The Eighth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  We sat in silence awhile. He seemed in no hurry to leave—which was fine with me. After what had happened, it was nice to have a big, husky cop on the premises.

  “Anything new on the homicides?” I asked.

  “What?” he said, coming out of his reverie. “No, nothing new. We’re up against a stone wall. Unless we get a lucky break, I’m afraid the whole thing will have to be put on the back burner.”

  “You can’t do that,” I said hotly.

  “No?” he said with a sour grin. “You know how many killings there have been in this town since Vanwinkle got snuffed? It’s a problem of time and manpower, Dunk. We can’t work one case for months or years. Besides, Vanwinkle and LeBaron are the homicide guys’ headache. It’s not mine. I’ve got enough to worry about, wondering if I screwed up on the Demaretion thing. My bosses aren’t exactly enthusiastic about the way I’ve handled it—or mishandled it.”

  “Jack Smack hasn’t done any better,” I pointed out. “And neither have I. It’s not your fault, Al.”

  He gave me his slow, charming smile. “Thanks for your loyalty; I appreciate it. Dunk, I talked to Sally on the phone last night. She said to say hello.”

  “And hello to her. How is she?”

  “Doing great in school. Getting good marks. And she’s in a play where she gets to sing a song. She’s all excited.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “You like her, Dunk?”

  “Like her? What a question! I love her. She’s a marvelous kid.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “I think so, too. I just wanted to find out how you felt.”

  Then he was silent again, sitting there like a slack giant, rumpled as ever. What he needed, I decided, was a loving wife who would wind him up every morning and send him off to work with a pressed suit, shined shoes, and a straight part in his hair. He needed sprucing and the knowledge that someone cared. He was beginning to show a hermit’s disrepair. I didn’t think he was a man who enjoyed solitude.

  “Something on your mind, Al?” I asked him. “You seem awfully quiet.”

  “Yeah,” he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “I’ve got something on my mind. Dunk, will you marry me?”

  I used to believe it was a literary figure of speech to say someone’s jaw dropped in amazement, but I could feel mine go kerplunk! I had just been thinking he needed a wife to straighten him out and give his life meaning. What a shock to learn I had been nominated.

  “My God, Al,” I said, “you can’t be serious.”

  “Never more serious in my life. Hear me out, Dunk, before you laugh at me.”

  “I’d never do that, and you know it.”

  “Well, I’ll give it to you straight. I’ve been thinking about it a long time. Since I met you and drove you home—remember? Let me give you the minuses first. I told you why my wife dumped me. She couldn’t stand the pressures of my job. That’s all right; I can understand that. But if you married me, the pressures would still be there. The job would come first. Lousy hours. Meals where I don’t show up. Maybe gone for a day or two and all you get are phone calls. Not exactly what you’d term a storybook romance. Plus the possibility that some weirdo might blow my head off. A remote possibility—but still it’s there. Also, I admit, I can be stubborn. You know—the Italian macho syndrome. I try to control it, but sometimes it gets away from me.”

  “You do okay,” I told him.

  “Do I?” he said. “Well, I try. And then there are a lot of little things that might drive a wife bananas. Like I think I’m such a hotshot cook and could be supercritical of what I’m given to eat. And I guess I’m not the neatest guy in the world. I’m trying to give you all the drawbacks, Dunk.”

  I smiled and took his hand.

  “Now for the pluses,” he said. “Such as they are. I make a good buck. Not great, but good. Maybe someday I can make lieutenant. Chancy, but it’s a possible. The pension is better. If my ex gets married, which I’m praying for, then I’ll be saving the alimony. I’ve got a few CDs—nothing to brag about. I’m in good health. Overweight, but healthy. I really can cook, and don’t mind helping with housework if I’ve got the time. But the most important plus, Dunk, is that I love you. I really do. If we got married, I would never cheat on you. I wouldn’t even dream about it. I would be with you always.”

  This was my first proposal of marriage, and I didn’t know how to handle it. I was so confused that my best reaction, I figured, would be to delay, temporize, put off a decision until I could determine how I felt. But Al, bless him, made it easy for me.

