The Duration Read online

  I went back into town and filled Unsie in on what was going on. Told him about Robbie Golack and the oxycodone and where Chick was. Extracted from him a reluctant promise to visit Chick on Wednesday. Said I’d be calling. Heard the bells at St. Barney’s herald the start of eleven o’clock Mass.

  Then I hit the Pike and didn’t breathe until Boston.

  I wasn’t a huge fan of my job, but that week I loved it. I loved my colleagues, I loved my city, I loved riding on the urine-scented subway with people I didn’t recognize. With Kelly gone, my apartment was quiet and boring, and I could do pushups and try on suits and walk around in my boxers holding a beer and nobody was like “How’s that ‘Most Likely to Succeed’ stuff working out?” Not that Kelly ever said that. It was more something I said to myself.

  Kelly and I had one of those photo wall-collages that happy couples make, vacations and hugs and beaches and such, and when she left she took about half of the photos, the ones with us and other people, the ones where we looked happy, and the pattern that remained was like an archipelago of melancholy. So I took the rest of the photos down, boxed them up carefully, shelved them in one of the now-empty closets, and covered the holes with a long horizontal poster of spread-armed Michael Jordan, circa 1991, saying “No bird soars too high if he soars with his own wings.” I spread my own wings, could have touched both sides of the kitchen if I wasn’t holding a beer.

  And the city! Boston could be great when you didn’t expect it to care about you. Maybe that’s true of most cities, but it’s truer of Boston. Boston! Badass, unfriendly, steel and cement and glass. Beefy cops and bent Brahmins, students and Jamaicans and Irish, the pale tribes of the Hub, gaunt but sturdy, brittle but unfrail, their traumas weaponized like bionics. Every day I left my apartment at 7 A.M., walked to work through the fragrant frost, stayed at my desk until nearly midnight, and walked back home again in the dark, when the steakhouses along Faneuil Hall made the air smell like meat. My supervisors at Huey Huckle—my firm—were impressed. Most of the work was mindless—discovery responses, motions to compel, document review—but I plowed through it with the endurance of a gunner. I invented witnesses to depose and prepped the outlines. I wrote several really nasty letters. I researched opposing counsel, opened new matters. Midweek I even won a dismissal in a stupid premises liability suit in which a woman had sued my client, a big box retailer whose name I’m ethically prohibited from telling you but it rhymes with Ball-Mart, after she rammed one of those Mart Carts into the in-store Pizza Hut counter and sustained a pepperoni-sized burn on her right breast just above the nipple. Unfortunately for her, toxicology said she’d been drunk at the time.

  And every day, at 6 P.M., I called the Birches and checked on Chick. On Monday, he was shaky, resentful. On Tuesday and Wednesday, he sounded better, weak but resigned. Unsie went on Wednesday and said Chick seemed together.

  On Thursday, he was gone.

  On Friday, my office phone rang at noon. I’d been there all night. The partners thought I was a lifer.

  “Johansson,” I said.

  It was Unsie.

  “He’s in jail,” he said. “I’m inclined to leave him there.”

  For the young Bollywood star Vishy Shetty, it had been a rough year. She’d first come to prominence in late 2008, in a film called Tiger Tiger, in which she played a rookie zoologist racing against time to save the big cats of Rajasthan from an urban development project spearheaded by the rakish industrialist Anil Dutta. Shetty had brown eyes that were as big as milk saucers and curves both hidden and accentuated by a completely impractical ghagra choli. Dutta never stood a chance.

