Page 117 of The Instruments of Darkness

“Let me write down my address.”

CHAPTER LXXIV

Bobby Ocean had both aged and shrunk since the death of his son. His clothing hung baggily on his frame and his hair had gone from gray to pure white. I might have felt some sympathy had he not been such a poisonous individual, or had his physical diminution been accompanied by a corresponding dilution of his venom. Instead, the latter had become more concentrated; his recruitment of Antoine Pinette, along with his verbal and financial support for hate groups, was testament to that. I hoped that the difference of opinion with Pinette over the attack on the Clark house could lead to a falling-out between them, but I doubted it. They were both getting something they wanted from the relationship, although Pinette’s current absence from the premises was a reminder to Bobby of the wisdom of leaving the rough stuff to the experts.

Bobby’s office was nicer than the rest of the building, which wasn’t saying a lot. The carpet was new, the chairs were unstained, and the walls were decorated with vintage photographs, maps, and paintings of Portland and its environs, as well as a trio of collotypes signed by Andrew Wyeth, perhaps to communicate to visitors that Bobby’s soul wasn’t completely blackened.

Bobby looked up as I entered. In his eyes I saw fading embers of resignation, tinged red at the edges by pure hatred.

“Don’t you even have the fucking manners to knock?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“It isn’t. I was told you might be making an appearance.”

“Antoine?” I asked. “Pretty cold of him not to lend you moral support.”

“I’m not his keeper.”

“Just his enabler,” I said, taking a chair. “You ought to pay him better, then he might show up when you need him.”

“Antoine does okay—and I was hoping he might have been mistaken about my having the displeasure of your company.”

“You should have stayed home if you wanted to avoid it.”

“I’m not going to hide from you. You’re not worth the effort.” He sat back in his chair. “Did you beat up on that useless slab of flab I hired as security?”

“He left under his own steam. I hate to tell you, but I think your secretary may have quit too.”

“Everyone flees before you,” he said. “What did you do, wave your sword of self-righteousness in their faces?”

“I convinced them there were better employment opportunities available, but even welfare has more dignity. By the way, I told the secretary you were good for whatever you owe her. Don’t make me into a liar. In case you’re tempted to try out of spite, you’ll be giving us the money before we leave, and we’ll make sure she gets it.”

“You’re a piece of work, I’ll give you that.”

He got up to prepare a coffee for himself from the Nespresso machine behind his desk. I took the opportunity to glance at the material on the walls, where one of the newer, unframed maps caught my attention. I filed it to memory and was already looking elsewhere when Bobby resumed his seat.

“I could have offered you a coffee,” said Bobby, “but I didn’t want to. You still fraternizing with niggers and queers?”

“Gentlemen,” I said, “I believe that’s your cue.”

Angel and Louis ghosted into position from the hallway. To his credit, Bobby Ocean didn’t drop his cup in fright or take to his knees to beg forgiveness. He stepped out from behind his desk, walked past me, and stood before Louis.

“You’re the one who burned my son’s truck,” said Bobby. His voice trembled slightly.

“That’s right,” said Louis, whose voice didn’t tremble at all.

“Your actions precipitated his death.”

“No, poor parenting did that.”

Bobby stared at Louis for a while longer, as though to take in every facet of his features in preparation for some retribution to come, before returning to his desk to glare at me.

“Tell me what you want,” he said. “I have a foundation to manage.”

“This isn’t a foundation, it’s a dumpster fire. And you know why I’m here: you’ve been agitating firebugs.”

“That idiot Leo? Antoine told me about what he did. I’m not responsible for the actions of impetuous young men, however justified they might be. A child-killer can’t expect to be treated with deference by the community.”