The young man arrived a few minutes later. He fairly bounded into the room, a glad hand extended and a big, white toothy smile lighting up his face from ear to ear. He wore a Nike running suit, complete with matching shoes, and it was clear he had just been exercising. Drops of sweat still rolled down his neck from under his long, deep brown hair. He could not have been more than thirty-two, if that.
“Rogers Messadou,” he introduced himself. “Call me Roy, everyone does.” He stopped, like an action figure caught in midstep, or in a freeze frame just after somebody hit the pause button on a DVD player. His smile was fixed in cement and his finger pointed stiffly toward Walter.
“I got it,” said Walter. “Roy-Rogers.”
“Hey, good for you, Walter. Sit down. Jake will be right in. You did ask for something, didn’t you?”
“A Diet Coke.”
“Great, great. Love that stuff, but I’m not crazy about the artificial sweetener. Now, what can I do for you? It isn’t everyone who calls me up and wants to talk about my great-uncle.”
“I’m here about the Czar’s gold coins,” said Walter, getting right to the point. In setting up this appointment, Walter told Rogers Messadou-Roy-he worked for important people and he thought Roy might be able to help him with something that came up regarding his great-uncle. Roy was friendly, even eager to talk about that. “Djemmal-Eddin Messadou,” he said on the phone. “Quite a man, Mr. Sherman.” Here, in the home of a Messadou, Walter felt it necessary to demonstrate some knowledge of Djemmal-Eddin before asking for information about him, especially this kind of information. So Walter began with a review of the man’s exploits and achievements. He saw Roy was impressed just with the mention of the Transcaucasian Federation. When was the last time he met anyone who’d ever heard of it? Of course, he did not think less of the Federation for its obscurity. To the contrary, he thought only that Americans were ignorant, and completely deficient in matters of history, their own and everyone else’s. At times like these Roy Messadou forgot he too was an American, second generation. Family loyalty is a deep vein in the mine that runs over and across any lines of nationality. Walter passed the test-he wasn’t going to come in here and make bad jokes, mispronounce exotic names and not know the Messadou family had not been Muslims for more than a hundred years-and when he saw he had won over Roy’s confidence, he started talking business.
“I want you to know, right off the bat, my employers have no personal interest in the coins. Frankly, they don’t even know of their existence. It’s only me-and I too have no interest in them. I’m not searching for gold, Roy. I need the information about the coins in order for me to complete my work. I am not asking you to tell me where they are or even if you know where they are. But, knowing what happened to the gold-or what people think happened to it-will bring me closer to finding the person I’m looking for. That’s it.”
“How so, Walter? Tell me.”
“I’m not sure who it is I’m going to find when I reach the end of my search,” he answered. “I have reason to be believe he or she or they may themselves be after the coins. Knowing that-if it’s so-will point me in their direction. Likewise, if I have others-let me call them suspects-on my list, and I discover they either don’t know or don’t care about Djemmal-Eddin’s gold, that information also gets me closer to where I have to be.”
“What makes you think I can help you?”
“Your last name,” said Walter.
“You know, Walter,” said Roy, sounding nothing like the exuberant youngster who met him a few minutes ago, “most powerful men, men of great influence, are rich. But not all rich men are powerful. Not all rich men have influence. I believe it’s fair to say I am rich. Look around you. You could say wealthy, without argument. But I have no power-don’t seek any-and I have even less influence. All of which pleases me immensely. Everything you see around you comes from money I’ve earned. There is no Czar’s gold here.” He continued his tale of the self-made man unaware that Walter knew most of it already. That’s the way Walter liked it. Getting information you already have is a good way to assess the veracity of the person giving it to you. This works particularly well when the source is certain you have nothing to start with.
