بخش 03 - فصل 14

14

Morris is also having a busy day, and busy is good. As long as he’s in motion, the doubts and fears don’t have a chance to creep in. It helps that he woke up absolutely sure of one thing: this is the day he becomes a wolf for real. He’s all done patching up the Culture and Arts Center’s outdated computer filing system so his fat fuck of a boss can look good to his boss, and he’s done being Ellis McFarland’s pet lamb, too. No more baa-ing yes sir and no sir and three bags full sir each time McFarland shows up. Parole is finished. As soon as he has the Rothstein notebooks, he’s getting the hell out of this pisspot of a city. He has no interest in going north to Canada, but that leaves the whole Lower Forty-Eight. He thinks maybe he’ll opt for New England. Who knows, maybe even New Hampshire. Reading the notebooks there, near the same mountains Rothstein must have looked at while he was writing – that had a certain novelistic roundness, didn’t it? Yes, and that was the great thing about novels: that roundness. The way things always balanced out in the end. He should have known Rothstein couldn’t leave Jimmy working for that fucking ad agency, because there was no roundness in that, just a big old scoop of ugly. Maybe, deep down in his heart, Morris had known it. Maybe it was what kept him sane all those years.

He’s never felt saner in his life.

When he doesn’t show up for work this morning, his fat fuck boss will probably call McFarland. That, at least, is what he’s supposed to do in the event of an unexplained absence. So Morris has to disappear. Duck under the radar. Go dark.

Fine.

Terrific, in fact.

At eight this morning, he takes the Main Street bus, rides all the way to its turnaround point where Lower Main ends, and then strolls down to Lacemaker Lane. Morris has put on his only sportcoat and his only tie, and they’re good enough for him to not look out of place here, even though it’s too early for any of the fancy-schmancy stores to have opened. He turns down the alley between Andrew Halliday Rare Editions and the shop next door, La Bella Flora Children’s Boutique. There are three parking spaces in the small courtyard behind the buildings, two for the clothing shop and one for the bookshop. There’s a Volvo in one of the La Bella Flora spots. The other one is empty. So is the space reserved for Andrew Halliday.

Also fine.

Morris leaves the courtyard as briskly as he came, pauses for a comforting look at the CLOSED sign hanging inside the bookshop door, and then strolls back to Lower Main, where he catches an uptown bus. Two changes later, he’s stepping off in front of the Valley Plaza Shopping Center, just two blocks from the late Andrew Halliday’s home.

He walks briskly again, no strolling now. As if he knows where he is, where he’s going, and has every right to be here. Coleridge Street is nearly deserted, which doesn’t surprise him. It’s quarter past nine (his fat fuck of a boss will by now be looking at Morris’s unoccupied desk and fuming). The kids are in school; the workadaddies and workamommies are off busting heavies to keep up with their credit card debt; most delivery and service people won’t start cruising the neighborhood until ten. The only better time would be the dozy hours of mid-afternoon, and he can’t afford to wait that long. Too many places to go, too many things to do. This is Morris Bellamy’s big day. His life has taken a long, long detour, but he’s almost back on the mainline.