by Chris Knopf
There were about ten people in the Schooner, maybe two percent of capacity. Burton was working the front table, playing a guy in an ochre Oxford-cloth shirt with a polo player on the chest and a pair of wide-wale corduroys decorated with embroidered pheasants. The guy had a tight mat of kinky black hair framing a forehead that towered above a pair of bifocals in slender black frames. He was a lot shorter than Burton, small boned with a little bowlingball gut. His lips were thin and pale, as if pursing them too tightly had permanently drained away all the blood.
Burton twisted the tip of his cue stick into a little block of blue chalk as he watched me approach.
“Sam,” he said. “Just in time to spoil my concentration.”
“That’s what Isabella said would happen.”
“Performance anxiety.”
Burton was an ectomorphic somatotype, slender approaching gaunt, with long limbs and loose joints that facilitated graceful, elegant movements. His outfit looked like it came from a vintage clothing store specializing in early-twentieth-century Ivy League toff. He was in his late forties, yet his hair was still thick and naturally brown and cut long enough to fall into his face when he leaned down to take aim at the cue ball.
I scanned the table and saw one eight ball and a single solid nearly camouflaged by a knot of stripes.
“You finish up, I’ll freshen the drinks,” I said, looking flagrantly at Burton’s opponent.
“Oh, sorry,” said Burton, standing up again. “This is Hayden Grayson. Budding legal pundit. Hayden, Sam Acquillo.”
“Way past punditry myself,” I said, putting out my hand.
Hayden’s grip was smooth-skinned but firm. A professional handshake.
“Though not beyond puns,” said Burton.
“Burton said you might show up anytime,” said Hayden. “This is my first trip to the Hamptons. It’s very beautiful.”
I looked around the inside of the Schooner.
“You oughta see the rest of the place. So what am I buying you guys?”
Burton ordered a Baileys on the rocks and his date an Amstel Light, neither of which I thought the Schooner had ever heard of, but they managed to rustle them up. After my first day in court I felt entitled to a double Absolut, which they didn’t have, so I told them to throw a lot of ice and lemon into a tall glass of Smirnoff.
When I got back to the table Hayden was racking up the balls. His movements were spare and exacting. After settling the rack, he pulled it away with a little flourish. Burton handed me a cue.
“Care to break?”
“No, no. Your table.”
His break sank a stripe and a solid in the two opposing corner pockets, though most of the balls stayed packed together like a small herd of frightened sheep.
“So who’s ahead in this tournament?” I asked them.
“You have to ask?” said Hayden. “Burton, of course.”
I was overjoyed to see the bartender light a cigarette. Some genius had apparently outlawed smoking in bars in New York. Fortunately, Schooner management hadn’t gotten word, isolated as it was in the northern frontier of Bridgehampton. I dug out my pack of Camels.
“Hayden writes for and edits Psychiatric Jurisprudence Quarterly,” said Burton, squinting down the cue at an orange ball cut out from the herd. “You’ve heard of it, no doubt.”
“I don’t read anything with words I can’t pronounce,” I said.
“It sounds much more grand than it is,” said Hayden, taking a tentative sip of his light beer. “Really just the driest of the dry.”
“Unless you’re a head case in trouble with the law,” I said.
“Which is particularly germane to Sam’s appearance on the scene,” said Burton, standing abruptly, scowling at the orange ball, which stared back, barely threatened much less propelled by his efforts. “If I’m not mistaken.”
“I teed that up for you,” I told him.
“That’s golf, Sam. We’re playing eight-ball.”
I lucked into sinking three of my stripes before relinquishing the table. Hayden seemed unimpressed, though he felt compelled to say “nice” after each shot. I think anticipating the next “nice” cost me a fourth.
“Ms. Swaitkowski has kept me thoroughly briefed,” said Burton, as he studied the disposition of the balls. “And I had a long chat with Ross Semple. He’s being uncharacteristically obdurate.”
