The Sixth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Mebbe,” he said. “But Ernie wasn’t all that smart. I knew it, and I think sometimes he knew it. He just didn’t have much above the eyebrows, Ernie didn’t. Throwing his money around. But I’ll tell you this: he was the best friend a man could have. Shirt off his back. Always cheerful. Could he tell a joke? Land! And a good word for everyone. Wasn’t a soul in Coburn who didn’t like Ernie Scoggins. Ask anyone; they’ll tell you. Old Ernie Scoggins …”

  He fell silent then, staring at his empty beer glass, ruminating. I took it for a hint, and signaled Jimmy for two more.

  “What happened to him?” I asked Al Coburn. “Old Ernie Scoggins—is he still around?”

  He didn’t answer until Jimmy brought over our beers, collected the empty glasses, and went back behind the bar again.

  “No, he ain’t around,” Coburn said in a low voice. “Not for almost a month now.”

  “Dead?”

  He glanced at Jimmy, then leaned across the table to me.

  “No one knows,” he whispered. “Mebbe dead, mebbe not. He just disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” I said incredulously. “You mean one fine day he just turned up missing?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Didn’t anyone try to find him? His family?”

  “Ernie didn’t have no family,” Coburn said, “rightly speaking. No one even knows where his two daughters are, if they’re still alive. No brothers or sisters. I reckon you could say I was Ernie Scoggins’ family. So after he didn’t show up for a few days, I asked around. No one knew a thing.”

  “Did you report his disappearance to the police?”

  Coburn snorted disdainfully, then took a long swallow of beer.

  “To that Indian,” he nodded. “Ronnie Goodfellow. The two of us went out to Ernie’s place. He was living in a beat-up trailer out on Cypress Road. Goodfellow tried the door, it was open, and we went in. Everything looked all right. I mean the place wasn’t broken up or anything like that. But most of Ernie’s clothes was gone, including his Sunday-go-to-meeting suit, and a battered old suitcase I knew he owned. Goodfellow said it looked to him like Ernie just took off of his own free will. Just packed up and left.”

  “Sounds like it,” I said. “Did he have any debts in town?”

  “Oh hell, Ernie always had debts. All his life.”

  “Well then? He just flew the coop. Got fed up and decided to try his luck somewhere else.”

  Al Coburn looked at me with a twisted face. I couldn’t read it. Contempt there for me, and something else: indecision, and something else. Fear maybe.

  “I’ll tell you,” he said. “The debts wasn’t all that big. And for about two years before he disappeared, Ernie Scoggins had been working for Thorndecker out in Crittenden Hall.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “It wasn’t much of a job,” Coburn said. “‘Maintenance personnel’ was what they called it. Raking leaves, cutting down dead branches, taking care of the wife’s bay gelding. Like that. But Ernie said it wasn’t too hard, he was outside most of the time, you know, and the pay was good. I don’t figure he ever paid a penny to Social Security in his life, and he needed that job. I can’t see him just walking away from it. He wasn’t any spring chicken, you know. My age.”

  I moved my beer glass around, making interlocking rings on the tabletop.

  “What do you think happened?” I asked him. “Why did he leave?”

  His answer was so faint I had to lean forward to hear his scratchy voice.

  “I don’t think Ernie Scoggins did leave,” he said. “First of all, if he was taking off, he’d have stopped by to say so-long to me. I know that. Second of all, Ernie was in World War One, with the Marines. And he still had his helmet. You know, one of those pie-shaped hats with a brim. The old hunk of rusty tin was the one thing Ernie treasured. It was valuable to him. He never would have moved on without taking it with him. But when Goodfellow and I went into his place, the helmet was still there, setting on his little TV set.”

  “But his clothes were gone?”

  “Most of them.”

  “And a suitcase?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the door was open?”

  He nodded.

  I sat back, propped myself against the wall, put my feet up on the booth bench, sitting sideways to Coburn. I watched Jimmy polishing glasses behind the bar.

  “I don’t know,” I said slowly. “I’ll have to go along with Goodfellow. Ernie Scoggins packed some clothes and walked away. And left the door open because he wasn’t coming back. He didn’t take the helmet because there was no room for it in the valise. What’s he going to do—wear it?”