  A string of movies followed, fluff pieces that padded her bank account(s) and kept her in the public eye but didn’t advance her into superstardom, and she was beginning to feel a little desperate. Her last picture, a song-and-dance number about the Indian Ocean tsunami released in the spring of 2011, had been poorly received, and she had sought refuge on the set of an English reality series called All Eyez, which tracked the interactions of a rather toxic mix of young celebrities forced to spend a trimester as students at one of Oxford’s less prestigious colleges. The reality show route had proved lucrative for other rising Indian B-listers, much of whose viewing public retained a sort of Stockholm syndrome curiosity for all things British, but the set itself had turned out to be less of a refuge than Vishy Shetty had hoped. At the end of week four, she was shown having a vaguely racist row with one of the other cast members after her purse was lost on an Oxford double-decker—hint: one of the producers took it—and later that season, she’d been caught by the night-vision cameras, set up about the back patio of the Woodstock Road flat where the cast was imprisoned, making out with the same cast member. The season descended into fights, flirtation, pints and biscuits and chips, and a brutal website called All Thighz sprang up that purported to track the weight gain of the female cast members—hint: one of the producers created it. Things really went south, however, when Vishy Shetty attempted to send a rather unchaste selfie via Twitter to a magnificent West Ham striker named Alo Djibouti. Ms. Shetty had apparently intended to send the photo, in which she was poorly lit but nonetheless stood in marked contrast to the insinuations of weight gain made online, as a direct message but, somehow (hint: you already know) it wound up being transmitted to all of her 675,000 Twitter followers.

  Alo Djibouti, who was himself already engaged to a proper English rose named Saffron Leeds, strenuously denied soliciting the photo, and at first claimed to not even know who was in it. However, subsequent digital investigation by media outlets suggested a closer relationship than either party initially let on. Saffron Leeds appeared on the plush couches of a Sussex television studio to publicly dump Djibouti, after which West Ham lost its next three matches. The British tabloids, while sparing Djibouti, leapt on the young Bollywood temptress, with the Telegraph running a full-page denunciation (complete with the incriminating photo, of course) and the headline “A Vishy Shetty Thing to Do.” The Sun went with “Delhi Belly: Not Enough Saffron for Djibouti.” Enraged West Ham fans began picketing the Woodstock flat and, citing security concerns, the producers pulled Ms. Shetty from season two of All Eyez. (Hint: There’s a comeback in the works.) For the time being, she had to get out of England, but was being financially cautioned by her handlers against returning home in disgrace.

  Where could she go that didn’t care about Premier League soccer and naked tweets and the subcontinent? Where could she go that presented a plausible recuperative cover story while not implicating drugs or alcohol or other serious vices, which might resonate with the masses of South Indian youngsters for whom the West remained a land of manners and manors and puritan refinement?

  Which is how Vishy Shetty came to be spending a month at Head-Connect in snowy, blasé New England, as opposed to snippy, jaded olde England, in the late winter of 2012. Which, in turn, is why security around the spa’s perimeter, which was normally (relatively) lax, eyes out for deer and thrill-seekers, was on (relatively) high alert the night that Chick tried to sneak in.

  I found a lot of this out after the fact, of course, after I left Boston, breathless badass Boston, late on that blustery Friday night, and wound my way back into the Berkshires. I went to the Gable police station, where Chick was not, and then met up with Unsie at the Heirloom and got the story of Chick’s ill-fated attempt to breach the walls of Fleur-de-Lys with a hook-and-ladder type thing he’d found in a toolshed at the Birches. Apparently, he’d slipped and landed on topiary, right next to where Vishy Shetty had been furtively smoking her last pre-intake cigarette. She screamed, and the jig was up.

  “What the fuck?” I asked.

  Unsie blew through his cheeks.

  “On the plus side, he was sober.”

  I considered that. It seemed promising, actually.

  “Have you seen him?”

  Unsie nodded.

  “Chief Grevantz knew that we were pals and came by this morning.”

  “Greva
ntz is the police chief?” I asked.

  Unsie nodded again.

  “Is that weird?”

  He shrugged.

  “I don’t know. Is it?”

  My turn to shrug.

  “Seems weird to me. Seems like he shouldn’t still be here.”

  Unsie looked at his beer.

  “Why not? He put in his time, worked his way up. Made a future for himself. There’s a way to do it.”

  I felt like I’d insulted him somehow, and we fell silent for a minute. Then he picked it up again.

  “Not a bad guy, actually. Good skier, good with the local media, such as it is. Coaches T-ball. Supports the town, supports the store, et cetera. That’s about all it takes for me.”

  I thought for a minute about how to use that information, if indeed it was usable.

