A Slepyng Hound to Wake

by Vincent McCaffrey

Henry knew she was trying to speak to him on his own terms. There was no time to tell her what he thought. But then, he thought, she should at least understand.

  “Why do you publish short runs of new authors that will never turn a profit?”

  Both her eyebrows rose. She smiled briefly and stood without answering, waiting for him to stand as well.

  “I think you know—because of George Duggan. Because he’s as big a nutcase as your Barbara.” The beginning of a smile came and disappeared. “You must believe, more than anyone, that I would like to know how James Frankowski and George Duggan came to write so much of the same book. If I’m to blame, it was done unintentionally. Believe that. George has always gotten me to talk. Just because he listens. It’s one of his great virtues. But I still can’t believe I would have related that much of the story without remembering it. … Anyway, Boyle has instructed me not to talk with you about it. I know I shouldn’t. But you have just shown enough faith in us—I know it’s George you are trusting more than me, but even so—I just want you to know that I’m not holding anything back.”

  Henry knew he could say nothing to her of his thoughts concerning Sharon.

  “Thanks.”

  Nora shook her head. “I imagine Sharon Greene must be even more confused by all of this.” But her words were flat with her own suspicions.

  And then he suddenly knew something more. He watched her eyes as he spoke.

  “Do you remember anyone from when you were at school, at B.U., named Weiss?”

  “Sherry Weiss …”

  “What do you remember?”

  “Not much. We were roommates our freshman year. Heavy girl. Lonely. … She wrote a lot. I think she was a lit major. I lost touch with her pretty early on … Why?”

  “Did you ever have any kind of run-in with her?”

  “No … Well, yes. She would borrow things. We had a row about it … But roommates always do that.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “Henry the Eighth to six wives was wedded, / One died, one survived, / Two divorced and two beheaded.”

  He had kissed her too soon. He should have waited. But he had been looking forward to kissing her all day, and he had done it on impulse when she appeared unexpectedly an hour early. Her words were nonsensical, some game she was playing. She often said odd things when he surprised her. There was no reason for her to be upset with him.

  “Which ones should I behead?”

  “Do I get to choose?” She appeared delighted with the thought. She was carrying a small bag of something, about the size of a large purse, but he could not remember her carrying a purse before. He was unsure of what it might be.

  “I suppose. I love them all, of course. I would never be able to decide. What’s in the bag?”

  “Some stuff .… Well, if I get to choose, I would pick Sharon and Barbara to behead. They’re causing the most problems. But that would be catty of me, because I know you were once pretty stuck on Barbara, so we can say she will be divorced. We can cut off Nora’s head, instead. That leaves Sasha, and Mrs. Murray, and myself. Well, I know I’m going to be the survivor, and Mrs. Murray is too old so she can die, and Sasha can be the second divorce, even if you never really knew her in the biblical sense—did you?”

  “You mean, did I ‘know’ her?”

  “You knew her before you knew me.”

  “But I’ve never ‘known’ her.”

  “Well, perhaps not very well, but you knew her, or else she wouldn’t have given you that.”

  She pointed to the photograph on the wall.

  “That was a gift,” he said, a little too defensively.

  “I’m sure you earned it. But that is done with now. It’s time to fish or cut bait.”

  Certain things people said always irritated him.

  “Albert says that all the time.”

  “Albert is an intelligent and perceptive fellow. And he is correct.”

  “I don’t fish.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll do the fishing if you’ll cut the bait.”

  “That sounds interesting, but I thought we were going out to eat and catch a movie first.”

  She raised her eyebrows,

  “We can stay home if you like.”

  “It’s up to you. What’s in the bag?”

  “Toothbrush. Underwear.”

  “I see.”

  “I’ll let you see later. Let’s go to the movie now.”

  This would have been fine with him. But he had left the closet door open. He had been answering an email inquiry about one of his books. She walked into the small space with her jaw slack. He could not help but notice the way her hips rounded the thin material of her dress.