  “Look,” he said, “I don’t expect an immediate yes or no. You’re a brainy lady and I know you’ll want to think about it and weigh the pros and cons. I just wanted to make my pitch and let you know how I feel. Take your time. If you say no, I’m not going to stamp my foot and pout. It’s your decision. If you say yes, I’ll be the happiest son of a bitch in New York. But don’t let the way I’m going to feel affect what you decide. You do what you think is best for you.”

  I had to kiss him. He was so honest, forthright, and solid. I never doubted his integrity for a moment. He was exactly the man he appeared to be. No sham. No playacting. What you see is what you get.

  “Al,” I said, “first of all, I thank you for even thinking about me that way. First time it ever happened to me, and it’s great for a girl’s ego.”

  “Listen,” he said, “if you’ve got any questions, don’t be afraid to ask them. You know, like my finances, bank balance, debts, and all that. Religion. I’ll answer everything. Also, what about children? Do you want your own kids or don’t you? These are things we’d have to work out if you decide to say yes. But let’s put all our cards on the table first. I think that’s the best way, don’t you?”

  “You bet,” I said. “Al, just as you figured, I’m not going to give you an answer right now. I’ve got some heavy thinking to do.”

  “But you’re not giving me a fast no?”

  “You’re right; I’m not.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” he said, rising. “And remember what I told you: Do what you think is best for you.”

  We embraced and I hugged him tightly. I tried to keep from weeping. I don’t know why I felt like crying; a woman’s first marriage proposal is hardly a reason for melancholy. I think it was just that, at the moment, I felt so tender and loving toward him.

  When he was gone, and I had imprisoned myself with those cheesy locks, I finally got out of my party clothes and pulled on something more informal and comfortable. While I was doing this, moving as dreamily as a somnambulist, I thought of Al’s offer and tried to imagine what my life would be like as Mrs. Al Georgio. Mrs. Mary Lou Georgio. Mrs. Dunk Georgio.

  I couldn’t see myself clearly in the role of a wife. I could easily see Al as a husband. Other than his rackety job, he seemed to have all the attributes of a good, solid, faithful mate. I knew he’d take the marriage vows seriously, especially that part about “till death do us part.”

  But what kind of a spouse would I make? I decided, sighing, that I’d never know until I gave it a go. I might have the best intentions in the world, but chance and circumstance have a way of fouling up the most sincere resolves. I guess, when you got right down to it, marriage frightened me. The big unknown. Who could predict if it would be a benediction or a curse? Not me.

  So I tucked that decision into the back of my mind, letting it percolate awhile, and turned my attention to more immediate demands. How was I going to replace my missing notebook? I could do something about that, and started by running out to buy a yellow legal pad at our neighborhood stationery store. I also stopped at the deli to pick up a cold six-pack of Bud. I still had a thirst that wouldn’t quit.

  Back home, sipping from an opened can, I made brief jottings on the pad of everything I could recall that had been included in the stolen journal. You know, I think the attempted duplication of my original notes was a blessing in disguise. Because I’m sure I forgot a lot of m
eaningless details. Red herrings flopped at the wayside. There apparently was a kind of mental selection involved here: The things I remembered and scribbled down seemed to be significant and to have a logic and pattern I hadn’t seen before.

  My crazy theory didn’t appear so demented after all. It was now a rational and verifiable explanation of everything that had happened. It took all the events into account and supplied motives and reasons for the puzzles that had been bedeviling me.

  It even gave me a very good idea of what was in the late Dolly LeBaron’s mysterious package, now nestling amongst pancake mix and instant rice in my kitchen cabinet.

  31

  “I’M SORRY, DUNK DARLING,” Enoch Wottle said apologetically, calling from Arizona. “What I found out about Archibald Havistock’s finances you could put in your eye and it wouldn’t hurt a bit.”

  “That’s all right, Enoch,” I said. “I know you tried, and I appreciate it.”

