by Ed Park
I stop at a 7-Eleven for a Slurpie, but there’s a look of fright in the cashier’s eyes. Blood on my hands, on my face. I run out and keep running, down the street, stripping off my clothes. In my apartment, I take a shower and change into a fresh tee and jeans. I throw some crap into a gym bag. I call Lizzie, but get her voice mail.
She was at a movie with Allison Carmichael. Some Brad Pitt chick thing.
I leave a message saying that I called, but that it wasn’t important and I’d phone her later and “I love you . . .”
I climb into my car and drive. I drive as fast as I can. I drive into darkness. All the while thinking about Lizzie. And Bart.
A promise is a promise, right? A friend is a friend, in good times and the worst times. Like a wife. And so, you do what you have to do.
Words on a paper napkin.
Now I’m living here in Playa de los Muertos. A tour guide for fat, bald Americans. With a wife named Rosalina. A small house on the beach. An okay car.
Every day, as the sun goes down, I toast my best friend Bart with a shot of T.
The Ehrengraf Settlement
BY LAWRENCE BLOCK
Nottingham Terrace
Ehrengraf, his mind abuzz with uplifting thoughts, left his car at the curb and walked the length of the flagstone path to Millard Ravenstock’s imposing front door. There was a large bronze door knocker in the shape of an elephant’s head, and one could lift and lower the animal’s hinged proboscis to summon the occupants.
Or, as an alternative, one could ring the doorbell by pressing the recessed mother-of-pearl button. Ehrengraf fingered the knot in his tie, with its alternating half-inch stripes of scarlet and Prussian blue, brushed a speck of lint from the lapel of his gray flannel suit. Only then, having given both choices due consideration, did he touch the elephant’s trunk, before opting instead for the bell-push.
Moments later he was in a paneled library, seated in a leather club chair, with a cup of coffee at hand. He hadn’t managed more than two sips before Millard Ravenstock joined him.
“Mr. Ehrengraf,” the man said, giving the honorific just enough emphasis to suggest how rarely he employed it. Ehrengraf could believe it; this was a man who would call most people by their surnames, as if all the world’s inhabitants were members of his household staff.
“Mr. Ravenstock,” said Ehrengraf, with an inflection that was similar but not identical.
“It was good of you to come to see me. In ordinary circumstances I’d have called at your offices, but—” A shrug and a smile served to complete the sentence.
In ordinary circumstances, Ehrengraf thought, there’d have been no need for their paths to cross. Had Millard Ravenstock not found himself a person of interest in a murder investigation, he’d have had no reason to summon Ehrengraf, or Ehrengraf any reason to come to the imposing Nottingham Terrace residence.
Ehrengraf simply observed that the circumstances were not ordinary.
“Indeed they are not,” said Ravenstock. His chalk-striped navy suit was clearly the work of a custom tailor, who’d shown skill in flattering his client’s physique. Ravenstock was an imposing figure, stout enough to draw a physician’s perfunctory warnings about cholesterol and type 2 diabetes, but still well on the right side of the current national standard for obesity. Ehrengraf, who maintained an ideal weight with no discernible effort, rather agreed with Shakespeare’s Caesar, liking to have men about him who were fat.
“Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep a-nights.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Had he spoken aloud? Ehrengraf smiled, and waved a dismissive hand. “Perhaps,” he said, “we should consider the matter that concerns us.”
“Tegrum Bogue,” Ravenstock said, pronouncing the name with distaste. “What kind of a name is Tegrum Bogue?”
“A distinctive one,” Ehrengraf suggested.
“Distinctive if not distinguished. I’ve no quarrel with the surname. One assumes it came down to him from the man who provided half his DNA. But why would anyone name a child Tegrum? With all the combinations of letters available, why pick those six and arrange them in that order?” He frowned. “Never mind, I’m wandering off topic. What does his name matter? What’s relevant is that I’m about to be charged with his murder.”
“They allege that you shot him.”
