The Jealous Kind (Holland Family Saga #2) - James Lee Burke Page 0,55

on the lawn of a country-club terrace. Mr. Harrelson was not one of these. He was a slight ascetic-looking man with a thin, bloodless nose and a V-shaped chin and a broad forehead and steel-rimmed glasses and white-gold hair cut short. He wore a white robe and slippers on his small feet and had a book in one hand. “Oh, yes, you’re Mr. Broussard.” He glanced at his watch. “Right on time. Come in.”

He didn’t bother to acknowledge me. My father waited for him to extend his hand, but he didn’t.

“This is Aaron, my son,” my father said.

“Yes, how are you?” Mr. Harrelson said. “Follow me, if you would.” He paused at the staircase. It was wide enough to drive a truck up, the handrail and steps made of restored cypress, the grain polished to a glossy amber. “Our guests are here, Grady!”

His voice had no inflection, no regional accent. His eyes were a grayish blue. They showed neither interest nor dislike and seemed to look inward rather than out. He made me think of a mathematician or a chemist, not the owner of rice mills and a drilling company. There was an antiseptic cleanliness about him that made me wonder if his glands were capable of secretion. If he had a botanical equivalent, it was a hothouse plant that had never seen sunlight or one that had been leeched of its chlorophyll.

He went into the living room and sat down in a stuffed chair by the fireplace. There was a tea service on the coffee table with a cup for one. He raised his eyebrows and gestured toward a divan on the other side of the fireplace. “Let’s see if I have everything straight. It started with the Epstein girl and progressed to a brick being thrown through the windshield of Grady’s car, right? So your son wishes to own up and apologize or pay damages, or you want me to speak to the Atlas boy’s father? Or some combination thereof? Does that sum it up?”

I stole a glance at my father. I could not count the number of social indiscretions that, in his eyes, Mr. Harrelson had already committed.

“You have a very attractive home,” my father said. “I was admiring your camellia bushes. They put me in mind of the place where I grew up.”

Mr. Harrelson set his book facedown on the table, splayed open against the spine; he crossed his legs, his robe falling loose. He pawed at a place below one eye. There were white bookcases on either side of the fireplace. The titles of the books had to do with history and economics. The only novelist I recognized was Ayn Rand.

“Can you tell me why you’re here?” Mr. Harrelson asked.

“My son has been accused of things he hasn’t done. This morning he was charged with a break-in. The possibility that someone is doing this to him deliberately is difficult to abide.” He held his gaze on Mr. Harrelson.

“Does your indignation extend to the Atlas boy losing an eye?” Mr. Harrelson said.

“Yes, it does. I’m bothered by another factor as well. The Atlas family are criminals. Your son was in the company of both the father and the son and a gangster named Frankie Carbo. Does that seem normal to you?”

Mr. Harrelson touched at his nose with one knuckle. He looked toward the staircase. “Come down here, Grady.”

Barefoot, Grady walked down the stairs and into the living room. He was wearing a T-shirt cut off at the mid-abdomen and beltless Levi’s that hung below the navel. His tan had deepened, and his body tone was as supple and smooth as warm tallow. “What’s going on, Pop?”

“This gentleman says you were with a gangster named Carbo.”

“Not so. I saw Vick Atlas at a nightclub. Vick was at another table and joined us. That’s about all there was to it.”

“You urinated in Aaron’s car,” my father said.

“With respect, I don’t do things like that, sir.”

I tried to make Grady look at me. He wouldn’t.

“Well, there you have it,” Mr. Harrelson said. “We seem to have different perceptions about past events. I’d like to let it go at that. An investigation into the brick incident is in progress. I’ll abide by its outcome.” He turned toward his son. “I think the real issue is the Epstein girl. I think she’s better left alone. Her father is a Communist. Usually the acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree. That’s just one man’s opinion. Do you want to say anything to