Right To Die - Jeremiah Healy

by Jeremiah Healy

  "Yes?"

  "I wonder, are you more concerned about terminating a patient whose timely death might benefit his family?"

  Alec Bacall said, "The pompous little shit."

  Eisenberg sensed something, but I'm not sure he got Strock's innuendo, because he just said, "Why, yes, of course."

  Strock closed with a flourish and a smile. "Thank you, Doctor. That's all I have."

  As Olivia Jurick looked over the crowd, Gun got to his feet.

  "Hey, I got a question."

  Jurick said, "If you could wait — "

  "My question is how come you don't have somebody who can talk for real Americans on this panel?"

  Jurick said, "Sir, if you — "

  The other skinheads prepared for protection as the cops moved toward them.

  Gun cranked it up. "How come we got to listen to a shine, a kike, and probably a dyke did her own husband? How come nobody talks about the race criminals in this country trying to strangle it and strangle the people who built it. huh?"

  The cops were trying to get to Gun, the rest of the audience trying to retreat, but Rick and the other skinheads had moved toward the aisle to act as a barrier. No weapons I could see.

  Jurick said over the microphone, "Officers, if you would please — "

  "Fuck all, bitch, you got your goddamn nigger cops and your goddamn kike judges, but you can't silence the real Americans, and we're going to take back what we never should have lost in the first place."

  Two skinheads began scuffling with each cop but not throwing any punches. The crowd got really nervous now and started scrambling out of the confining rows and into the surging aisles.

  I said to Bacall, "Save my seat, will you?"

  Going over the tops of chairs, I grabbed Gun's right ear, my fingers wrapping around the cartilage like a pistol grip. I squeezed until he bent forward at the waist and started squeaking.

  I yelled, "Enough."

  There was a momentary pause in everything, a video frame of uniforms and skinheads.

  "Gun, tell your friends to let go of the cops."

  Rick the skinhead said, "Shit, Gun, knock his hand away."

  I said, "He knocks my hand away, his ear comes with it."

  Gun squeaked some more. "Do it, Rick .... Let them go."

  Rick released the white cop and said "Shit" again just as he got whirled onto the floor.

  Security guards from the library upstairs appeared, and I maneuvered Gun over to the black cop. As I walked back to my seat, Jurick was saying, ". . . and I want to thank our speakers and all of you once more and remind you of the book signing that will . . ."

  Alec Bacall said, "And how did you enjoy the debate, John?"

  "It was all right. Kind of a cold crowd, though."

  Del Wonsley said, "Oh, I don't know. I thought that many were appalled, but few were frozen."

  Bacall grinned. "That's why I love him so."

  =10=

  PLATO'S BOOKSHOP OCCUPIED A DOUBLE-WIDE RETAIL SPACE ON Newbury Street, three blocks from the lecture hall. I was delayed at the Rabb, giving the cops and the units that responded to their call the details as I saw them. By the time I got to the store, the signing was in full progress.

  The window next to the door held a poster with information about the debate and the signing to follow. Under the poster and inside the shop was a display table. Around an eight-by-ten black and white glossy portrait of Maisy Andrus were maybe a hundred copies of her book. Some lay on their sides in irregular piles while others stood up in little wire holders. A dozen copies of Paul Eisenberg's book were shunted to one corner. There was no photo of Eisenberg and nothing at all about the Reverend Givens.

  Two lines of people trailed back from signing tables in the rear of the shop. Eisenberg's line was a lot shorter than the one in front of Andrus, and many of the Eisenberg hopefuls also carried a copy of her book under their arms. I saw Olivia Jurick smiling and shaking hands in a regular-customer way as she moved down the aisle created by the two lines. On side counters were wine and punch, cheese and crackers, grapes and pretzels. I could see Inés Roja standing beside the sitting Andrus, opening the next copy of the book to a given page for the professor to sign. Manolo stood a step behind Andrus, glowering at each fan.

  Alec Bacall and Del Wonsley were holding wineglasses and watching Tucker Hebert entertain several fashionable women with what appeared to be hilarious stories. I spotted the blonde I took to be Kimberly and then, when she turned, Walter Strock, which surprised me. He wasn't carrying a copy of Andrus's book, which didn't surprise me. I didn't see the Reverend Givens nor, if skin color was a gauge, many of her flock.