“And the allegation is entirely true,” Ravenstock said. “I don’t suppose you like to hear me admit as much, Mr. Ehrengraf. But it’s pointless for me to deny it, because it’s the plain and simple truth.”
Ehrengraf, whose free time was largely devoted to the reading of poetry, moved from Shakespeare to Oscar Wilde, who had pointed out that the truth was rarely plain, and never simple. But he kept himself from quoting aloud.
“It was self-defense,” Ravenstock said. “The man was hanging around my property and behaving suspiciously. I confronted him. He responded in a menacing fashion. I urged him to depart. He attacked me. Then and only then did I draw my pistol and shoot him dead.”
“Ah,” said Ehrengraf.
“It was quite clear that I was blameless.” Ravenstock’s high forehead was dry, but he drew a handkerchief and mopped it just the same. “The police questioned me, as they were unquestionably right to do, and released me, and one detective said offhand that I’d done the right thing. I consulted with my attorney, and he said he doubted charges would be brought, but that if they were he was confident of a verdict of justifiable homicide.”
“And then things began to go wrong.”
“Horribly wrong, Mr. Ehrengraf. But you probably know the circumstances as well as I do.”
“I try to keep up,” Ehrengraf allowed. “But let me confirm a few facts. You’re a member of the Nottingham Vigilance Committee.”
“The name’s unfortunate,” Ravenstock said. “It simply identifies the group as what it is, designed to keep a watchful eye over our neighborhood. This is an affluent area, and right across the street is Delaware Park. That’s one of the best things about living here, but it’s not an unmixed blessing.”
“Few blessings are,” said Ehrengraf.
“I’ll have to think about that. But the park—it’s beautiful, it’s convenient, and at the same time people lurk there, some of them criminous, some of them emotionally disturbed, and all of them just a stone’s throw from our houses.”
There was a remark that was trying to occur to Ehrengraf, something about glass houses, but he left it unsaid.
“Police protection is good here,” Ravenstock continued, “but there’s a definite need for a neighborhood watch group. Vigilance—well, you hear that and you think vigilante, don’t you?”
“One does. This Mr. Bogue—”
“Tegrum Bogue.”
“Tegrum Bogue. You’d had confrontations with him before.”
“I’d seen him on my property once or twice,” Ravenstock said, “and warned him off.”
“You’d called in reports of his suspicious behavior to the police.”
“A couple of times, yes.”
“And on the night in question,” Ehrengraf said, “he was not actually on your property. He was, as I understand it, two doors away.”
“In front of the Gissling home. Heading north toward Meadow Road, there’s this house, and then the Robert Townsend house, and then Madge and Bernard Gissling’s. So that would be two doors away.”
“And when you shot him, he fell dead on the Gisslings’ lawn.”
“They’d just resodded.”
“That very day?”
“No, a month ago. Why?”
Ehrengraf smiled, a maneuver that had served him well over the years. “Mr. Bogue—that would be Tegrum Bogue—was unarmed.”
“He had a knife in his pocket.”
“An inch-long penknife, wasn’t it? Attached to his key ring?”
“I couldn’t say, sir. I never saw the knife. The police report mentioned it. It was only an inch long?”
“Apparently.”
“It doesn’t sound terribly formidable, does it? But Bogue’s was a menacing presence without a weapon in evidence. He was young and tall and vigorous and muscular and wild-eyed, and he uttered threats and put his hands on me and pushed me and struck me.”
“You were armed.”
“An automatic pistol, made by Gunnar & Swick. Their Kestrel model. It’s registered, and I’m licensed to carry it.”
“You drew your weapon.”
“I did. I thought the sight of it might stop Bogue in his tracks.”
“But it didn’t.”
“He laughed,” Ravenstock recalled, “and said he’d take it away from me, and would stick it—well, you can imagine where he threatened to stick it.”
Ehrengraf, who could actually imagine several possible destinations for the Kestrel, simply nodded.
“And he rushed at me, and I might have been holding a water pistol for all the respect he showed it.”
“You fired it.”
“I was taught never to show a gun unless I was prepared to use it.”
