The Dog Killer of Utica by Frank Lentricchia Read Free Book Online Page B

wife knows, Novak.”
    “She doesn’t.”
    “She’s lying.” (Civilized professor gives way quickly to the rough-edged former private investigator, lurking beneath.)
    “How can you say this of my wife that she is lying?”
    “Used to be my business.”
    “Lying wives?”
    “Missing kids. Boys. They confide in the mothers. Thefather as usual’s in the dark. Yeah, lying wives too who do extramarital f-, screwing.”
    “They came this afternoon, Eliot.”
    “Mark Martello.”
    “Yes.”
    “Who else?”
    “Only him.”
    “You said ‘they,’ Novak.”
    “Forgive me. With a thing like this I feel again the force of the government in my home country. There, it is never one. Always many. Forgive me. Only Mr. Martello.”
    “Who said what, exactly?”
    “That my Mirko may have entered into questionable contact with our new Imam. Questionable contact, he said. Was he at home? No, I said. Do you know where he is? No, I said. Mr. Martello said if I knew and did not tell that I myself would become questionable.”
    “Did you lie to Martello?”
    “No.”
    “Are you lying to me now?”
    “No.”
    “I’m reserving judgment, Novak.”
    “Please, Eliot.”
    “Did he ask to speak to your wife?”
    “Yes. I told him she was quite sick and could not be disturbed.”
    “Is she sick? Were you lying to Martello?”
    “In a way, she is always sick, in a way. Eliot, I fear Homeland Security.”
    “We all do.”
    “What can I do?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Sit in my home and become crazy?”
    “Yes.”
    “Can you help me?”
    “I’ll talk to Martello tomorrow.”
    “Tell him Mirko is good.”
    “That’s not the point, Novak.”
    “That is the only point, Eliot.”
    (Pause.)
    “I need to talk to your wife. Tonight.”
    Ivanovic leads Conte into the dining room—a table of sumptuous African Rosewood and chairs with merciful seats, in contrast to the flesh-denying Danish furniture in the parlor. Two places set with expensive china and silverware and two serving dishes loaded with pastry. Ivanovic pours the coffee. Though an insatiable pastry hound from childhood, Conte cannot help asking why so much. Ivanovic says, “This is from The Florentine and this from Caruso’s. It is impossible to eat all of these. I know this. Not wise for my cholesterol, but I cannot go to The Florentine without going to Caruso’s. If I go only to The Florentine and Ricky Caruso sees me with the bag, it causes me to believe that I am causing Ricky to feel sad. This thought causes me to feel sad. Now, neither Ricky or I feel sad.”
    “You’re a good man, Novak. Now take me to your wife.”
    “Not a good idea.”
    “Who are the upstairs tenants?”
    “We are.”
    “The three of you on two floors?”
    “Unfortunately.”
    “Who lives on the second floor?”
    “My wife and Mirko.”
    “The attic? Anybody up there?”
    “No.”
    “When
they
come back,
they
will go through this place with a fine-tooth comb.”
    “You may talk to my wife, but she will not talk to you. Since the separation, she went up there and I stayed down here and she will not speak.”
    Neither has yet touched the pastries or the coffee. Neither will.
    “When she hears me ascending the stairs, she locks the door, unless it is time for me to bring dinner. My wife gets no exercise, Eliot. She is filling out, as they say.”
    “Take me to Mirko’s room.”
    “He’s not there.”
    “I need to look at the room. Now.”
    They ascend the darkened stairs—the door to the wife’s room is closed. Sounds of a radio tuned to a rap station. The door to Mirko’s room is open.
    “Your wife or Mirko in the attic? Which one?”
    “Mirko is gone. I do not lie.”
    Conte goes to the desk in Mirko’s room, picks up the laptop, “For the sake of Mirko and your family I’m taking this before
they
do.” Conte notes the large poster of Natalie Portman in
Black Swan
. Grace and pain. A jihadist’s icon? He says, “I’m going to look through the drawers of the desk