by Irwin Shaw
“Nobody’s very optimistic. The worst thing would be if she were to just lie here the way she is now. For months, for years …” Sheila’s voice broke. “It’s awful. I dread going into her room. I keep remembering her as a pretty young woman. And it’s raining up here. How is it in New York?”
“Fair. A little smoggy.”
“Have a good time with your friend. I’m glad now you found him. Tell him I like the sound of his voice. Tell him I like a man who speaks out loud and clear. Also tell him I hope he doesn’t have to use that gun.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“I’ve got to say good-bye now. I’m calling from a phone booth at the hospital and there’s a lady standing waiting to get in.” Childishly, she blew a kiss into the mouthpiece.
Damon hung up slowly.
“Things aren’t going so good up in Burlington, are they?” Weinstein said. He had been watching the changing expressions on Damon’s face as he spoke on the phone.
“Old age,” Damon said. Sheila’s mother was only a few years older than he and the two mournful words were as much for himself as for her.
“What do you want to do now? I could help you put away all that stuff in the hall. And I could attach the radio-phonograph. I’m pretty good around the house for things like that, and I remember you were clumsy as hell when you were a boy.”
“I haven’t changed,” Damon said. “Sheila won’t even let me put in a light bulb by myself. But I’m hungry and I’d like some lunch.” He had had an early breakfast and it was past one o’clock. “And I have to drive the car uptown and hand it over to the Hertz people. Then I guess I better put in an appearance at the office. I’ve been goofing off for days and the work must be piled high on my desk.”
“Fine,” Weinstein said. “I’m hungry myself and I’d like to see what your office is like, have a little chat with your partner.”
“Don’t make too big a deal of it. I’ve made him jittery enough as it is.” Damon thought back with shame about his behavior in the past weeks. “I’ve been a zombie around the office. And he’s a timid, scholarly young man and he’s very fond of me and I’m afraid he thinks I’m going around the bend as it is.”
“Don’t worry,” Weinstein said. “There won’t be any third degree.” Then he added, “Not yet anyway.”
When they got to the office after lunch, Damon introduced Weinstein as a gentleman who was going to do some supplementary reading for them because since the success of Threnody, the volume of incoming manuscripts had more than doubled. Mr. Weinstein would do his reading in the office for a while to accustom himself to their routine. Damon knew it sounded peculiar, but it was better than telling his co-workers that they might at any moment expect to be caught in the line of fire of a gunfight.
Then he gave Miss Walton and Oliver their gifts. “I know I’ve been just about impossible to live with for the last few days”, he said, “and this is just a small way of making up for it.”
Miss Walton attempted to hold back tears, with moderate success, as she opened the box and saw the cashmere sweater. Her chin quivered as she shyly kissed Damon, something she had only done so far when he gave her her cash bonus at Christmas. She insisted upon putting the sweater on at once. “What a sensitive way to let me know that this ratty old thing”—disdainfully she held up the bulky hand-knit dull red cardigan that she had worn daily for almost ten years—“was an eyesore.” She stuffed it into the wastebasket, giggled, and said, “Good-bye forever, you miserable rag.”
Oliver tore the wrapping off the Yeats book before glancing at the larger box with the blazer that Damon had given him at the same time. As usual, Damon noted with amusement, books came before anything else with his albino partner. Oliver looked reproachfully at Damon when he saw the title. “Roger,” he said, “don’t you think I have a copy of Yeats at home?”
“I’ll bet you ten dollars that when you look for it, you’ll find that somebody’s nipped it and conveniently forgot to return it.”
Oliver laughed. “Come to think of it,” he said, “I haven’t seen it for a long time.” Then he opened the big box and took out the blazer and put it on and modeled it. It fit him perfectly. He took it off and carefully hung it in the closet. “It’s too splendid for weekdays,” he said. “It’s much too extravagant, Roger, but I’m glad you splurged. It’ll cost me money, though.” He smiled gratefully and Damon was afraid he was on the verge of tears, too. “My wife’ll be wild with envy and I’ll have to get one like this for her.”
“It won’t cost you a penny. I’ll get one for her, too,” Damon said grandly. “The way I’ve been treating you, you must have been a nuisance around the house recently. Tell her it’s a peace offering from the boss. Now let’s all get back to work.”