  He stared at me.

  “Don’t be a wisenheimer,” he said.

  I took a deep breath, blew it out, brought my feet down with a thump, and faced him.

  “All right,” I said, “you’ve obviously got more. What is it?”

  “His car. It was still parked outside his trailer.”

  “So he took a bus, a train, a plane.”

  “He didn’t,” Al Coburn said. “I checked.”

  “You checked? Didn’t Constable Goodfellow check?”

  “Not so’s you know it.”

  “Scoggins could have walked, or hitched a ride.”

  “With his car there? Gas in the tank? You believe that?”

  “No,” I said unhappily. “All right, let’s have it: what happened to Ernie Scoggins?”

  When he didn’t answer, I said:

  “Look, Mr. Coburn, I’ve listened patiently to this sad story. You apparently think it’s important enough for me to know about it. So I guess it’s got something to do with Thorndecker. So why are you holding back? Is that all there is to the whole thing? An old boyhood pal of yours disappeared? What’s the point?”

  “Finish your beer,” he said, finishing his.

  I finished my beer. He jerked a thumb, got up, hobbled toward the exit. I paid Jimmy, then hurried after Coburn. He stumped his way through the lobby, out to the parking lot. We got in the cab of his dented Chevy pickup. I had time to note that it was a phlegmy day again, the sun hidden, an iron sky pressing down. And rawly cold.

  “I think he’s dead,” Al Coburn said. “Ernie Scoggins. Dead and buried somewheres around here. I think they took some of his clothes and his suitcase to make it look like he just took off.”

  “They?” I cried. “Who’s they?”

  He wouldn’t answer that.

  “Besides …” he said. “Besides …”

  I held my breath. I had a feeling we had finally come to it. Coburn was gripping the steering wheel with bleached knuckles, leaning forward, staring unseeingly through the splattered windshield.

  “Besides,” he said, “about six months or so before he disappeared, Ernie gives me something to hold for him. A letter, in an envelope. If anything happens to me, he says, you open this and read it. Otherwise you just leave it sealed. He knew he could trust me, you see.”

  The old man had gotten to me. It was damned cold in that pickup cab, but I could feel sweat trickling down my spine, a pressure under the sternum.

  “All right, all right,” I said tersely. “So something happened to him, and you opened it—right?”

  He nodded.

  “You read it?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, goddammit!” I exploded. “What the hell was it?”

  He hunched forward a little further, still staring out that stupid windshield. I saw him in profile, saw what an ancient man he was: wattled and mottled, the jowls hanging slack, face cut and pitted deep. He looked terribly frail and vulnerable then. A strong wind might blow him away, a push crack a hip, a blow puddle the white, fragile skull showing through wisps of hair fine as corn silk.

  “I haven’t made up my mind,” he said heavily. “Haven’t decided.”

  “Is it a police matter?” I asked. “Should the cops know?”

  “I can’t,” he said dully.

  “Then show it
to me, Mr. Coburn. Or tell me what it’s all about. Maybe I can help. I think you need help.”

  “I’ve got notes at the bank,” he said suddenly.

  “What?” I said, bewildered by this new tack. “What are you talking about?”

  “Notes,” he said. “Loans with Art Merchant. He’s given me one extension. I need another.”

  I caught on.

  “And you think if you talk about what’s in Ernie Scoggins’ letter, you won’t get your extension?”

  “They’ll crucify me.”

  “They?” I shouted again. “They? Who in God’s name is they?”

  “All of them,” he said.

  “Thorndecker?” I demanded.

  But I couldn’t get any more information out of him. All he’d say was that he had some thinking to do. The stubborn old coot! I slammed out of the cab and went back into the Inn, furious with him and furious with myself for listening to him. He didn’t even thank me for the beers.

  As usual, the lobby looked like the showroom of an undertaking parlor. The only thing lacking was a selection of caskets, lids open and waiting. I went over to the desk where one of the baldies was slowly turning the pages of Hustler, making “Tch, tch” sounds with tongue and teeth.

  “I hate to interrupt your studies,” I said, taking out my peevishness on him, “but I’d like to visit your local Episcopal Church. You got one?”