“Blood in the water,” I said.
“Something like that.”
“Thanks for bailing me out. Jackie thought I’d fight you on that, but I’m really glad you did it.”
Burton looked over and smiled at me.
“Good for you, Sam. Genuine appreciation, honestly expressed.”
Hayden tried to look like he was happy studying the Schooner’s interior decor. It felt like bad form to leave him out of the conversation.
“I got charged with murder,” I told him. “Burton’s been helping me out. All just a big misunderstanding. How long you guys been hanging together?”
Hayden deferred to Burton by glancing in his direction.
“Oh, off and on for some time now,” said Burton. “Hayden’s been complaining about the miseries of winter in the City and I thought a recuperative stay in the Hamptons would be just the ticket,” he added, right before muffing his next shot.
“None of the pool establishments we’ve played in town quite rise to the level of the Schooner. That I concede,” said Hayden, tilting his beer in a toast to our environs.
I cleared out the rest of my stripes, but was left with an impossible shot on the eight ball. All I could do was avoid dropping the cue ball in the pocket, which I did anyway, leaving Burton in excellent position to even the game.
“So there’s a fair amount of physical evidence—shoe prints, lethal staplers, that sort of thing,” said Burton.
“So they say.”
“I still don’t see much of a motive on your part. A brawl at a bar?”
“Hardly a brawl. Milhouser was punching a lot of air and I just settled him down.”
“Veckstrom has subpoenaed your medical records from Southampton Hospital, on a theory of Semple’s that even the threat of a fight with Robbie Milhouser was a serious matter for you. That you have a legitimate fear of brain damage growing out of your boxing career and various related, extralegal activity,” said Burton, before managing to kiss one of his balls into a side pocket, using a gentle, almost silent tap of the cue.
“If I thought Milhouser was a threat I’d really be brain damaged.”
Burton looked thoughtful.
“Milhouser was several inches taller and sixty pounds heavier. And about ten years younger. With a reputation for reckless, drunken behavior. And he was supported by two other strong young men. That would sound like a threat to a reasonable jury.”
He chose to make his next shot a long trip across the felt that almost cut the target into a corner pocket, but sank the cue ball instead.
“Damn.”
“So they only have to prove I’m both stupid and chickenshit,” I said.
He stood up to chalk the stick, as if that was the cause of the problem.
“When was the last time you went to the boxing gym in Westhampton?” he asked.
“It’s been a while. I’ve been humping on Frank’s big job. Don’t need to.”
“Hm. And when was the last time you got into the ring to spar?” Burt asked me, even though he knew the answer.
“Christ, almost never out here. I don’t spar with people who don’t know what they’re doing. They just get hurt, or pissed, or both. Anyway, I’m fifty-four years old. Why risk some jamoke getting in a lucky shot?”
Burton looked even more thoughtful, as he pursed his lips and nodded.
“I see. So you were afraid of risking … what?”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Anyway, it’s just a theory. I think I’m buying this round,” he said, staring into his empty glass of Baileys.
While he was away I sat back to
work out a strategy for the eight ball. Hayden’s eyes flickered around the table as he sipped his light beer.
“What do you think?” I asked him.
“You should go for a change of venue. These locals are harboring some kind of a grudge,” he said, then tore his eyes away from the table to look at me. “Just from what I’ve been overhearing. Don’t mean to interfere.”
“No worries. All jurisprudence is welcome. About my case or the next shot on the eight ball.”
“I think you should cut into the corner pocket. The side’s closer, but too risky. Too much angle,” he said. “Add a little bottom spin. Keep you out of the other corner.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
I was tempted to try for the side pocket anyway, but when Burton got back to the table I sank the ball in the corner, as suggested.
“Well, there goes the trophy,” said Burton as he handed out the round of drinks.
“Not until Hayden’s up to bat. He insisted,” I said, dropping a pair of quarters into the slot to free up the balls. Hayden looked reluctant, but racked up the balls as I threw them out on the table, though not with the same deliberate precision as the time before.
