Tiny Little Thing Page 7

  Somewhere in the middle of this speech, Caspian wipes his mouth with his napkin and stands up, sending the chair tumbling to the stone rectangles behind him. He walks down the line of chairs and yanks Tom out of place by the collar. “Apologize,” he says.

  The word is so low, I read it on his lips.

  Tom’s face, looking up at Caspian, is full of vodka and adrenaline. “Why? It’s the truth. I can speak the truth.”

  “I said. Apologize.”

  Just before Tom replies, or maybe too late, I think: Don’t do it, Tom, don’t be an idiot, oh Jesus, oh Caspian, not again. I think, simultaneously, in another part of my head: Dammit, there goes dinner, and also: Should we try serving afterward or just put everything in the icebox for a cold buffet tomorrow at lunch?

  “Oh, yeah? And what are you going to do if I don’t? Knock me out in front of everyone?”

  Caspian lifts back a cool fist and punches him in the jaw.

  Caspian, 1964

  Well, hell.

  If it were just Caspian occupying that diner booth, he’d be on the guy’s ass in a second, two-bit potbellied crook waving a gun like that. Wearing a goddamned suit, for God’s sake, like he was a wiseguy or something.

  But Tiny.

  He reached across the table, grabbed her frozen hand, and slid the engagement ring off her finger and into his pocket. She was too shocked to protest. She stared at the crook, at flustered Em trying to open the cash drawer.

  “Get down,” he muttered.

  She turned her head to him. Her face was white.

  “Get down!”

  The man waved his gun. “Hey! Shut up back there!”

  From underneath his mother’s protective body, the little boy started to cry.

  “Shut that kid up!”

  The boy cried louder, and the man fired his gun. The mother’s body slumped.

  Em screamed, and the man lost his cool, flushing and sweating. “Shut up! Shut up!”

  Em tried to dodge around him, to the mother on the floor covering her boy, but he grabbed her by the collar and held the gun to her forehead. “Nobody move, all right? Or the waitress gets it. You!” He nodded to the frozen-faced couple in the first booth. “Put your wallet on the table! Right there at the edge!”

  Em squeaked. Looked right across the room at Cap and pleaded with her eyes.

  Damn it all.

  Cap reached for Tiny and shoved her bodily under the table. In the next second, he launched himself down the aisle toward the man, who spun around and hesitated a single fatal instant, trying to decide whether to shoot Cap or to shoot Em.

  As Cap knew he would. Because only training—constant, immersive, reactive training—can counter the faults of human instinct.

  Or anyway. Cap was willing to take the chance.

  He aimed for the gun first, knocking it out of the wiseguy’s hand in one swift strike of his elbow. He howled. Em fell free. Cap reached back for a killer punch to the man’s saggy jaw.

  Jingle, jingle. The door swung open. Cap released the punch regardless. The man dropped like a sack of vanquished flour.

  Cap turned to the door, expecting to see a flood of dark blue, Boston’s finest, but instead there’s another man in a dark suit and a brown fedora, pointing a gun straight to his chest.

  The lookout.

  “Hands in the air.”

  Cap lifted his hands slowly. He couldn’t see the back booth from here. He cast out the net of his senses, hearing and smell and touch, the vibration in the air, searching for some sign that Tiny was still crouching unseen underneath the table, where he left her. Her three-carat engagement ring still sat in his inside jacket pocket. A stupid place to put it, but what else was he going to do?

  “Take off his hat.” The lookout nodded to the man in the first booth, whose wallet sat on the edge of the table.

  “His hat?”

  “Take it off. Nice and easy.”

  The gun was pointed straight at Cap’s heart. This man knew what he was doing, didn’t he? Not like the fleshy idiot lying motionless on the floor. Why was this one, the competent one, stuck with lookout duty? Lookout was the idiot’s job.

  Cap reached for the hat and lifted it gently from the man’s head.

  “See? That wasn’t so hard. No one needs to be a hero. Now put the wallet in the hat.”

  Cap picked up the wallet and dropped it in the hat.