  “Sure do,” he said proudly. “First Episcopal Church of Coburn. My church. Nice place. The Reverend Peter Koukla. A marvelous preacher.”

  “How do I find it?”

  “Easy as pie,” he said happily. “East on Main Street to Cypress. Make a left, and there you are. You an Episcopalian?”

  “Today I am,” I said. “Thanks for the directions.”

  I started away.

  “Mr. Todd,” he said.

  I turned back. He was looking somewhere over my head.

  “Can I give you some advice, Mr. Todd?” he said in a low voice, in a rush.

  “Sure. Everyone else does.”

  “I seed you with Al Coburn. You being a stranger in town and all, I got to tell you: Al Coburn is a nut. Always has been, always will be. I wouldn’t pay no attention to anything he says, if I was you.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “A nut,” he repeated. “He just shoots off his mouth. Everyone in town knows it. Senile, I guess. You know how they get.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Thanks for the tip.”

  “Craperoo,” he called after me. “He just talks craperoo.”

  I drove slowly east on Main Street, watching the rusted street signs for Cypress Road. Old Ernie Scoggins had lived on Cypress Road, I recalled. And the First Episcopal Church of Coburn was on Cypress Road. A coincidence that meant precisely nothing.

  I was certain that sometime during the year, on favored days, blessed weeks, the sun shone on Coburn, N.Y. But I couldn’t testify to it personally. It was now Thursday, and as far as I knew, there was a permanent shroud over the village. It seemed to have its own cloud cover. Sometimes, around the horizon, I could see a thin strip of blue sky and the sun shining on someone else. But an inverted bowl hung over Coburn. When it wasn’t drizzling, it was misting, raining, snowing, sleeting. Or, as it was that day, just growly and frowning. It was only early December. What it might be like in January and February, I hated to think.

  But the Episcopal Church was cheerful enough. Not a new building, but the weathered brick was warm and solid, wood trim white and freshly painted. A sign on the lawn gave the times for Sunday services, Sunday school, luncheon of the women’s club, trustees’ meeting, young folks’ hootenanny, and so forth. Also, the subject of next Sunday’s sermon: LOVE IS THE ANSWER. I wondered what the question was.

  The wide front door was unlocked, and I walked into a big, pleasant nave. The most prosperous public setting I had seen in Coburn. Polished floor. Glistening pews. Well-designed altar and choir stall. Handsome organ. Everything clean and shipshape. A well-tended House of God, smelling faintly of Lemon Pledge.

  I don’t care how cynical you are, a church—any church—has a chastening effect. You find yourself speaking in whispers, walking on tiptoe, and trying very hard not to fart. Anyway, that’s what church-going does to me. Religion is a language I don’t understand, but I’m prepared to accept the fact that people communicate in it. Like Sanskrit.

  I had the whole place to myself. If I knew how to fence new hymnals, I could have made a fine haul. I stepped gently up the center aisle, then heard the sound of hammering coming from somewhere. Bang, bang, bang. Pause. Bang, bang, bang. I followed the sound, through a side door, down a wide flight of iron steps. Bang, bang, bang. Louder now. There was a recreation room in the basement. Two Ping-Pong tables, and a sign on the wall: TRUST IN JESUS. Rather than a good backhand.

  I walked down a cement corridor, and the banging stopped. He must have heard me coming because when I entered a small storage-workshop area, a man was facing the door with a hammer in his hand, raised.

  “Beg your pardon,” I said, “but I’m looking for the Reverend Peter Koukla.”

  “That’s me,” he smiled with relief, putting aside his weapon. “How may I be of service?”

  “Samuel Todd,” I said. “I’m here in—”

  “Mr. Todd!” he cried enthusiastically, rushing forward to pump my hand. “Of course, of course! The Thorndecker grant! I heard you were in town. A pleasure. This is a pleasure!”

  I don’t know what I expected. A moth-eaten Moses, I suppose. But this Man of God was about my own age, or maybe a few years younger. He was shorter than me, and skinny as a fencer, nervy as an actor. Black hair covered his ears. Very long. Prince Valiant. A precisely trimmed black mustache and Vandyke beard. A white T-shirt that had IT’S FUN TO BE A CHRISTIAN printed on the front. Tailored, hand-stitched jeans that must have set him back a C-note, and Gucci loafers. But he wasn’t wearing earrings; I’ll say that for him.

