Carom Shot

by JJ Partridge

  “Thanks.” Pause. “I think.”

  Abruptly, she pushed her plate away. “I think we ought to blow this place.”

  “Your place or mine?” I said too flippantly.

  “No,” she said with exasperation. “I mean a break ..., away ..., together. R and R. We need it.”

  I covered her hand with mine, lacing my fingers with hers. “How about a weekend in New York? I’ll get tickets for a show. We’ll stay at the Carlyle ...?”

  Her eyes brightened. “When?” she asked expectantly. “Next weekend?”

  Pop. Burst of balloon. The Stalker, forgotten for the moment, came back to our minds simultaneously.

  “As soon as it’s over, sweet thing,” I said, pressing my hand on to hers. “As soon as it’s over.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Tuesday

  It was before six when I awoke to flittering images of the teenage girls on Thayer Street. Their obliviousness bothered me and I turned to Nadie. Who wasn’t there. After the China Dragon, we had walked to her apartment, my arm around her waist, the movement of her hip against mine a real turn-on, and promises had been made for tonight. We’d get together early, I’d cook dinner, there would be romance ....

  I doubled up the pillow under my head and stared at the barely visible ceiling of the loft. I remembered the teenage girls on Thayer Street. For those kids, I thought, a menace like The Stalker doesn’t penetrate their roaring hormones, even if the danger is immediate and gruesome. Fear belongs to their parents. The parents of Carter’s students had to be loaded with anxiety, making panicky calls, pulling their kids home. The Stalker had shattered the University’s carefully crafted image of a protected environment worth paying for. Was it worse for the black parents? Sure, but after Anne Sullivan, any complacency among white parents would be gone: their Jennifers, Karens, and Lisas would now seem as vulnerable as Francines, Yvonnes and Latoyas. What’s next? Exodus? Shutdown?

  “Ugh!”

  I pressed the button on the gizmo that electronically raises the shades on the four oversized windows facing west towards downtown and the loft filled with pale light. Across the room, the light played on the gold background of a four screen panel of water lilies and serenely signaled the day would be clear and bright. I rolled over, felt something hard, and found that I had gone to sleep with Inspector Morse; the Colin Dexter mystery I finished last night shook out from the blankets and I found it a place among the shelves of thrillers and whodunits that lined the walls on either side of the entertainment center. I exchanged pajamas for sweats from an oversized armoire that holds a season’s clothing, put on sneakers, and trotted down two flights of stairs to the exercise area in the basement.

  The remote hanging on the handle bar of the Nordic Track reminded me that I usually watch “Daybreak News” on Channel 11 on the eye-level television across the room while exercising and I clicked it on—and immediately off. Not today. I was already on Stalker overload. The bad news could wait for the office. Instead, I raised the tension bar on the machine and pounded the Nordic Track; by the end of the workout, my pace was almost punitive and I felt better for it. After toweling off, I opened the door to the other side of the basement, touched the rheostat, and illuminated a refurbished, nine foot Brunswick-Balke-Callender pool table.

  The shaded fixtures over the antique table directed light that shimmered on the balls scattered on its immaculate green cloth; diamonds of inlaid mother-of-pearl glowed from within the mahogany rails. I selected a cue from among several in a vertical rack, lined up the ivories, and began a sixty ball drill of shots off the second diamond into the middle pocket on my side, one of my oldest practice routines, one I should handle with ease. But this morning, I couldn’t shoot worth a damn! Who knows why? My strokes and stance seemed the same, yet today, one missed shot, including a couple of shanks, for every two in the pocket. Young Jimmy, his fingers holding the cue like a violin virtuoso, his concentration as hard as a rock, would have probably been perfection.

  When I finished, my stomach was grumbling and I went upstairs for two English muffins spread with dabs of Rose’s lime marmalade while an espresso brewed noisily in the shiny Ruffino machine on the kitchen counter. I took the coffee to the upstairs bathroom, a funky relic of the pre-renovated house, preserved with its original wainscoting, a scrolled mirror over a stand-up sink, black and white diamond floor tiles, an enameled tub standing on four lion’s paws, and what Nadie has always referred to as the “throne”, a water closet with a black oval seat not designed for her trim bottom. I finished the espresso as I waited for hot water to gurgle its way upstairs, showered, using a loofah and bath gel recommended by Nadie, and completed the rest of my ablutions.

