by Justin Scott
“How you going to explain the bruises?”
“That Oldsmobile of yours is going into a tree. It won’t kill you, but you’ll be banged real bad.”
I hit the floor, rolled under the table, and came up beside the mantel, candlestick at port arms. “I hope you get a desk job out of this, Ollie. You’ll have trouble walking when I’m done with your knee.”
I saw him calculate the potential cost. Again, he switched hands with the blackjack. This time he reached down and drew his ankle gun. “Put it back, turn around, and face the wall.”
“No.”
“Ben, I’ll kill you.”
“In my own house? Out of uniform? I don’t think the poker players will cover you quite that far.”
I tried to read him while he thought it over, and could not. I began to sense that I had misunderstood him all these years. He was much more dangerous than a bully. He was a sociopath in uniform who needed his badge and gun like I needed air.
The little pistol had such a small bore it looked like it would shoot needles. An assassin’s gun. The low-velocity bullet tumbles through the brain.… After twenty years, how much could he still hate me for the logging-chain caper? Plenty, I feared. After all, the memory still made me smile.
My expression rattled Ollie. I think it began to dawn on him that maybe he wasn’t the only crazy in the room. “Ollie,” I said, “you can shoot me and wreck your career. Or you can let me help you.”
“Why would you help me?”
“We can help each other. Put the gun down. Here. See?” I returned the candlestick to the mantelpiece and faced him with my hands open. “You know damned well I didn’t shoot Pearlman. I know Rita didn’t. ’Cause I know who did. Just give me a couple of days before you turn in that drawing. I’ll give you the killer. Your collar. You take him to the state’s attorney.”
“Why would you help me?” he asked again.
“We’re even.” In truth, he still owed me his smile for Renny.
“We’re not even.”
“Let me tell you, Ollie; when I’m through, you’ll be so grateful you’ll kiss my ass on the flagpole.”
“You mess with me you can kiss your ass goodbye.”
“We’re getting off to a great start. Want to put down the gun, please?”
He holstered the gun, pocketed his blackjack and strode to the mantel. He snatched up William White’s candlestick, twisted it like a paperclip, and threw the ruin on the table.
“Twenty-four hours.”
Chapter 26
The White Birch Inn, Newbury’s biker bar, is not as scary inside as the chopped hogs in the parking lot look, because the owner, Wide Greg Wright, is even scarier than he looks. Every now and then some busybody petitions the town to shut him down on general principles, but Greg is careful not to give the town cause. He’s a firm host. On duty every day from noon opening to two A.M. closing, he saunters among his guests, chatting, smiling, laying a light, friendly hand on men and women alike.
As I entered, an argument broke out at the pinball machine. Greg sauntered over, smiling, finding time to nod hello to me, and asked the tattooed disputants was there a problem. Both men were much taller than Greg, but it developed there was no problem.
I found space at the long bar, ordered a beer, and watched everybody do tequila shots for a while. Eventually Greg came by and asked how I was doing. I told him I wished the house business was half as good as the bar business.
Then I said, “I’m looking for a guy named Alex Rose.”
“I tend not to remember names,” said Greg.
“I was just talking to Lori Match. Alex Rose stayed at the Matchbox, night before the cookout. Lori said he wandered over here next morning.”
Wide Greg looked genuinely surprised. “I don’t get much trade from Lori.”
“I’m not surprised.” Though diagonally across Church Hill Road from the White Birch, the Matchbox’s clientele tend to be elderly, middle class, and sedate, the sort of tourists who, when you get stuck behind one during leaf season, make you wish your car was equipped with a laser obliterator.
“Lori said she told Rose about the cookout, but he said he preferred a cool, dark bar. Saturday two weeks ago?”
“I tend not to remember names.”
“I showed him a house the day before.”
“Oh yeah?”
“The Richardson place. I thought he liked it. But he never got back to me, and I lost his number.”
“That’s a bitch.” Wide Greg motioned the harried bartender. “Give Ben a new beer.”
“Cheers. Thanks. Big guy, barrel chest. Looks like he’s been around. Expensively dressed. When I saw him he was wearing a jacket with a shooting patch.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Damn. I figured cookout day would have been kind of quiet for you.”
“They came pouring in once they filled their guts. Fire Department would do a lot better if they’d serve beer.”
“Well, you know, family and kids and all that.”
“Hey, no skin off my back. I made out like a bandit.”
“I put extra salt in the burgers, figured to give you a break.”
Wide Greg laughed. “It worked. The beer was flowing like, like beer.”
“Yeah, but earlier, while we were still cooking, it must have been pretty empty. I thought you might have noticed a stranger.”
“Ben. You see, the thing is, my customers—many of my customers—have made a personal decision to maintain their privacy. They count on me to hold up my end, which is no problem, because I tend not to remember names.”
“Wait a minute, Greg. The guy doesn’t ride. He’s a private detective from New York. He stopped in, from what Lori told me. I’m just curious how long he stayed.”
“A private detective?”
“That’s what he told me.”
“In my place?”
“I guess they need a drink like anybody else, right?”
“Son of a bitch. I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all. Wha’d you say his name was?”