  “The dealers I talked to made credit checks maybe four or five years ago. At that time his reputation was A-OK. They had no trouble with him whatsoever. So they saw no reason to investigate again.”

  “Of course not,” I said. “Why should they? Enoch, thank you again for your help. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “Done what?” he said sharply. “Dunk, you sound like you know something.”

  “Do I?” I said, wondering if Al’s marriage proposal had given me confidence. “I’m not sure I know anything definitely, but I’m making some guesses that I think are on target.”

  “And you’ll get the coin back?”

  “I hope so.”

  “I hope so, too. However it comes out, you’ll let me know?”

  “Of course, dear. Thank you for calling.”

  He hadn’t told me what I wanted to hear, but there was more than one way to skin a cat.

  It was Thursday morning, and I was filled with vim and vigor, planning how I would spend a day that would, inevitably, end up with the total triumph of Dunk Bateson. It didn’t turn out exactly that way.

  I dug an old shopping bag out of my closet—a brown paper job with twine handles. I filled it with catalogues, books, a folding umbrella, a pouched plastic raincoat, a box of Alka-Seltzer, and my office coffee cup. Then I set out for Grandby & Sons, stopping off at a liquor store en route to pick up a gift for Hobart Juliana: a bottle of Irish Mist, which he dearly loved.

  He was delighted to see me, and even more delighted when I began to stow my belongings back into my desk and onto my bookshelves.

  “Ma and Pa Kettle are back together again!” he shouted.

  We celebrated by having a cup of black coffee and opening Hobie’s gift to have a wee taste. A nice way to toast my homecoming.

  “I’ve got to call Felicia,” I told him. “Listen to this, Hobie. I think it’s the first time I’m going to lie with malice aforethought.”

  “Welcome to the real world,” he said, smiling.

  I punched out Madam Dodat’s intraoffice extension and waited impatiently while her snooty secretary put her on the phone.

  “Dunk, darling!” she caroled. “How nice to hear from you. Do you have good news for us?”

  “I think so,” I said. “I’m downstairs in my office and I’d like to meet with you and Mr. Grandby if that’s possible.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said, “I’m afraid not. Stanton isn’t in. It’s his day for squash and a sauna.”

  The thought of god sitting naked in a sauna was more than I could bear. That glistening penguin!

  “Is this a progress report, Dunk?”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  “Then there’s no reason why you can’t tell me. I’ll repeat it to Stanton just as soon as I hear from him.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said decisively. “I want him to be there. And it wouldn’t hurt to have the lawyer present. Lemuel what’s-his-name.”

  “Whattsworth.”

  “Yes. I’d like him to be there. Can you arrange it?”

  “Well…” she said, obviously offended by my peremptory tone, “I’ll see what I can do. How long will you be here?”

  “About fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll try to get back to you before you leave,” she said. “If not, I’ll call you at home. Is it important?”

  “Very,” I said, and hung up, glorying in my boldness.

  “What was that all about?” Hobie asked curiously.

  “I need some information from them,” I explained. “But if I told them what I wanted, they’d turn me down cold. So I implied that I have a progress report to deliver. That’ll bring them running, hoping to learn something that might forestall a lawsuit by Archibald Havistock.”

  He laughed. “Dunk, you’re becoming a very devious lady.”

  “I’m learning,” I said. “Hobie, let’s have another sip of that glorious elixir.”

  “As many as you like,” he said, pouring into our coffee mugs. “It’s like old times again, Dunk.”

  We parked our feet on our desks and raised our cups to each other.

  “Hobie,” I said, “one more favor? Please? The last, I swear.”

  “The last?” he said. “You mean this thing is finally unraveling?”

  “I think it is. Keep your fingers crossed.”

  “I shall. What’s the favor you want?”

  “Just your opinion. When you were asking around about Orson Vanwinkle’s activities, did you get the idea that he might be a man who would engage in—ah, how can I put this delicately?—in group sex?”

  “Orgies, you mean?” Hobie said, grinning. “Oh hell, yes. Dunk, from what I heard, the guy was an absolute freak. He probably got it off with Doberman pinschers, for all I know. He was a wild one.”

