"Louder," I said.
"I take it back! I take it back! Awright, awright, ya satisfied now?"
"Yeah," I exhaled. "I'm satisfied."
Speaker dew by partner who dropped the Oui and followed him outside. A few people talked quietly but nobody laughed. I bent over and replaced their magazines on the rack. I took the shaking Times the man extended to me. I dropped four dollars on the counter, scooped up my Pittsburgh paper, too, and left.
As I walked back to Da1e's, my spirit was down again. I tried to persuade myself that my macho show was a reaction to the derogatory word speaker had used. Rather than a reaction, you see, to the underlying implication. And the resulting association that I still found insulting and threatening. Yeah, sure.
Dale and I polished off the remaining screwdrivers while exchanging sections of the Times. He tried to camouflage his glances toward the clock, but as they became more frequent, I had the impression that my presence was increasing rather than lightening his embarrassment over Larry's continuing absence. I asked if I could use his phone, and he directed me to the one in the upstairs hall. I asked him if he had heard from a J. T. Kivens. He said no, but, with being
out, literally and figuratively . . .
I went upstairs. I started with the airlines. USAir had a flight to D.C. that night and two the next morning, but both the Monday A.M. flights were full. I chose the 7:30 P.M. flight, which gave me five hours till I had to check in. I remembered Marriott had a hotel at the Key Bridge, and I used their 800 number to book a room for that night and Monday.
I had directory assistance scour the listings for D.C. and every surrounding suburb I could think of, but no "Kivens." J.T. might be unlisted, or he might live farther out from the District. I called the Pentagon direct dial number for J .T. No answer. I tried the Pentagon main number. The duty officer who answered was about as helpful as a 1963 calendar. He would not confirm that a Colonel Kivens was still at the Pentagon and certainly could not divulge any "data" about anyone's home address or telephone. He suggested that I try again on Monday morning.
Next I used the operator to call the Coopers. The voice at the other end was familiar, but chilling. "I'm sorry, but the number you have dialed is not in service. Please-"
It was their new, unlisted number, but it had rung all right on Friday.
I hung up immediately and called Nancy Meagher's home number. No answer.
I hung up and tried District C, the police division in Dorchester. "Boston Police Emergency—Sergeant Jenkins—you are being tape-recorded. Go ahead, please."
"My name is John Cuddy. I'm a private detective in Boston, but I'm calling from Pittsburgh. A couple who helped me catch a guy were threatened by his brother, and I get a umber-not-in-service when I try to reach them. Can you send a car to check it?"
An exasperated grunt. "Look, buddy, this is an emergency line and—"
"The guy who threatened them is the brother of the torch who tied up and left an old watchman to die in a warehouse last—"
"Oh, shit, I'm sorry. Damn, that'll be on the tape. I'l1 have it checked. What's their name and address?"
"Cooper. Jesse and Emily. Two-thirty Beech Street."
"Cooper. What was that address again?"
I repeated it for him.
"Got it. I'll—hey, wait a minute. Hold on."
I could hear some clattering, more like clipboards than computer keys.
"Mr., ah, Curry, was it?" He sounded subdued.
"Cuddy. My name is Cuddy. Their name is Cooper."
His tone grew quieter. "Mr. Cuddy. I'm sorry.
Here's Detective Mooney."
"Mr. Cuddy?"
"Yes." .
"Detective Dan Mooney. I'm afraid you're too late. Somebody blew up the Coopers' place. Call came in at two-oh-four A.M. I just got back. The place cooled down enough to go in. They were in a back room. In bed together. Both burned to death. Are you a relative?"
"No," somebody said.
"Can you tell us who might have—"
"Do you know Nancy Meagher?" the somebody continued.
“Assistant DA?"
"Yeah." _
"Yeah, I know her."
"Talk to her. The killer's name is Marco. Marco D'Amico. His parents live on Hanover Street."
"In the North End?"
"Yeah," replied the somebody.
"Mr. Cuddy, can you tell us—"
The somebody on my end hung up the telephone.
