Turning back to Zorn and Nora, the Angel said: ‘You’re not to see what I do. You’re not to remember anything but my name—Pablo,’ and from his briefcase he took pills and a syringe and asked Nora to stand by the bed, to allow Jaqmeel to hold her hand. The doomed man took it to his lips and kissed it: ‘You’re kind to stay with me. The others have all gone,’ and he recited a line from a poem Andy did not recognize: ‘About, about in reel and rout,’ and then he said: ‘I’m ready,’ and Nora bent down to kiss him on the forehead.
But when she saw Pablo produce the hideous tools of his forbidden trade—a white pill that might encapsulate a lethal dose of strychnine, and the syringe that could inject a deadly dose of some potent drug—she understood with brutal clarity what was about to happen, and could not bear it. Cradling her nephew’s head against her bosom she wailed: ‘I cannot watch this, Jaqmeel! You were our boy of gold.…’ Collapsing in tears, she kissed him fervently, then allowed Pablo to lead her away from the bed and direct her to the stairs: ‘It’s best if some of us don’t see,’ and Andy heard his nurse clop her heavy way down the flight of wooden steps.
All attention now focused on Jaqmeel, to whom Pablo handed two pills with the crisp direction ‘Swallow them,’ and when with difficulty Reed did, Pablo said: ‘Now let me have your arm,’ and the young man extended an arm so thin it was painful to see. ‘Look away,’ Pablo said softly. ‘Both of you,’ so Reed and Zorn, clasping hands, stared at each other.
Whether Pablo injected anything into the wasted arm, and if he did, whether he used a placebo or some powerful drug, Zorn was not allowed to know, but either the pills or the injection had an immediate effect on Jaqmeel, for as he gazed at Zorn, still clinging to the doctor’s hand and grateful for his presence, his eyes slowly glazed over, his breathing stopped, and he found his escape in death.
As Andy unloosed his fingers, Pablo said: ‘If the police come snooping, describe me in full detail. I won’t be wearing this costume anymore,’ and he vanished, leaving Zorn with the dead man and the responsibility of informing Mr. and Mrs. Angelotti what they expected to hear. Zorn saw that the back door had been left open so that the Angel of Death could escape undetected from the hospice.
Like most retirement centers, the Palms had what the management called ‘our little secret,’ for although the expensive entry buy-in fee was a minimum of $110,000, two or three of the smallest rooms were available on a rental system, just as if they had been part of an expensive hotel.
Toward the end of August a rather odd person moved into one of the rentals. He was sixty-three and seemed much too young to be entering a retirement facility. His records showed that he was educated at Holy Cross, had a law degree from one of the smaller night schools in Cambridge and was the father of six children who lived in various parts of the nation; his wife had died of cancer. Dr. Zorn noted the entry which said that Clarence Hasslebrook had suffered, in his mid-fifties, what his doctors described as ‘a nervous breakdown occasioned by a mixture of too much work and unrelieved tension.’ Apparently the tension had later been relieved, for in subsequent years he had performed as one of the minor members of an undistinguished Boston law firm. Why he had quit what seemed to have been a lucrative position was not disclosed.
Curiously, all arrangements for Hasslebrook’s residence at the Palms had been arranged not by him but by a woman member of his law firm, who paid a year’s rental in advance. Administration did not see the man himself before he moved in, but the woman assured everyone: ‘You’ll love this man. He’s one of the best.’
Zorn, of course, was more than pleased to enroll yet another single to occupy one of the hard-to-rent bed-sitting rooms, but when he met Hasslebrook as the latter moved his meager belongings into his quarters, he feared that he was welcoming an unknown quantity, for the man had a shifty look and an apologetic manner that ill matched the incongruous propriety of his dress. In Florida heat he wore a New England three-piece suit that looked a bit too tight, the trouser legs a bit too short. It had been carelessly tailored in a fabric that did not hold its shape, and from long usage had acquired a sheen at vulnerable spots. He wore a nondescript blue tie that showed signs of having been worn incessantly, and a pair of black wing-tip shoes that needed polishing. His appearance was definitely not that of the typical Palms male inhabitant. Also, he moved in an unusual manner, leaning forward from the waist as if eager to make a strong impression even on strangers whom he obviously did not really care to meet. Zorn saw him as one who warranted close attention.
