3 Strange Bedfellows

by Matt Witten

  "We have become a nation of sheep!" he proclaimed. "Sheep, I tell you! Baa! Baa! Baa—"

  "Excuse me, sir," I said, interrupting him in the middle of his third baa. He stopped short and stared at me, obviously startled that someone was actually paying attention to him. In fact, he was so startled that he stepped backward—and fell off his soapbox.

  As he tumbled to the sidewalk, arms flailing, several passers-by chuckled. I held out my hand to help him up, but he just glared at me with a look of pure, white-hot fury. I was so thrown by it that I stepped backward myself—and tripped over his soapbox, and fell. Now there were two of us lying on the sidewalk, and even more passers-by began laughing.

  Huggins jumped up and stood over me. I was afraid he'd stomp on me, all one hundred pounds of him. I was also afraid he'd pull a gun out of his jacket pocket and shoot me.

  "Are you mocking me?" he hissed.

  "Not at all, sir," I said, standing up quickly and brushing myself off. "I work for the Daily Saratogian, and I'd like to interview you."

  Huggins's jaw dropped, and his angry eyes suddenly turned wide open and childlike. "Really?"

  "You have a couple of minutes?"

  His face turned all wary and suspicious again. "You sure this isn't some kind of joke?"

  I hated to deceive the poor chump, but I said, "Of course it's not a joke." What the heck, maybe I would write up the interview. I'd try to convince Judy to stick it in the inside pages somewhere on a slow news day.

  Of course, if Huggins turned out to be the murderer, then we'd be able to get him a spot on page one.

  I took him to Bruegger's Bagels and offered to buy him lunch. I didn't have to offer twice. He proceeded to order three garlic bagels with honey-walnut cream cheese, two of which he gobbled down immediately. The third he stuffed in his pocket for later.

  Large chunks of the first two bagels ended up in his thick beard, so he'd be able to eat them later, too. He was missing a couple of front teeth, which made it hard for him to chew efficiently. From a distance, he'd seemed about sixty; up close, I realized he was more like a sprightly eighty.

  Between bites—and during bites—he treated me to a potpourri of his political wisdom. He was clearly an extremist, but after listening for several minutes I couldn't tell if he was way to the left of Jesse Jackson or way to the right of Newt the Grinch. Not only was he against big government, big business, and big unions, he was against a lot of little things, too. For instance, he was against little leagues, calling them "the ruination of our young boys." He was even against those little warning labels on cigarette packs—"medical fascism," he said.

  I guess the key word here was "against." He was just plain against everything.

  He finally took a break from listing the nation's evils to let out a long, loud, malodorous burp. I jumped in. "So, Mr. Huggins," I asked, "what did you mean about Jack Tamarack getting what he deserved?"

  He eyed me cagily, and the air between us went through a subtle but definite change. "Wouldn't you like to know. Be quite a scoop for your newspaper, wouldn't it?"

  My skin prickled, but I tried to play it casual, giving him a shrug. "Maybe, maybe not. Depends if you really have something."

  "Yeah, I got something, all right. Oh, yeah." He was reveling in my attention and wasn't about to let it go. "You better believe I got something."

  "Like what?" I said lightly, trying to sound jokey. "You gonna tell me you killed him yourself?"

  Huggins hesitated, and for a moment I thought he was about to tell me just that.

  Then he said, "No, but I know who did kill that sonufabitch."

  My heart pounded. "Who?"

  "Why should I tell you?” he sneered. "The Saratogian is just a rag. How many readers do you have—twelve?"

  If I acted dismissive of this self-important little clown, maybe I could goad him into talking more. "You're just yanking my chain, Huggins. Here I buy you lunch, give you an interview, and then you feed me some stupid kind of line."

  He pouted his lips. Bagel crumbs hung off of them. "It's not a line. I just can't tell you what I know."

  "Yeah, sure."

  "It's true. I promised his old man."

  I threw Huggins a disbelieving look. "Whose old man?"

  "Jack's old man, George Tamarack. Me and him grew up together in Stony Creek. We were both in the hospital last spring, George with his cancer and me with my heart problems, and he told me some things. Probably 'cause he thought I was dying. But I didn't die, so he made me promise not to tell anyone."