Thirteen
-•-
I WALKED INTO THE GUEST BEDROOM AND SWUNG MY suitcase up on the bed. I could fly on to Washington or back to Boston. I snapped the latches and opened it up. If I fly on to Washington, I could probably see J .T. sooner about A1. I twisted the bars that held the suit compartment closed and bent back the barrier. If I fly back to Boston, I could probably see Marco sooner about Jesse and Emily.
I packed very slowly, very deliberately. I could call J.T. as easily from Boston as Washington. One sock. On the other hand, Marco by then could be in custody. One pair of briefs. Of course, he might make bail. A tie. No, his brother hadn't, and it was Sunday. A crumpled shirt, the funeral-day one. Of course, it would all depend on the judge at the bail hearing, and how high he set . . .
Shit, I wanted somebody to beat, to really cream. I wanted Marco, or the guys in the drugstore, or—best of al1—the shadow who killed Al. I slumped down on the bed, then slid off and down onto my knees. I leaned over, so the top edge of the mattress pressed deeply and firmly against my tense solar plexus. Then I buried my face in my hands and prayed.
After fifteen minutes or so, I surfaced. It was stupid to go back to Boston tonight. I couldn't find Marco at my leisure last week, with his family at least approachable. I'd never find him on a Sunday night with the D'Amicos and their neighbors buttoning up the fortress. Planning Jesse and Emily's funeral would be simple enough, since neither had any family. All I had to do was call George, the friend who had helped me with the arrangements for Al. If I could reach Nancy by telephone, she could put things on hold till Tuesday night, by which time I'd be back in Boston. I was also pretty sure that whatever J.T. could give me would lead back to Boston. So, Washington it was.
I finished packing and went downstairs. Dale was scraping one-third of brunch for three into the garbage. He renewed his insistence on driving me to the airport. We confirmed six o'c1ock.
I left the house to cross the street. I debated between Carol's house and Martha's. The biting February wind encouraged me to make up my mind quickly. I chose Carol's. She answered on the second ring and gave me a throw-your-head-back laugh. "John, you look blue. Come in, come in."
I moved past her into the hall. What I could see of her house was similar in floor plan to Martha's, and somewhere between Martha's and Dale's in decor. She took my hand and tugged me into the living room. "Your hand's like ice, Detective," she said, leading us to her couch. "You've got to learn to wear a coat in this town."
We sat down. She had on a mesh sweater and the same jeans. She didn't seem to be wearing anything under the sweater. Again. Women seemed to be doing that a lot lately.
"What can I get you? Ask for what you want. If I don't have it, I won't be embarrassed."
"Vodka. Maybe orange juice."
"Comin' up." She squeezed my hand and went to the kitchen.
I looked around the room. Two chairs, the couch, a coffee table. Dark brown rug and fireplace. Picture frames standing on the mantel and some of the shelves. Photographs of Carol, of Kenny, of Carol and Kenny together. One or two of Martha and Al, Dale and Larry. Homey. But none of any other man. Like a man for Carol. Not so homey.
She came back into the room juggling a tray with a bottle of Gordon's vodka, a plastic decanter through which orange juice showed, and two glasses with ice.
"For a waitress, you don't look too steady."
"Thanks," she said sarcastically, "but I'm used to six-ounce glasses, not thirty-two-ounce bottles."
"They're metric now."
"Hu
h?"
"Metric. The booze bottles. It's not quart anymore, or fifth. Now it's point-seven-five or one liter."
"Oh," she said, examining the bottle as if it were a recently. discovered artifact. "You're right. I never noticed before. Huh." She smiled. "So, how many whatevers do you want with your juice?"
"One linger would be fine."
She smiled. "Glad to see some things don't change." She fixed my drink and stirred it with a
spoon on the tray, then repeated for herself.
She handed me my glass. "Cheers," she said, clinking.
"Cheers," I said and sipped. She wasn't breaking eye contact.
"So," she said, running her index finger around the rim of her glass. "Did you sleep well last night?" She smiling, eyes glittering naughtily.
I took another sip. "Fine," I said. "Carol, look, I'm sorry to change gears on you, but I just got some bad news. Some people I know, a couple who helped me in Boston, are dead. They were—" I stopped. Carol had dropped her smile, and I realized I was just taking a coward's way out, using Jesse and Emily as my way.