Then he sorted through the pile of manuscripts and picked out a twelve-hundred-page novel by someone he had never heard of and gave it to Weinstein, who had already ensconced himself on the couch, which faced the door. “Here,” Damon said, “this should keep you busy for the rest of the afternoon.” Then he took off his jacket, hung it up and sat down at his desk. He saw that Weinstein was keeping his jacket on and hoped Oliver wouldn’t speculate on the reason for the man’s formality. When Weinstein left the office for a few minutes to go to the men’s room, Oliver came over to Damon’s desk and said, in a low voice, so that Miss Walton couldn’t hear him, “Where did you pick up that fellow?”
“He’s an old friend of mine,” Damon said. “He majored in English literature. He’s particularly good on crime fiction.”
“He doesn’t look like a literary type.”
“Neither do you. Literary types come in all sizes these days.”
“How much are we paying him?” Every once in a while Oliver tried to sound like a partner.
“Nothing,” Damon said. “We’ll see how he works out. Until we make a final decision, I’ll pay him out of my own pocket.”
Oliver started to protest, but Damon stopped him. “It’s only fair. The reason we’re so overloaded is because I’ve neglected everything for so long. Ssh. Here he comes.”
Just before closing time, the phone rang. It was Schulter. “I’ve got some news for you, Damon. Can you meet me in ten minutes? Same place as last time.”
Damon felt a shiver of apprehension at the tone of the detective’s voice. “I’ll be there. I’ll bring a friend if you have no objections.”
“Can he keep his mouth shut?”
“Guaranteed.”
“Ten minutes,” Schulter said, and hung up.
He was sitting in the bar, wearing the same coat, buttoned up, and the ridiculous tiny hat, looking ominous and threatening, when Damon and Weinstein came in. He didn’t stand up to greet them or put out his hand when Damon introduced Weinstein, but merely grunted and sipped at his coffee. The waitress came right over and Weinstein ordered a coffee. Damon asked for a beer. Whenever he talked to Schulter, he realized, his throat went dry.
“Mr. Weinstein knows who you are,” Damon said. “On a professional basis.”
“What do you mean by that?” Schulter asked suspiciously. “Professional?”
“He was a detective on the New Haven police force. Now he’s retired. I’ve known him since we were boys. He’s come to live with me—well, act as a kind of bodyguard—until our little problem is solved.”
Schulter looked with new interest at Weinstein, who was staring around the room, his eyes alert; taking everything in, the other customers, the movements of the waitresses and the bartender.
“You armed?” Schulter asked.
“I’m armed,” Weinstein said, now looking at Schulter and smiling thinly.
“You better be.”
“Courtesy of the New Haven police department.”
“You mind if I check on you in New Haven?”
“I don’t mind,” Weinstein said. “The first name is Manfred.”
“I never heard of a detective with the name of Manfred,” Schulter said.
“There�
��s a first time for everything.” Weinstein smiled more widely.
“Now,” Damon said, “what’s your news, Lieutenant?”
Schulter waited while the waitress put down Weinstein’s coffee and Damon’s beer. When she had gone, Schulter said, “It’s about the Larches. Mrs. Larch was committed to an insane asylum two days ago.”
“Oh, Christ,” Damon said. The feeling of apprehension he had had when talking on the phone to Schulter had been justified. Since Zalovsky’s first call, disaster had spread around him like ever-widening ripples from a stone thrown into a pond. And he was the stone.
“They found her walking around naked in the street,” Schulter said. “It turns out she was going to a psychiatrist for nearly a year. The psychiatrist says she’s schizophrenic. I thought you ought to know.”
“Thanks,” Damon said dully.
“By the way,” Schulter said, “her psychiatrist says she never told her husband about who was the kid’s father. She made it all up. Mr. Larch is still crazy about the kid according to all the neighbors.”
“Thanks again.”
Weinstein looked puzzled. “Who’s Mrs. Larch, Roger? And what has she got to do with you and the lieutenant?”
“I’ll explain later,” Damon said.
“Anything new with you, Damon?” Schulter asked. “Any more calls?”
Damon shook his head. “Nothing new. No calls.”
“I advise you to keep your wife out of the way for a while.” It was not advice, but a ukase.
“She’s out of town for the moment.”
