Dutch Blue Error

by William G. Tapply

  I awakened in time to watch the blackness through the windows fade into brightening shades of gray. Deborah still slept against me. I shifted cautiously until I was able to extricate my arm from where she held it against her breast. She groaned and rolled onto her stomach. I slid out from the bed and pulled the blankets up over her. Then I took a long shower.

  When I got out, she was still sleeping. I dressed quickly in the dim, predawn light of the room. I found a pencil and some blank paper in her rolltop desk. I wrote her several notes. I tore each of them up. They sounded like explanations, or apologies, which wasn’t what I intended, or else like love notes. I didn’t intend that, either. So I left no note at all

  I paused beside the bed and reached down to smooth her hair. Then I went to my car and drove to Boston. It was Monday. I had work to do.

  10

  I CALLED CHARLIE MCDEVITT in the middle of the morning to make a date for lunch. His choice of restaurants. We agreed to meet at the Common by the subway entrance.

  Then I called Deborah’s office.

  “Colonial Properties of Concord. This is Darlene. May I help you?”

  I asked for Ms. Martinelli, emphasizing the miz.

  “Who may I say is calling?”

  “You may say it’s Brady Coyne.”

  “One moment, please.”

  I heard myself being put on hold. Then my ear was assaulted with elevator music. The Ray Coniff chorus, it sounded like, performing their own distinctive rendition of a medley of Beatles tunes. “I Wanna Hold Your Hand,” in waltz time. A neat segue into an arrangement of “Eleanor Rigby” that would have done Lawrence Welk proud.

  Darlene came back on the phone, interrupting a lullaby version of “Tax Man.” “Deborah can’t come to the phone right now. May I have her return your call? Or would you care to leave a message?”

  “Tell her she should get a Stan Getz tape if she’s going to make people listen to music when they’re on hold,” I said. “And just tell her I called.”

  “How do you spell that please?”

  “C-o-y-n-e.”

  “No, the other name.”

  “Oh. G-e-t-z. Stan Getz. Tenor sax. You never heard of Stan Getz?”

  “I’ll give her your message, Mr. Coyne.”

  I reminded myself to congratulate Deborah on the efficiency of her secretary. Humorless, but efficient. Darlene impressed me as one of those women who would sniff and wrinkle her chin if a man winked at her.

  I climbed out of the murk of the subway landing into the brilliant October noon sunshine. Tremont Street swarmed with secretaries and executives hurrying to the Union Oyster House and Jake Wirth’s for lunch. The young matrons of summer, tugging their ice-cream-dirty toddlers toward the swan boats, had deserted the Common. In their place milled a mix of elderly ladies bearing shopping bags like fragile trophies, college students lolling on the benches, their faces turned to the sun, and old men feeding popcorn to the pigeons. I blinked a couple of times, looked around, and finally located Charlie. He was standing, deep in conversation with a younger man who was keeping watch over a square metal pushcart, at the point where the paths that intersect the Common converge. A sign on the pushcart promised KING SIZE FRANKS AND KRAUT; 75¢.

  Charlie saw me and waved me over.

  “Brady Coyne,” he said when I was standing beside him, “Johnny Pilarski.”

  Pilarski gave me a lopsided grin from the depths of his thick, black beard and shoved out his hand. He wore sunglasses with the reflector lenses that the state troopers who patrol the Mass Pike favor. I saw the image of myself mirrored in each lens.

  “Nice to meetcha, Mr. Coyne,” said Pilarski, who then returned his attention to Charlie. “Fifty percent suits me, Mr. Mac. I’m satisfied with fifty percent. It covers it, you know?”

  Charlie was shaking his head and smiling. “You take what you can get in this world, Johnny.”

  Pilarski held up his hand. “No. You take what you deserve. No more, no less.”

  Charlie turned to me. “We have this argument all the time.”

  “I always win,” grinned Pilarski.

  “Dumb-ass Polack,” said Charlie. “Hell with it. Be poor. I don’t give a shit.”

  “Rather make an honest buck,” said Pilarski, with a sly emphasis on the word honest. “You know?”