Roy spoke of his grandfather, who came to the United States after World War II. Roy’s father was born here, in New Jersey, in 1948. His grandfather opened a restaurant, a small place that catered to the new population of Georgians in the New York area. Of course, it was a tiny population even at its postwar height. Still, the restaurant persisted. The family persevered. Roy’s father and his uncles and aunts grew up, went to school, on to college, and the family made ends meet because of that restaurant. “My father had ambition,” said Roy. “We imported many of the foodstuffs that went into the menu and Dad thought the market for those foods might be wider than just our little restaurant in Jersey City.” He laughed, the same friendly laugh Walter saw earlier. “He was right too.” Roy Messadou’s father eventually opened an import/export business specializing in Russian products coming in and American luxury items going out. It was nothing huge, but it was much bigger than the restaurant. For Roy’s generation, a home in the suburbs, new cars and the finest colleges were part of the deal. Roy Messadou’s father saw the upper middle class as the culmination of the American dream. America was a great country-the Messadou family, proof of it.
“I went to Princeton and then got my MBA at Harvard,” said Roy.
“I thought it was Columbia and the Wharton School,” said Walter.
“Good, good,” said Roy, once again the jovial host. “I wanted to see how much you knew. You’ll forgive me. You’re pretty good, Walter.”
“It wasn’t much. You flatter me.”
“Just want to know that we both know what we’re doing here.”
“Look, Roy. I’m chasing a killer and I’ve been running toward a certain revelation in Frederick Lacey’s personal journal-something that has absolutely nothing to do with you or your family. Then, all of a sudden, Lacey’s wife comes up, then her father-your great-uncle-and I begin hearing about the gold and thinking maybe who I’m looking for has no connection to what I’ve seen revealed in Lacey’s confession, and instead has everything to do with the gold. If that’s true, I may be after the wrong person. I was hoping you could help me.”
“A killer?”
“Yes.”
“As in murder?”
“As in murder.”
“You’re not the police.”
“I’m not. You really should stop asking questions. Let me ask them. The more you know, the more you know what you shouldn’t. It serves no purpose. Do you understand me?”
“I do,” answered Roy Messadou. “It amazes me when you say you are after a killer, when you tell me you are really talking about murder. I assume this murder has already taken place.”
“Correct.”
“You know, of course you do, that I am just a stocks-and-bonds man. A good one. Well, what the fuck-a great one. But one nonetheless. I am a Messadou, proud to be one too. But my family’s history is a subject for great misunderstanding. I assure you whatever murder you are involved in, it has nothing whatever to do with Djemmal-Eddin Messadou. Do you know why?”
“Your sister doesn’t feel that way,” said Walter. “She came to see me and she was quite interested. The family fortune-your family fortune-was put someplace by Frederick Lacey. He never told any of you, according to your sister. After his father-in-law died, he kept the secret himself. Lacey surely didn’t spend it. The last thing he needed was more money. So, it must still be there-wherever he put it. Your sister says your family has a claim on that gold. I make no judgment about that. As I said earlier, I don’t care about the gold. But, if someone you know is killing people to get to Lacey’s document, to find the Czar’s coins, I will find them. I will.”
There was an earnestness in Walter’s voice, a serious nature to his bearing, a level of agitation Roy Messadou could not miss.
“Walte
r,” he said. “You’ve been misinformed.”
“Yeah, about what?”
“There is no gold. So far as I know, there never was. My great-uncle was a great man, a man who has been slighted by history. But he was a simple man and so was my grandfather a simple man. There was no gold then and there is no gold now.”
“That is not what your sister has to say.”
“Which one?”
“Aminette. Aminette Messadou, who your father named after Lacey’s wife.”
“I have a younger sister, Piper, who lives here, in the New York area, in Far Rockaway, Queens. She is slow, if you know what I mean. Retarded they used to call it. She lives in a special home, a wonderful place really, directly on the beach out there. I pay for it. I visit every week. Sometimes she remembers who I am. Sometimes she doesn’t. I have another sister, Jean. She lives in Houston. She’s married to some sort of financial executive. He does all right. Nothing like this, but okay. Jean is proud. Will not take a penny from me. She doesn’t want anybody’s gold. My sister Aminette came to see you? I have no sister named Aminette.”
