Black House (Page 128)

Jack nods.

"Only house I ever heard of people were calling haunted even before it was all the way built. I got the idea that he had to finish most of it himself."

"What else did they say about this place?" Jack puts the question idly, as if he doesn’t care much one way or the other, but he cares a lot. He has never heard of a so-called haunted house in French Landing. He knows he hasn’t been here anywhere near long enough to hear all the tales and legends, but something like this . . . you’d think something like this would pop out of the deck early.

"Ah, man, I can’t remember. Just that . . ." He pauses, eyes distant. Outside the building, the crowd is finally beginning to disperse. Jack wonders how Dale is doing with Brown and Black. The time seems to be racing, and he hasn’t gotten what he needs from Potter. What he’s gotten so far is just enough to tantalize.

"One guy told me the sun never shone there even when it shone," Potter says abruptly. "He said the house was a little way off the road, in a clearing, and it should have gotten sun at least five hours a day in the summer, but it somehow . . . didn’t. He said the guys lost their shadows, just like in a fairy tale, and they didn’t like it. And sometimes they heard a dog growling in the woods. Sounded like a big one. A mean one. But they never saw it. You know how it is, I imagine. Stories get started, and then they just kinda feed on themselves . . ."

Potter’s shoulders suddenly slump. His head lowers.

"Man, that’s all I can remember."

"What was the moke’s name when he was in Chicago?"

"Can’t remember."

Jack suddenly thrusts his open hands under Potter’s nose. With his head lowered, Potter doesn’t see them until they’re right there, and he recoils, gasping. He gets a noseful of the dying smell on Jack’s skin.

"What . . . ? Jesus, what’s that?" Potter seizes one of Jack’s hands and sniffs again, greedily. "Boy, that’s nice. What is it?"

"Lilies," Jack says, but it’s not what he thinks. What he thinks is The memory of my mother. "What was the moke’s name when he was in Chicago?"

"It . . . something like beer stein. That’s not it, but it’s close. Best I can do."

"Beer stein," Jack says. "And what was his name when he got to French Landing three years later?"

Suddenly there are loud, arguing voices on the stairs. "I don’t care!" someone shouts. Jack thinks it’s Black, the more officious one. "It’s our case, he’s our prisoner, and we’re taking him out! Now!"

Dale: "I’m not arguing. I’m just saying that the paperwork — "

Brown: "Aw, f**k the paperwork. We’ll take it with us."

"What was his name in French Landing, Potsie?"

"I can’t — " Potsie takes Jack’s hands again. Potsie’s own hands are dry and cold. He smells Jack’s palms, eyes closed. On the long exhale of his breath he says: "Burnside. Chummy Burnside. Not that he was chummy. The nickname was a joke. I think his real handle might have been Charlie."

Jack takes his hands back. Charles "Chummy" Burnside. Once known as Beer Stein. Or something like Beer Stein.

"And the house? What was the name of the house?"

Brown and Black are coming down the corridor now, with Dale scurrying after them. There’s no time, Jack thinks. Damnit all, if I had even five minutes more — 

And then Potsie says, "Black House. I don’t know if that’s what he called it or what the subs workin’ the job got to calling it, but that was the name, all right."

Jack’s eyes widen. The image of Henry Leyden’s cozy living room crosses his mind: sitting with a drink at his elbow and reading about Jarndyce and Jarndyce. "Did you say Bleak House?"

"Black," Potsie reiterates impatiently. "Because it really was. It was — "

"Oh dear to Christ," one of the state troopers says in a snotty look-what-the-cat-dragged-in voice that makes Jack feel like rearranging his face. It’s Brown, but when Jack glances up, it’s Brown’s partner he looks at. The coincidence of the other trooper’s name makes Jack smile.

"Hello, boys," Jack says, getting up from the bunk.

"What are you doing here, Hollywood?" Black asks.

"Just batting the breeze and waiting for you," Jack says, and smiles brilliantly. "I suppose you want this guy."

"You’re goddamn right," Brown growls. "And if you f**ked up our case — "

"Gosh, I don’t think so," Jack says. It’s a struggle, but he manages to achieve a tone of amiability. Then, to Potsie: "You’ll be safer with them than here in French Landing, sir."

George Potter looks vacant again. Resigned. "Don’t matter much either way," he says, then smiles as a thought occurs to him. "If old Chummy’s still alive, and you run across him, you might ask him if his ass still hurts from that diddling I gave him back in ’69. And tell him old Chicago Potsie says hello."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Brown asks, glowering. He has his cuffs out, and is clearly itching to snap them on George Potter’s wrists.

"Old times," Jack says. He stuffs his fragrant hands in his pockets and leaves the cell. He smiles at Brown and Black. "Nothing to concern you boys."

Trooper Black turns to Dale. "You’re out of this case," he says. "Those are words of one syllable. I can’t make it any simpler. So tell me once and mean it forever, Chief: Do you understand?"

"Of course I do," Dale said. "Take the case and welcome. But get off the tall white horse, willya? If you expected me to simply stand by and let a crowd of drunks from the Sand Bar take this man out of Lucky’s and lynch him — "