  Returning to the loft, I met images of a naked, middle-aged man in the full-length triple mirror that serves as a room divider when needed and as a source of eroticism when desirable. Nadie says fifty is a good age for a man—why, I never asked—but I can’t fully accept her compliment since the mirrors reveal some of life’s battering, even when exercise, reasonable habits, and a vigorous lover have me thinking thirty. Not that all is hopeless; there remains a certain symmetry to my six feet three inches and one hundred and ninety-five pounds. No washboard abs but no middle age sagging either. Broad shoulders, longish arms, and, as was once said of East Side gentlemen, “otherwise of a piece.”

  My hands were at my hips and I realized that I had struck a pose, with a sucked-in stomach and straightened back. That pulled me forward to inspect the not exactly handsome faces in the mirrors. There is little to be done with an oversized jaw to which other facial parts struggle to conform, a nose that is longish, straight, and too narrow, a mouth that seems always in a slight curl that could come off as smirky if not controlled, and ears large enough to match those of Prince Charles tucked into thick, gray-flecked hair. Nadie says I possess one distinguished—or was it “distinguishing”—feature on which I now concentrated: blue-gray eyes inherited from my father that confer a self-possessed look.

  The thought of Nadie brought a grin. She’d love to see me checking myself out. Enough! I put my thumbs in my ears, wiggled my fingers, and stuck out my tongue!

  * * *

  I dressed quickly in a lawyer’s uniform of a glen plaid suit, yellow tattersall shirt, and paisley tie, packed my briefcase, and moments later was out of the front door, retrieving the plastic wrapped Journal from the walk. Despite an almost cobalt sky and a bright sun, frost decorated the windshields of parked cars and sparkled on crusty fallen leaves and puddle edges; the blustery wind coming down Angell Street was biting enough to water my eyes and I was glad I had decided, for the first time this fall, to forego the Burberry for an overcoat. By eight, I was at my desk with both the Journal and the Crier at the ready. The red message light on my phone console was flashing.

  I decided to leave the Journal for lunch at my desk, and the phone message until after the Crier. Its banner headline read “Former Student Murdered” with “Stalker Victim?” below. Anne Sullivan’s ID photo was above two columns taken from the police report, McCarthy’s sally about The Stalker, and quotes from a former roommate who described Anne as “free spirited,” “fun loving,” and “neat.” A half-dozen women representing feminist groups and the Student Council were quoted, all of whom had criticisms of the cops and the University’s response to The Stalker. On the left side above the fold, enclosed by a black border, was an editorial headlined “McCarthy Must Go!” an acidly written piece that compared the Chief’s intelligence quotient to that of a single-celled animal and his department’s efficiency to the Keystone Kops. Danby’s statement and dormitory visits were squeezed into a sidebar next to a schedule of crisis related campus events, including a meeting of student leaders with Danby, another consciousness-raising gathering in Chancery Hall this afternoon, sign-ups for Jesse Kingdom’s demonstration at the federal courthouse the day after tomorrow, and a special Faculty Senate meeting today to discuss the University’s “chronic failure” to deal effectively wi
th The Stalker. The predicted head of steam was clearly building.

  I put the Crier down and went into voice mail. Puppy Dog! Had to be from last night or very early this morning. His whiny voice managed to come across as stony cold. “Just some friendly advice. It’s one thing to jerk us around with Jesse Kingdom. It’s another to screw up a homicide investigation when it’s a cop’s daughter. Nobody, particularly Sonny or the Chief, like having their noses rubbed in it. Makes dialogue impossible. Don’t call me unless you want to discuss.”

  Ugh!

  Marcie appeared at my office door; despite her white blouse and dark skirt, she looked somewhat less put-together than usual and her frown didn’t change as I confided to her the happenings of the previous evening. In the middle of the telling, I focused on a disconnect—is the kid that runs to his mother and her minister when there’s trouble with the cops the same kid who is a drug dealing, out and out punk? I mentioned the concern in passing.