  Huggins pointed a bony forefinger at me. "And by God, I'm keeping my promise. I'm not like these peckerwood politicians that would screw a dead warthog if it would get them an extra vote . . ."

  And off he went on another rant. I tried several more times to open him up, but he held tight.

  I shut my ears to Huggins's raving and tried to figure out my next maneuver. Some way, somehow, I needed to convince Hack Sr. to talk to me.

  But how?

  I ended up taking the direct approach. First I got rid of Huggins, assuring him repeatedly as we said good-bye that I'd call him when the article came out. Then I hit a pay phone and called Hack Sr. at his home in South Glens Falls, twenty miles north of Saratoga. When he didn't answer, I guessed that he might be at the widow's house. So I drove over there and knocked with her big brass door knocker.

  As I waited on the doorstep, I wondered what Hack Sr. could possibly have told Huggins last spring that might explain why Hack Jr. was killed this week. It seemed farfetched, and I was wondering if I was out of my depths with all this private eye stuff when the door opened.

  Sure enough, it was Hack Sr. Judging by the grayish pallor of the old man's face, he'd slept even less last night than I did.

  "Hello, Mr. Tamarack," I began.

  His eyes narrowed. "You're the one, aren't you?"

  "Pardon?"

  "Susie told me all about you sticking your head under the door. What are you, a goddamn reporter?"

  "No, sir. I'm trying to find out who killed your son."

  A young boy appeared in the hallway—Hack Sr.'s seven-year-old grandson. He wore a bright Bugs Bunny T-shirt, but his eyes observed me somberly. Hack Sr. put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Sean, go in the other room and turn on the TV."

  Sean pointed at me. "Who's he? What is he talking about?"

  "Go in the living room and watch TV."

  "But, Grandpa—"

  "Go."

  Sean took one last long look at me before tramping off unhappily. The old man watched him go, not speaking again until the kid had disappeared and we heard Rugrats come on.

  Then he demanded, "Why are you bothering us? We already know who killed my son. It was that bastard Shmuckler."

  "Shmuckler is my friend. He's not a killer."

  "Horseshit."

  "Just in case I'm right, Mr. Tamarack, do you want the wrong man thrown in jail for your son's murder?"

  The old man winced with pain, whether emotional or physical I wasn't sure. "What the hell do you want from me?"

  "Whatever you can give."

  "I got nothing to give. Nothing." The pain expanded, and contorted his whole face. "It's not right for a son to die before his father. It's not right!"

  Then he went into another of his frightful coughing spasms and started to shut the door in my face.

  But I stuck my foot in the way. Call me heartless, but what choice did I have? "Mr. Tamarack," I said grimly, "Yancy told me all about what you told him at the hospital."

  Hack Sr.'s head snapped back in surprise, and he gasped. His spasm stopped so fast, I wondered if he'd faked it.

  Meanwhile Sean ran into the room again. "Grandpa, you should sit down."

  The old man forced a smile. "I'm okay, bud. You can go back and watch TV."

  Sean gave me an upset look, then reluctantly shuffled off. Hack Sr. turned back to me. "I got no clue what you're talking about. Yancy Huggins is a certified loony."

  "Maybe s
o, but he was telling the truth on this."

  The old man's shoulders sagged. "What did that halfwit tell you?"

  Not a heck of a lot, I thought, but out loud I said, "Sir, I'd like to hear it straight from the horse's mouth. If you give me a clear understanding of exactly what you know, it'll be best for everyone."

  "Why will that be best for everyone?"

  "Because—" I began, but then, just like that, I lost it. My brain locked up tight. I coughed lightly into my hand, buying time. "You see, the thing is—" I continued, but not only was my brain locked, someone had thrown away the key.

  I remembered this helpless feeling only too well. Back when I was an aspiring Hollywood screenwriter, this would sometimes happen to me in the middle of a big pitch meeting with some hot shot producer. One moment I'd be waxing eloquent about an exciting plot twist in a movie I was writing, then the next moment some mental doorway would slam shut—and I'd be sitting there with my tongue hanging out, like a dog who's been out in the sun too long. Highly embarrassing.