  She said, “They’re so beautiful, lined up like this. Books are naturally beautiful, aren’t they?”

  Her fingertips lightly brushed the spines of the books on a shelf beside her.

  He said, “Yes.”

  “They make you want to touch them.”

  “Yes.”

  “Make you want to know what’s inside.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re very lucky.”

  “I am.”

  She turned to him. “I work in an office all day where every chance I get I look out the window to escape. Some big honcho in personnel sent a memo out last week that said we were spending too much personal time on the internet. They won’t fire us, of course. They need us. And we would all quit if they tried to cut us off the internet. We produce more software than they can use. But everyone hates it … and meanwhile, you get to handle books every day.”

  He said, “You earn three or four times as much as I do.”

  She said, “But you do what you like.”

  “Not always.”

  “Most of the time. But what would you do if you couldn’t sell books for a living?”

  “I’ve never thought about it.”

  “Liar!” She seemed excited by her discovery. “You just never thought about it exactly that way. You’ve even told me that you think the book business is done for. You’re not stupid. You think things through. Now tell me, what would you do?”

  Maybe another lie was in order. “I’d go to work for Albert.”

  “You would not!” Her jaw went square. She was serious and he needed to answer.

  “No. I wouldn’t. But the business of books won’t end that way. It’ll end with a whimper. A whole lot of complaining. A good deal of blaming. The people at the funeral will not look at each other, eye to eye, because they are all guilty of neglect. There’ll be a few tears. A little bit of ‘Do you remember?’ And at the wake they’ll all drink to the deceased and talk about what a good chap he was. Well liked—but old, and beyond his moment. A decent sort. Had a temper at times. Stumbled on the truth occasionally. Not always faithful. Took the money more than once … But did his best. Wanted to do better. But he couldn’t adjust to this brave new world. Very sad. Oh, gee, where’s the time gone? I’ll have get it on audio so I can listen to it in the car. We must be going.”

  She smiled in spite of the tone in her voice. “That’s very cynical of you.”

  She gave his words her best stone face. She was not good at that. There was too much light in her eyes. Her hair was bright with it. The yellow in her hair was honeyed by the light from his old floor lamp.

  “Sorry. You’re right. But I’ll be at the wake nonetheless. Even if it’s me they’re gabbing about.”

  Now she was suddenly sad. This was something new. This was not the tough girl he was used to.

  “Can’t you do something? You could find a way?”

  “Maybe … Maybe I’ll find a way. But I’ll tell you what I’d like to do now.”

  “Go to the movies?”

  “No. Not right now.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Albert was on the ground, sitting back, his hands braced against the cement of the sidewalk as if sunbathing

  at a beach, as Henry approached. With the building the Blue Thorn occupi
ed filling all of the corner but the sidewalk, Henry could see little else through the group that clustered around. The strangeness of the sight caught Henry as funny before he reacted to the seriousness of it. Someone else was there, just out of view, their shadow moving in the late sun, which had fallen behind the building and cast a hard yellow light up the side street onto the scene.

  As Henry pushed through the small crowd to the open space at the curb, Albert had gained his feet, looking quickly in Henry’s direction. Someone in a white shirt came around the corner, dancing forward like a crab on the sand. Albert moved aside. It was John Boyle who turned briefly to look at Henry as he came on.

  “Stay out of this!” Boyle’s voice was a bark.

  Henry moved in closer, but positioned himself between two parked cars, shielding the sun from his eyes with his hand.

  Albert’s face was blank of expression. Blisters of sweat crowded his forehead. He was breathing through his mouth. Something more than sweat glistened by his nose. He winked at Henry.

  Boyle launched himself forward again, half crouched, jabbing low. Albert dodged, but this time came back quickly with a roundhouse punch that landed at the bottom of Boyle’s ribs. Boyle bent sideways with the pain. Albert hit him quickly again in the same place, and then, opening the fist of his left hand, he slapped Boyle’s face. The crack of the flesh echoed over the passing traffic on the street.