“Five times.”
“I was taught to keep on firing until one’s gun is empty. Actually, the Kestrel’s clip holds nine cartridges, but five seemed sufficient.”
“To make assurance doubly sure,” Ehrengraf said. “Stopping at five does show restraint.”
“Well.”
“And yet,” Ehrengraf said, “the traditional argument that the gun simply went off of its own accord comes a cropper, doesn’t it? It’s a rare weapon that fires itself five times in rapid succession. As a member of the Nottingham Vigilantes—”
“The Vigilance Committee.”
“Yes, of course. In that capacity, weren’t you supposed to report Bogue’s presence to the police rather than confront him?”
Ravenstock came as close to hanging his head as his character would allow. “I never thought to make the call.”
“The heat of the moment,” Ehrengraf offered.
“Just that. I acted precipitously.”
“A Mrs. Kling was across the street, walking her Gordon setter. She told police the two of you were arguing, and it seemed to be about someone’s wife.”
“He made remarks about my wife,” Ravenstock said. “Brutish remarks, designed to provoke me. About what he intended to do to and with her, after he’d taken the gun away from me and put it, well—”
“Indeed.”
“What’s worse, Mr. Ehrengraf, is the campaign of late to canonize Tegrum Bogue. Have you seen the picture his family released to the press? He doesn’t look very menacing, does he?”
“Only if one finds choirboys threatening.”
“It was taken nine years ago,” Ravenstock said, “when young Bogue was a first-form student at the Nichols School. Since then he shot up eight inches and put on forty or fifty pounds. I assure you, the cherub in the photo bears no resemblance to the hulking savage who attacked me steps from my own home.”
“Unconscionable,” Ehrengraf said.
“And now I’m certain to be questioned further, and very likely to be placed under arrest. My lawyer was nattering on about how unlikely it is that I’d ever have to spend a night in jail, and hinting at my pleading guilty to some reduced charge. That’s not good enough.”
“No.”
“I don’t want to skate on a technicality, my reputation in ruins. I don’t want to devote a few hundred hours to community service. How do you suppose they’d have me serve my community, Mr. Ehrengraf? Would they send me across the street to pick up litter in the park? Or would they regard a stick with a sharp bit of metal at its end as far too formidable a weapon to be placed in my irresponsible hands?”
“These are things you don’t want,” Ehrengraf said soothingly. “And why ever should you want them? But perhaps you could tell me what it is you do want.”
“What I want,” said Ravenstock, speaking as a man who generally gets whatever it is that he wants. “What I want, sir, is for all of this to go away. And my understanding is that you are a gentleman who is very good at making things go away.”
Ehrengraf smiled.
* * *
Ehrengraf gazed past the mound of clutter on his desk at his office door, with its window of frosted glass. What struck him about the door was that his client had not yet come through it. It was getting on for half past eleven, which made Millard Ravenstock almost thirty minutes late.
Ehrengraf fingered the knot in his tie. It was a perfectly symmetrical knot, neither too large nor too small, which was as it should be. Whenever he wore this particular tie, with its navy field upon which a half-inch diagonal stripe of royal blue was flanked by two narrower stripes, one of gold, the other vividly green—whenever he put it on, he took considerable pains to get the knot exactly right.
It was, of course, the tie of the Caedmon Society; Ehrengraf, not a member of that institution, had purchased the tie from a shop in Oxford’s Cranham Close. He’d owned it for some years now, and had been careful to avoid soiling it, extending its useful life by reserving it for special occasions.
This morning had promised to be such an occasion. Now, as the minutes ticked away without producing Millard Ravenstock, he found himself less certain.
* * *
The antique regulator clock on the wall, which lost a minute a day, showed the time as 11:42 when Millard Ravenstock opened the door and stepped into Ehrengraf’s office. The little lawyer glanced first at the clock and then at his wristwatch, which read 11:48. Then he looked at his client, who appeared not the least bit apologetic for his late arrival.
“Ah, Ehrengraf,” the man said. “A fine day, wouldn’t you say?”
