"You mean unless the renovations are done pretty damn quick, Martha loses the place?"
Dale nodded slowly. "The renovations are the big thing. The monthly mortgage, property taxes . . . they could be manageable . . . look"—Da1e leaned forward, put his glass down on the table and wiped his hands on his pants—"I've never told Martha, but A1 borrowed money from all of us. Me, Carol, and I'm sure others, though from the funeral, perhaps not. Al was in desperate financial shape. I honestly don't know how he thought he'd pull even."
I got that sick-stomach feeling again, the one I'd gotten when I heard the radio announcer in Boston describe Al's body being found. I was beginning to realize how A1 thought he could pull even.
"How much?" I said. "How much for the renovations?"
Dale inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. "I would guess twenty thousand."
I did a quick room-by-room allocation. "That doesn't sound like enough," I said.
Dale pinched his nose. "One Sunday last fall, I'd gotten two free tickets to a Steelers home game. I asked Al, but Martha and A1 Junior were both sick, so he had to stay home. I dragged Larry along. He's not much for football, but he came anyway so I'd have someone to go with. Anyway, about midway through the second half, three guys a few rows behind us started saying . . . things. About my toupee, about Larry, who had worn some, well, tight jeans to the game, and so on. They were drunk and really obnoxious, and we left just before the end of the game. On our way up the aisle, Larry said something to one of them, and that one tried to come after us, but we moved pretty quickly and lost him in the crowd.
"It was still nice weather so we had walked to Three Rivers stadium and were walking home. Just as we turned onto our street, I heard a car roar up behind and then slam on its brakes as it pulled even with us. It was the three guys from the game. I don't know how they found us. There are a lot of bars down in the square, maybe they were headed for one of them, maybe it was just a wild coincidence. Anyway, the guy Larry had said something to at the game got out of the car and came running up, to us. We were across the street from our place, perhaps live doors down from this place. The other two guys came up too. The first guy grabbed Larry—he was at least two hundred pounds—and slammed Larry against the car, screaming the usual 'homo' stuff at him. I said to let him go, and he didn't, I said it loud and he still didn't so I punched him hard, just above the kidney. You know what I mean?"
I thought back to Marco at the courthouse elevator and said, "Yes, I do."
"We1l," said Dale, "that was a really stupid thing for me to do. Maybe the guy would have been satisfied to just push Larry around and scream some more. But once I punched him, and he sank to the ground, the other two guys jumped on me. One pinned my arms, the other began punching me in the stomach. The second punch really hurt, and I cried out. Larry kicked the guy who punched me, and that guy turned and punched Larry hard in the face. Larry went backwards onto the hood of the car, blood everywhere. I was struggling, but weakly because of my stomach hurting so much. The guy I had hit staggered up. He and the guy Larry had kicked then started punching and kicking Larry, hard, viciously. I think I started screaming.
"I never even saw Al approaching us. I found out later he'd heard some yelling and looked out his front window. The next thing I knew, A1 was behind the two guys who were hitting Larry. Al kicked one of them hard behind the knee cap, and he just went down. The other guy, the one I had punched, turned and swung at Al. Al just let the man's fist go by his head, then jabbed at the guy's throat, just quickly and lightly"—Dale demonstrated——"like a snake striking.
This guy started coughing and dropped to his knees.
The other guy, the one on the ground, was just writhing, yelling about cramps.
"I realized the guy holding me had let go. He was watching Al and backing away. I ran over to Larry. He was conscious but in a lot of pain.
"Al ignored the third guy, instead he bent down and yanked the wallets of both of the men he'd hit. He dipped through them, reading, and then pulled out money from each.
" 'Hey,' said the third guy, 'what the hell . . .'
" 'Just squaring things,' said Al, just like that. 'Just squaring things.' "
Dale and I looked at each other for a moment.