“I’m concerned about this, Sam,” said Burton.
“Tell me more about Ross’s theories,” I said, leaning down to break up the little triangle of balls.
“A person’s prior criminal record is usually inadmissible, except all those times when it isn’t. I don’t know how much the judge will allow, but they’ll try to show a pattern of violence, consistent with a vengeful nature. General antisocial behavior, a picture of a man unhinged, out of control.”
“Fuck them.”
“Ross may or may not actually believe in the theory,” said Burton. “He may not even think you killed Robert Milhouser, but he’s fairly sure you’re guilty of killing someone. In particular that fellow Sobol, who was in on the swindle with Roy Battiston, and an unfortunate drug merchant in Bridgeport, Connecticut named Darrin something. An interesting story. I’d never heard it before.”
“Those cases were settled in court. Whatever happened to double jeopardy?” I asked.
“An accidental death can always be retried as a homicide,” said Hayden. “Apples and oranges.”
“More relevant to you,” said Burton, “the police keep their own scorecard. Following the logic of law enforcement, this is the case that’ll make everything right.”
“A kind of Psychotic Jurisprudence,” I said to Hayden.
“That’s our sister publication,” he said, taking over the table and dropping three ducks in a row. His fourth shot was a delicate combination that sank another of his balls and left the cue ball an inch from the next, perfectly aligned with the corner pocket.
“Nice,” I said.
His next shot went wildly wide, giving me back the table.
“Pity,” I said.
“Hayden is a symphony of unrealized potential,” said Burton.
“I can see that,” I said, slamming one of my balls in the corner and scratching an instant later.
“Seems to be a curse today,” I said, setting the cue ball back on the table.
Hayden squatted down and peered across the felt to plan his next shot from the cue ball’s perspective.
“It’s easy to be misled by the way popular culture represents the legal system,” said Burton. “Complexities and subtleties make for good entertainment, but the reality is mostly blunt force. A corpse, a suspect with no alibi and a murder weapon that connects the two. A simple formula, custom-made to stir the passions of a prosecutor like Edith Madison.”
Hayden thinned out the population of solids while Burton was talking. He had them pared down to a single ball before yielding the table.
“I felt the same way about her ADA.”
I put way too much topspin on my next shot, causing the cue ball to ricochet up off the table and fly straight at Hayden’s head. He jerked to the side and snatched it out of the air.
“Sorry, man,” I said.
“This isn’t tennis,” said Burton.
“Must be repressed nerves.”
“First sensible thing I’ve heard from you,” said Burton. “Get those nerves out in the open where they belong.”
“You sound like Jackie.”
“A very bright woman. You should listen.”
“She tried to quit my case, but I wouldn’t let her. She said she was over her head.”
“She is,” said Burton, “but I won’t let her go under. We’ll plan everything together. She’ll be fine in the courtroom.”
Hayden recovered well enough from his turn at shortstop to put away the game. He sank the eight ball in a corner pocket after banking it off the rail at the opposite end of the table.
“It’s a good thing you guys were occupied,” he said. “I’d have never made that shot with your eyes on me.”
“It’s amazing what people can do when nobody’s looking,” I told him as I invested two more quarters and started stuffing the rack.
“You’ll have to try to be cooperative, Sam,” said Burton. “I know that runs against the grain.”
“Like I told Jackie, all I can say is I didn’t do it. You got to take it from there.”
“Not even that is necessary,” said Burton. “Your break, Hayden,” he added, looking down at the freshly racked triangle of balls.
“So you’re not even going to ask me?” I said. “Jackie did.”
Burton waited until Hayden had the balls scattered around the table, sinking none.
“I never ask,” he told me. “What you say one way or the other will have no bearing on how I approach the case. Utterly immaterial.”
“Not to me.”
He walked over with his cue stick in his left hand and put his right hand on my shoulder.
