by Howard Fast
“That’s even more condescending! I ask you a simple question, and all you respond with are smart-ass answers. No, this is not a fight or an argument, and I still love you, and in a few minutes you’ll meet my father and mother for the first time—”
“May I interrupt?”
“Sure. Interrupt. Why not?”
“We’ve been intimate—and I use the word advisedly—for two years now—and loving—”
“Closer to three years,” she said.
“Yes, and I adore you, and I’m not a kid, and so help me, God, I’ll marry you or stay single all my life, and yet I’ve never met your parents.”
“I thought you understood that. I have my own problems with myself and who I am, Dave. Pull over here by the golf course. We have more to talk about than we can in the three minutes before we reach them.”
Obediently, David pulled the car off the road onto the grass swath alongside the fence of Stamford’s public golf course.
“OK, here we are.”
“You know why you never met my parents. We’ve talked about it before. Believe it or not, I love you as much or more than you love me. I have since I met you. You were a kid then and you’re still a kid, but I figure that in ten years it won’t make any difference. There’s no rule in this demented country that a wife can’t be three years older than her husband, and if necessary you can lie about it and tell my father we’re the same age.”
“I don’t enjoy lying,” David said.
“Neither do I, but when it’s necessary, I lie. But let me add to what I’ve said about my parents. My father is a decent, hardworking man, but he’s Polish. He was born in 1944. He’s a Republican. He hates Clinton and thinks he should be impeached. He hates welfare and thinks people on welfare are worthless bums. He’s as reactionary as anyone can be without having a portrait of Hitler on the wall.”
“And he doesn’t like Jews.”
“No, he hates them. Blames them for all the troubles in the world.”
“In other words, he’s a practicing anti-Semite,” David said.
“He doesn’t practice it, but he lives with it. I used to argue with him, but then I gave it up. They’re pious Catholics. My mother goes to mass every day, and they took it for granted that I would marry into a good Catholic family. They worship the pope, and the one real explosion came about that. I can’t bear the pope, with his anti-abortion and his all-male priests and his attitude toward women and all the rest of the garbage, and I said a thing or two that I shouldn’t have said. That was when I moved out and went on my own. We’ve reconciled since then—I’m their only child—but it’s a troubled peace.”
“And you never told them that my father was Jewish.”
Nellie sighed and shook her head. “I simply left it alone. You have red hair and blue eyes and you don’t look Jewish.”
“Nobody looks Jewish!” David said angrily.
“David, David, don’t make this into a fight. My mother dreams of a wedding in a Catholic church. So now, when you tell me that you’re Jewish and I fear you’ll tell them the same thing—my God, David, I love you. I don’t want you in the middle of this disgraceful thing. I kept you away from them until now—not because we’re poor and my father is a janitor who lives in a miserable basement apartment, but—well, now you know why.”
“About being married—well, I really don’t give a damn where we’re married, a church or a judge’s office. It’s being married to you that matters, not how.”
“I feel the same way. What should we do?”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, and then a police car pulled up behind them, and the cop got out of the car, walked over to the open driver’s window, and asked, “Trouble?”
“Only emotional,” Nellie answered, smiling.
“You’ll have to work it out somewhere else,” the cop said. “Try the mall. No parking here.”
He went back to his car, and they drove off. “That’s a nice cop,” David acknowledged. “He didn’t even ask for my license.”
David drove through Stamford and into the Ridgeway Mall lot. Looking for an open space, David muttered, “Hail, Mary, full of grace, help me find a parking place.”
“I’ll be damned!” Nellie exclaimed.
“Credit my sister Claire. She says it always works.”
“Does it?”
“I’m afraid not. I have a story to tell you. Can you bear it?”
“I’ll try,” Nellie said. “How long can we park here?”