"Then Al asked the third guy if he was the driver. The guy said no, A1 said, 'You are now,' and with that Al pulled open the rear door and tossed, and I mean just picked them up and threw, the two guys into the back seat. He flung their wallets in on top of them. By this time, the third guy was getting in on the driver's side. I got Larry's arm around my shoulder and pulled him off the hood. The keys must have been in the ignition because the third guy started it up right away. Al leaned into the passenger's side and said, 'I know who you two are and where you live. You guys and us are square now. Debt owed and paid. You give my friends any more trouble, I pay you guys a house call. Now get out of here!' "
"The third guy put the car in gear and took off, tires squealing. Al pushed the money into my pocket and drove us to the hospital. Larry needed some stitches in his lip and we were both black and blue for a time, but without Al, we'd have been . . . And then for Al to die . . . the way . . . the papers said."
Dale stopped and bowed his head. It was so quiet in the house that I could hear the refrigerator motor choking and whirring.
"No," resumed Dale, head still bowed. "I have a few friends in the trades who owe me favors, too. To square things, twenty thousand would be plenty."
* * *
Dale left a few minutes later. It is eerie to be alone in a strange house when you can't make much noise. At the same time, it was the first time I had been on my own, and conscious, since getting on the plane in Boston. I wasn't really sleepy after my nap earlier, but I was afraid calling Carol might strengthen a wrong impression.
I tried to discharge my night-nurse duties toward Al Junior and Martha. Shortly after closing the door behind Dale, I tiptoed upstairs and looked in on them. Both seemed sound asleep in their respective rooms. I came back downstairs and found a science fiction paperback by Larry Niven and let my thoughts drift with his. I finished the book at 2:30 A.M. and tried to tote up what I knew so far about Al's death.
Murphy's investigation confirmed that Al had come to Boston on business legitimately. Al had called me, seen his customers, albeit fruitlessly, and had one other appointment. He hadn't told me he was in money trouble. He had told me he'd made a bet on the Bruins the night before and won. I couldn't remember A1 ever talking hockey before, and he had never been a gambler. Of course, a man in a money squeeze might try a lot of new ways to ease the pressure. Still, Al would have been too smart to trust some guy in a strange city to pay him off the next night. And I couldn't quite picture a bookie killing Al by mutilation and passing it off as some ritualistic slaying to deflect attention.
In fact, when you thought about it, what could have been worth what Al's killer had gone through? I had to admit that a secret appointment suggested blackmail. Assuming the killer was Al's secret appointment, why keep the appointment at all? Why not just run? Identities can be changed, passage and even sanctuary bought pretty easily. The killer must have had something more to protect than just his own skin. Maybe some illiquid asset or business operation. That would explain the pass-off method of killing. It would also explain the torture, the tossing of Al's room, and the gander at my message. The visit to the motel room and desk were both risks, small risks to be sure, but nevertheless risks of being spotted, identified, and connected with Al and therefore with Al's death. The killer would have run that risk only if his identity were subordinated to protecting something else. He preferred to risk being spotted in order to be sure something that tied him to Boston was secure.
And about Al's being so oblique with me on the telephone? He had to let me know he was tryin something so the something wouldn't be gone forever. But he also couldn't drag me into it beforehand and therefore perhaps unnecessarily. No matter how pressed for money Al was, he would never hav
e asked me to help him with something shady. He would have had to handle the someone alone.
A someone who was good enough to take Al, who only a few months before was himself still good enough to cool a couple of stadium toughies. I didn't think Al would have met someone like that selling steel gizmos to distributors or general contractors. But we had both met a lot of people like that somewhere else. I moved J.T.'s name up near the top of my list of tomorrow's phone calls.
TWELVE
-•-
I BLINKED. THE DIM SUNLIGHT A FEBRUARY MORNING in Pittsburgh slanted through the front window. I was lying on the couch. My teeth felt as though they would fall out if I didn't brush them soon. I sat up, and my kidneys ached all the way to my shoulder blades. A full night's sleep on a horizontal and firm mattress would do me a world of good.