  “Nobody likes lawyers,” moaned Charlie. “What is it—ninety percent of all Washington politicians are lawyers? Ever since Watergate. Goddam Nixon is a lawyer. How the hell you going to fight that? Listen. Mr. Coyne here is a lawyer, you know.”

  “I figured,” chuckled Pilarski. “About the only friends lawyers have are other lawyers, huh? Hey, shit, it’s okay. You guys do run the world. You want to be liked, too? I’ll sell my hot dogs, thank you. I clear thirty-seven cents on every dog I sell. Thirty-seven honest pennies.”

  Charlie shrugged. He turned to me. “This guy’s impossible. Well. You ready for some lunch?”

  “Sure. Where you taking me?”

  “We’re here, my man.”

  Charlie and I took our dogs and kraut to a bench from which we could look up at the golden dome of the State House. I told Charlie the story of the Dutch Blue Error. He picked stray strands of sauerkraut off the front of his jacket and listened intently.

  “So,” I concluded, “somebody wants that stamp badly enough to kill two men for it. And I’m afraid Deborah is next on his list. And, just for spice, Zerk is a suspect.”

  “You sleeping with her?”

  “What makes you ask that?”

  Charlie burped loudly. “I thought so.”

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “What did you think of Johnny Pilarski?”

  I shrugged. “Seems like a nice enough guy.”

  “He’s only got one foot, you know.”

  “No. I couldn’t tell.”

  “And no eyes.”

  “He’s blind?”

  “Most people without any eyes are blind. Counselor. Claymore mine. He’s from my old neighborhood in Southie. He was a cocky little snot-nose punk when I went off to college. Best damn little ten-year-old basketball player you ever saw, though. For a white kid, anyway. Dribble through his legs, behind his back. Actually had a jump shot. How many ten-year-old kids do you know who can shoot jumpers? Anyhow, he quit school his senior year and joined up, went to Vietnam, and was back in a week, minus one foot and two eyes. His mother called me. Figured I had a lot of pull with the government—which, as you know, I don’t—and would be able to get him a hundred-percent disability. Of course I could do that. He could do that himself. Hell. Even you could do that. But you heard him back there. He won’t take it. He applied for fifty percent. He insists he’s only fifty percent disabled. He says lots of guys lost both legs, or both hands, or their balls, or their sanity. Lots came home in bags. They’re the ones who should get the hundred percent, so says Johnny.”

  “He doesn’t think of himself as disabled.”

  “Exactly. See, it’s a matter of perspective. Depends on how you look at it.”

  I nodded. “That’s interesting, and I’m glad to have met the man, and now I forgive you for the lunch. But I was asking you about my little problem. Granted, I’d rather have my problem than Johnny’s, but still…”

  “But, see, that’s my point. He ain’t what he seems to be. You didn’t know he was blind. After you get to know him for a while, you figure it out. And once you know it, you can tell by watching him—little ways he has with his hands, how his head turns so that those reflector shades he wears always look right at you. And once you know it, you can never go back to seeing him the other way. Seems to me that’s your problem, too.”

  “Things not being what they seem, you mean.”

  “Yeah. And being able to see things differently. Knowing that one thing—like Johnny Pilarski being blind—that changes everything else. See, old buddy, you’ve never been a prosecutor. Your skills are rusty. Hell, I think they’re so corroded they’ve seized up. You bel
ieve people. But that’s your problem. You can’t believe people. Because someone’s always lying. A prosecutor’s got to figure there’s a lie somewhere.”

  I stared at the State House dome. “Okay,” I said, “somebody’s lying. Now what?”

  “Simple,” said Charlie.” You’ve got to go through everybody, one at a time. Assume each one’s telling a lie. Ask yourself: What is the lie? If it’s a lie, what might the truth be? And why is that person lying?” He stared at me. “See? It’s tedious. But it’s the way.”

  I shook my head. “Give me a for instance.”

  “Okay. For instance, the lady. Deborah. Who you’re sleeping with. Suppose she’s telling a lie. What lie could she be telling you—besides she loves your body?”