“Five or ten minutes should do it. I have a friend up at Harvard, a senior like me. We took two semesters of biology together and got to be good friends. He’s from Boston, very Waspy Boston, a very valid Lowell, back to the Mayflower and all that. He and his wife live off campus. I met his wife, a lovely black woman, and the next day, I managed to inquire how his folks took it. He asked me to guess, but I couldn’t have guessed in a thousand years. You know what his mother said? His mother said, Thank God she’s not Jewish.”
Nellie stared at him. “True? You’re not inventing this?”
“True. Absolutely true. Half a century after the Holocaust.”
Nellie spread her hands. “I don’t know what to say.”
“That manuscript you have in your bag—Harold Sellig’s book, The Assassin. It’s been lying around the house for days. I read an earlier draft of it. It’s a book about the Holocaust and Vietnam and the collective guilt of a civilization that he defines by one word, murder. He writes that our civilization—not only America but the whole world—is a cult that worships murder. He doesn’t admit to civilization; he calls it a sham, even as he calls Christianity a sham along with every other religion, including Judaism. He indicts mankind with the collective guilt of murder. It’s one of the most terrifying books I have ever read. He goes into statistics of the twentieth century, the bloodiest century in history, numbers that are appalling. He holds that everyone on earth must share the blame of the Holocaust and Hiroshima and Vietnam. And I tell you, Nellie, that only a Jew could have written this book.”
After a time of silence, Nellie said, “Only a Jew? Your mother, your sister, and me? What a terrible indictment you’re laying on us! And the Israelis?”
“I’m not an Israeli, I’m a Jew. His list includes Israel. Do you know what this Jewish guilt is? It’s the guilt of an outsider who looks at the human race. At least some of us do, and that’s the rock bottom of anti-Semitism. They don’t want us to observe them, they want us to join, and that’s something I’ll never do.”
Silence again, and they sat in silence for at least ten minutes, a very long time for two people sitting in the front seat of a car in a shopping center; and to both of them, it seemed a good deal longer.
Finally, Nellie said, “I have a suggestion.”
“Thank goodness. I don’t.”
“Let’s drive back to Greenwich and out to Tod’s Point and find a quiet place along the shore, and we’ll sit close to each other and watch the waves and the gulls and hold hands.”
David nodded. “What about your father and mother?”
“We’ll put that off until we solve it.”
“I like that.”
“And then,” Nellie said, “we can have lunch somewhere.”
“I’m broke.”
“My treat. And then, after lunch, we can go to my place and make love.”
“I like that, too,” David agreed. “My father said that during the Vietnam War, there was a tremendous peace movement, and their slogan was, Make love, not war.”
Thirty-six
Knowledgeable residents of Greenwich said of the local police department that it was not as bad as its severest critics said it was, but ever since the still unsolved Moxley murder, two decades before, the police had been the butt of constant criticism; nevertheless, Greenwich had its own Criminal Investigation Department, headed by John MacGregor, a fifty-year-old veteran of New York City Homicide. MacGregor had served his time in New York, and he was pleased with his new j
ob in Greenwich, the more so because in twenty years Greenwich had had less than half a dozen murders. He looked upon the town as a good place to live out his years without too much stress.
He happened to be at the police station when a 911 call came in, informing them that a double murder had taken place at the Castle home out in the Back Country. Actually, he was on his way cut, and Ginny, the woman at the front desk, caught him at the door.
“Who called it in?”
“An hysterical woman. But it’s the Castle place out off North Street.”
“Real?”
“Yes, sounds real.”
“There are two cars north of the Merritt. Head them over there. Give me the address. And tell Seeber to get his ass out here. Got the address?”
She handed him a paper slip.
“And tell them not to touch anything. Just seal it off.”
Cal Seeber appeared, a plainclothes detective in his forties, heavyset, with a perpetual frown.
“Come with me,” MacGregor said, handing him the slip of paper. “Do you know where this is?”
“Sure. The Castle place.”
“Then, let’s go.”
