Read Night Night, Sleep Tight for Free Online Page B

that reminded her of Orson Welles. Of course, he said, they’d care for Arthur’s remains . The term seemed appropriate. What she and Henry had pulled from the pool had barely been their father. By the time the coroner and the mortuary got done with him, he’d have been examined and dissected, his fluids drained away, his hubris along with his wit and warmth. People would come to the service and say what a swell guy Arthur Unger was. As he’d once remarked of a particularly foul-tempered studio executive, You never look as good as you do at your own funeral .
    “At least Pedro didn’t say don’t skip town,” Henry said, taking a pull on the joint.
    “The detective’s name is Robert,” Deirdre replied, releasing her breath. “And maybe that’s just something they say in the movies.” Deirdre had no intention of leaving town. She’d called Stefan and left a message saying that it might be days before she got back. He’d be on his own with the new show—hard to believe she’d installed it just twenty-four hours ago. “So I guess you didn’t want him snooping around inside the house,” she added.
    Henry started to laugh, choking on a final drag. He sputtered as he stubbed out the butt. “No way. Not with this shit in the house. You can bet he won’t find a trace of illicit substances when he comes back.”
    “ When he comes back?”
    “Oh, he’ll be back. You bought that crap about how they send out a detective whenever there’s an unaccompanied death?” Henry scowled, making a face like the petulant thirteen-year-old he’d once been.
    “Poor baby. Pushed your buttons, didn’t he? What’s the matter, you don’t like cops?”
    Henry threw a pillow at her. She caught it and sank back into the couch and let her gaze wander around the room. Arthur was everywhere, from the stack of Variety and Life magazines to ashtrays that still overflowed with the remains of her father’s Marlboros to a glass cart with an ice bucket and a half-empty bottle of Dewar’s. She hauled herself to her feet and, unsteady without her crutch, limped over to the piano. Open on the music stand was “Rhapsody in Blue.” Shelved nearby was her father’s cherished collection of LPs.
    She edged over to the turntable. The record on top was Ella and Louis. She started the machine and set the needle. Closed her eyes to listen to the piano introduction, then Armstrong’s easy, bluesy voice, having that feeling of self-pity . . .
    “We should be drinking Dad’s scotch,” Deirdre said, turning back to Henry.
    “Help yourself.”
    “I didn’t say I wanted any. I’m not crazy about the stuff.” Besides, on top of pot, hard liquor would be a very bad idea. “But it was his drink. And this is his music.”
    Henry stood and offered her his hand. He lifted her off the ground, set her feet on top of his, and rocked back and forth to the music. Deirdre closed her eyes and sang along. “ A foggy day . . .” The words were muffled in Henry’s shoulder, his shirt damp with her tears. “He taught me to waltz. And the Lindy,” she said.
    “You were a good dancer, Deeds. All he taught me to do was smoke. And drink. And drive too fast.”
    “Mmm, driving too fast. I can blame him for that, too.”
    Henry helped Deirdre back to the couch and then sat down again himself. He poked his chopsticks into the take-out box and took another mouthful. A Singapore noodle stuck to his chin. Deirdre imagined what he’d look like as a Chia pet with noodles instead of grass growing out of his head and started to laugh.
    Henry reached across, tweezed a spear of broccoli from her take-out box, and popped it into his mouth. Brown sauce dribbled down his chin to meet the noodle.
    The room started to spin. Deirdre closed her eyes, which only made her feel worse. She lurched back upright.
    When the phone rang, neither Deidre nor Henry moved to answer it. The machine picked up after four rings, and their father’s voice echoed into the room.