Dancing With Shadows. Lynne Pemberton

goddamn easy. The senator was away, and the maid was one of those dumb underpaid greaseback broads who don’t give a damn if the rich folks get ripped off, but the security boys took a bit of Luther boy charm to get past. And the telephone company uniform was difficult to get a hold of; you try nicking anything in my size. I had to follow a big black brother around for three days; thank God his security and I.D. card were in the pocket. Discount my ass, I should double the fee!’

      Jay turned to face Luther. ‘A deal’s a deal, my friend. You should’ve held out for more; I was willing to pay you three times as much.’

      He watched Luther frown, he knew he was trying to work out if he was joking or not. Then Jay took a fat brown envelope from his inside pocket and handed it over. ‘Count it if you like, but it’s all there.’

      Luther took the package. ‘I don’t need to count it.’

      A look of mutual trust passed between the two men. Jay smiled; he knew Luther would count it later and wished he could be there to see his face when he realized he’d been paid three times what they’d agreed.

      ‘I hope it all works out for you, brother.’

      ‘Thanks, Lu, you take care and never forget what I told you in the pen. If you don’t love yourself, why should anyone else.’

      In that moment Luther was reminded of Shirley, she’d said something very similar on their second date. Not trusting his own voice, he stumbled out of the apartment, promising to keep in touch.

      Afterwards Jay sat next to the window, watching Luther’s back until he rounded the corner of M Street and was out of sight. He then switched his view to Kelly’s house. He counted the lights in the windows, five in total. Sitting in silence, watchful and predatory, gave him a perverse sense of anticipation. What was he expecting? he asked himself. Why the stake-out, what did he hope to achieve? After twenty-five years would Kelly, Weston or Beth give him even a second thought? And if they did know something about Matthew Fierstein’s murder, would they risk talking about it on the telephone? He doubted it, yet maybe if he could rattle their cages, one of them might let something slip in an unguarded moment. By now they would have received his gifts; step one in the flushing out process. He tried to imagine their reactions: Weston would be dismissive; Beth, intimidated; and Kelly … ah Kelly, try as he might, he couldn’t imagine how she would feel when she opened the box to find the broken cello string and his message. He felt sure she would know the sender though, and he hoped she would experience a twinge of remorse at the very least.

      The cat was now among the pigeons. Jay could not resist a wry smile, and with it came the realization that he was actually enjoying himself. His rôle was not unlike that of Mike Flint, the fictitious FBI agent he’d created in Killing Time. And where was Mike Flint’s alter ego now? he mused. Ron Longman, the FBI operative who’d worked with Al Colacello to indict Mario Petroni, had taken the godfather’s money and run. Jay experienced a surge of anger whenever he thought about Petroni who, against all odds, had won. Why is it that good things happen to bad people, and bad to good? He’d asked himself the question many times before, and was always unable to come up with an answer. It reinforced his belief that there was no God.

      As he stood up and stretched his torso, the digital clock on the desk was blinking six-fifteen. He moved into the hall and through a door leading to the long narrow, galley-type kitchen – all polished elm units and gleaming stainless steel. Jay made himself a pot of strong espresso, and carrying the coffee in one hand and a large mug in the other, he made his way back into the living room. Once there he sat down in front of the small desk that housed his laptop. He then stared at the blank screen for a few minutes before starting to write.

      REMISSION. Notes: September 1972 onwards. [Me, Matthew and Kelly.]

      There was an electric storm the night before I went up to Harvard. I’ll never forget it as long as I live. I watched in fascination from my bedroom window; forked lightning branding the big Montana night sky, and thunder so loud I was reminded of my grandmother’s words: ‘It’s the devil clapping sinners, boy.’

      Then the rain came, hard and slanting, ricocheting off my window like a constant barrage of machine-gun fire. I stayed awake all that night, long after the storm had subsided, and at the first glimmer of dawn, while the rest of the house slept, I crept outside. It had been a long hot summer; relentlessly the sun had sucked at the earth, day after scorching day, and now the parched crust was sodden, a great thirst sated; the air moist and still, so still you could hear a leaf fall.

      As I stood there completely alone, a rainbow appeared, the colours so vivid they looked like freshly mixed oilpaint. I was spellbound; that colourful ladder to heaven was beautiful beyond belief. I remember feeling very small, a nondescript character in the big scheme of things, and in that moment I believed in God. I don’t any longer. I’d kept my promise to my mother: I’d brought in the harvest, breaking my back and eating dust for weeks, and now I had my very own crop; the beginning of what I hoped would be a great and fulfilling adventure.

      My feet felt as light as air. In fact my whole body felt light, weightless, elevated. I was ready for anything. My dream, my longed for, hard-fought dream was realized. Jay Kaminsky, second-generation Polish immigrant from Hicksville, USA, had been given his chance. No, not given it; achieved it.

      Harvard and I were made for each other, never before or since have I felt so at one with myself and my surroundings. That first day and for many subsequent days I was full of an indescribable sense of wellbeing, a belonging to that hallowed place of learning. I was so full of ideas, ambition and arrogance. Ah, to be back there! In that place and time, not knowing what was in store, what was to be my fate. To taste once more, if only for a moment, that euphoric optimism. I didn’t hope I would be successful; I knew I would be.

      September 1973

      Matthew Fierstein was the same, a scientific genius destined for great things. Or so we thought. Ingenious Matthew, the brilliant boffin constantly bubbling with enthusiasm for some bizarre new invention. We were campus room-mates; I was in my second year, he was a freshman. I wouldn’t have chosen Matt, and I doubt he would have chosen me. We were chalk and cheese: me all sportive and Matthew bespectacled and puny, a Born Again Woody Allen type. He would often joke that we made a great team. I could attract the women, and he could make them laugh.

      It was during his first semester that I began to notice glimpses of Matthew’s dark side. It was after his mother’s visit to Harvard. Matthew was strung out for two days before her arrival and a visible nervous wreck on the morning before she was due. My first impression of Isabel Fierstein was that she was very un-Jewish, if there is such a thing. What I mean is she was Jewish, but not the usual stereotype. Tall, blonde and stunning in an icy Slavic way, and a bit dippy. She reminded me of a second-rate Hollywood starlet from the thirties. Something that Samuel Goldwyn might have auditioned on his casting couch and then cast in B movies. I noticed Matthew recoil when she kissed him, and he seemed withdrawn when she spoke to him. Her every sentence was banal, every word delivered in a jaded, ‘I’m very bored with life’ kind of way. I thought she was extremely cold, and felt sorry for Matthew who obviously felt ill at ease in her company. After she left he said that he thought his mother was the most beautiful creature in the world, and the most despicable. I was shocked and then Matthew began to bang his head against the wall. Before I could stop him he stopped himself, but when he turned around to face me he was crying. There was a narrow rivulet of blood winding from a graze on his temple to the corner of his eye. He touched it, looked at his red fingertip, then at me. ‘I hate my mother,’ was all he said before leaving the room without another word.

      Matthew didn’t come back that day, or the next, and by the third day I was about to report his disappearance when he bounced into a lecture looking and acting as if nothing untoward had happened. I never mentioned his mother, but I did ask him where he’d been. He was evasive and, when I pushed, downright aggressive. With a strange mad look in his eyes, he tweaked the end of my nose saying, ‘Ask no questions, get no lies. It’s my business, OK?’ Then he laughed at my concern, saying, ‘Come on, Jay; lighten up. I met a hot girl, we did it for three days, never got out of bed. So I should have called to let you know? I’m sorry;