“Alex Rose. Expensive clothes. Big guy. Face like a boxer.”
Wide Greg chuckled to himself and shook his head ruefully. “I’ll be damned.”
“Did he ask questions?”
“His name isn’t Alex Rose.”
“What do you mean?”
“Al DeRose. French name, he said.”
“He called himself Al DeRose?”
“Yeah. He rides down in New York.”
“He’s got a bike?”
“Yeah. Showed me pictures. Custom-built Harley looked like it ran forty thousand dollars.”
“You sure it wasn’t just a picture?”
“No. He fit right in. Talking with a bunch of the guys. He had a ball. Drank your cousin Pink under the bar.”
“Wait a minute.”
Something didn’t compute. Drinking Pinkerton Chevalley under the bar would take many, many hours. But I had seen Pink at the cookout around two o’clock—stone sober. While Lori Match told me that Rose had read the morning papers on her porch until the White Birch opened at noon.
“Was he in and out?”
“Never left. Opened the joint and shut the joint. Hell of a guy. But I’ll tell you one thing, Ben, I just don’t see Al DeRose as homeowner, if you know what I mean.”
“Homeowner?”
“You said you was showing him houses—”
“Wait, wait, wait. Just bear with me a moment. You say he came at noon and stayed all day until two in the morning?”
“He left about midnight, actually. Had a burger and a pot of coffee for the road, fired up that big Benz, and outta here. ’Scuze me a minute.”
Wide Greg homed in on a conversation which had been heating up down the bar and walked someone to the door. I couldn’t believe it, but believe it I had to. My prime suspect had a perfect alibi. No way he could have shot Ron Pearlman.
Wide Greg returned.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said about Al DeRose being a P.I. If he is, he was on vacation. The man never shut up long enough to ask any questions.” He furrowed his big flat forehead, thinking back. A smile revealed a mouth of perfect teeth—unusual in a biker turned bar owner. “Hell of a good day. Funny how one guy will really perk a place up. Not that we usually need perking.”
I was quietly going nuts. This made no sense at all. Why had Rose stayed overnight in Newbury? Why had he spent the day in the biker bar? Why, when we spoke on the phone that day, did he not mention he was right around the corner in Newbury?
“Did Rose make any phone calls?”
“Oh yeah. The man was wired like NASA. Beeper. Cell phone. Of course, the cell phone didn’t work down here the bottom of the hill. Kept asking for change—checking in with his answering machine.”
Chapter 27
Hurrying up Church Hill Road, heading home from the White Birch to inform Trooper Ollie that Alex Rose was our man, I had to admit I had almost believed that Rose owned a custom-built Harley-Davidson motorcycle. I had even believed that he rode under the nom d’asphalt Al DeRose. (There is a gold-plated gang of rich New Yorkers who cruise in the mythic wake of Malcolm Forbes.) But I stopped believing when I learned about the phones. Last time I spent fourteen hours in a bar, I did not sully the atmosphere by calling my machine for messages; might as well take your tax returns to the movies. Alex Rose stood by to help the killer.
Okay. Alex Rose hadn’t shot Ron Pearlman personally. But he had waited close by to back up a professional killer he had hired on Jack Long’s orders. Hands-on management, as it were. If the murderer got in trouble, Rose was there to help him out. Maybe even provide the getaway.
I kept telling myself that. It sounded good at first. But the more I repeated it, the more I felt like one of those investors who tries to predict the bond market by the charts. They always come up with some logical-sounding reason for their choice. All it requires is a leap of faith.
I finally recognized my leap of faith. My logic was impeccable, so long as I assumed Alex Rose was stupid.
If I accepted a job from Jack Long to kill Ron Pearlman, would I take the risk of hiring somebody else and then hang around Newbury until the job was done? No, I would not. And neither would Alex Rose. If he or I were cold-blooded enough to accept the job, we would have the good sense to avoid a conspiracy by doing the deed ourselves.
That cleared that up.
Except why, if Rose didn’t need an alibi, did he go to the trouble of establishing an alibi? No human being—with the exception of a brain-dead Jervis, or Wide Greg, who owned the joint—would voluntarily spend an entire day in the White Birch Inn. Why had he stayed? All day? All night? Why do business by beeper and pay phone?
Attaining the crest of Church Hill, I caught my breath, waiting to cross Main Street. On the other side was the Yankee Drover. Now there was a bar to spend the day in. Quiet. Decent food. Women wandering in without tattooed escorts. High on the ridge line of Main Street, a great place to use a cellular phone. Why hadn’t Rose just come up the hill and made his calls from a nice cozy booth that enjoyed easy access to the bar and crystal-clear reception?
A passing car beeped. I waved first, looked second. Vicky McLachlan, of all people, a little wave, a cloud of chestnut hair, a blurred smile, and gone. Made me feel good.
Of course cell-phone calls were expensive: charged by the minute, incoming as well as outgoing. But guys with an S-class Mercedes don’t count pennies.…Unless, of course, of course, of course, he did not want telephone calls recorded incoming on his cell-phone bill.