When he first appeared in the dining room, Dr. Zorn led him to the long table, where he was quite out of place in his dark three-piece because all the other men were in colorful tropical wear. Raúl Jiménez and Chris Mallory were wearing pastel guayaberas and the other men wore lightweight clothes of simple cut. When the newcomer said, ‘I see that dress goes by different rules here,’ two of the men volunteered to guide him to the good shops. He aroused further attention by refusing to divulge anything about his previous life beyond saying: ‘I worked in Boston. Involved with minor business negotiations,’ which masked the fact that everyone already knew, that he had been a lawyer.
Among the women he gained approval by ostentatiously rising from his chair whenever a woman came to the table or left, and since this was a buffet night, he was up and down like a jack-in-the-box until Senator Raborn warned: ‘You keep on doing that, Mr. Hasslebrook, you’ll turn into a yo-yo. Besides, our ladies are not accustomed to such gallantry.’
‘My mother made me do it. I can’t break the habit,’ he replied and Señora Jiménez said: ‘Don’t! We women like to be reminded that there are still gentlemen in the world.’
‘That name Hasslebrook?’ President Armitage asked. ‘I can’t place its derivation.’
‘It must be German,’ the stranger said, but unlike other newcomers to whom Armitage had posed that question as a polite way to invite some revealing account of family histories, the man volunteered nothing else.
Armitage, whose former positions had required him to know as much as possible about visiting professors whom he might want to bring to his faculty or who were actually applying, was not satisfied with this abrupt response: ‘I’d guess that the original ending must have been something like bruch or burg. Contaminated by American usage?’ No response. ‘Or arbitrarily modified by immigration officials when your ancestors came over?’ When even this elicited no reply, Armitage asked: ‘The word itself, as a word, or perhaps a combination of words? Does it have any specific meaning in German?’ The man shrugged his shoulders, and Armitage became so frustrated, and indeed angry, that he refused to drop the subject: ‘I’ve often speculated about the composition of my name. Seems to have come over from France during the Norman Conquest. First part must have related to armament of some kind. Suffix tage? It must have related to an occupation or an act—like perhaps a man who supplied arms or sharpened them or heaven knows what.’ The man repeated his shrug, at which Armitage abandoned him.
Señora Jiménez was more charitable, influenced perhaps by the fact that Hasslebrook had twice held her chair for her: ‘Sir, tonight’s buffet. No waiters. You take your plate and pick the goodies you prefer. Here, I’ll take you,’ and she led the way to the far end of the dining room where a generous assortment of hot dishes, well-prepared vegetables and desserts awaited. Under her expert guidance, Mr. Hasslebrook selected a slice of prime roast beef, well charred; three vegetables not over-cooked; and the rich whole-wheat bread featured in any meal served in John Taggart’s establishments. Because of his concern about cholesterol the newcomer declined dessert.
In succeeding days the good-hearted inhabitants of Gateways spent considerable effort in trying to make Mr. Hasslebrook as welcome to the Palms as they had been made to feel when they arrived, nervous and insecure about whether they really wanted to settle in a retirement home. They remembered the warmth with which residents like the down-to-earth Mallorys had extended unusual courtesies or the enthusiasm that Senato
r Raborn displayed when trying to find them a bargain in a used car. And later they realized that Muley Duggan had left his dazed wife to help them, even though he knew he would be relentlessly abused when he returned to her.
Dapper Chris Mallory collared Hasslebrook after dinner one night and said: ‘Old fellow, it’s none of my business, but you’re going to be a lot happier here if you allow me to take you around to some of the good clothing stores where you can find quite attractive summer suits. They’re usable all year long, you know.’
Hasslebrook rejected the proposal: ‘I have two other suits. I’ll get by.’ But Chris was not one to acknowledge such a rebuff. He knew that Hasslebrook needed summer suits, and he knew where to find them at prices that were not exorbitant, so one morning, without having prearranged the meeting, he banged on the new man’s door until it was grudgingly opened: ‘Yes. What is it?’
‘I’m taking you to some of the finest stores in Florida, where you’ll find handsome clothes, reasonable prices.’