  Hack Sr. eyed me curiously. Any second now he'd realize I was talking through my hat, and Huggins hadn't told me diddlysquat. Then Hack Sr. would clam up too. In desperation, I tried a line that I must have seen some variation of in a hundred different movies. "Mr. Tamarack," I said, "I don't want to tell the cops any more than I have to. But if you refuse to cooperate—"

  "Look, this is just plain silly. What I told Yancy has nothing to do with my son's death."

  "I'll be the judge of that. Either me or the police," I threatened, with as much severity as I could muster, hoping I sounded at least a little bit like Humphrey Bogart.

  I guess watching The Maltese Falcon so many times in my twenties paid off, because my acting job worked. Hack Sr. waved his arm disgustedly, giving up. "All right, all right," he said. I was so excited, I felt like jumping up and down. "But I'm sure that sonufabitch Yancy already told you everything I know. It ain't much. All I know is, my son had dirt on Ducky Medwick."

  Ducky Medwick? I tried not to let my astonishment show. "Uh-huh," I said noncommittally.

  "So he leaned on Ducky, and Ducky leaned on the county chairmen, and that's how my son got endorsed for Congress."

  "What dirt did your son have on Ducky?"

  He lifted his shoulders. "Can't tell you. I asked, but he never said. Must have been awful big, though," Hack Sr. added, with a perverse sort of pride.

  I nodded in agreement, thinking: how big was it?

  Big enough that Ducky would kill the Hack to shut him up?

  The other thing I was thinking: if the Hack's killer was State Senate Majority Leader Ducky Medwick, then I was definitely out of my depth.

  Way out.

  5

  I decided to drive straight down to the State Capitol and confront Ducky immediately, on the theory that if you're standing at the edge of a deep murky pool and you're nervous about sticking your little toesies in, sometimes you have to just dive. It was Andrea's turn to pick the kids up from school, so I was free until six.

  I got back in my rusty '85 Toyota Camry—even though I'm rich now, I somehow can't seem to let go of my old car—and headed south on the Northway to Albany. This was a rare trip for me. Albany may be only fifty minutes from Saratoga, but I hardly ever go there. Why bother? If you've ever been to Albany, then you know what I mean.

  In all fairness, though, the State Capitol itself is pretty impressive. The building is one of those glorious French Renaissance extravaganzas they used to construct back when our country was young and full of hope. Everywhere you look, there are high domed ceilings, marble galore, and elegant gilt-framed paintings. The front staircase is so exquisitely carved, it's been nicknamed the "Million-Dollar Staircase." As my footsteps echoed along the hallowed hallways, the grandeur was so thick it felt like an effort walking through it.

  Approaching Ducky's office on the third floor, I began feeling intimidated. Ducky had already beaten me once, when he caught me snooping under the bathroom door. What if he just threw me out of his office?

  So I did a trick my father once taught me to do whenever I get scared before a meeting with some bigwig. I closed my eyes and pictured Ducky sitting on the toilet with his pants around his ankles, constipated, grunting loudly as he desperately tried to poop. It's hard to feel intimidated by a guy when you're imagining him in that position.

  But my psyche job was wasted this time, because Ducky wasn't in. His efficient, gray-haired secretary informed me that he was out for the rest of the day. I asked if she knew where he was, or if he'd be in tomorrow, but she got all frosty on me.

  "Who did you say you were with?" she asked, thin-lipped.

  "I'm with the madmen and the dreamers," I said. She didn't crack a smile, but that was okay, I wasn't really expecting one.

  I left her and was starting back downstairs when I happened to notice, on the far wall, a listing of all the third-floor offices. The "Legal Counsel to the Senate Majority"—that must be the Hack's old office—was located in Room 313. On a whim, I turned around and walked back there.

  The heavy wooden door to 313 was closed. I turned the knob, opened it . . . and suddenly found myself face-to-face with naked grief. A woman—the Hack's secretary?—was packing things in a large box and crying her eyes out. She looked over at me, not trying to cover up her tears.

  It was kind of refreshing. Finally, a woman who wasn't obsessed with casseroles, or with using her dead husband's name to hustle a job she wasn't qualified for.