  Bacall saw me and beckoned to cut through the Andrus line.

  Eisenberg was shaking the hand of his last fan and looking around, rather awkwardly, presumably for Olivia Jurick to tell him what to do next. In front of Andrus, a matronly woman had just handed her copy of Our Right to Die to Inés for prepping. Roja opened it, turned a page, and then dropped the book like a picnic plate with a bee on it. I pushed through the line as politely as possible. Andrus had picked up the book and was apologizing to the matron when Andrus saw Roja's facial expression. Manolo saw it, too, and edged forward, eyes mainly on the matron.

  I said, "What's the matter?"

  Andrus replied, "I don't know."

  Inés had one hand to her mouth and the other pointing to the book Andrus was setting on the table. The matron started to say something about the jacket being damaged and wanting another when I said, "Please?"

  Taking out a pen, I prodded the book to a centered position in front of me. Using the pen as a friction finger, I opened the book and turned the leaves until I got to the title page.

  There, under "by Maisy Andrus," was a stickum mailing label with the cut-out words: "THIS CLOSE WHORE."

  * * *

  "I just couldn't tell you, Mr. Cuddy."

  Olivia Jurick was behind her cash register, wagging her head as Maisy Andrus gamely signed the last few books for the faithful who had stayed on line. The offending copy was between Jurick and me in a plastic Plato's Bookshop bag.

  I said, "Any way to determine who had access to the books?"

  "Not really," said Jurick. "We put the poster up last Monday.

  Seven days of promotion is about the most our customers can tolerate. But copies of her book have been in the store for at least a month before that. I could check our invoices if you'd like?"

  "I don't think that'll make a difference. The woman who brought the book to Inés Roja — "

  "Mrs. Thomason."

  "Mrs. Thomason said she got the book from the display table."

  "Yes, well, I'm fairly certain that all of the books on the table came from the special shipment I ordered for the signing."

  "And how long have they been here?"

  "On the table, you mean?"

  "In the store at all."

  "Well, the boxes would have arrived about a week before the poster went up, meaning about two weeks ago."

  "And on the display table?"

  "We wouldn't have opened the boxes and set up publicly, you know, until the poster notice, so I would say early last week."

  "Anyone on your staff mention anything odd about people hanging around the table?"

  "No. But then, you must understand, Mr. Cuddy, this is a bookstore. Our customers leaf through books in the process of deciding which to buy. Since that horrible message was already on a mailing label, someone could have stuck it there in five seconds or so. None of my staff would have noticed that."

  "Even if the person was wearing gloves at the time?"

  Jurick shrugged. "It is December."

  I looked over at the display table. nearly emptied of books now.

  All our boy had to do, any time in the last week, was pick up a copy of Our Right to Die, stick the label in it, then bury the copy maybe halfway down one pile. To be sure it wasn't sold pre-signing but would be brought to Andrus during the signing.


  Jurick said, "Will the book help at all?"

  "Excuse me?"

  She stopped just short of touching the plastic bag. "This copy. Will you be able to use it for clues?"

  "The guy's been pretty careful so far. I'll take it to the police, but there's not much chance they'll get anything from it."

  Jurick shook her head. "Who would do such a thing?"

  "You find out, let me know."

  =11=

  I SAID TO ALEC BACALL, "HOW IS Inés DOING?”

  He gestured at the massive central staircase. "She went up to her room to lie down."

  "Inés lives here too?"

  "Oh, yes. Maisy often likes to work at night, and this way Inés can be available for whatever."

  Bacall said the last in a matter-of-fact way, no inflection or other indication of double meaning. We were standing alone in a ground floor parlor done in blue pastels. Bacall, Wonsley, and I had taken a taxi together, following another cab with Andrus, Tucker Hebert, Roja, and Manolo to the town house. Once there, Manolo exchanged hand signals with Andrus, then seemed to disappear while Andrus and Hebert climbed the steps to the second floor. Bacall and I had gone with Wonsley into the kitchen before he began opening cabinets and shooed us out the swinging door.