‘I really don’t …’
‘Come along! You’ve got to learn the neighborhood if you’re to enjoy this place.’ And almost by force, he edged Hasslebrook out of the apartment and down to where the Mallory Cadillac waited: ‘That’s my wife’s car. Let’s take yours,’ and although he knew he no longer had a license to drive, he took the wheel of Hasslebrook’s inexpensive rented car. As he again felt the thrill of driving a car he chuckled as if he were a thirteen-year-old sneaking his family’s jalopy out for a spree.
At last Hasslebrook spoke. If he was going to ride in Florida traffic with a man who was clearly past his prime, he wanted to know the worst: ‘How old are you?’
‘Ninety, and my wife and I go dancing together at least twice a week and as many other times as occasion provides.’ Hasslebrook had no comment, nor could Mallory guess what he was thinking, for he stared straight down the highway as if he were either mesmerized or terrified.
They stopped first at Mallory’s favorite men’s store, Klaus Ruger’s, where the Vienna-born outfitter imported the best suitings from Italy, Spain and England. When Hasslebrook entered the store he was astounded by the bright colors of the clothes and their suave lines, but he was stunned when he looked at the price tags, for he found that he could acquire a rather nice sports jacket for $495 and a pair of appropriate slacks for $225. ‘Are all the prices like this?’ he asked and Mallory said: ‘The ones that Esther bought me for my birthday are over here. Fancier cut, better fabrics, they run in the six-hundred-dollar bracket. Trousers are a bargain, though, at three hundred forty dollars.’ There were also some fine belts at $55 and up.
‘Do you buy clothes like these?’
‘Of course. Mr. Hasslebrook, I’m ninety and I believe in indulging myself—nothing but the best for me,’ As a puckish smile crept over his face, he said: ‘I’m having the time of my life, and enjoying my fine rooms at the Palms.…’
‘You have more than one room?’
‘Three bedrooms—I need two for visitors. But as I was saying, best thing my wife ever did for me was getting us that Cadillac. She drives us to all parts of the west coast in the greatest comfort. Beautiful places here, clear down to Naples.’
‘Is there a store with more reasonable prices? I admit I need a more colorful suit, but I’m not approaching ninety. I need to—’
‘Mr. Hasslebrook, you are approaching ninety. Everyone is, and just because I’m closer to it than you doesn’t mean that I live by special rules. Live a little. Get yourself four or five snappy jackets. But I agree with you—you don’t have to spend five hundred dollars for one. I’ll admit I enjoy special freedom. I don’t have to worry about the next ten years. One at a time is good enough for me.’
With no adverse comment, he took Hasslebrook to another store, where the prices were more reasonable. For a jacket almost as flawless as those at Klaus Ruger’s the price was only $290, slacks at $115, belts at $45 and up. Mallory had expected the newcomer to grab two or three of each, but when he saw the man blanch at the first price tag, Chris knew that they had better move quickly to a lesser store. Here the price range was $240, $95 and $30, which was still more than Hasslebrook was prepared to pay, so Mallory asked the owner of the store where he might take his impecunious guest to find the kind of clothes college students on limited budgets might buy, and the man willingly cooperated.
‘In the Hispanic section of Tampa, near those handsome buildings where the Cubans made cigars, there’s a clothing store tucked away in one of the corners. Called Charley’s. A fellow can find good bargains there occasionally. Manufacturer’s overruns plus some very good brand-name clothes that have slight imperfections—you’d never notice.’ Having said this, the salesman fingered Mallory’s lapel: ‘You didn’t get this at Charley’s.’
‘No, Klaus Ruger’s. I’m helping him.’ He pointed to where Hasslebrook was still unhappily scrutinizing the prices in the store.
With no trouble, they found Charley’s, but the first jackets they looked at were still too expensive, $85 and $65. But as Hasslebrook turned away he saw a sign: FACTORY SECONDS. YOU’LL NEVER SEE THE IMPERFECTIONS. This was what he wanted, and when he fingered through the racks, $35 cheapest, $55 highest, he found an attractive jacket with a true Florida look: ‘I like this one, if it fits.’ The owner helped him slip into the garment and said suavely: ‘It must have been tailored knowing you were coming,’ and the purchase was made.
