Black House

Jack comes in and sits down on the end of the bunk. He has put his key ring away, not wanting the metallic smell to corrupt the scent of lilies. "Where have you got it?"

Without asking how Jack knows, Potter raises one large gnarled hand — a carpenter’s hand — and touches his midsection. Then he lets it drop. "Started in the gut. That was five years ago. I took the pills and the shots like a good boy. La Riviere, that was. That stuff . . . man, I was throwing up ever’where. Corners and just about ever’where. Once I threw up in my own bed and didn’t even know it. Woke up the next morning with puke drying on my chest. You know anything about that, son?"

"My mother had cancer," Jack says quietly. "When I was twelve. Then it went away."

"She get five years?"

"More."

"Lucky," Potter says. "Got her in the end, though, didn’t it?"

Jack nods.

Potter nods back. They’re not quite friends yet, but it’s edging that way. It’s how Jack works, always has been.

"That shit gets in and waits," Potter tells him. "My theory is that it never goes away, not really. Anyway, shots is done. Pills is done, too. Except for the ones that kill the pain. I come here for the finish."

"Why?" This is not a thing Jack needs to know, and time is short, but it’s his technique, and he won’t abandon what works just because there are a couple of State Police jarheads downstairs waiting to take his boy. Dale will have to hold them off, that’s all.

"Seems like a nice enough little town. And I like the river. I go down ever’ day. Like to watch the sun on the water. Sometimes I think of all the jobs I did — Wisconsin, Minnesota, Illinois — and then sometimes I don’t think about much of anything. Sometimes I just sit there on the bank and feel at peace."

"What was your line of work, Mr. Potter?"

"Started out as a carpenter, just like Jesus. Progressed to builder, then got too big for my britches. When that happens to a builder, he usually goes around calling himself a contractor. I made three-four million dollars, had a Cadillac, had a young woman who hauled my ashes Friday nights. Nice young woman. No trouble. Then I lost it all. Only thing I missed was the Cadillac. It had a smoother ride than the woman. Then I got my bad news and come here."

He looks at Jack.

"You know what I think sometimes? That French Landing’s close to a better world, one where things look and smell better. Maybe where people act better. I don’t go around with folks — I’m not a friendly type person — but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel things. I got this idea in my head that it’s not too late to be decent. You think I’m crazy?"

"No," Jack tells him. "That’s pretty much why I came here myself. I’ll tell you how it is for me. You know how if you put a thin blanket over a window, the sun will still shine through?"

George Potter looks at him with eyes that are suddenly alight. Jack doesn’t even have to finish the thought, which is good. He has found the wavelength — he almost always does, it’s his gift — and now it’s time to get down to business.

"You do know," Potter says simply.

Jack nods. "You know why you’re here?"

"They think I killed that lady’s kid." Potter nods toward the window. "The one out there that was holdin’ up the noose. I didn’t. That’s what I know."

"Okay, that’s a start. Listen to me, now."

Very quickly, Jack lays out the chain of events that has brought Potter to this cell. Potter’s brow furrows as Jack speaks, and his big hands knot together.

"Railsback!" he says at last. "I shoulda known! Nosy goddamn old man, always askin’ questions, always askin’ do you want to play cards or maybe shoot some pool or, I dunno, play Parcheesi, for Christ’s sake! All so he can ask questions. Goddamn nosey parker . . ."

There’s more in this vein, and Jack lets him go on with it for a while. Cancer or no cancer, this old fellow has been ripped out of his ordinary routine without much mercy, and needs to vent a little. If Jack cuts him off to save time, he’ll lose it instead. It’s hard to be patient (how is Dale holding those two ass**les off ? Jack doesn’t even want to know), but patience is necessary. When Potter begins to widen the scope of his attack, however (Morty Fine comes in for some abuse, as does Andy Railsback’s pal Irv Throneberry), Jack steps in.

"The point is, Mr. Potter, that Railsback followed someone to your room. No, that’s the wrong way to put it. Railsback was led to your room."

Potter doesn’t reply, just sits looking at his hands. But he nods. He’s old, he’s sick and getting sicker, but he’s four counties over from stupid.

"The person who led Railsback was almost certainly the same person who left the Polaroids of the dead children in your closet."

"Yar, makes sense. And if he had pictures of the dead kiddies, he was prob’ly the one who made ’em dead."

"Right. So I have to wonder — "

Potter waves an impatient hand. "I guess I know what you got to wonder. Who there is around these parts who’d like to see Chicago Potsie strung up by the neck. Or the balls."

"Exactly."

"Don’t want to put a stick in your spokes, sonny, but I can’t think of nobody."

"No?" Jack raises his eyebrows. "Never did business around here, built a house or laid out a golf course?"

Potter raises his head and gives Jack a grin. "Course I did. How else d’you think I knew how nice it is? Specially in the summer? You know the part of town they call Libertyville? Got all those ‘ye olde’ streets like Camelot and Avalon?"

Jack nods.

"I built half of those. Back in the seventies. There was a fella around then . . . some moke I knew from Chicago . . . or thought I knew Was he in the business?" This last seems to be Potter addressing Potter. In any case, he gives his head a brief shake. "Can’t remember. Doesn’t matter, anyway. How could it? Fella was gettin’ on then, must be dead now. It was a long time ago."