  Albert grinned demonically now. “You aren’t going to get any fuckin’ dental bills paid out of me, you son of a bitch.”

  Boyle tried to speak. Albert’s right hand was back now, slapping the other side of Boyle’s face. Then again with his left hand. The slaps had the snap of a leather belt.

  Henry looked around at the assembled. Mostly it was a collection of Blue Thorn regulars. A few passersby held back in a knot safely at the far corner across the street. It was not the sight of two middle-aged men fighting on the sidewalk which brought their attention, Henry thought. This was Cambridge after all, if only Inman Square. What titillated their politically correct senses was the image of a black man and a white man fighting it out in broad daylight.

  There was another slap. Albert’s arm’s brushing aside Boyle’s defensive gestures. Albert hit him at will now. Boyle’s eyes lost focus. There was blood smeared on the lawyer’s face, over red welts, but Henry was sure it was Albert’s. Boyle’s feet shifted backward, the dance gone, until his body was pinned against a car. His crouch had become a stoop. One side of his suspenders had come loose. The white shirt was showing the grey streaks of sweat and several splotches of red.

  Albert swept his foot against Boyle’s legs and the man collapsed at the curb, sitting then against the tire of a car.

  Albert said, “Where’s your damn friend?” scanning the surrounding faces for Ted Schultz. He was at the back of the crowd by the door of the Blue Thorn. Albert waved him forward.

  “Your buddy needs your help. Drive him home. I’ll pay the bar tab this time.”

  Albert turned past Schultz and went into the bar. Henry followed.

  Henry said, “I missed the fun.”

  The joke was that it had always been Henry who had gotten into fights through the years, and Albert who had avoided them. Albert was too big a man for most to contend with.

  “You didn’t miss anything. It didn’t last long enough. He’s an empty suit.”

  Henry pulled a chair out from the table decorated with three half-finished pints. “What happened?”

  “Tim told us to step outside with it, when we started to argue. The son of a bitch tripped me as I walked out the door, like we were in the friggin’ schoolyard again. Nothing changes with some people. Then he hit me as I got up. A real champion shot. Would have broken my nose if I hadn’t thought to go down again. Smart ass. Said he’d pay the doctor bill, just for the pleasure of it … Made me mad.”

  “How did it happen?”

  Albert smiled and then winced with some small pain. “That was me. He was already here when I came in. Never knew a lawyer who was early. I think he likes Tim’s house ale … But Phil Harrington was here too—he and a couple of his reporter buddies from the Globe were taking a late lunch. I think Phil would rather write for the sports pages than the State House crap he does. And he knows us. He was in school with me and Boyle. I went over and talked about baseball for a few minutes. But they were on their way out. They said hello to Boyle as they left.”

  “What was the problem with that?”

  Tim interrupted the tale then with two full glasses and a steaming cloth, which he handed to Albert. Albert wiped the sweat from his neck before he took the remaining smear of blood from his face.

  “Phil. Phil made a remark. Like he always does. It’s his ‘I’m in the know and I’m smarter than you, so don’t try to hide anything,’ kind of remark. Like reporters do. He stops and says to Boyle, ‘Don’t take advantage. It wouldn’t look good.’ That’s all he said. Who knows why. Just to be saying something, I guess. Boyle went ballistic. He must have thought I told Phil something. He says to me, ‘What did we tell them?’ Well, you know I thought you ought to go to the papers with the Frankowski thing anyway, so instead of saying, ‘Nothing,’ like I should’a done, I got too smart for my own good and said, ‘Not much.’ ”

  Henry sipped the light foam off the top of his pint and smiled happily.

  Tim had remained for more of the story. He said, “Good show,” when Albert paused. From Tim this was high praise. He had seen one too many barroom fights.

  Henry said, “So what happened then?”