“What does your sister Jean look like?” Walter asked, a sickening feeling creeping up from his stomach, looking to shut his lungs down tight as a drum.
“She’s forty years old and forty pounds overweight.” For a moment, Walter stopped breathing.
It’s never cold on St. John. Rarely is it too hot. When the rains come, people like it. True, a hurricane in September or October can make things unpleasant for a while, but the storms are never as bad as the television news says they will be. Most days in February are the same-seventy-something degrees, bright sunshine, sea breezes. Light, wispy clouds float across St. John’s blue skies, most often in small bunches on their way in from St. Thomas to the west. The hotels are full. The houses are rented. The beaches are packed and so too are the restaurants and bars in Cruz Bay. Dinner reservations, in February, are a must.
Walter’s visit with Roy Messadou presented a continuing puzzle. The solution evaded him. He thought about it late into the night. Walter was a late riser at home. Often he liked to drop in a DVD and watch a movie at one or two in the morning. These days getting to sleep at three-thirty, even four, was not unusual. He wondered if his heart attack and bypass surgery had affected his sleep patterns. By nine or nine-thirty, ten at the latest, he was up. Denise knew to have a fresh pot of coffee ready. She also knew he would have his breakfast at Billy’s, even in February.
On Sunday he walked into Billy’s a little after ten. Billy was still in back checking the meat and fish. Ike was eating a bowl of something, sitting alone at his table out front near the sidewalk. He smiled at Walter and Walter smiled back at the old man. He was not in his seat five minutes when Helen brought him some scrambled eggs and buttered toast-lightly buttered-and a cold bottle of Diet Coke. The New York Times, Sunday edition, was within reach, sitting unopened on the bar at the far end near the kitchen where Walter always sat. Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons played on Billy’s superior sound system. “I love you, baby.” This Sunday began no differently than many others.
“Best oatmeal I had since…” Ike was searching for a time. A man as old as he was had a lot of time to sort through. He blew out an amazing amount of smoke from his mouth and nose, holding the cigarette, fast approaching butt size, up in front of him like it was some kind of pointer. “Since the Army,” he finally said.
“Thank you very much, Ike,” said Helen, truly pleased the old man had enjoyed her out-of-the-ordinary choice of a breakfast for him. Most mornings he ate a single hard-boiled egg and three or four pieces of bacon. Today, she brought him oatmeal saying, “You know, all that pork you eat doesn’t go well with that tobacco.”
“Huh?”
“What I mean Ike is, that stuff will kill you. Either one probably. The pork or the cigarettes.”
“Damn, Helen,” said Ike, a man whose dignity could absorb substantial assault without damage. Still, he said, “You married him, but it looks like you got a attitude transplant from him too. You and Billy, now one of a kind.”
“Why thank you Ike,” she said with a gracious smile and curtsy, certain there was more pride than truth, more humor than hurt feelings in his protest.
“When were you in the Army?” Walter asked from across the bar. He knew perfectly well Ike had never been in the Army.
“The Army? Did I say I was in the Army?”
“Yes you did,” Helen said.
Walter said, “The oatmeal, Ike. The best you had, you said, since the Army.”
“Oh, that. I didn’t mean I was in the Army. ’Cause I wasn’t. Nope. Tried to be, but I didn’t make it. Didn’t want any more Negroes, they said. Had enough. I believe I said since the Army. I was in the Navy, you see. Officers’ Cook, Second Class. And, let me tell you, that’s what we was back then-second class.”
“What about the Army and the oatmeal?” Helen asked.
“I was slaving on that ship, colored boy hidden away in the very bowels of that fine vessel. Until we made port in Ireland. I met up there with these Negro Army troops, 92nd Infantry. Brave young men. Wouldn’t let them fight, so they sat there, in Ireland, where there was no Nazis, drinking and messing with the local women. Serving their country, in their way. I hung around them as much as I could back then. Anything to stay off that ship. One morning I went over to where they had this mess hall. That’s where the oatmeal comes in. I ate that oatmeal, sitting there with maybe fifty Negroes. First good meal I had since I left St. John. This one,” he said pointing to his empty bowl, flashing one of his trademark grins, “second only to it.”