“Try to keep her there. Well”—Schulter stood up, pushed the absurd hat down heavily on his head—“I’ll be moving off. Detective,” he said to Weinstein, a touch of malice in his voice, “don’t shoot yourself in the leg when you pull out your popgun.”
“I’ll try not to,” Weinstein said affably. “I haven’t made any mistakes so far.”
Schulter looked down bleakly. “I hope you get lucky. Finish your drinks and call me if anything turns up.”
Damon and Weinstein watched the broad bullying back go through the door out into the street. “Friendly little fellow, isn’t he?” Weinstein said. “Not a devoted admirer of the New Haven police department. Now tell me about Mrs. Larch.”
Damon told him, Weinstein listening in silence. As he spoke, Damon could see the growing disapproval on his friend’s face.
When Damon finished, Weinstein said, “You sure acted like a damn fool for a grown man. Letting your cock do the thinking for the family. You’re lucky she only told her psychiatrist. If she hadn’t, I wouldn’t blame the husband if he came gunning for you.”
“Don’t be a goddamn rabbi,” Damon said, irritated. “You never have sneaked off for an afternoon with a girl? If you say no, I won’t believe you.”
“At least I was careful. I don’t have any illegitimate kids with another man’s name running around.”
“Bully for you,” Damon said. “Pray for the salvation for my soul the next time you happen to visit a synagogue.”
“Calm down, pal,” Weinstein said. “What’s done is done. What we have to do now is figure out what to do about it.”
“All right,” Damon said, slightly mollified.
“You think this might be the last straw for the husband?” Weinstein asked. “His wife in the nut house and you getting your picture in the papers and stories saying what a great man you are and how much dough you’re making.”
“Who knows? I suppose I ought to call him.”
“What for?” Weinstein looked surprised.
“To tell him the truth, for example. Certain men—like me for example—have a habit of examining their consciences.”
“Conscience-shomscience,” Weinstein said impatiently. “What is this—Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement for the goyim? If the guy ever had any reason for shooting you before, he’d be ten times more likely to do it if you called him. He’s got enough troubles as it is. Just to satisfy some crazy, egotistic notion of how you think an upright seducer ought to behave, you’d put another monkey on his back. Anyway, from your account the lady was over twenty-one and knew just what she was doing. And how do you know there weren’t eleven other guys in there at the same time?”
“Of course,” Damon said, “that’s a possibility.”
“A lot more than a possibility. She may be gaga now but she wasn’t gaga eleven years ago. You told Schulter I was your bodyguard. I see I have to be your brain guard, too.”
Damon was shaken by Weinstein’s vehemence, but hurt because of the jeering references to his conscience. The boyhood friend had become an accuser, and for a moment he regretted that Weinstein had recognized him as he drove past the lawn where Weinstein had been spading the flower bed. “You talk like a cop,” he said. “If the crime isn’t actually on the statute books, even if what’s happening is right under your nose, you turn and look the other way.”
“You’re damn right I talk like a cop,” Weinstein said. “And a cop doesn’t go around inventing trouble. If your conscience is bothering you, give a donation to some orphan home. Or go to confession and admit you were a sinner and mean to sin no more and drop a ten-dollar bill in the poor box.” There was no adolescent friendship in his voice. “And one more thing. What about your wife? What do you think she’ll do—say, welcome home, I’m delighted you finally have a family? Grow up, Roger, grow up. You’re in deep enough as it is. Don’t dig the hole any deeper.”
“You’re talking too loud,” Damon said. “People’re looking over here to see what the roaring is about. Maybe there’ll come a time when she has to know and I’ll speak then.”
“I hope you never have that conversation. And if you do, just make sure that I’m not there for it.”
They marched swiftly downtown through the deepening twilight, neither of them speaking. By the time they reached Fourteenth Street, Damon’s temper had subsided. He glanced sideways at Weinstein. Weinstein’s face was set in stubborn lines.
“Hey, shortstop,” Damon said. “Truce?”
For a moment Weinstein’s expression didn’t change. Then he grinned. “Of course, old buddy,” he said. He reached out and patted Damon’s arm.
Before going out to dinner, he helped Damon put the books down in the cellar and arrange the records. Damon hung Sheila’s coat in her closet, and Weinstein commenced putting the phonograph arm together and stringing a wire for the radio’s antenna. It didn’t take long, and Damon made himself a drink and sipped at it placidly after putting the first record, the Beethoven triple concerto, on the phonograph.