  “Then Boyle says he’d sue us until we were both out picking trash just ahead of the city garbage truck. It was a good image. I told him, I liked his imagery. So he got loud. He said he hoped Barbara Krause liked the image as well. So I told him he hadn’t changed much. He had always been the kind of guy who liked to pick on women. It was the only way he could get it up.”

  Henry laughed. Albert tried to smile and groaned instead. The inside of his lip was split and had started to swell.

  Albert heaved a sigh. “Well, in any case, I’m sorry. There goes any chance of help from them.”

  “Maybe.” Henry was not as worried. “That’s still up to Duggan.”

  Boyle had called them to set up the meeting. Henry figured that was Duggan’s idea. Whatever they had wanted to talk about was still waiting.

  Henry and Albert drank another ale and speculated over what the purpose might have been, before going home.

  Albert let him off at the corner. In the dusk, Henry did not notice Bob until he reached the gate. Bob was sitting on the steps with his head in his hands.

  For a brief instant, as Bob rose, without speaking, Henry thought it might be his turn for a fight. He imagined a choreographed tumble into Mrs. Murray’s tomatoes before he spoke.

  Henry said, “Hi,” and stood at the gate and waiting for Bob to make his move.

  Bob shook himself. “Hi … Sorry to be over here again. Della really gave me an earful the last time. But I was looking for her. She’s not home. She wasn’t home last night, either. I don’t really want to be stupid about this. You know? I just wanted to talk with her.”

  There was a sound in Bob’s voice Henry had never heard before—a pained suffering.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I guess I’ve gotten things a little mixed up. …” In the light of the porch, the growing red on Bob’s cheeks looked like the splotched rouge on a vaudeville actor instead of the fierce welts he had seen on Boyle. Bob looked away in some embarrassment. “I really do love her. She’s a great girl. But I’ve decided to break it off for good. I just wanted to tell her … myself.”

  Henry had spoken with Della on the phone earlier. She had known Henry had an appointment that afternoon. He had said he would call her.

  “I’ll tell her.”

  “I’ll bet .… But it’s a little more complicated than that. She’s going to find out that I’ve been seeing someone else, and I wanted to be the one
to tell her that.”

  Henry nodded, “Well, she’s seeing someone else too, so everything is just fine.”

  “Right. But its not the same … I mean, Della’s really stuck on me. I’ve known her a lot longer than you. She’s a very sensitive person under all that bluff. And I really do love her. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.”

  “She’ll be fine.”

  “I probably shouldn’t even be telling you this.”

  “No, you shouldn’t. I don’t need to know.”

  “But it’s not my fault. Nora is such an extraordinary person.”

  “Nora?”

  “Nora Lynch. I’ve never met anybody as smart as she is.”

  Henry struggled to control the expression on his face.

  “I think George Duggan would agree with you about that.”

  Bob straightened himself to full height. “George Duggan is too old for her. He’s just a father figure. You know, Nora’s father left home when she was just eight years old. She has a thing about older men. She couldn’t help herself. But she’s broken it off with Duggan.”

  Henry’s breath escaped. “Jeez.” He wondered if this was going to be the final insult. Accused of plagiarism, Nora dumps Duggan and Albert slaps his lawyer around. Eddy’s book would never be published.

  Bob added, “I’m two years older than she is myself …”

  Mrs. Murray cleared her throat, her voice coming from the silhouette at the screen of her open window.

  “You guys can talk about this stuff some other time, can’t you? I’m trying to read … Anyway, I think Sharon What’s-her-name ought to pitch her tent up in Maine with old George. She can get some pine tar under those fingernails of hers and then they can settle things between them. But in the meantime …”

  Henry told Bob he would tell Della to call him as soon as possible. Bob apologized again and wandered away to his Jeep. Henry had not even noticed it in the twilight of the street. Della did not answer her phone. She had not even left her answering machine on. As Henry changed clothes standing on his mattress, legs spread for balance, he realized he was not balancing very well. Two ales should not have had that much effect, but then, it was three. He had taken Albert’s second order when Albert had complained about his lip. And he had not taken time for dinner.