  On a mews at the flat of Beacon Hill near Charles, the town house was more truly a mansion. Fifty feet wide at the street, at least seventy feet deep. We were within blocks of the buildings where Daniel Webster, Louisa May Alcott, and Henry James spent their time.

  I said, "Just how big is this place?"

  "We1l," said Bacall, "I haven't seen every nook and cranny, but the design is pretty typical for its vintage. The second floor front has a living room or library, the rear a large study. The master bedroom and bath are on the third floor, with a studio for painting or needlepoint or whatever the hell Mater and Pater did back then. Children's and staff quarters are on the fourth floor, under the eaves, where it's coldest in winter and hottest in summer. The Victorians really knew how to handle that."

  Much of Beacon Hill is Federalist red brick, but there wasn't I much doubt Bacall was right about the period in which the Andrus home was built. Still, you'd have to be current in the real estate market to know how many millions it would fetch.

  When I didn't say anything, Bacall leaned a little closer. "I really don't think you need worry about Inés. She's seen a lot worse than this."

  "Coming over from Cuba?"

  Just a nod. "She's a strong woman, and a good one too. She used to volunteer at an AIDS clinic Del and I support."

  "Used to?"

  "Inés found she couldn't stand to see people suffering?

  "Not many can."

  Another nod.

  "Coffee or tea?"

  Wonsley was carrying a tray with lots of things on it that I couldn't identify.

  "I'll pass, thanks. Can you two give me a while upstairs?"

  Bacall said, "Certainly. John."

  I climbed to an elliptical landing with double doors on either end. I walked to the front set. Through the narrow slit between the doors came the muted noise of a stadium crowd and the strobing of a video monitor in an otherwise darkened room. I knocked and a southern accent said, "Hold just a second."

  Tucker Hebert threw open doors which slid into the walls on either side of the threshold. He'd taken off the jacket, tie, and shoes. His dress shirt was unbuttoned almost to the waist.

  I said, "I hope I'm not breaking in on you?"

  Hebert grinned. "Just trying to get comfortable. Maisy's in her study. You'd be the detective, right?"

  "Private investigator. John Cuddy."

  "Tuck Hebert." His grip was almost a vise. "Come on in and set yourself down. Fix you something?"

  I could see a crystal tumbler, nearly full of amber liquid and ice cubes, on a cocktail table.

  "Beer?"

  "Easy enough." Hebert went behind a bar of padded leather and brass implates. I heard the noises a miniature refrigerator makes. The table with his drink squatted close to an Eames chair and ottoman. The chair was positioned in front of a wide-screen television and a console of video equipment. On the screen, two tennis players were moving around, the taller one slowing to serve, the other hopping and snorting to receive. The rest of the room was basically floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. In the flickering light, the only things I could see on the shelves were videocassettes and trophies.

  Hebert popped the cap from a bottle of Miller's Genuine Draft with a church key. "I know these fellers are twistoffs, but I cut my racquet hand on one once, and I've been shy ever since."

  I took the beer from him, no mention of a glass being made. Hebert picked up a remote-control device, but waited while the point was being played on the screen.

  "Watch me crush this one."

  I did, realizing the bigger guy was a younger Hebert. He took a ball that bounced near his eyes and swept it away crosscourt, beyond the reach of the opponent with dark hair.

  "That was match point against me there. Survived that and went on to take the set seven-six in the tiebreaker. Lordy, old Harold did give me trouble with that moonball of his."

  Without looking at the remote device, Hebert hit stop and then off. Pushing a third button caused the recessed lights at the tops of the bookshelves to grow brighter.

  He palmed the device lovingly before setting it down. "Littlefel1er does about everything for you except wash the windows. Now, what can I do for you?"

  "Maybe answer a few questions?"

  "Sure, sure." He curled into the Eames chair and reached for his drink. "Have a seat."

  I angled a velvet wingback that probably once felt at home in the room and sat down.

  Up close and well lit, Hebert's features were strong but lined, the year-round tan like the patina on the surface of an antique. The ready smile reminded me of locally produced car commercials, the only detraction other than age being a swipe line through his left eyebrow. He took a healthy swig of what looked more and more like Scotch.