  “So where is Chickie now?” I asked.

  Unsie shrugged, and then pulled out his cell phone.

  Unsie had his best, and his most important, customers on speed dial. Chief Grevantz was one of the latter. Head-Connect was one of the former. After a couple of calls, he’d located Chickie at the lockup next to Berkshire Superior Court, half an hour to the north in Knotsford. His arraignment was set for Monday morning at eight.

  “No visitation on the weekends,” Unsie said.

  I was sort of relieved. But then my own phone buzzed. It was the lockup. Which meant it was Chicke.

  I stepped outside, onto the Heirloom’s wheelchair ramp, to take it.

  “Guy,” I said.

  “Guy!” he said back, chipper and upbeat. He sounded great, actually.

  “What the fuck, guy?”

  “You heard?” Slightly more downbeat, but not by much.

  “Uns.”

  “This is my phone call! I’m calling you with my phone call.”

  “I’m flattered, guy. How are you?”

  “I think I broke my back,” he said. “But not too bad. But listen! I can’t talk long.”

  “Why not?”

  “Regulations. I don’t know. Guy, I saw it. I saw it!”

  He was practically yelling into the phone. Whatever he saw, the rest of the lockup was going to hear about.

  “You know this line is recorded, right?” I said.

  He made a noise like psssssh.

  “I don’t give a shit. I saw the safe. On the way out, they led me through the lobby. It’s right there, in a room off of the middle. Like a display or something.”

  “They led you through the lobby?”

  “Yeah, they thought I was a guest at first, probably because I said I was a guest, but then when I couldn’t give them a room number, they thought I was paparazzi or a hooligan or some shit. Called the cops. Guess what?”

  He was humming.

  “What?”

  “Grevantz is the police chief now! He remembered me. That didn’t help. And guess what else? Ava Winston, from Tanglewood? She works there too! In, like, guest services. I think she was trying to help me out, but the main guys weren’t having it.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Yeah, wow! And the safe. Right there! I knew it!”

  My fingers were freezing and it felt like my lips were turning blue. I stomped my feet.

  “Dude, do you have a lawyer?”

  “Don’t need a lawyer.”

  “What do you mean? You got a hearing on Monday.”

  “It’s just an arraignment,” he said, sounding like a guy who knew more about it than he should. “Court will appoint a lawyer for that.”

  I’d gone to law school and had spent the past three years as a litigator at a pretty decent little firm, but I had almost no idea what actually happened inside a criminal courtroom. People would sometimes ask me for help with their DUIs and speeding tickets and I’d feel like a dentist looking at a guy’s foot.

  “Okay,” I said. “So what now?”

  “We gotta get it!” he nearly shouted. “Get in there. Get into the safe. Take the horn. You know what they call a rhino without a horn? A hippo!”

  This was stupid. I looked around the sidewalk. It was so cold that when I exhaled, the breath seemed resentful. So cold you could almost see the black air shimmering like oil. Anyway, what was wrong with hippos?

  “How do you know it’s in there?” I asked.

  “Come on,” he said. “Of course it’s in there.”

  Well, it either was or it wasn’t, I guess.

  “Dude, I’m fucking freezing out here. What is the point of getting it? What then?”

  “Well, first, let’s strategize. How are we going to get it?” he asked.

  “Fuck if I know!” I said. The fricatives helped my lips. “Wait, I do know. We are not going to get it. I’m not going to get it. But let’s say that you can somehow magically get inside the safe, and the horn is there, and you take out the horn, all without getting arrested. What would the point of that be?”

  I looked up. The volume I was conducting this scheme in was good for my circulation, but maybe not for logistics.

  “So,” continuing in a whisper. “What would the point be? What then?”

  There was a pause. A long pause, like he was doing it for effect.

  “Then,” he said. “It’s obvious.”

  “It’s not obvious to me.”

  “Well if it’s not obvious to you, I’m not going to tell you,” he said. “Drug free, by the way. Five days and counting.”

  “Right, right,” I started to say. “And that’s great. But, I mean, what the—”

  The phone went dead.

  Asshole.