From the kitchen came some quiet tinkling of tableware and the scuffing sound of slippered feet. I walked into the kitchen.
Martha was at the sink, her back to me, carefully stacking glasses on the dish rack. She had pulled on a turtleneck sweater with a hole in the left elbow. Her hair was drawn back into a bobbed ponytail. The clock above her head said 10:20 A.M.
"Good morning," I said softly.
She jumped but recovered nicely, reaching for a towel to dry her hands. "Good morning, John. I wish we had a better place for you. How did you sleep?"
"Fine." Her voice sounded steady and strong, with none of the false bravado high, or grief. "You?"
"Uh," she giggled, embarrassed, "those pills must really be something. I remember Carol making me take two. I'd hate to think what more of them would . . ."
The possibility darkened her face like a small cloud crossing the sun. It passed quickly, and the sun shone again.
"I'm afraid I haven't been too steady the last few days. I do want to thank you for all you've . . ."
I slowly put my hand in a stop sign. She stopped, broadening her smile. She came over to me, and we hugged as brother and sister might.
"He tried so hard," she whispered past my shoulder.
"He always did, Martha."
We broke apart. She returned to the sink.
"I'm sorry I didn't get to those last night," I said. She shook her head over the sink.
"Don't be silly. I There's coffee on. Help yourself."
"I don't take it," I reminded her.
"Oh, right. I'm sorry. I forgot. Help yourself to anything else."
"Thanks, but I think I'll hop over to Dale's and clean up instead. Anyplace nearby where I can get a newspaper?"
"The Pittsburgh papers are in a couple of stores in the square. If you want the New York Times, go to the drugstore." She looked up at the clock. "Tell them you're staying with us, Al always . . . they save one for us."
"Right," I said. "How's Al Junior?"
"Fine. He was up at seven pounding on me to play with him."
"Carol had said Kenny was a little sick last night. She took him home."
"Carol's a' wonderful girl. Really a heart of gold. Always watching out like an older sister." Martha stopped, then added quickly. "She's not really older, you know. I mean, she's maybe a year or so older than I am. I mean she just seems more, well mature."
"Hard times can do that," I said, and immediately regretted it.
Martha's silence confirmed that she was just thinking about that herself. I said I would see her later and left.
I used my key at Dale's front door. I closed it quietly behind me. There was some soft symphonic music playing through the living room stereo speaker.
"Larry. Lar—" Dale stopped when he saw me. He was standing in the archway to the dining room. He was wearing a black kimono with orange dragons. It looked like silk from across the living room. He recovered by saying, "Oh, John! You know, I had forgotten all about you. I was too soused to have heard you come in last night, anyway."
"I stayed at Martha's as sentinel. Carol had to go home with Kenny."
Dale struck his forehead with a mock fist. "Oh, of course. The beauty of vodka is it doesn't leave me with a hangover no matter how many brain cells it kills." He looked back into the dining room. "Sundays are pretty casual around here. Join me for brunch?"
I'm not too good at guessing whether truly courteous people are being sincere or just being courteous. I gambled on sincere. "Sounds terrific."
I won my gamble because he brightened considerably. .
"Dale, do I have time to brush my teeth?"
"Sure thing," he said. "And shower and shave too if you want." He frowned. "I don't mean you have to, I just mean . . ."
"I'd rather shave and shower as long as it won't wreck anything."
"Oh no, no, please do. Since I didn't know when . . . I planned everything flexibly today." He scratched the back of his neck, to distract him, more than me, from his thoughts.
"I'll be down in twenty minutes."
"Perfect," he said.
As I trotted up the stairs, I thought, with the haughtiness of a true Boston liberal, that Larry was screwing up a pretty good man.