  “She never said that,” I said. I thought for a minute. “She said she doesn’t know where the stamp is. That could be a lie.”

  “And the truth…”

  “One truth might be that she’s got the stamp. Or she at least knows where it is. Which amounts to the same thing.”

  “And,” persisted Charlie, “why might she tell that lie?”

  “Damned if I know,” I said, “but it’s a very interesting question.”

  “See?” said Charlie. “See how it works?”

  “Gets you thinking, I see that,” I said. “But you know, this game isn’t much fun.”

  “You’ve just been away from the hurly-burly too long,” he said. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

  “I wanna feel sorry for myself. I want you to feel sorry for me.”

  “Johnny Pilarski tells a story he heard when he was in the hospital getting fitted for a plastic foot. You want to hear it?”

  “I think I’m going to anyway,” I said.

  “Right,” said Charlie. He leaned back against the bench and put his right ankle across his left thigh and clasped his hands behind his neck. “Once upon a time,” he began, “there was a man who had everything. That once upon a time gives it away, don’t you think? I mean you know there’s a fairy tale coming at you. Anyhow, this guy had piles of money, a job he loved, the best of health, a gorgeous wife who adored him, two smart children, a mansion in the country, a Mercedes all paid up.

  “On the way to work one morning the Mercedes threw a rod. The man stood beside his car, which he loved, looked to the sky, and said, ‘Why me, God?’

  “By the time he got to work, the coffee pot was empty, his shirt was dirty, and his secretary was out sick. His boss was waiting for him in his office.

  “‘We’re reorganizing,’ said the boss. ‘You’re through. Clean out your desk.’

  “‘Why me, God?’ begged the man.

  “When he got home, the house was empty. On the kitchen table he found a note from his wife. ‘I’m leaving you,’ it said. ‘I’m taking the children. I’m taking the money from the bank accounts. My lawyer will contact you.’

  “The man’s eyes filled with tears, for he loved his wife and he loved his children and he loved his bank accounts. ‘Why me, God?’ he cried.

  “He stumbled out of the house, sobbing. He wandered around the grounds that he loved. All he had left was his mansion. Suddenly the sky darkened, thunder boomed, and a great bolt of lightning stabbed down from the black clouds. The man heard a huge explosion behind him. He turned in time to see his house burst into flames. Within minutes it was reduced to a heap of smoldering rubble. The man sat on the grass and buried his face in his hands. Then he raised both arms to the heavens and wailed, ‘Why me, God?’

  “The clouds suddenly parted and a strange shaft of golden light shone down on the man’s face. He heard a deep, unearthly voice rumble from above: ‘I don’t know, man,’ said the voice. ‘I guess you just kinda piss me off.’”

  Charlie sat forward and smiled at me. “They told that in the VA hospital, these guys with no legs and no faces. According to Johnny, it’s exactly what they all believed. That summed up their theology.”

  “Pretty fundamental theology,” I said. “Calvinist, really.”

  “Johnny says it kept them going. Whenever any one of them bitched to a nurse, or complained about his pain, or criticized the food, someone would yell at him, ‘Why me, God?’ and another guy would answer, ‘I dunno, man. I guess you just piss me off.’ Johnny says you had to laugh.”

  “You’re telling me I shouldn’t be feeling sorry for myself,” I said. “Compared to those guys in the hospital.”

  “Compared to the guy in the story, maybe. Whatever. I just thought you’d enjoy the story.”

  “I guess I should get to work.”

  “Or not,” said Charlie. “God doesn’t give a shit.”

  “Think I’ll get to work,” I said.

  11

  WHEN I RETURNED TO MY office from my hot dog and sauerkraut lunch, I found Zerk pounding furiously at his typewriter. His jacket hung over the back of his chair, his cuffs were rolled halfway up his forearms, and his tie was pulled loose from his collar. The IBM clattered angrily under his fingers. He didn’t look up when I went over to stand beside him.

  I waited for a pause in the rhythm of his typing. He came to the end of a sheet. His machine fell suddenly silent. He reached up with both hands and yanked the paper out of his machine.