"John," she said putting down her drink, "I'm so sorry. I . . . can I do anything?"
I shook my head. "No, the police are on it, and there's—"
"The police?" she said. "You mean they were . . .killed?"
"Yes," I said.
"Oh, God." She twisted her hands in her lap.
"God, this doesn't have anything to do with . . . with A1's . . ."
"Oh, oh, no," I said, and just stopped a smile of relief in time. "No, they were helping me on an arson case and,wel1, I won't be sure till I get back there, but I'm betting the brother of the guy—" I stopped again and frowned.
"What's the matter, John?"
I took a long swallow from my drink and set it down. "Carol, I'm kind of a jerk. My wife died and, well, whenever I'm with someone who, well—I—I tend to . . ."
She was looking at me a little strangely. "You tend to what?"
I sighed. "I tend to fend her off because I'm still not ready. I start to use some story or whatever to deflect—"
She put her index and middle finger on my lips, but made no move to kiss.
"You're a nice man, John. And while I took the . . . uh, the hugging and crying to be more than . . ." She put her hand back to her lap. "Look, I got divorced, you know, almost four years ago. For eight years I'd been straight as an arrow with Charley . . . that was my husband's name. He was a halfback in high school who slid into a slob working at Big Dorothy. That's a steel furnace over to Duquesne. I didn't work. He wouldn't let me. Pride, you know.
Well, steel went bad, and he had no seniority, and he got laid off. I mean, no-hope time. So I went to work as a cocktail waitress, in one of those places where the tips are big because the costumes are small? And I was still straight with Charley. I had plenty of offers, even some that I would have liked but I stayed straight and—"
"Carol, I didn't mean—"
"Now be quiet and let me finish. You didn't know what you wanted to say and I know what I want to say, O.K.?"
“O.K.," I said.
"O.K. Anyways, I had the offers, and I turned them down. For Kenny's sake as much as Charley's or mine. Well, one day I was sick as a dog, I went to work anyways and, well, Charley because of the pride and the lay-off and all, wasn't functioning too good. At least, that's what I thought. So I leave work sick and come home early, and the bastard, the unbelievable bastard, is in our bed, with some bimbo he'd picked up in his bar, where him and his laid-off buddies went. Can you imagine? I'll spare you the rest of the scene, but I got a lawyer, and filed for divorce and Charley got nothing, and basically instead of Charley and me sharing the equity in the house, the lawyer and me—he was a customer at the club—the lawyer and me sold the house and "shared" it. Oh, I was really mad at Charley, and this lawyer was real smooth, tall, distinguished, and it wasn't until maybe six months later that I realized the lawyer was taking me worse than Charley had. So I broke off with him and got this place and worked three jobs to persuade this banker—who was also a customer at the club, but not a, well, you know, not like the lawyer—so I got the house and worked myself into the ground to pay for it, while Martha or Dale or Ruthie baby-sat Kenny. The point—" She stopped to take a breath and a slug of screwdriver. She also calmed down a little. "The point of all this is that after the lawyer, I wanted no part of anybody, maybe for all the wrong reasons, but I didn't. And it seems to me that what you're saying is that you don't want, or aren't ready to want, but it seems to me, for all the right reasons. So"—she picked up my glass and handed it to me—"here's to friends, 0.K.?"
I could feel the tide rising in my eyes, and saw it reflected in hers. "Here's to friends."
We clinked and drank.
"So tell me," Carol said, "you got any relatives, male and unattached and ready, like you in Pittsburgh?"
We laughed, and the laughter made the few tears seem natural.
"Carol, before I leave—"
She was wiping her eyes but interrupted me. "Oh, John, you don't have to, we—"
"No, no," I said, holding up my hand. "I mean, before I leave for Washington tonight. I have to . . . I need to tell someone here."
"O.K."
"And I don't want to upset Martha anymore, and Dale seems a bit shaky right now, and—"
"John, just what the hell is it?"
"Carol, promise me that you won't tell anyone anything about what I'm going to say unless I tell you to."
She gave me a hard stare and frown. "But why—"
"Please, promise first."
She sighed. "I'm a sucker for promises. But I guess you can tell that already." She inhaled. "O.K., I promise."