“Remember, I’d rather you clubbed that man to death than lie to me.”
I’d never felt anything but good feelings toward Burton since I met him, and didn’t feel any differently then. But I wasn’t going to let that one sit where it lay.
“No way, Burt,” I told him. “I didn’t club him and I’m not lying. My innocence has to be a matter of fact, a firm assumption upon which everything is based.”
The gangly introvert smiled at me warmly and gave my shoulder a squeeze.
“Very well, Sam. So it’ll be.”
He exchanged an uninterpretable look with Hayden before going back to the game, which he won, along with the next two. He declared himself the eight-ball champion and suggested we go to three-way straight pool. By then it was dark outside, and with enough vodka inside me to sharpen my faculties and weaken my better nature, I ran the table my first time up.
Hayden looked at me with a suspicious eye.
“What do you call that?” he asked.
“Killer pool, baby,” I told him.
PART TWO
EIGHT
AFTER LEAVING MY WIFE ABBY and my job running a corporate R&D operation I lived in hotel rooms around Connecticut and the northern exurbs of New York. I paid for them with my corporate credit card, which no one at the company, inexplicably, had thought to shut off. Given my mental clarity in those days, this was an important convenience. All I needed to sustain my existence was to reach into the first inside sleeve of my wallet.
I also conserved energy by going from room to room without bothering to bring along my clothes. This resulted in frequent trips to discount stores where I was delighted to find good quality underwear at very reasonable prices. It was at one of these cavernous emporia that I discovered cheap polyester tote bags, an excellent solution to the challenge of transporting my ever-renewed wardrobe of Levi’s and cotton T-shirts.
During all my years of marriage to Abby I almost never walked into a retail outlet of any kind, unless you included the deli in White Plains where I bought coffee and a copy of The New York Times. Shopping had become an abstraction. Abby purchased all the family’s food and furnishings, picked out the restaur
ants and vacation accommodation, and bought all my clothes. Except for Levi’s and T-shirts and workout gear, all of which I ordered through the mail. I had them sent to the company to prevent Abby from throwing out the packages, an unexplainable habit of hers. I got all my books out of the library, and before the company started supplying them, bought my cars from the ad hoc inventory stuck out on lawns with homemade signs taped to the windshields.
For my job I’d spend a fair amount of time in Bombay, Kuala Lumpur, Dubai and the fetid alleys of Cairo, but I never felt more alien than I did walking under the blue-green fluorescent lights of those retail monstrosities.
I eventually misplaced my company car, which they’d also failed to retrieve. It was a silver four-door imported luxury sedan that vanished one night somewhere in Bridgeport, Connecticut. I really liked that car. It was fast and quiet and comfortable. It had a cupholder big enough for a large Diet Coke, which you could fill up partway with bourbon, plus an ashtray and a startlingly loud stereo. I’d occasionally launch the day lying naked on my bed in the hotel room, smoking cigarettes and watching pay-as-you-go movies on the TV, and then suddenly find myself driving the car through the leafy, curvaceous countryside of northern Fairfield County. Usually dressed.
If you head north of Fairfield, past Danbury, you find yourself in Litchfield County, a Manhattanite preserve thick with white Congregational churches and twentieth-century novelists.
One day I managed to wander my way straight through Connecticut and into Massachusetts, where I was met by a big welcome sign at the border. I’d lived a lot of years in Massachusetts, so I took the welcome for what it was worth and drove on anyway. I went as straight north as the twisted two-lane roads would allow, aided by the car’s electronic compass with a read-out built into the rearview mirror.
It was a warm, soft summer day following several days of rain. The dominant oaks and maples were laden with billows of dark green leaves. Radio reception filtered out everything but NPR stations playing Mozart or Oscar Peterson or vaguely condescending commentary on issues of the day I regrettably knew nothing about. The roads were filled with pickups and Volvo station wagons plastered with political and social declarations. I envied the unabashed conviction.