  “Atta boy.” The man raised his voice. “Now, all of you, take your wallets out of your pockets and put them on the table. Nice and easy, so this nice man here can put them in the hat.”

  There was a second of shocked silence.

  Where the hell were the police? Hadn’t someone called from the kitchen in the back?

  The man fired his gun into the ceiling. “Now!”

  A shower of plaster fell on his shoulders. A woman screamed, a faint pathetic little noise. He pointed the gun back at Cap. “No funny business, either!”

  Okay, then. Keep the man’s focus right here, on Cap, until the police arrive. No one gets hurt, that’s the main thing.

  Let the police take care of it, Cap. Don’t be a hero. We don’t need a hero, here. Just a regular guy to keep the gun occupied, to drag his feet until the police saunter on up.

  The man jiggled the gun. Under his fedora, a faint sheen of sweat caught the light.

  “Go on. Next booth. Keep it moving.”

  Cap dragged his feet to the next booth. The woman there, a woman in a cheerful yellow suit, dropped a little coin purse into the hat with shaking fingers.

  “Open the pocketbook, lady,” said the man at his side.

  “But . . .”

  “Open the pocketbook.”

  She unhooked the clasp and opened her pocketbook.

  Someone was whimpering behind him. The little boy. Mommy, Mommy, he whined.

  The man nudged Cap with his gun. “Empty it out.”

  Cap took the pocketbook and shook it out over the table. A wad of Kleenex, a tube of lipstick, a battered compact, a pen, a couple of rubber bands. A neat roll of dollar bills, the housekeeping money.

  “What have we here,” said the man. He picked up the roll and dropped it neatly in the hat. “Next.”

  Two more booths, three more wallets. The whimpering was getting louder now, accompanied by a low and constant moan, the boy’s mother. The only sounds in the coffee shop, except for the gravelly hum of some electric appliance he’d never noticed before. He and the crook were getting closer to the booth in the corner now, where Tiny was hiding.

  Where the sweet hell were the police? Cap glanced at the door.

  “Lady! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  Cap turned his head, and Jesus H. Christ.

  There she was, Tiny idiot Doe, shoeless, crawling as silently as a berry-red cat across the floor toward the heap of whimpering child and moaning mother.

  • • •

  Afterward, Cap found Tiny in the kitchen, cradling the little boy in a soft woolen blanket. God knew where she found it. He’d gone to sleep against her shoulder, slack and blissful, his eyelashes like tiny feathered crescents against his pink cheeks. Above, a single bare bulb cast a glow over them both.

  Cap swallowed back the ache in his throat.

  “His grandmother’s here. Police want you.”

  She turned her pale face toward him. “How’s his mother?”

  “Ambulance took her. I think she’s all right. I’ve seen worse.” A hell of a lot worse. “Looks like the shoulder. No organs.”

  She rose to her feet, lifting the sleeping boy without a sign of effort. Stronger than she looked, Miss Tiny Doe. “Will you take him?”

  “Sure. If you want.” He held out his arms. “You okay?”

  “Yes. I just don’t want to see the police, that’s all.” She laid t
he child in his arms, taking care as the small head transferred from her slim shoulder to Cap’s. She tucked the blanket around the little boy and wiped away a small smudge of dried blood from his forehead. “Careful.”

  “You have to see the police, you know. Give a statement.”

  She hesitated. “Are there reporters there?”

  “They’re not letting them in. But, yeah, they’re outside the door.”

  She unbuttoned the cardigan from around her shoulders and stuck her arms through the holes, one by one, putting it on properly. The flush was returning to her skin. “Can the police come back here for their statement?”

  “I don’t see why not. I’ll tell them you need some quiet.”

  “And are they finished with you?”

  The boy stirred, made a small noise in his throat. Cap hoisted him up higher to get a better grip. “I’ll probably have to go back to the station later for more questioning. Because of everything.”