Rose was Jack Long’s gofer. He was loyal and obedient, but not stupid. What if he had been ordered to stand by? What if his boss ordered him to stand by in Newbury? What if he is sort of innocent? What if he suspects a killing might be on Long’s agenda? He obeys orders. He stands by. But he covers his ass at the White Birch—alibi—and an excuse to his boss: Sorry, boss. The cell phone musta been out of range. I checked my machine in New York in case you tried to call me. Out of range, in case an incriminating call had come in: Help, help, the boss needs help. But, no cell phone. Rose erases his answering machine and presents a bar owner and several motorcycle gangs as witnesses he was indoors all day minding his own business.
Right.
And what would happen if I braced him and asked, Long hired his own killer, didn’t he? You were afraid he’d involve you if something went wrong. The private detective would laugh in my face: Successful businessmen don’t hire killers.
To which I might add, Especially businessmen who hate partners.
***
I knocked on Scooter’s back door. Eleanor answered and told me he was sneaking a cigarette behind the barn. I found him sitting on the woodpile, gazing dreamily at the smoke. It was nearly dark, the night coming on cold.
“Can I see your files?”
“What files?”
“Press releases for the issue before last.”
“Which ones?”
“Could I just see them without telling you which ones?”
We had been neighbors since we were born. There are things I don’t like about him—I think he’s a snob, and I think he occasionally abuses the power his newspaper gives him—and I’m sure there are things he dislikes about me. But in the narrow way he looks at the world, I’m near the middle of the picture. Scooter could assume that when the time came fifty years from now that he needed an iron lung to sneak a smoke behind the barn, I’d squeeze my wheelchair through the hedge to pass the time.
“What’s in it for me?”
“I don’t know. You want to scoop the dailies?”
“Not really,” he answered after a moment’s reflection. “But it would be nice to know I could.…Come on, I’ll walk you over to the office.”
Scooter’s father had computerized the Clarion while the Daily News and the New York Times were still setting linotype. When I was in prep school his office was already entirely modern, even though the terminals sat on scarred wooden desks that reeked of ink. By now they were in third or fourth generation. Still hard to believe, as the Clarion’s quaint barn-red clapboard building with its white shutters and double-hung windows looked more like a used bookstore than a newspaper office. As we entered the cozy wooden foyer, I could feel the floor trembling from the big presses in the reinforced concrete press room below.
“Paper to bed?”
“Grand Union flyers,” said the publisher, leading me into the editor’s room. “Tell me who wrote the story and I’ll point you to their files for that issue.”
“You did.”
Scooter grinned. “I thought so. You’re looking up Jack Long, aren’t you?”
“Do I have to answer that?”
“There’s the file. Use my desk. Put it back where you found it. Coffee down below. Charley’ll get it for you.”
***
The White House press releases were written in a breathless style preceded by a stern warning not to release the information early. The embargo lent importance, I supposed, to the banal announcement that the President had hosted a party of business leaders, as they were called, in the Rose Garden. There were photographs of a striped luncheon canopy and a whole slew of pictures of Jack Long shaking the man’s hand. The release appeared to have been forwarded to each of the shakee’s local newspapers. Obviously, editors of the New York Times had not gathered around it boggle-eyed, but here in Newbury, Scooter got to fill damn near a full page with pictures and text.
A second release relayed the news that Jack Long had dined that same evening with a group dubbed “the President’s closest advisors.” It included an informal photograph of Long surrounded by bright young men and women in sweatshirts watching television in a booklined study, while eating—I swear this is true—TV dinners on trays. It did not say what they were watching. Nonetheless, I almost broke a finger in my h
aste to dial the contact number on the cover sheet.
“P.R.,” answered the person at the White House.
“Donald Dodson, please,” I asked, naming the contact listed.
“Dodson here.”
“Mr. Dodson, I’m Scooter MacKay of the Newbury, Connecticut, Clarion. We’re writing another story about a visit to the President two Saturdays ago.”
“Got a file number on that release?” Dodson interrupted. I gave it to him. He got back on the phone. “Who we talking about here?”
“Jack Long. Supper with the close advisors.”
“Right.”
“They’re watching TV.”
“Yeah?”
“What are they watching?”
“Huh?”
“What show?”
“You mean what are they watching on TV?”
“You didn’t say in the release.”
“Gee, I don’t know.”
“Our readers might wonder why Mr. Long went all the way to Washington, D.C., to watch television.”
“Well, it was something political, you can be damned sure. People don’t sit around here watching sitcoms. Hang on, I’ll suss it out.”
I listened to the minutes tick by on Scooter’s phone bill. If it wasn’t the Larry King show, I would walk up to Main Street and ask Oliver Moody to throw me in front of a truck.
“Hi. Sorry it took so long. I had to find what time they were watching.”
“What time?”
“The supper ran from about nine to midnight.”
“That late? What are they watching?”
“A special edition of ‘Larry King Live.’”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely sure?”
“Yeah, you see, Zack Bowen was King’s guest that night. The group watched, and then Zack returned from the studio and joined them for brandy and coffee—well, say ‘dessert’ if you don’t mind. I’m sure it was dessert.”
“How’d Bowen do on Larry King’s show?”
“Massacred him. King didn’t know if he was coming or going.”