  "I'm sending his personal stuff back home," the woman said. "It's so sad."

  "I'm sorry." I took a closer look at her. It didn't hurt my eyes one bit. She was in her twenties or early thirties, with bleached blonde hair—not that that's really worth mentioning, since it seems like half the white women in America have bleached blonde hair these days. She did have a shape worth mentioning, though. It was the dead opposite of Susan Tamarack's waifishness. This lady had more curves than an Adirondack mountain road.

  And she sure was distraught. Was she simply mourning her boss's death ... or had he been more to her than just a boss?

  The bleached blonde bombshell caught me staring. "Can I help you?" she asked irritably.

  My face reddened. "No. Didn't mean to interrupt," I said, and withdrew, leaving her alone with her grief.

  From Albany to Troy is only a hop, skip, and downwardly mobile jump away. I decided to drive right over to the Troy Police Department. On the streets of Troy, my rusty old car fit right in.

  I told the cop at the front desk that I had information about Jack Tamarack's murder. He passed me straight through to the chief of police himself, Lou Coates, an overweight, middle-aged black man with a permanent scowl on his face. In his defense, if I had to spend all day in that windowless office of his, filled with the stench of stale cigarettes, I'd be scowling, too.

  Sitting down in a cheap plastic chair with "Fuck the pigs" graffiti written in red marker on the seat, I gazed around at the chief's graying, grime-covered walls. When was the last time anyone had cleaned this joint? Evidently that job had been cut from the police budget.

  "Whatchou got?" Chief Coates asked me belligerently, without preamble.

  "I'm a friend of Will Shmuckler," I began, "and I'm doing some investigating on his behalf. I'm hoping we can work together."

  The chief lit a cigarette. Pall Mall, filterless. "Whatchou got?" he repeated.

  "Well, I'm following a couple of leads. Right now they're in the preliminary stages."

  "In other words, you ain't got bupkus."

  "I wouldn't put it that way, exactly—"

  "If you ain't got bupkus, then why are you wasting my time?"

  "Sir, I really think—"

  "What's your name?"

  "Jacob Burns. You've probably heard of me—"

  "Bet your ass I have. John Walsh warned me you might come sniffing around."

  John Walsh was this guy's counterpart at the Saratoga Springs Police Department. To put it mildly, Chief
Walsh was not my biggest fan. But I beamed on Coates, trying to bluster my way through. "Good, I'm glad Walsh called. He must've told you how I solved two murders for him in Saratoga."

  "No, he told me you were a royal pain in the kishkes who fucked up twice, big time, and got lucky. That's what he told me."

  I kept right on beaming. "I love it when goyim use Yiddish. Where'd you learn the word kishkes?”

  "Crown Heights. You want Yiddish, I'll give you Yiddish. If you don't watch your tukhus, you're gonna be facocked. You try to cover up for the Shmuck, I'll throw you in jail as an accessory to murder. You got that, shlemazel?”

  I frowned. "I think the word you're looking for is shlemiel."

  The chief nodded. "Could be. Haven't been back to the Heights in years. Now get the fuck out of here and don't let me ever see your ugly punimunim again."

  I got up and walked out, feeling good about multiculturalism but not so good otherwise. Being a private dick is a lonely job. No wonder so many of those guys hit the bottle.

  Fortunately, unlike all the great private dicks of yore, I had a family to keep me relatively sane and sober. I went home and delayed answering all the anxious phone messages from Will so that I could hang out with the wife and kids for a while. I ate Andrea's delicious eggplant parmigiana and listened patiently as the boys regaled me with their computer stories. Or at least, I pretended to listen patiently.

  Then, over dessert, I described my failed attempt to get hold of Senator Ducky at his office. "Why don't you just go to his house?" Bernie asked.

  "Because I don't know where he lives, and it's not in the phone book."

  "Then why don't you just look on the Internet?" demanded Derek.

  "I don't think the Internet can give you addresses—"

  "Sure it can! I read all about it in the Dummy's Guide!”

  I stared at him. I knew my seven-year-old was precocious—he could already add and subtract better than most politicians—but was he reading computer manuals now?

  Meanwhile the kid was saying, "All you have to do is access the People Tracker database."