Gone Girl(99)

He picked up on the first ring. ‘Yeah?’

‘This is Nick Dunne. You called me about my wife. Amy Dunne. Amy Elliott. I have to talk with you.’

I heard a pause, waited for him to hang up on me like Hilary Handy.

‘Call me back in ten minutes.’

I did. The background was a bar, I knew the sound well enough: the murmur of drinkers, the clatter of ice cubes, the strange pops of noise as people called for drinks or hailed friends. I had a burst of homesickness for my own place.

‘Okay, thanks,’ he said. ‘Had to get to a bar. Seemed like a Scotch conversation.’ His voice got progressively closer, thicker: I could picture him huddling protectively over a drink, cupping his mouth to the phone.

‘So,’ I began, ‘I got your messages.’

‘Right. She’s still missing, right? Amy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can I ask you what you think has happened?’ he said. ‘To Amy?’

Fuck it, I wanted a drink. I went into my kitchen – next best thing to my bar – and poured myself one. I’d been trying to be more careful about the booze, but it felt so good: the tang of a Scotch, a dark room with the blinding sun right outside.

‘Can I ask you why you called?’ I replied.

‘I’ve been watching the coverage,’ he said. ‘You’re f*cked.’

‘I am. I wanted to talk to you because I thought it was … interesting that you’d try to get in touch. Considering. The rape charge.’

‘Ah, you know about that,’ he said.

‘I know there was a rape charge, but I don’t necessarily believe you’re a rapist. I wanted to hear what you had to say.’

‘Yeah.’ I heard him take a gulp of his Scotch, kill it, shake the ice cubes around. ‘I caught the story on the news one night. Your story. Amy’s. I was in bed, eating Thai. Minding my own business. Totally f*cked me in the head. Her after all these years.’ He called to the bartender for another. ‘So my lawyer said no way I should talk to you, but … what can I say? I’m too f*cking nice. I can’t let you twist. God, I wish you could still smoke in bars. This is a Scotch and cigarette conversation.’

‘Tell me,’ I said. ‘About the assault charge. The rape.’

‘Like I said, man, I’ve seen the coverage, the media is shitting all over you. I mean, you’re the guy. So I should leave well enough alone – I don’t need that girl back in my life. Even, like, tangentially. But shit. I wish someone had done me the favor.’

‘So do me the favor,’ I said.

‘First of all, she dropped the charges – you know that, right?’

‘I know. Did you do it?’

‘Fuck you. Of course I didn’t do it. Did you do it?’

‘No.’

‘Well.’

Tommy called again for his Scotch. ‘Let me ask: Your marriage was good? Amy was happy?’

I stayed silent.

‘You don’t have to answer, but I’m going to guess no. Amy was not happy. For whatever reason. I’m not even going to ask. I can guess, but I’m not going to ask. But I know you must know this: Amy likes to play God when she’s not happy. Old Testament God.’

‘Meaning?’

‘She doles out punishment,’ Tommy said. ‘Hard.’ He laughed into the phone. ‘I mean, you should see me,’ he said. ‘I do not look like some alpha-male rapist. I look like a twerp. I am a twerp. My goto karaoke song is “Sister Christian,” for crying out loud. I weep during Godfather II. Every time.’ He coughed after a swallow. Seemed like a moment to loosen him up.

‘Fredo?’ I asked.

‘Fredo, man, yeah. Poor Fredo.’

‘Stepped over.’

Most men have sports as the lingua-franca of dudes. This was the film-geek equivalent to discussing some great play in a famous football game. We both knew the line, and the fact that we both knew it eliminated a good day’s worth of are we copacetic small talk.

He took another drink. ‘It was so f*cking absurd.’

‘Tell me.’

‘You’re not taping this or anything, right? No one’s listening in? Because I don’t want that.’

‘Just us. I’m on your side.’

‘So I meet Amy at a party – this is, like, seven years ago now – and she’s so damn cool. Just hilarious and weird and … cool. We just clicked, you know, and I don’t click with a lot of girls, at least not girls who look like Amy. So I’m thinking … well, first I’m thinking I’m being punked. Where’s the catch, you know? But we start dating, and we date a few months, two, three months, and then I find out the catch: She’s not the girl I thought I was dating. She can quote funny things, but she doesn’t actually like funny things. She’d rather not laugh, anyway. In fact, she’d rather that I not laugh either, or be funny, which is awkward since it’s my job, but to her, it’s all a waste of time. I mean, I can’t even figure out why she started dating me in the first place, because it seems pretty clear that she doesn’t even like me. Does that make sense?’

I nodded, swallowed a gulp of Scotch. ‘Yeah. It does.’

‘So, I start making excuses not to hang out so much. I don’t call it off, because I’m an idiot, and she’s gorgeous. I’m hoping it might turn around. But you know, I’m making excuses fairly regularly: I’m stuck at work, I’m on deadline, I have a friend in town, my monkey is sick, whatever. And I start seeing this other girl, kinda sorta seeing her, very casual, no big deal. Or so I think. But Amy finds out – how, I still don’t know, for all I know, she was staking out my apartment. But … shit …’