  Everything. Cap’s instant reaction when the second man turned toward Tiny, the swift strike to his arm, the struggle for the gun, the snap of bone. Capitulation. Sending Em to the phone to call the police, because the kitchen was empty; the cook and his assistant had fled through the open back door. Waiting, waiting, trying to keep everybody calm while the police came. Tiny taking the child, calling for help for the mother, taking out her own handkerchief and showing someone how to hold it on the wound. Jesus, what a morning. He was getting a headache now, the hangover of battle. Like the melancholy you got after sex sometimes, the departure of adrenaline, leaving only yourself and the paltry contents of your soul.

  “I see. Yes, of course you will. Thank you,” she said, as an afterthought. “Thank you for . . . well, for saving us. It could have been so much worse.”

  He studied her wide-open eyes, the length of her eyelashes. She looked sincere, and humble. No frostiness now, here in the kitchen of Boylan’s Coffee Shop.

  “You’re welcome,” he said, and walked back into the dining area.

  The grandmother let out a cry when she saw him. She rushed forward and engulfed the boy into her arms, without so much as a word to Cap. Not that he minded. He could take Tiny’s thanks, but not a stranger’s. He kept his hand on the boy’s back until he was sure the old lady had him firmly, and then he turned to one of the cops standing around with notepads.

  “Well? Do you need anything else?”

  “Yeah, we’re gonna need you down at the precinct, buddy. Standard procedure.”

  “Can you give me a lift?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Another cop walked up. “I thought you said the broad was in the back.”

  “Yeah. The kitchen. Red dress.”

  The cop shrugged. “She’s not there now.”

  • • •

  By the time Cap turned the corner of Marlborough Street, it was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon, and the sun hit the fourth and third floor windows of his parents’ house in six blinding rectangular patches. A slight figure in a berry-red dress sat at the top of the stoop, hands folded neatly in her lap. She rose at the sight of him.

  “I thought you’d never get here.”

  He slung his camera bag to the pavement and fished for his key. “How did you find me?”

  “The waitress told me. The dark-haired one.”

  “Em? Huh. Wonder how she knew.”

  Tiny didn’t reply. She stood on the top step, watching him as he climbed. He tried not to look at her, though his body was light with relief at the sight of her slim figure, the gentle swell of her hips beneath the fabric of her dress. He stuck his key in the lock. “Are you coming in?”

  “No, I just . . . I just wanted to have . . .” Her voice was breathless with nerves. “Have a word with you.”

  “More comfortable inside. You look like you could use a drink.”

  She paused. “I don’t really drink.”

  “A good time to start, I’d say.”

  Unexpectedly, she laughed. A beautiful laugh, deeper and heartier than you’d think, a tiny girl like her. Her brown hair had come a bit disheveled. The curls fell more loosely about her ears and the top of her neck, so you could run your hands right through them, testing for strength and silkiness, right before you leaned in and kissed her.

  As if she caught the drift of his thoughts, she lifted one hand to her head. The back of her arm was smooth-skinned and taut, an athlete’s arm. Honed by tennis, probably. Or golf. Girls like her played golf, didn’t they? In pink argyle sweaters.

  Her laughter faded, but the smile remained. “All right, Caspian. I guess you’re not going to bite.”

  He opened the door and stood back to usher her through. “Only if you beg me.”

  Tiny, 1966

  Tom waves away his wife’s anxious fingers and holds the bag of ice to his jaw. “You see? He proved my point. Just a killing machine, paid for by our own tax dollars.”

  I wipe my fingers on the kitchen towel and think, What tax dollars? Your trust fund’s in nice sweet tax-free municipal bonds, yielding three and a half percent, or I’ll eat my stockings.

  I say, “Actually, Tom, if he’d wanted to kill you, he would have punched a lot harder.”

  “Are you saying this isn’t bad enough?” Tom points to his jaw, which sports a thick purple bruise but appears otherwise intact.

  “I’m saying he could have done worse. A lot worse. I assure you.”

  Constance looks up from her fervid examination of Tom’s jaw. “I can’t believe you’re defending him.”

