Once again, they're on the bus. The rain is still falling, but this time, they're free of religious fanatics. Peter's staring at the window, but he can't really see past the sheets of falling water. There are lights, blurrily flashing along the freeway of this suburban enclave. They're pretty, he thinks, but they don't compute. Nothing, he realizes, quite computes.
He's all too aware of the way Leight's sitting next to him—so damn close, their thighs practically touching—and he's confused. So terribly confused because he just doesn't know.
He doesn't know if they are or aren't fighting. He doesn't know if they are or aren't together. He doesn't know what Leight did or did not mean when he used the word "partner." He doesn't know, and god knows he'll never have the heart to ask.
He'll never ask. He'll just let the question eat away at him, like the acidic remains of the Turkish coffee gnawing away at his stomach from the inside.
No, he'll never ask. Instead, he'll take the roundabout (difficult) route that doesn't lead anywhere near out of this labyrinth. He's still looking out the window as he remarks, "I thought you said there was a reason for going to see her."
"I did say that, didn't I?" Leight chuckles. "I do enjoy being right."
"Right?" Peter asks incredulously. "As far as I can tell, that was a waste of our very limited time before the wedding."
"It wasn't a waste at all. Like I said earlier, there's a reason for everything."
"Then what was it?"
"You honestly don't know?"
"No. I don't."
"You, Peter. You needed to hear what Sam Jameson said."
And it's this—this—that really doesn't compute. "Is this your weird way of telling me that there's been some horrible accident, I'm in a coma, but I need to go through these bizarre yet symbolic rituals before my subconscious accepts the facts and allows me to wake up?"
Leight just stares at him.
"Well, that's the only explanation for all the impossible things that seem to be happening today."
"Don't be daft."
"I'm not being daft, or stubborn, or blind. I'm being sensible. I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about, Mal. What did I need to hear? And whatever it was—how did you know she would say it?"
"You needed to hear it."
"What?" he waits. He wants to raise his voice, to shout and yell and make a scene, but they are on a bus, and he was raised (by his British expatriate parents) to keep calm and carry on. People are staring at them (or maybe just at him).
He whispers. "What, Mal? What did I need to hear?"
"I started consulting with the Captain just over five years ago. When the break up happened, he hadn't yet learned not to harrow me with his family problems. He talked into the air. I ignored him, but I didn't forget. Not surprising, really, seeing as I'm not wired to forget, not even the little things I rather wish I could, but this is neither here nor there."
Peter listens numbly. He is too used to this, the way Leight can ramble, obsess, riddle, oppress with such simple words. He can't crack Leight's codes because they aren't codes; they don't have keys.
There's just an open door that he doesn't have the courage to walk through. He knows it's open (only to him, of course), but he's too afraid or hopeless or daft to walk through. It'd be so simple, but he can't (won't) do it. Because he's too blind, too stubborn, too daft to walk through an open metaphorical door.
Leight hasn't stopped talking, not even for air. "I remembered the story, of course, about the musician ex-girlfriend who cheated and broke the Captain's daughter's heart. I remembered the story, but I suppose I never did catch the moral."
He continues, "Or maybe I caught it, but I dismissed it. Filed it away, marked it as 'irrelevant.' It wasn't relevant then, not really. I hadn't met the Captain's daughter or her ex-girlfriend, and I certainly didn't have a personal analogy. Not then, at least. Do you understand?"
It's such a familiar question—a question to which he always lies. For once, he doesn't want to put on the charade. "No."
The rain keeps falling, falling, falling.
"Then I guess I'll have to find a way to make this clearer."
If memory serves, this part of the riverfront used to be a meatpacking district. Now it's home to semi-high rises full of trendy lofts that attract socialite twenty-somethings like flies to rotting meat.
The door they're standing in front of, however, is anything but trendy. Try dilapidated slasher film prop. Peter is reluctant to knock on the metal door, but he knocks in spite of himself.
"Who is it?" a crotchety cantankerous voice calls from within.
"The police," Leight returns. "Now open up."
"Or what?"
"Or we'll be obligated to break down the door."
Peter elbows him in the ribs. In a harsh whisper, he hisses, "Mal, that's," he pauses, searching for the perfect phrase to explain his exasperation, "inventively irresponsible."
"And you're insipidly sensible." He raises his voice, "Come along now, Mr. Huckabee. Open up."
The door opens. The man in the threshold is just as crotchety and cantankerous in appearance as his voice suggests. He's pushing eighty at best. His spine is curved like a question mark. His white combed-over hair has thinned nearly to the point of invisibility. His eyes are cloudy gray behind thick lenses that magnify them obscenely.
Those eyes look Peter and Leight up and down. "You the police?"
Leight nods.
"Took you long enough. I've been complainin' 'bout the noise for weeks."
Peter has no idea what noise Huckabee has been complaining about for weeks; he has no idea if this (mythical?) noise has any bearing on the case at hand. He's about to ask what exactly the man means when Leight starts off down entirely the opposite path.
"You mean the noise next door?" Leight questions with what he means to be an empathetic nod. He takes a little step forward—just the barest suggestion—and suddenly Huckabee is beckoning them in.
"Next door, yeah. Those kids don't never shut up."
Peter looks around the apartment. There is what appears to be a moose head above the mantel. There is a collection of hunting rifles hanging on the wall on the left. The wall on the right bears a Confederate flag.
Peter feels very uncomfortable.
The moose's glassy eyes are on him, and he can't decide for the life of him if it's real or fake. He shivers and takes a step toward the couch only to realize that he's been standing on a rug—made out of a bearskin.
The couch is dark brown leather, butter soft, and comfortable. Peter sits on the edge of the cushion, even as Leight paces, examining the occasional photograph or memento, and Huckabee hovers near the minimalist kitchen.
"You want tea?" Huckabee asks, nodding broadly. "I got a pot on."
Leight's smile is just as broad. "That would be lovely," he answers with his highest affectation.
Huckabee scurries to the kitchen, where he fusses with the teapot and cups and loose-leaf tea. A minute later, he presents them each with tea.
Peter doesn't recognize the scent. Gingerly, he takes a sip. He's pleasantly surprised. Unlike the Turkish coffee incident, this mystery tea is quite palatable.
Huckabee sits down. "Where were we?"
"The noise," Leight reminds him absently as he continues his survey of the room, "next door."
"It's them kids!" Huckabee cries with sudden passion. "They don't never shut up. They play their rock-and-roll after supper. That hussy's been bringin' a negro home with her, and they don't never shut up."
Peter's mouth goes dry. He has suddenly lost all interest in his tea.
"Is that so?" Leight asks dryly. "All that noise must interfere with your routine, your sleep patterns, etc."
"I can't hear The Amazing Race."
Leight's smirk could almost pass for a genuinely sympathetic smile (in the eyes of a stranger who doesn't know him half as well as Peter does).
"How dare they interfere with the pinnacle of globetrotting reality television," he deadpans.
"My great grand nephew would never. He's a gentleman, he is. But those kids. That girl. It ain't natural."
"Of course."
"How you gonna teach them a lesson?" Huckabee demands.
Leight chuckles. "I could arrange for Jennifer Smith to spend two weeks in lock-up." Leight is, unfortunately, impervious to Peter's death-glare.
It isn't until they're about to leave that Peter builds up the courage to ask Huckabee if the moose head above the mantel is or isn't real.
Mr. Huckabee just leers.
"I don't see why you're so bent out of sorts," Leight is saying as they ride the subway back toward Café Cairo to meet with the Captain and company all over again.
.
.