Last to Know: A Novel(21)

A few weeks ago a local family had lost their dog, combing the woods, calling its name, but Len had spotted it first and thought it would be the making of his collection. The lost dog had come eagerly to him when he whistled; it had no reason to fear humans. Except this one. Len had slit its throat, carefully because he did not want to ruin the pelt, carried the dead dog back to his shed, and shut him up in there for a few days until the hue and cry died down, dousing him in an insecticide, the use of which was normally against his principles but he had to prevent flies and maggots.

He had enjoyed skinning the animal, enjoyed burning the entrails, the tissue, the detritus of a body, in his homemade barbecue oven, its stones glowing hot, smoke streaming straight up into a flawless sky. If anybody noticed, they assumed Len was burning off his plant waste, getting his crops in order for the next season. Anyhow, nobody ever bothered to go up there to see what was what; Len had become enough of a background creature to warrant no attention, an oddball of no importance, a bit crazy maybe but harmless.

Len was lying when he said he did not know Lacey Havnel. Of course he knew her. He’d met her years ago when he was around thirty and she was in her twenties and called by some other name, in Miami, Florida, where he was working at a marina, servicing boats and drinking a lot, and she was a bar girl living in a studio apartment that qualified in squalor as well as in glitter, because “Lacey” adored sequins and rhinestones, though she would have preferred diamonds. There was no kid then. Later Lacey had attempted to palm off the paternity of her daughter on Len, but he was sure the kid was not his. No way. He was too careful a man for that. That was many years ago now, long enough to be forgotten. It was because of their old connection, though, that Lacey Havnel had found him again.

She traced him, via old bar acquaintances, and newspaper ads. She called him, told him she was in trouble and it was his duty, for old times’ sake, to help her. “Don’t have no money,” was what he told her.

“Don’t need none,” was her reply. “All I need is to hide.”

The name she’d gone by when Len first met her was Carrie Murphy. She’d gone through various marriages and aliases since then and had finally taken the name of a dead woman, Lacey Havnel, she told Len, because she had been able to get her hands on her social security number and driving license. The daughter, she also told him, was the remnant of a marriage gone wrong. Len did not believe this.

Their encounter, when all this had been discussed, had taken place in Miami a few months ago. Lured by Lacey’s promise of money from a big “business deal” she was about to be involved in, Len drove there in his woodie, carefully of course, because it was an antique car that caused a few admiring comments en route. When he saw her again for the first time in more than thirty years—he was in his sixties now, she, he guessed, in her fifties—he told her she had not aged one bit. And thanks to plastic surgery she appeared not to have.

“You don’t know it, Len, but I’ve already been to Evening Lake, inspected the area with an eye to my business.”

Lacey told him this, sitting in a bar over glasses of his favorite Jameson, something she’d remembered he liked, which kinda pleased him.

He was wearing his cleaner summer pants and had bought a new T-shirt for the occasion. He’d also taken a shower at the Dade County motel Lacey had recommended. Len had not been out of his own environment, mixing with real folks, in years. He felt wary as a stray cat, felt like everybody was looking at him, hated the cars, the noisy streets, the endless flatness of the Florida he had driven through.

“Why am I here?” he asked finally. She sat opposite him at a corner table in the dark bar. It was late afternoon and the place was practically empty. The bartender wiped down his counter with a slick cloth, and rearranged his bottles, disinterested. A fan smeared the thick air around them. Len felt sweat trickle down his neck. He wiped it with his hand, then wiped his hand on his pants. Lacey’s chin lifted, her mouth pulled in distaste.

“I have a package for you to deliver,” she said. “It must be at this address by five tomorrow morning. You are to leave it in the mailbox at the front gate of the house.” She showed him a piece of paper with an address in Boca Raton. “You do this for me, Len, and I will pay you five hundred dollars.”

He looked at her, still silent.

“Cash,” she added. “And if you get this right, there’ll be more where that came from.”

“It’s illegal,” Len said flatly. The fact that what he did himself, in the privacy of his own shed, was actually criminal, was different.

“Of course it’s illegal. Why the f*ck else would I pay you to deliver something practically round the corner. You take the risk, you get paid, and I am in the clear.”

“Drugs,” Len said.

Lacey patted the blond ponytail pulled through her white visor, fluffed her bangs, looked away.

“You don’t need to know what it is. None of your business. You are simply a messenger, a delivery man. And nobody knows you. That’s why you’re perfect for the job.” She sat back and gave him the kind of smile he remembered from when they were both young. “You owe me, Len,” she said. “You had my best years and you know it.”

Len didn’t know about that but still, she was the closest to a human relationship he had ever had. “I’ll do it,” he said. “Gettin’ older, could use a little money for my retirement years.”