Brunch was apple fritters, country sausage, fresh pineapple, and corn muffins. Neither of us had learned our lesson the night before, so we washed it down with fresh-squeezed orange juice laced with vodka. We had a pleasant talk, I assuring him that I would be flying out in the afternoon, he assuring me that I could stay as long as I cared to, me declining politely. I turned the conversation gently back to Martha and her progress, then toward Al's house before asking him again.
"Last night you said twenty thousand dollars of renovation would satisfy the inspector."
"Twenty thousand will do it." Dale fixed me solidly. "But I can't believe that Al left anywhere near that."
"Maybe he had some insurance."
"Through Straun?"
I shook my head.
Dale tilted his quizzically. "Through the army?"
“Maybe. In a manner of speaking."
Dale squinted at me. "What do you mean?"
I rapped my knuckles lightly on the tabletop. "I'm not sure."
* * *
The sun kept the cold wind at the invigorating level. There were a number of couples out walking arm in arm, here and there two men or two women, not arm in arm. I hit the square in three blocks and turned into the drugstore.
There were maybe ten or fifteen people shopping, dressed up from church, some with bakery or small grocery bags in their hands. Three or four kids squealed. Somebody's mother told them to be quiet. I walked to the newspaper stand and hefted a thick Pittsburgh Press. I didn't see any New York Times.
I made my way to the counter. Two burly guys about my age in sweat outfits and workboots were thumbing through a Penthouse. They smelled pretty ripe, and I had a feeling they wouldn't be buying it. They had their backs to me when I asked the older man behind the counter for a Times.
"Sorry," he said, "sold out."
"Maybe you're saving one. I'm staying with the Sachses."
He smiled just as one of the guys said, "Sachs! That's the fuckin' faggot who got killed. Remember, you asked me and I couldn't remember his name. Sachs, yeh."
The old man dropped his smile and got sad and angry at the same time. The two still hadn't tumed around. "Hey! This ain't no library. Buy somethin' or get out."
It became quiet around the counter. Still without turning, one guy gave the old man the finger while the other very deliberately dropped the Penthouse on the floor and picked up a Oui and began thumbing through it.
I glanced around. Most of the men were middle-aged or young and "professional" looking. I didn't believe the guys knew that I was the one who had mentioned Al's name.
I set my paper on the counter and cut off the old man's next comment as I turned to face the backs of the two browsers.
"Take it back," I said in a deeper than conversational tone.
One guy stiffened a little, the other turned around easily, smiling meanly.
"Ya say somethin"?" asked the relaxed one.
"Yes. I s
aid take it back."
The stiffer one spoke. "Take what back?"
"What your friend here just said about my friend."
"Your friend?" said the relaxed one, stiffening a little now himself. "Whaddaya mean, your friend?"
"Sachs. Al Sachs. We went through the service together. I just buried him, and you just insulted him. Now take it back."
There was a little buzz behind me. The counterman started to say something, but stopped when I held up my hand.
"I ain't takin' nothin' back," said the formerly relaxed one. His partner stole a quick look at the entrance to the store.
I looked at the partner. "Long ways away, that door." I looked back at the speaker. "Now, take it back."
"Fuck you," he said, growing less relaxed by the minute. "My brother-in-law's a cop."
"Take it back or you'l1 wish he was a plastic surgeon."
Speaker wet his lips with his tongue. He searched around for support from behind me. I was pretty sure he wouldn't find any. His eyes told me he hadn't.
"I ain't takin' nothin' back."
"This is like the schoolyard, boyo. You said something I didn't like. All you have to do is take it back. But you have to do that."
"You can't hold us here," said partner, eyeing the door again. "That's like kidnappin' or somethin'."
"In a minute," I said, "it's gonna be like atrocious assault and battery or somethin'." I could feel my blood rising for the fight. It showed in my voice. "Now, take it back."
Speaker wet his lips again. He glanced around the crowd futilely a final time. He dropped his eyes and mumbled something.
The Staked Goat - Jeremiah Healy Page 10