Driving across town, from Mason Street and police headquarters to the Back Country, MacGregor said, “I understand we got Castle’s son in the cooler and that this Manelli guy has dropped the charges. How long have we had him?”
“Since midnight yesterday. That lets him out.”
“Maybe yes, maybe no,” MacGregor said. “We got no time yet on the killing.”
“Castle was with them when they took the kid away.”
“That lets him out.”
“Manelli dropped the charges, so we have to let him go.”
“I want the kid held until we get back. Or better yet, bring him out to the house. I want to talk to him. What’s the kid like?”
Seeber made the call on the car phone.
“Seventeen, eighteen, snotty little bastard,” Seeber said. “Rich-kid syndrome. Drives a two-seater BMW. He’s a package from Castle’s first wife.”
“So talk about Castle.”
“Very rich, even by Greenwich standards. Big four-million-dollar house. I hear he used to be in the government, Assistant Secretary of something, years ago. Now he’s an investment banker. Dumped his first wife and married one of them trophy wives. That’s a Greenwich expression for number two or three.”
“What’s number two like?”
“Like about forty,” Seeber went on. “She’s a real classy woman. Strawberry blond, even in the roots. And built. I heard she ain’t much on the brain side. I went up there once to talk about the kid, when he smashed up his car. She’s a weeper, and she turned me over to Castle. He seemed like a decent enough guy, tried to give me a couple of hundred to go easy on the kid. I don’t take. But he didn’t go into a rage, like some of them do.”
“And wife number one?”
“She’s in L.A. Drugs, white soldiers. I got an inquiry from L.A. when they arrested her. She’s out on parole by now, but it don’t look like no woman’s job.”
“You’d be surprised. When we get there, you call State Forensics and tell them to send down a fingerprint man. Who’s in the prowl cars?”
“I think Johnson and Lowsky.”
“They’ll call an ambulance, won’t they?”
“I guess so—if either of the two are alive.”
“Trouble with Greenwich,” MacGregor said, “is that you don’t have enough homicide to establish a routine.”
“Maybe it’ll improve, Chief, now that you’ve taken over.”
“And I don’t like smart-ass, Seeber. I ask; you tell me. Plain?”
“No problem,” Seeber replied.
Following Seeber’s directions, MacGregor pulled into the driveway of the Castle estate. Seeing nothing moving, he followed the driveway around the house to the pool and pool house, where two police cars were parked, the two uniformed policemen talking with a young, attractive black woman in a maid’s dress and apron.
“She found the bodies,” one of the uniformed cops, name of Johnson, said to MacGregor.
“Where are the bodies?” MacGregor asked.
Nodding toward the pool house, the other patrolman said, “In there. That’s Mr. Castle’s office.”
“Who?”
“Castle and the downstairs maid. Her name is Josie Brown.”
At this, Donna began to weep. The second cop, whose name was Lowsky, put his arm around her and said, “Easy, kid. Just work easy. You’ll be all right.”
“Either of you touch anything inside?” MacGregor asked the cops.
“No, Chief. Just tried a pulse on the black kid in there. No pulse, she took two in the chest. Castle had his brains shot out.”
“Where’s the wife?”
“Donna here got her into the house. She’s taking it hard, according to this kid.”
“Did you call for an ambulance?”
Lowsky nodded.
“From the car phone, I hope. You didn’t touch the phone in there,” pointing to the office.
“No, Chief.”
“OK. Take Donna into the house, and keep her and the wife there. Don’t question them. Anyone else around?”
“No one.”
MacGregor turned to Johnson: “You drive out to the front, and park so no one else gets in here except the ambulance. Me and Seeber, we’ll be inside here or in the house. If her lawyer comes, let him in. Anyone else, come and ask me.”
Then MacGregor and Seeber went into Castle’s pool-house office. MacGregor opened and closed the door with his handkerchief. The cops must have done the same. He could see that it was wiped clean. Stepping carefully to avoid the pools of blood, they stood and stared at the bodies.