  She had listened without comment, or maybe better expressed, she was mute and appeared unconvinced as she took a step into the office, put her hands on the back of a chair, and said earnestly, “If this kid is her killer ...?” as Maria squeezed past her with an open box from Dunkin’ Donuts and saved me from a fumbling answer. I picked out a cranberry muffin; Marcie declined.

  “Whole bunch of kids just millin’ around on The Green,” Maria said gruffly. “This murder. First I can remember of a student. Maybe we’ll get some action from the johnnies now. Maybe not, since that McCarthy is such a jackass.” With that, she closed the box and left the office. Another county heard from, and in spite of ourselves, Marcie and I both had to smile.

  * * *

  An hour or so later, Maria was back in my office. She was huffy. “There is an Attorney Pine to see you. Not on my calendar. Says it won’t take a minute.”

  Eustace Pine? What could he want? Damn! A senior partner at my old law firm, “Ew” as he was universally addressed, could not be denied to anyone connected to the University, especially me. Born on an Iowa farm, he had found his way to Carter, and after law school, returned to marry into a prominent local family, and spent the next forty years at Champlin & Burrill perfecting his “white shoe” trappings in harmony with his East Side and Sakonnet neighbors and clients, becoming the legal architect of the city’s largest estates and trusts, and chancellor of the Episcopal Diocese. More important to me and College Hall, he is also my mother’s lawyer and a senior member of the University’s Board of Trustees.

  “Conference room,” I said.

  “And I got another attorney, Jerome Franks, on my line. Says it is important to talk to you.”

  Jerome Franks? Williams’ attorney? Maria eyed me coolly, knowing well who this “another attorney” was. “I’ll take it,” I said, smiled, and waited while Maria maneuvered her heavy figure in a reluctant shuffle from the doorway.

  I don’t know what I expected. I’d never met Jerome Franks or even spoken to him on the phone, that’s the yawning gap between a strictly civil practice like mine and the criminal bar. I had seen him in the courthouse, usually with clients and two or three acolytes in tow, knew he was flamboyant in his haberdashery, courtroom style, and oratory, and had heard his unmistakable voice that had mesmerized Rhode Island judges and juries for decades. I picked up the phone, stated my name, and the syrup started to flow.

  “Jerome Franks,” he responded. “I’m Lavelle Williams’ attorney.” He paused to give me time to be impressed. “My client informed me that you and his minister tried to intervene last night. I wanted to convey his thanks, even if things went wrong.” His voice slid in to a tone of shared confidentiality. “He’s out on bail, but they’ll have him back in for questioning sooner or later. He was the victim of an old cop trick. They keep a little bag in the patrol car for situations like this. Slap it on the accused. Used to be marijuana, now, its crack cocaine.” A pause for a heaving concern. “I doubt they’ll pursue it. But, you can’t tell. The atmosphere in the department is so venomous. They wanted him in custody long enough to force something incriminating out of him. You prevented that.”

  Prickles went up my neck. While the voice was deep, resonate, and demanding of attention, it also conveyed a forced sincerity, as though he was used to a role and had little regard for honest emotion.

  “I wonder if you could drop by my office ... today, if possible? We’re down on South Main.”

  His answer was a silence engendered by my surprise. No Providence lawyer ever asks another lawyer to change his immediate schedule, to “drop by”, because availability is an indication of lack of business or weakness in your case. Perhaps he sensed he had overreached because his tone immediately changed to one of petitioner. “I know it’s short notice but believe me, it’s for a very good reason. Which I would prefer to discuss in person. Could you spare some time at lunch ... or right after?”

  I was free during the noon hour, so the choice was between reading the Journal at my desk with some takeout or meeting a legal legend on his own turf. Put that way, my decision seemed easy. Way too easy since, obviously, Franks had planned some further involvement for me. Was I prepared to say “no”?

