Free A Drink Before the War by Dennis Lehane Page B

simple.”
    â€œAnd when you raided their files, how plain and simple was that?”
    Jenna looked confused. So did Simone. It’s possible they actually were, but then, if she had stolen the files, looking completely aware of what I was talking about probably wasn’t the best idea. Simone said, “What the hell are you talking about?”
    Jenna was watching me steadily, her hands kneading the fabric of her skirt. She was considering something and, for a moment, the intelligence that entered her eyes swampedall that weariness like a wave over a rowboat. Then it was gone again and the eyes dulled. She said, “Simone, I’d like to talk to this man alone for a few minutes.”
    Simone didn’t like it, but after a minute or so, she and Angie went into the kitchen. Simone’s voice was loud and unhappy, but Angie has a way with loud and unhappy. You don’t live in a marriage of arbitrary rages, unfounded jealousies, and sudden accusations without growing adept at dealing with another’s hostility in a small room. When dealing with whiners or ragers of any sort—those who always see themselves as victims of life’s vast conspiracy to ruin their day or are unreasonable or choking on some predictable, paltry anger—Angie’s gaze grows flat and level, her head and body become as still as a statue, and the whiner or the rager vents until that gaze forces them to sputter, to weaken, to exhaust themselves. You either wither under the calm logic of it, blanch in the face of its daunting maturity, or you lash out against it, like Phil, and negate yourself. I know; I’ve been the focus of that gaze a time or two myself.
    In the living room, Jenna’s eyes were fastened firmly on the floor and if she kneaded that skirt any harder the thread would begin pooling at her feet. She said, “Whyn’t you tell me why you’ve come up here for me.”
    I thought about it. I’ve been wrong about people before. Several times. I go on the presumption that everyone’s full of shit until proven otherwise, and this usually serves me in good stead. But every now and then, I think a person has proven himself otherwise, only to discover the shit later, usually in painful ways. Jenna didn’t strike me as a liar. She didn’t look like she knew how, but often it’s people just like that who wouldn’t know the truth if it was wearing an ID card on its lapel.
    I said, “You have certain documents. I was hired to retrieve them.” I spread my hands, palms up. “Simple as that.”
    â€œDocuments?” she said, spitting it. “Documents. Damn.” She stood and began pacing and suddenly shelooked a lot stronger than her sister, a lot more determined. She had no trouble meeting my eyes now. Hers were red and hard, and I realized, once again, that people aren’t born weary and beaten, they get that way.
    She said, “Let me tell you , Mr. Kenzie”—and pointed a stiff finger at me—“that’s one hell of a funny word. ‘Documents.’” Her head was down again and she was pacing in a tight circle with borders only she could see. “Documents,” she said again. “Well, OK, call them what you will. Yes, sir. Call them what you will.”
    â€œWhat would you call them, Mrs. Angeline?”
    â€œI ain’t no missus.”
    â€œOK. What would you call them, Ms. Angeline?”
    She looked at me, her whole body beginning to quiver with rage. The red of her eyes had darkened and her chin was pointed out straight and unyielding. She said, “All my life, nobody ever need me. Know what I mean?”
    I shrugged.
    â€œNeed,” she said. “Nobody ever need me. People want me, sure. For a few hours or so, a week maybe, they say, ‘Jenna clean room one-oh-five,’ or ‘Jenna, run down the store for me,’ or real sweet they say, ‘Jenna, honey, come on over here and lie down