“She must have come in when the perp had the gun in his hand,” Seeber observed. “Fell and slopped the coffee she was carrying.”
“He’s got blood on his shoe,” MacGregor said.
“Might be one of the cops. The computer’s on.”
“Sometimes, they leave it on. Something about the processor. Go out and call State and tell them to send a computer guy down with the fingerprint man. Not with this phone. Step out and use the car phone.”
MacGregor continued to look around him. Except for a large wood and metal desk, the computer, printer, and a facsimile machine, there was nothing there. Not even a picture on the wall. The desk had three drawers on each side and a drawer in the middle and on the desk, there were two glasses, one partly full, and a bottle of scotch. Again using a handkerchief carefully, MacGregor opened the six side-drawers. The middle drawer was locked, he took out a pocketknife and slid the blade in without result, damning the fact that it was a square bolt. The other drawers were empty.
Apparently, it was a very new desk. On its surface, which contained a brass desk set, pen, and letter opener, the desk was smooth, shiny, and empty, except for one uneven spot where the finish was slightly marred. He ran his fingers over the marred spot, and then bent over the desk and smelled the spot. Something had been burned there, he decided. Who burns something on the top of a new, steel-topped desk? A cigar? There was a faint tinge of cigar scent in the room, but this was somehow different. Something had been burned on the desk. A cigar, partly smoked, was on the floor.
Seeber returned. “State doesn’t have a computer expert they can send on a Saturday. They say we should find one here or ask Norwalk.”
“Screw Norwalk. What do you do when your computer goes haywire?”
“There’s a place on Mason Street.”
“The hell with that! Is the ambulance on the way?”
“Should be here any minute.” Seeber held up a bullet. “It must have gone straight through her. I found it outside the door in the grass.”
“Good. Bag it, and we’ll send it up to State.”
MacGregor’s spirits were rising. It was all very well to talk about a peaceful and pleasant retirement, but after twenty-five years of New York City homicides, the peace and qui
et of Greenwich had begun to wear on him. He had little imagination for other things than violent death, but within the scope of his experience he was as good as the best. He was a short, stocky man, born in Glasgow; and while his wife would be disturbed by this interruption, he was professionally delighted. Until now, he had dealt with burglaries, a new field and not too engaging. Here, he was at home.
He went through Castle’s pockets, hoping he would find the key to the desk drawer. No key. But the killer might have found the key. MacGregor began to crawl around the room on his hands and knees.
“What in hell are you up to?” Seeber asked.
“This!” MacGregor announced, holding up the key. “Right here in the corner. That’s where the perp threw it.”
MacGregor opened the desk drawer, gave a small leather date book to Seeber, and opened the file. “Go through it page by page,” he said. “Find something useful.” But how would Seeber know that something was useful? Spreading the papers in the file folder, MacGregor went through them.
He found nothing that appeared to connect.
“I got something,” Seeber said.
“Show me.”
“It’s a date book. Not many entries. He must have another date book, maybe in the house. But here, look, today’s date, ‘250 M to Larry.’”
Seeber rose in MacGregor’s estimation.
“Two hundred and fifty grand, that’s one hell of a piece of change. Anything else about Larry?”
“No. Want to go through it again?”
“Later.”
At that moment, the ambulance arrived. MacGregor took a piece of soft chalk from his pocket. “Draw a line around the bodies. Don’t need to be perfect. Just position them.” He turned to the two ambulance men, “One of you a doctor?”
“I’m an intern,” the younger man said. “What a bloody mess. We don’t have anything like this in Greenwich.”
“You got it now. Can you give me something about the time of death, Doc?”
“Like in the movies? Well, they were shot this morning. I was never asked that question before,” the intern said, as if the question were more important than the grisly scene on the floor. “Maybe two hours ago, maybe more. The room is air-conditioned, so that throws it off.”