Billy came out of the back, into the bar. He carried a cup of coffee in one hand and a receipt in the other. “Sonofabitch,” he muttered. “He shorted me on the red snapper.” He handed the receipt to Helen. “You call him and tell him to get it over here-all of it-right now-or I’ll call him and he won’t like that one bit. This is not the first time, you know.”
Walter finished his breakfast in silence. Everybody’s mood seemed a little off this morning. By the time he was done, people were starting to filter in for lunch. It’s February, Walter reminded himself. Billy’s will be jammed all day and all night. No wonder he’s pissed about the red snapper. There’s nothing worse for him, once he runs out, than to have to tell customers the snapper is not available. Billy-and now Helen-took great pride in how well the place was managed. Running out of an item, a specialty of the house no less, would make him look bad. The embarrassment would gnaw at him.
“That fish man better come back with the fish,” said Ike. “Billy’s so upset he might just kill the man.”
“Nah,” said Billy. “I’m pissed all right, I might push the sonofabitch around, but nobody goes and kills somebody because they’re
…”
“Embarrassed?” Helen gave him the word. She’d been doing that more and more lately and it seemed he liked it.
“Yeah, embarrassed-and that’s what I’d be. Money, that’s what people kill for, Ike. And love. Money and love.”
“You think so?” said Walter.
“You still here, Walter?” joked Ike. “Haven’t heard a peep out of you.”
“Still here, old man. Money and love. Is that it, Billy?”
“Believe it,” said Billy. “I know what Ike’s saying-got a point-but it’s the wrong one. Some people look like they’ll kill somebody because they’ve been shamed, you know. But that ain’t it. I knew a man once, his wife took up with a guy. Big mistake on her part. Her husband, this was no man to fuck around on… if you know what I mean.”
“Was that New Jersey, hon?” Helen asked.
Billy looked at her, stared at her steely-eyed, quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Yeah, New Jersey.”
Walter caught Ike’s eye as Billy spoke. New Jersey? He knew Ike was asking himself the same question. Was this more of Billy’s mysterious past, more than they had ever heard coming from his mouth? “Anyway, this guy-the one whose wife was pla
ying him-his wife gets taken out.”
“Taken out?”
“Just listen, Helen,” said Billy, irritated. “She gets shot. Real messy. In the face, and down…” He looked down and motioned clumsily to his groin.
“She got shot there?”
“Helen!”
“Sorry.”
“Well,” continued Billy. “We all figured he did it, you know, the guy, the husband-and we figured he did it himself. The cops figured it the same way. Christ, every phone his wife talked on was wired. Should’ve known better. The cops knew everything.”
“He was plenty embarrassed, this guy?” Ike asked, then answered his own question. “Had to be.”
“Yeah, sure he was embarrassed. You would be too if you were… you know… a kind of boss and everything, and your wife was fucking some guy on the side and the cops had it all on tape. But he didn’t kill her. We had it all wrong. Cops too.”
“Who killed her?” Walter asked, by now on the edge of his seat.
“You kill her, Billy?”
“Fuck you, Ike! What are you, crazy? I didn’t kill her. I ain’t talking about me. You’re missing the point here.”
“Okay,” said Ike inhaling as much smoke as he possibly could in a single breath. “Okay. I got you now.”
Billy was leaning on the bar with both hands. Walter could see his jaw was tense, his teeth clenched. Whatever this was, it was hard for him. He wanted to reach out and help his friend, but he had no idea how. Helen too. Walter could see she felt the strain, wanted to do something, but what? She stood there, respectfully silent.
“The other guy did it,” said Billy. “The guy she was fucking.”
“No!” said Helen, eyes as wide as saucers.
“The reason he shot her up so badly was to make it look like the husband did it. You can see that.”
“Oh yeah, make it look like the angry husband,” Ike said. “I can see that.”
The Lacey confession l-2 Page 33