  We chatted of this and that for openers. Or rather, he chatted, and I listened, grinned, and nodded like one of those crazy dogs in the rear window of a car with Georgia license plates. The Reverend Peter Koukla was sure a talker.

  He mentioned Dr. Thorndecker, Agatha Binder, and Art Merchant—all in one sentence. He commented on the weather, and assured me such muck was unusual, unique; usually Coburn, N.Y. enjoyed a blazing tropical sun cooled by the trade winds. He showed me what he had been hammering on: a miniature stable that was to become part of a crèche for the church’s Christmas celebration.

  “Ping-Pong is all very well,” he informed me gravely, “but the traditions cannot be slighted. No indeed! The golden generation is heartened by this remembrance of the rituals of their youth, and the youngsters are introduced to the most sacred rites of their church.”

  Beautiful. I noted he had not repeated himself, using the words celebration, traditions, rituals, and rites. Guys who deliver a sermon every Sunday can do that: the Bible on their right hand, Roget’s Thesaurus on their left.

  “Do you have many youngsters in your congregation, Father?” I asked, a trifle nastily. “Pardon me, I’m not up on correct usage. Do I call you Father, Pastor, Padre, Reverend—or what?”

  “Oh, call me anything you like,” he laughed merrily. “But don’t call me late for supper!”

  He looked at me, suddenly stern, and didn’t relax until I laughed dutifully.

  “No,” he said, “frankly, we don’t have too many youngsters. Simply because Coburn is not a young community. Not too many young married couples. Ergo, not too many children. That is not to say the problems of our senior citizens are not of equal importance. Oh, I am enjoying this talk, and the opportunity to exchange opinions.”

  I wasn’t aware that I had voiced any opinions, but I was willing to go along with him. He dusted off a shop stool, and made me sit down. He took a little leap and ended up sitting on his workbench, his legs dangling. I was bemused to note that he was wearing no socks inside those Gucci loafers. Very i
n. In Antibes and Southampton. A little uncomfortable, I guessed, in Coburn, N.Y., in early December.

  “It’s a challenge,” he was saying. “The average age of our population increases every year. More and more of those over sixty-five. Can we ignore them? Discard them? Cut them off from the mainstream of American thought and culture? I say no! What do you think?”

  “Very interesting,” I said. “Your ideas. Refreshing.”

  “Refreshing,” he repeated. “I like that. No, please, don’t light a cigarette. We voted last year to ban the smoking of cigarettes, cigars, and pipes on church grounds. Sorry.”

  “My fault,” I said, putting the pack back in my pocket. “It’ll do me good to go without.”

  “Of course it will,” he caroled, throwing back his head and shouting at Heaven. “Of course, of course!”

  I don’t know … maybe he was just high on God. If he had been a theatrical agent, I would have suspected cocaine, and if he had been an advertising copywriter, I would have suspected grass. But this guy was high on ideas. Loony ideas, possibly, but they were enough to keep him floating.

  At the moment, the Reverend Peter Koukla was expounding on how the steady increase in the median age of the American population would affect national political attitudes. I was getting woozy with his machine-gun delivery: spouted words accompanied by a fine spray of saliva.

  “Very interesting,” I broke in. “A challenging concept. But I really came to talk to you about Dr. Thorndecker.”

  “Of course, of course!” he yelped, and changed gears in mid-course without a pause.

  What followed were the same panegyrics I had heard from Ronnie Goodfellow, Agatha Binder, Art Merchant: that is, Dr. Telford Gordon Thorndecker was a prince of princes, one of God’s noblemen. They were spreading it on thickly. Didn’t the man have any warts? Koukla obviously didn’t think so; he told me the doctor was a “great friend” of the church, lent his name and time to special activities, and made frequent and sizable contributions.

  “I only mention this,” the Reverend added, “to give credit where credit is due. The man is much too modest to tell you himself. I really don’t know what we’d do without him.”

  “Attends services regularly, does he?”