  * * *

  I have to admit this moment was pivotal to what happened. If I had refused, which would have been my better choice then, I would never have experienced the next few days of angst, of being inside a mental Rubik’s cube, wrestling to link together facts, personalities, and devious motives.

  * * *

  “All right, twelve-thirty.”

  “Fine, twelve-thirty it is.” He gave me his office address and hung up.

  It crossed my mind that Franks was a good lawyer: when he got the answer that he wanted, he was finished.

  Two minutes later, enough time to second guess myself on why I had been rash enough to agree to meet Franks, I greeted Eustace Pine in our tiny library-conference room. Despite his age, the old boy exuded energy as he rose from his seat; his skin was tanned and firm, his handshake vigorous, and there was a spark in the blue eyes nestled beneath white brows. Only the pucker in his cheeks, a certain roundness to his shoulders, and sparse, white hair evidenced his seventy-plus years. In a vested gray wool suit, white shirt and maroon bow tie, he looked every bit an East Side probate lawyer.

  “Well, Algy, it appears that we’ll be working together.”

  I didn’t reply, not understanding his meaning.

  “You know,” he urged, “the Reinman estate.”

  He didn’t wait for my response.

  “Referral from a classmate of mine up in Brattleboro. Interesting matter, valuation of copyrights and royalties on the Roosevelt book and his other writings. I haven’t met the widow yet. Took his death very badly, her mother tells me, although I gather it was not unexpected.” He cleared his throat loudly and I waited for him to explain what seemed gibberish. “Unfortunately, his estate plan consists of a simple will which leaves everything to his wife. No tax planning at all! Mrs. Reinman will be well provided for. Still,” he said in his condescending way when addressing the work product of other lawyers, “with a little planning, we could have saved—”

  I had waited out of politeness long enough. “Ew, how can I be involved?”

  He was flustered at my question. “Why, I thought you knew. You are the nominated executor.”

  “Executor? Me?”

  Pine sputtered his response. “Yes, you! I have the document right here,” and reached into a battered briefcase beside him. He rustled through papers, then said, “No, I don’t. Must be in the office. But, I remember when it was executed. About two years ago. May, I think ....”

  Nonsense! Reinman should never have nominated me without my assent. He was only a campus acquaintance; I didn’t have anything like a friendship or professional bond with him that might give him the right to call upon me for such duties. “Well, Ew, I refuse. I knew him, of course, but executor ...?”

  Pine was deaf to my complaint. “The document was drawn by the Stimson of
fice over on Benefit Street,” he harrumphed. “You could call there, I suppose. The mother-in-law, a Ms. Cabel, sent the will over yesterday. As I say, not much planning ...” and he began long seconds of throat-clearing, and went on to point out the draftsman’s failure to use living trusts to avoid probate and tax-saving techniques. Every conversation with Pine, even when he was going on about fly-fishing, or was into his second or third Beefeater Gibson at the Benevolent Club, or retelling one of his magpie collection of East Side family stories, contained a reference to good estate planning.

  “Ew ..., sorry. I’ve got too much on my plate right now. There must be an alternate named.”

  “No, and that’s strange. It’s just you, I’m afraid.”

  I tried to collect my thoughts. “Well, you can get an administrator appointed ....”

  “I suppose so,” he said reluctantly. “Of course, that will really delay things for the family. Advertisements, bonds, etc. ..., and the probate judge might end up appointing one of the Mayor’s favorites as administrator. You know how expensive and time consuming that can be! And the delay, Algy, the delay! I’m told that Mrs. Reinman wants to have everything wrapped up quickly so that she can move up to Vermont….

  I felt trapped and told him so.

  “Well, really not much I can do, Algy. Not with these time pressures.” He shrugged, paused, and started to cajole. “It won’t be that bad. We’ll do everything at the office, take care of all of the probate issues.” More throat-clearing. “We’ll have a professional appraisal of valuables, segregate personal effects, you know the routine. The houses, one on Benefit Street and a summer place they have in Little Compton, they’re in joint names so the real estate won’t be any problem. The federal estate tax return could be complicated by copyright and royalty issues, but we’ll take care of that,” he added hopefully.