  “Any calls?” I said.

  “None for you.”

  He rolled a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter and ostentatiously ran his finger along the edited manuscript from which he was copying.

  “Something I should know about?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why do I think you’re lying to me?”

  Zerk swiveled around and glared up at me. “Same reason the fat man does, maybe.”

  “The fat man?”

  “The cop.”

  “Yeah. Stone.”

  “Stone was here?”

  “Stone called me. Stone knows I killed those two guys. Stone’s gonna get me. Stone’s a tough guy. Stone’s smart and patient. Stone’s gonna get his lungs ripped out.”

  “You can’t let him get to you, Zerk. He’s trying to make you blow your cool.”

  “Right. I figured that out.” He pushed himself away from his desk and pounded his thighs with his fists. “He is, too, the son of a bitch. Makes it seem personal.”

  “You want a cup of coffee?”

  “I want a drink. I wanna smoke some dope. I wanna bust up a face.”

  “So let’s go get a drink.”

  “I got work to do. Leave me alone.”

  “Were there any other calls?”

  “Like from a lady?”

  I shrugged.

  “No. I told you. No calls for you.”

  He wheeled himself back to his desk, fiddled with the typewriter for a minute, then his fingers began to fire staccato bursts on the machine. I went into my office and picked up the telephone.

  Darlene informed me that Deborah was out with a client, she didn’t know when she’d be back, yes, she had delivered my earlier messages, and she would tell Deborah that Mr. Coyne had called again.

  I placed a yellow legal pad on the desk in front of me and with a pencil divided it vertically into four columns. I wrote headings at the top of each column. Name. The lie. Reason for the lie. The truth. Then I filled in the first column with all the relevant names, leaving plenty of space between them. I figured each person could have contributed several lies, each of which would suggest several alternative truths, and each of which might have several possible motivations.

  Ollie Weston was the first name on my list. His first lie I phrased simply as “Dutch Blue Error.” I didn’t know what the lie might be, but I realized that until I knew more about the stamp I wouldn’t be able to imagine the lie.

  I opened the Yellow Pages to PHILATELY, and found nothing. I tried STAMPS, and found what I wanted under STAMPS FOR COLLECTORS. I learned that in the city of Boston several dozen stamp dealers plied their trade, and a great many of them had their offices on Bromfield Street. I copied down some addresses.

  Z
erk didn’t look up, nor did the tempo of his typing change, when I left my office.

  Bromfield Street is a narrow little one-way street, wide enough only for a single automobile to pass. It cuts across from Tremont Street to Washington Street near the Boston Common, right opposite the Granary Burial Ground, a two-minute walk from where Charlie and I had eaten our hot dogs an hour earlier.

  I selected one of those office buildings randomly and walked into the dark lobby. Under a framed glass panel a directory listed three stamp dealers. Two were located on the second floor. I found no elevator, so I climbed the stairs.

  I arrived at the office of Morris Graustein. His name was hand-printed on an index card taped to his door. He had a thick bush of curly white hair, watery blue eyes, and yellow teeth. He wore a tattered blue cardigan sweater over a faded plaid shirt. His tiny office contained a large wooden desk, several head-high metal file cabinets, a couple of cardboard boxes piled on top of each other in a corner, and a single pigeon-stained window which looked fuzzily on to the building across the street.

  Morris Graustein sat at his paper-strewn desk sipping from a mug and staring at the telephone. When I entered the room he said, “Come in, sir, come in. Nice day, eh? Are you buying or selling today?” Graustein pronounced it “buy-ink or sell-ink.”

  He looked up at me. When he smiled, a thousand wrinkles spread across his face as if a strong wind had sprang up suddenly over a placid body of water. “Or maybe you want to buy a little starter outfit for your nephew, eh?” He squinted as if he could see into my intentions. “Aha, yes. I have got it. You have a shoebox full of United States first-day covers you want to sell because you have collected them for twenty years and now it is time to put the children into college. Am I right, sir?”

  I laughed. “I’m not a philatelist. You’re right. My name is Coyne, I’m an attorney, and I need some information about a rare stamp.”