  “Thank you, Hobie,” I said gratefully. “When I write a novel about all this, you’re going to get the biggest credit line in the book.”

  “Could you refer to me as Rodney instead of Hobart?” he said wistfully. “I’ve always fancied the name Rodney. Hobart sounds like a collapsed soufflé.”

  We laughed, and chatted of this and that. I was standing, ready to leave, when Felicia Dodat called back. She said she had arranged a conference with Stanton Grandby and Lemuel Whattsworth—and herself, of course—for 1:00 P.M. on the following day, Friday. Would that be satisfactory?

  “It’ll have to be,” I said shortly, in my new assertive role. I was really beginning to enjoy throwing my weight around.

  “So long, dear,” I said, embracing Hobie. “I shall return carrying my shield or on it.”

  He gave me a look spangled with love. “Lots of luck, Dunk,” he said.

  “And I think Hobart is a perfectly marvelous name,” I told him. “Live with ‘Dunk’ for a while, and you’ll be thankful for what you’ve got.”

  I cabbed home, practically feverish with anticipation because I knew what I had to do next. I rushed into my apartment, closed the Venetian blinds and drew the drapes—like an idiot!—and hauled Dolly LeBaron’s package down from the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet.

  I turned it over and over in my hands, inspecting it, hefting it. Then I fetched a pair of manicure scissors and started cutting all those windings of Scotch tape. I finally got the brown paper bag sliced open. Within was a shoe-box, as I had suspected. The stamping on the end read:

  4-B, RED.

  I opened it as cautiously as if I had been defusing a bomb. Please, God, I prayed silently, let me be right. Inside were wrappings and paddings of purple tissue paper. I peeled everything away slowly and carefully. Then I held the contents. The secret. I didn’t know whether to shout with joy or weep with sadness.

  But I had been right.

  I didn’t even want to think about it. I didn’t want to ponder or question or analyze. Action was the name of the game. Full court press. Up and in. Dunk shot. Crowd roaring. The satisfaction of completing a class act. Nothing like it.

  I started making phone calls. It took me almost a half-hour to get it set up, bu
t I pushed it through, insisting.

  When I got hold of Jack Smack, he said:

  “Is this about Ross Minchen’s bank withdrawals, Dunk? Forget it. He took out cash. There’s no way to trace what he did with it. Blew it on slow horses or fast women—who knows?”

  “That’s not important now,” I said impatiently. Then I told him what I wanted.

  “Why does it have to be my place?” he complained. “I’ve got a million things to do here at the office.”

  “It has to be,” I said. “At three o’clock. Trust me.”

  “All right,” he said resignedly, “I’ll be there.”

  Al Georgio was easier. “What’s up, Dunk?” he said.

  “Something interesting,” I said. “It’s going to help make you a lieutenant.”

  “Oh?” he said. “That I’ve got to hear. Okay, I’ll be there. Give me the address.”

  So, a little after 3:00 P.M., we all met at Jack Smack’s loft in SoHo, me carrying Dolly LeBaron’s package, hugging it tightly as if it contained the plans for an atomic bomb, which, in a way, it did.

  Both of the men looked at me like I was some kind of a nut.

  “Dunk, what is this?” Al said gruffly.

  I didn’t answer him. I said, “Jack, you mentioned once that you own a videocassette recorder. Is that right?”

  He looked at me, puzzled. At least he was smart enough not to say, “You know I do, Dunk. I wanted to play King Kong for you the other night when we made nice-nice.” That would have raised Al Georgio’s bushy eyebrows!

  Instead, Jack said, “Yeah, I’ve got a VCR.”

  “Play this for us, will you?” I asked him, unwrapped the package, and handed him Dolly LeBaron’s videocassette.

  He inspected it. “What is it?” he said. “A travelogue of the Children’s Zoo in Central Park?”

  “If it is,” I said, trying to laugh and not show my nervousness, “I’m going to spend the rest of my life wiping egg off my face. Just show it, will you?”