‘Now, which others do you want?’ Mallory asked, and Hasslebrook said in a surprised voice: ‘This is the one I like.’
‘But at these prices you ought to get three or four. Different nights of the week, you know.’
‘How many do you have?’
‘About a dozen. Maybe fifteen. Can’t look stodgy when I go dancing.’
‘You still buy new jackets? At your age?’
‘What else am I going to do? I like to look neat, “with it” as the kids say. And I intend looking that way as long as I live. Doctor told me the other day: “Your vital signs would do justice to a man of sixty.” While they stay firm I dance. But Doc said: “Maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe you look so good because you do dance.” ’
Hasslebrook resisted the siren call to buy the four or five great seconds that Mallory and the manager picked out for him, suits with damages so minor that only an expert could recognize them if they were pointed out, and he was also satisfied with one pair of trousers at $19.50 with a belt sewn into the waistband. ‘It was,’ he told Mallory on the drive back, ‘a very successful morning.’
When he entered the dining room that night, Señora Jiménez greeted him with applause: ‘You look spiffy. My husband doesn’t have a jacket-and-pants set that looks half as good as yours,’ and this was true, because Raúl’s matching sets at two hundred dollars each lacked the high styling of the seconds from the prominent manufacturers. Of course, when Hasslebrook appeared night after night in the same clothes, people began to talk, and one evening when Chris Mallory was dining with the men of the tertulia, his wife being absent at a church meeting, he told them about the almost fruitless shopping expedition with the new man.
‘What do you make of him?’ President Armitage asked, and Chris said: ‘He’s a jerk. Should never have come to a place like this.’
‘That we knew from the first night,’ St. Près said, ‘but is he a dangerous jerk?’
‘I thought he was merely stupid.’
‘He did graduate from law school,’ Armitage said, and St. Près remarked: ‘So he says.’
The upshot of Mallory’s report was that Armitage and St. Près asked for a meeting with Dr. Zorn, and when they sat down in his office they wasted no time in getting to the point: ‘Zorn, what’s the story on this Hasslebrook?’
‘Anything I know is public information. Boston lawyer in a minor partnership. Credit rating good. No suspicious entries in his track record. Wife died some years ago, nothing suspicious. Had six kids, all married, and he wanted a southern climate. Tired of shov
eling snow.’
‘That’s all?’
‘There was one unusual aspect to his coming here. He never visited us. A woman from his office flew down, inspected us meticulously and spoke to Ken, who made all the arrangements.’
‘What do you make of that?’
‘Obviously he’s not your standard old widower with his CD collection, his Cadillac and three grandsons at Yale. He’s something very different, and if you discover what it is, please let me be the first to know.’ When he led his guests to the door he added: ‘You men know that at the Palms we do not snoop. We assume that we’re dealing with gentlemen and ladies, people trained to be civilized.’
After weeks of watching Hasslebrook wearing the same jacket and trousers, Chris Mallory once again knocked on his door: ‘Mr. Hasslebrook, you and I had a profitable trip some weeks ago. You found a jacket I’d be proud to wear myself. But you can’t live here with just one pair of trousers. Sit down. I want to talk like a trusted friend, and no one will ever hear a word of what I’m about to say. You were surprised at Charley’s when I said I had fifteen or so sports combinations. Actually I have eighteen, and three of them I’ve almost never worn here at the Palms. They’d fit you, they’d look great on you, and I would be honored, Mr. Hasslebrook, if you’d accept those three jackets and the trousers and the belts as my gift to a man who could wear them with distinction.’ He held his hands forward, palms up as if he were in the desert proving to a stranger that he carried no concealed weapon.
The effect on Hasslebrook was striking. Lowering his head as if to hide deep emotion, he said: ‘You are truly generous—I’m deeply moved, Mr. Mallory. But I have plenty of money, I did well in my firm. It’s just that I detest exhibitionism, display, ostentatious spending. If you came at me with hot irons you couldn’t force me to pay my money for those suits at that first place, the Austrian one. When I got such a suit home and looked at it, I’d burn it. Wouldn’t risk having it contaminate me.’
Recessional: A Novel Page 39