In the middle of the record, the telephone rang. Damon stiffened. “Go ahead,” Weinstein said. “Answer it.”
Damon put down his drink, went over to the telephone, hesitated, his hand in the air over the instrument, then picked it up. “Hello,” he said.
“This is Oliver. I just called to let you know that if I’d bet you about the Yeats, you’d have won.” He laughed. “I’ve looked all over. It’s not in the house. You’re a wise old librarian, partner. See you on Monday. Have a nice weekend. We’re going out to the Hamptons in the morning and I want you to know the blazer’s going to get its first workout.”
Weinstein had been watching Damon intently. When Damon hung up, he said, “Well … ?”
“It was Oliver Gabrielsen. About a book.”
“Listen, Roger,” Weinstein said. “I’ll never answer the phone. If the guy calls, I don’t want him to know that there’s another man in the house.”
“Right you are.”
“And I won’t pick up the other phone,” Weinstein said. “I don’t want him hearing a second click.”
“I wouldn’t have thought about that.”
Weinstein nodded. “You’re in another line of business.”
“I’m learning fast.”
“Too bad,” Weinstein said. “I hope you don’t go too far—suspicious of everybody and everything at all times, like me. Where’s your kitchen? Do you want me to fix us
dinner? I’ve gotten to be a pretty good cook since my wife died.”
“There’s nothing in the house,” Damon said. “And I want to honor you as a welcome guest with a fine non-detective-cooked French dinner.”
“I’ll come quietly, officer,” Weinstein said. “Bring on the dancing girls.”
There were no dancing girls, but Weinstein ploughed happily through a bowl of onion soup and a steak marchand de vin. The waiter looked at him disdainfully as he served the table because Weinstein had ordered a black coffee immediately after they sat down and ordered another cup to wash down the steak, while Damon treated himself with a half-bottle of California red wine.
Weinstein ate hugely, consuming a half-dozen slices of bread with his meal and piling the french-fries into his mouth. But at the end of the meal, which he had topped off with a large slice of apple tart with ice cream and still another cup of coffee, he leaned back, saying, “Ah, I could have really done this stuff justice when I was young and still had a real appetite and never enough money to eat in anything but diners. Well,” he said, “if this is what the job is going to be like, I won’t mind if that guy doesn’t show up before I’m ninety. Ah, Roger …” his voice lowered into sentimentality … “we were such good friends … all these years …” He made a large sweeping gesture with his hands as though to encompass the lost decades. “Why did we have to wait for something lousy to happen before we saw each other again?”
“Because the human race never gets its values straight,” Damon said somberly.
That night, although Weinstein’s snores lived up to his wife’s description of them and the house resounded with the regular crescendo and diminuendo of Weinstein’s breathing, Damon slept without dreams. With no alarm clock to wake him because it was Saturday and not a working day, he slept till nearly ten o’clock, later than any time since he had been in the Merchant Marine and was on leave after a voyage on which six ships of his convoy had been sunk.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
THE WEEKEND PASSED PLEASANTLY. It turned out that Weinstein was a movie buff, with a special taste for films about criminals and murders, laughing hilariously at the most serious moments of the entertainments, when detectives shot it out with suspects or infallibly unraveled plots that were so complicated that no one in the audience, and certainly not Weinstein, could follow them. In between he regaled Damon with tales of his own life on the force. New Haven, Damon learned in the two days, was not only the home of Yale University. Damon enjoyed the two days and now did not regret having been driving past the Weinstein house just as his old friend had started to prepare his garden for the spring planting. On Sunday night Weinstein insisted upon making their dinner himself, a Yankee pot roast with mashed potatoes, green peas, a thick gravy, and for dessert an apple pie. With an apron around his copious middle, his sleeves rolled up to reveal his powerful hairy forearms and the pistol butt jutting out of the shoulder holster strapped across his chest, he was an incongruous sight in the small kitchen, bustling among the pots and pans and deftly cleaning up after himself like the most experienced of chefs. Damon found himself laughing at the sight as he came into the kitchen, attracted by the odors floating through the apartment. Weinstein looked at him dourly. “What’s so funny?” he asked.