a hero the man had been.
A female cop had stood and talked through sniffles about being taken under Mark’s wing as a rookie, how he’d molded her patiently and gently into the law-enforcing dynamo that she was now.
Shauna remembered that particular rookie. How Mark had spoken about her. How the girl had turned up late one night to bang on the front door of their house and argue with Mark in the driveway. Throwing her phone at him. Mark telling his wife that the rookie’s dramatics were over a case, and Shauna choosing to believe him, because she had no choice.
A superintendent talked to the church gathering about Mark being a stickler for his officers taking witness reports, how he spot-checked patrol cops’ notebooks for the quality of their handwriting. Smatterings of gentle laughter. Ah, Mark.
Shauna recalled emptying the pockets of Mark’s uniform and finding notes—scribbles made not on official police notebooks but on scraps of battered and sometimes blood-speckled paper. How the content of some of those notes had made her stomach clench. Lists of debts, late payments, vigs. Names and ages of family members. Maps without annotations, and once, just a single line on the back of a coaster: “Bury girl under big tree. No flooding.”
Bill Robinson was in the doorway now, almost as though she’d called him in from the yard. Shauna had to shake herself out of her reverie to acknowledge him.
“You OK?”
“Sure, yeah,” she said. She beckoned him in, eased herself into an armchair by the window, tried to give him a smile. “Just trying to keep out of the way.”
“Out of sight, more like it.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“I don’t blame you,” Bill said. He came and took the armchair across from her, looked like he was going to reach over and do some of that awful hand-clasping. Shauna was grateful when he didn’t. “Who invented the funeral, anyway? What a weird thing. Somebody dies, the last thing you want to do is have cake and talk to everybody you ever met about it.”
Shauna laughed. Her face felt stiff, tired. “Yes. Exactly. But how are you? It’s been years. You look like you have a woman in your life again.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Somebody’s been feeding you up and reminding you to get your hair cut,” Shauna said. “Although doesn’t look like she insists on ironing your shirts.”
“Oh. Wow. Don’t even go there,” Bill sighed. “That’s a story in itself.”
They looked out at the gardens, the sunlight on the lawn, the people laughing with their little plates held out between them. A tall, muscular man Shauna had seen arrive with Bill was perusing the cake table, loading a plate high with cookies and sandwich slices.
“That service was such a crock,” Shauna said suddenly. Her words seemed to fall out of her. She looked up in horror, expecting to see that Bill shared the mortification at her candor. But there was only understanding in his eyes. It was a look the two had shared silently before, back in the years when Bill was on patrol in the Sixth and Shauna would drop into the station while Mark was holed up at the station. Her big Irish-American husband had made captain and became too important to be out on the street, where he’d been happy roughing up criminals and bullying drug dealers. But the promotion had made him sloppy. He’d held meetings with crime lords in his own office. He’d harassed the female desk cops until they transferred out just to get away from him. Bill had been someone Shauna could trust to intercept her on the station steps and tell her with just a look whether now was a “good time” to drop in, or whether she should leave whatever she’d baked for the station staff and go home.
“Everybody looks great in a eulogy,” Bill said. “But listen, Shauna, none of that matters now. What matters now is you.What are you gonna do? Are you going to have Henry move in here? He’s got a new girlfriend, right? I saw them out there in the gazebo lookin’ pretty friendly.”
“I don’t need anybody to move in here,” Shauna said.
“No, no, of course not. I’m just saying—”