  "You know I've been asked to look into the threats to your wife."

  This time he grinned without showing his teeth and put down the drink. "Tell you what, John."

  "What?"

  "Let's not dance around too much, okay? I know Alec and Inés went to see you, and I also know that Maisy near pitched a fit over it till she met you. By this afternoon, though, she seemed to think you were an idea whose time had come. I figure that if I was playing in your shoes, I'd wonder how come the younger husband of the older rich lady isn't too concerned about all this. How am I doing so far?"

  "Forty-love."

  The ready smile again. "You play?"

  "Hacked at it when I was in the army."

  "Too bad. It was a great game, twenty years ago. Solid American players coming up. Bob Lutz, Roscoe Tanner, Jeff Borowiak. That Borowiak, he had a huge serve, a real stud who could blow you off the court. Smart too. Took the NCAA the year before Connors beat Tanner."

  To keep the conversation going, I said, "Wasn't Laver the dominant one in those days?"

  "Yeah, but most of the Aussies were good. Laver, Newcombe, Rosewall, Roche. We were all using sixteen-gauge string by then, and some of us even went to double stringing. We called it 'spaghetti,' winding another string around the basic one? Put tremendous spin on the ball before it got banned by WCT and then by individual tournaments too."

  Hebert shook his head and laughed inwardly. "Yeah, a great sport, one of the few you can stay with no matter how old you get. And it surely does beat stumbling on gopher holes around eighteen greens just to have an excuse for getting drunk on the nineteenth."

  He scoffed a little more Scotch, apparently not feeling the need for an excuse but not really showing any effect from the booze either.

  I said, "How long since you retired?"

  "Retired? 'Retired,' now, that's a kind word, John, and I thank you for using it. I had to hang up the serious game at thirty-one, which if you're counting was seven years back. But it's n
ot like you work for a corporation and build up a pension and stock plans and all. Nossir, it's get some backers, get in, and get what you can, because the show's over awful fast. Hey, now, I can't really complain, you understand? I had the brass ring for a while there."

  Hebert set down the drink to count on his fingers. "One French Open, finalist at Wimbledon, semis three years running at Forest Hills. But what I had was the serve and the crosscourts, like you saw on that tape there. When the old rotator cuff went . . ."

  He moved his shoulder in a very slow-motion serve. I could hear a crickling noise that had nothing to do with the starching of his shirt.

  Hebert shrugged. "That was all she wrote."

  "Can you still play?"

  "Lordy, no. That is, not play play. You know the difference between, say, a Corvette and a Prelude?"

  I didn't know if he was aware I drove a Honda and was toying with me, so I said, "No."

  "Well, your Corvette, now, that's a sports car. But your Prelude, now, that's just a sporty car, get me?"

  "The difference between an athlete and somebody who's just athletic."

  "There you go. Well, I'm a Prelude that knows it used to be a Corvette. Oh, I'm happy to go out and shuck my way through a celebrity tournament for charity and all, but I can't really play no more, no more."

  "And this has just what to do with the threats to your wife?"

  Hebert finished his drink and got up immediately. "Another?"

  I'd barely touched the Miller's. "Not just yet, thanks."

  Fridge, rattle of fresh cubes, the neck of bottle clinking against rim of glass. I took in his trophies. Platters, cups, occasionally the racquet and player in metal outlined against a ceramic background. Hebert returned to his chair. "This all has to do with Maisy like this: I'm her husband. She used to have some doctor from Europe who died, but I'm it now. She's quite a woman, Maisy, but she gets an idea in her head, and it's Katy-Bar-the-Door, you think you're gonna change her mind. Like the players on the tour today."

  "I'm sorry?"

  "The players today. They verbalize everything. Take 'first serve percentage.' John, do you know I never, ever heard anybody say that all the time I played? Nossir, all you'd say to yourself then was 'I hope to Christ I can get this next one in.' Now they actually plan their matches around percentage and tendency and all. I suppose it does make sense. We plan everything else, why not 'first serve percentage'?"