"Carol, I don't think Al was killed by some sexual psychopath."
"Oh, but the paper said—"
"I know, I know, that's how even the police have it figured. But I roomed with Al and you've known him for years."
"Yes, but John, at the club, you see guys get drunk, and with all the pressure on Al, he could have . . ."
"I know, I know." She looked frustrated. "Look, I'm sorry I keep saying that but I heard you out, now you hear me, O.K.'?"
She nodded. She didn't like it, but she let me continue.
"I don't think A1 got drunk and was drawn into anything. I think Al was pretty desperate for money, and he knew Straun was about to fire him. I also know that when Al called me in Boston, there was an edge in his voice. I was half asleep, and I can't remember every word he said, but there was something in his voice I'd never heard before. Fear. I can't say it wasn't fear over money, but the point is that I think Al was killed for something he set up."
"Set up?" Carol said. "What do you mean, set up?"
"Basical1y, I mean blackmail."
She nearly swung, but decided to stand up and stamp around instead. She crossed her arms against her chest. "Blackmail," she snorted. "Why, John, that's crazy. Ridiculous. Al Sachs was the most honest guy I ever met."
"Al was honest, Carol, but he had a funny twist. You ever hear him talk about squaring things?"
"What?"
"Squaring things. Like paying off a debt."
She closed her eyes for a minute. "Once. Just a comment. Somebody . . . what the hell was it. Oh, I was at their house, and Kenny and Al were watching a Steelers game and there was some commotion on the field and Kenny asked Al what happened and Al said something like, 'The Eagle hit the Steeler quarterback late, so the Steelers went after theirs. Squaring things.' I remember I told Al I would just as soon that he didn't explain things that way to my son. Al shrugged and that was it." "Yeah, well, he signed off his telephone conversation with me like that and"—I thought of Al's broken pinkie and decided conclusions were better than details—"I'm convinced someone killed him, someone Al felt had a debt to repay. So for Al, the set-up wasn't blackmail, it was like squaring things. Paying the debt."
Carol sat down next to me again, arms still crossed.
"John, I could be
wrong, but I don't remember Al even mentioning he knew anyone in Boston. Not even you."
"That's why I'm going to Washington. I don't think A1 would have met anybody in the steel business who would have . . . gone to such lengths to cover a killing. With luck, I may find something in the files from when he and I were in Vietnam."
Carol looked dazed. "A1's death was bad enough. But this . . . blackmail, murder. I don't know."
"Carol," I said softly, "snap back to me, please."
She looked at me, blinked a few times, then busied herself with the vodka bottle. "I'm sorry, another drink?"
"Yes, a light one." She fixed one more for each of us. No toasting, no clinking, just a couple of long draws. .
"The reason I told you," I said, "is that I was wondering if you knew anybody on the local police force?"
"Police force?" she said. "Well, yeah, a couple of guys- Why?"
"I'm not trying to start a panic, and I have no reason to think anybody is interested in Martha or—"
"Oh, Jesus Christ!" Carol burst out. She slammed her drink down on the table. "This isn't funny, John. I don't want to hear—"
I set my drink down and took both her hands in mine. "I'm sorry to put it on your shoulders, kid, but you're the most solid person in the group. Just keep an eye out for anyone out of the ordinary. If you see something, like an unfamiliar car on the block for a long time, or guys in doorways, or even workmen in a vaguely painted utility truck, I want you to call your friends on the cops, and I want you to call me, and if you can't reach me, a lieutenant on the Boston force named Murphy. I'll write out names and numbers for you. But I need your promise to watch over things. O.K.?"
She slipped her hands from my grip and dropped her head down. She wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled herself into my chest, her face nestled in the hollow of my right shoulder.
"O.K.," she said softly.
"You're one of the good ones, Carol."
"Oh, yeah," she said, not leaving my shoulder. "So how come the good ones like me always find the wrong ones like you?"
I had no answer for that.
Carol released me a minute later. We exchanged a familial kiss at her door before I snowshoed down to Martha's. She answered my second series of knocks, and we walked into the living room. She had finally given up on offering me coffee, so we just sat down, her on the couch, me in a chair.
The Staked Goat - Jeremiah Healy Page 11