You could see Niagara Square from the office window, and a quick look showed that the day was as it had been earlier—overcast and gloomy, with every likelihood of rain.
“Glorious,” Ehrengraf agreed.
Without waiting to be asked, Ravenstock pulled up a chair and settled his bulk into it. “Before I left my house,” he said, “I went into my den, got out my checkbook, and wrote two checks. One, you’ll be pleased to know, was for your fee.” He patted his breast pocket. “I’ve brought it with me.”
Ehrengraf was pleased. But, he noted, cautiously so. He sensed there was another shoe just waiting to be dropped.
“The other check is already in the mail. I made it payable to the Policemen’s Benevolent Association, and I assure you the sum is a generous one. I have always been a staunch proponent of the police, Ehrengraf, if only because the role they play is such a vital one. Without them we’d have the rabble at our throats, eh?”
Ehrengraf, thought Ehrengraf. The Mister, present throughout their initial meeting, had evidently been left behind on Nottingham Terrace. Increasingly, he felt it had been an error to wear that particular tie on this particular morning.
“Yet I’d given the police insufficient credit for their insight and their resolve. Walter Bainbridge, a thorough and diligent policeman and, I might add, a good friend, pressed an investigation along lines others might have left unexplored. I’ve been completely exonerated, and it’s largely his doing.”
“Indeed,” said Ehrengraf.
“The police dug up evidence, unearthed facts. That housewife who was raped and murdered three weeks ago in Orchard Park. I’m sure you’re familiar with the case. The press called it the Milf Murder.”
Ehrengraf nodded.
“It took place outside city limits,” Ravenstock continued, “so it wasn’t their case at all, but they went through the house and found an unwashed sweatshirt stuffed into a trash can in the garage. Nichols School Lacrosse, it said, big as life. That’s a curious expression, isn’t it? Big as life?”
“Curious,” Ehrengraf said.
“Lacrosse seems to be the natural refuge of the preppy thug,” Ravenstock said. “Can you guess whose DNA soiled that sweatshirt?”
Ehrengraf could guess, but saw no reason to do so. Nor did Ravenstock wait for a response.
“Tegrum Bogue’s. He’d be
en on the team, and it was beyond question his shirt. He’d raped that young housewife and snapped her neck when he was through with her. And he had similar plans for Alicia.”
“Your wife.”
“Yes. I don’t believe you’ve met her.”
“I haven’t had the pleasure.”
The expression that passed over Ravenstock’s face suggested that it was a pleasure Ehrengraf would have to live without. “She is a beautiful woman,” he said. “And quite a few years younger than I. I suppose there are those who would refer to her as my trophy wife.” The man paused, waiting for Ehrengraf to comment, then frowned at the lawyer’s continuing silence. “There are two ways to celebrate a trophy,” he went on. “One may carry it around, showing it off at every opportunity. Or one may place it on a shelf in one’s personal quarters, to be admired and savored in private.”
“Indeed.”
“Some men require that their taste have the approbation of others. They lack confidence, Ehrengraf.”
Another pause. Some expression of assent seemed to be required of him, and Ehrengraf considered several, ranging from Right on, dude to Most def. “Indeed,” he said again at length.
“But somehow Alicia caught his interest. He was one of the mob given to loitering in the park, and sometimes she’d walk Kossuth there.”
“Kossuth,” Ehrengraf said. “The Gordon setter?”
“No, of course not. I wouldn’t own a Gordon. And why would anyone name a Gordon for Louis Kossuth? Our dog is a vizsla, and a fine and noble animal he is. He must have seen her walking Kossuth. Or . . .”
“Or?”
“I had my run-ins with him. In my patrol duty with the Vigilance Committee, I’d recommended that he and his fellows stay on their side of the street.”
“In the park, and away from the houses.”
“His response was not at all acquiescent,” Ravenstock recalled. “After that I made a point of monitoring his activities, and phoned in the occasional police report. I’d have to say I made an enemy, Ehrengraf.”