  “I’m not. For one thing, my dinner party is ruined.” Ruined, I tell you.

  I wrestle down a smile.

  She turns back. “He’s a bully. He always was. For God’s sake, Tom, let me have that. You’re not supposed to dab it.” She snatches the pack of ice, braces the other side of his face with her hand, and smashes the cheesecloth against his jaw. “Anyway, good riddance. Between you and me, he never did fit in around here. Even as a kid, he didn’t.”

  “Good riddance?”

  Constance nods to the open door of the kitchen. “I saw him leave, just now.”

  I throw down the towel on the counter. “Excuse me.”

  Just before I cross the threshold, I remember something. I pause and turn my head over my shoulder. “Oh, and Constance? The two of you might want to start making sure you’ve locked your bedroom door at night, if you’re thinking of getting frisky.”

  • • •

  Outside, Fred and Mrs. Crane are still picking up the broken china, and the ocean crashes on regardless. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Crane,” I say, “but did you see Major Harrison go by?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She straightens. Her face is expressionless. “He came through a minute ago and went off that way.” She waves to her right, toward the old Harrison house.

  “His house, or the beach?”

  “I couldn’t tell. Is everybody all right, ma’am?”

  “Everybody’s fine, Mrs. Crane. Thank you so much for cleaning up like this. I’m awfully sorry.”

  “It’s no bother, Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, and ma’am?”

  I pause on my way to the stone steps, down to the beach. “Yes, Mrs. Crane?”

  “He did apologize, Major Harrison did. Just now. I thought you should know that.”

  I smile. “I certainly hope he did.”

  The beach is dark, except for the phosphorescent waves kicking energetically to my right. Behind me, in the distance, Frank’s voice rises in laughter. He’s taken the men down to the flat patch of sand near the breakwater, where they’re playing a drunken game of blind midnight football, patching up any hurt feelings after the brawl. The women, of course, are putting the children to bed. And the teenagers? God only knows.

  Brawl. Not a brawl, really. Most of them were on Cap’s side, after all. But there was some pushing
and shoving, some broken crockery, some feminine panic and some masculine settling of various scores. Any pretext for that, among the competitive Hardcastles and their competitive spouses.

  I look up the dunes to the Harrison house, just as the porch light flicks on.

  Apologize, Caspian says again, this time in my own head, and the word sends another surge of feeling in my veins, the familiar crazy hope, and I tell my veins sternly: Stop it. You know better. And: You have too much to lose, this time. And: Think of Frank.

  And finally, when even that didn’t work: The photograph, damn it.

  My veins settle down. But my legs carry me in the direction of the Harrison house, guided by the light on the porch.

  By the time I reach the steps, the light is off again. I pound on the door anyway.

  The tread of footsteps, and the door opens.

  “Tiny.”

  “Caspian.”

  He opens the door wider and slips through to stand on the worn entry mat, shutting the faint light of the entryway firmly away behind him. His body fills the porch. My pulse falls into my fingertips. Veins again. The last glass of wine seems like a very long time ago. I can’t even taste it in my mouth anymore, which is now dry and sticky, perched above my strangled throat.

  Why am I here?

  Worse. What if someone sees me?

  “I’m sorry about what happened,” he says. “I was going to tell you before I left, but you were busy in the kitchen.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. I couldn’t blame you for that. Tom’s a . . .” I search for the word, but it seems to have escaped me.

  There’s not much light, but his smile makes itself seen. “Yes, he is.”

  He’s taken off his magnificent dress coat, the one with the medals. I picture it lying across the back of the chintz chair in the living room, where he’s tossed it. Or—more likely, knowing Caspian—hanging up neatly in the entry closet, behind a white-painted door, between an old mackintosh and a plaid beach blanket. His shirt is stiff and white, smelling of laundry starch. And of him. Caspian. I breathe through my mouth, to inhibit the flow of scent to my brain: scent, after all, is the sense most directly linked to the brain’s emotional centers. Or is it memory? Well, either one, emotion or memory, they’re the last things I need stimulated just now.