  “Ain’t gonna work,” a voice said behind me.

  I turned around. It was Tim-Rick Golack. He was standing on the sidewalk.

  “No shit, Sherlock,” I said. Paused. I didn’t disagree with the conclusion, but I also wasn’t sure how much he’d heard. “What’s not gonna work?”

  He stepped up onto the ramp.

  “They run the place pretty tight,” he said. “Most of their clientele are both rich and image-conscious. I can’t even get past the guard booth.”

  I nodded.

  “Thanks for the info.”

  We were silent.

  “I heard you saw my brother the other day,” he said.

  I shifted my weight slightly, holding it on my back foot, ready to launch an overhand right.

  “Are we going to have a problem about that?” I asked. Seemed like a dumb question. It was his brother.

  Tim-Rick looked down and shook his head.

  “Nope,” he said. “Not about that. My brother’s a drug addict. Like your boy. But unlike you, I walked away. I haven’t talked to him in years, and I plan to keep it that way.”

  I shrugged, but held my position.

  “What is it with you and him, anyway?”

  Tim-Rick looked at me.

  “Who? Robbie?”

  “Chickie,” I said. “What was all that bullshit about?”

  Tim-Rick looked uncomfortable. He was quiet for a long time.

  “I don’t even know. Just, something about the guy. It’s like he thinks he should get all the breaks.”

  I frowned.

  “I can pretty much guarantee he doesn’t think that.”

  Tim-Rick shrugged.

  “Well, he gets them anyway.”

  I snorted.

  “You have any idea about the breaks he’s gotten?”

  Tim-Rick scrunched up his face a little, preparing to be un-PC, maybe.

  “Oh, right. One perv gets a little handsy in the choir and now this kid is the golden child? Please. Bad shit happens to everyone.”

  That was true enough. But, come on. Some kids get dumped. Chick got more than that.

  “Careful,” I said. “He’s my best friend.”

  “I know he is,” Tim-Rick said. “And I’m glad he’s yours and not mine. I didn’t mess up his knee or do anything else to him. I don’t owe him anything. I don’t owe anyone and nobody owes me. This life, man. Get with it.”

 
; There was shit here I didn’t have the bandwidth for. I decided to try and steer the conversation back to transitional pleasantries. If we were clear on his brother, I was gonna mosey.

  “Well, good for fucking you,” I said. “Whatever. Nobody’s looking for handouts anyway. But, hey, I guess I should warn you, I think I let the cat out of the bag a little when I saw your brother.”

  “About what?” Tim-Rick Golack asked.

  “About Ginny,” I said. “I hear you’re going to be a father.”

  Tim-Rick blanched.

  “You told my brother?” he asked, slightly panicked. “Jesus Christ.”

  Then he took a deep breath and spat into the snow. He raised a finger and pointed it at me.

  “Stay out of that,” he said.

  He turned to go back inside, but then reversed himself and headed off down the street.

  “Yo,” I started to say. “I’m sorry!”

  But he was gone.

  Goddamn, this shit was exhausting. First Chick and now this dude. I was legitimately happy for him. Or for Ginny at least. I didn’t know it was classified info. Ginny wasn’t fooling anyone.

  I gave it a second, then went back in and cut a path through the Friday night crowd to our booth. It was closing in on 9 P.M., and the bar was packed and sweaty. It felt desperate. Unsie looked impatient.

  I slid in across from him and coddled my beer.

  “So he still wants to break into Head-Connect,” I said, putting my phone on the table. “He says he saw the safe in the lobby, and he thinks the rhino horn is inside it.”

  Unsie nodded.

  “There is a safe in the lobby,” he said. “But there’s nothing inside it.”

  “You’ve seen it?”

  He looked at me.

  “I’ve seen a safe in the lobby. An old one. That’s where we meet for the Nordic tours. The thing is decorative. It’s not the Royal Bank of Scotland or something.”

  I banked with the Royal Bank of Scotland, and they sucked.

  “For a guy who hates going inside, you sound pretty sure. Tim-Rick Golack just told me that he couldn’t get past security at the front gate,” I said.