Last Words

by Rich Zahradnik

  The Airstream in the driveway of his burnt-out house? No, not on the first date. There were more embarrassing things than roommates.

  “Not tonight.”

  She looked hurt.

  “You know. I’m still trying to get the place fixed up.”

  “I didn’t mean this to be a turnoff.”

  “It wasn’t a turnoff at all. It’s late. I’ve got work to do tomorrow. I need to break something on the story before Worth figures out a way to finish firing me.”

  He kissed her a last time and moved to the door as the racket in the bedroom reached its crescendo. The look on her face was sad, but not angry. Loneliness descended as he walked down the stairs. A night with Laura had been right there before him, about to happen. The goddamn trailer would be cold even with its jury-rigged heater. Cold and empty of company and lacking the welcome light of a real room. He didn’t even feel like drinking more to push away this sadness. He’d passed the point of no return. He caught a cab and handed over half a day’s pay for the ride to Forest Hills. The lights out the window were harsh and hurt his eyes—nothing like the blurred entertainment of the ride up from CBGB.

  PART IV: Friday, March 14, 1975

  Chapter 12

  The elevator opened directly onto a vestibule. Marcella Roberts lived with her parents and sister at East 87th, in an apartment on the 14th floor. The Roberts’ flat was, in fact, the entire floor, a four-bedroom home on one level. Taylor had called ahead. The father was at work, the mother at a meeting to plan Eli Prep’s memorial service for Declan McNally. This could work to Taylor’s advantage.

  The housekeeper entered the room as soon as the elevator door closed. “You’re doing a story about that poor boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s so sad. Terrible.” She sounded liked she meant it. She went to get Marcella.

  While he waited, Taylor walked off the vestibule to check its size. One and a half Airstreams.

  The rug, the table along the wall and the gilt-framed paintings of flowers, horses, and huntsmen all looked old and expensive. He moved closer to a still life to see the brush strokes in the oil paint.

  “You like it? It bores me. Like all this gilded crap.” Marcella Roberts’ face was striking, with hazel eyes and thin, dark lips. She wore a black leather jacket over a black T-shirt lettered with something he couldn’t read and tight jeans that narrowed down her slender legs.

  “Thank you for seeing me.”

  “We’ll see.” A world-weary sigh from a girl too young for one. “I’m not sure I want to say much.”

  She led him through three rooms to a small study with a desk and bookshelves. She sat with legs crossed on the desk chair. He took the only other seat, a small uncomfortable wooden chair designed to encourage guests to make visits brief. The single floor-to-ceiling window was framed by ruby drapes with shears drawn.

  “What are you going to write?” Marcella asked.

  “It depends on what I find.”

  “You’re trying to figure out who did it, right? The fucking pigs never will. Declan said all kinds of people get away with murder. Declan said the smart cops are all taking bribes because they need to. Just to survive the system. Which is completely falling apart anyway.”

  “That’s surprising to hear. Declan’s father and grandfather were cops. His brother still is.”

  “He wasn’t talking about his family. Well, I don’t think he was.”

  “What did Declan say about his father?” Taylor wanted more about the argument at the McNally’s Sunday night. He didn’t know enough about what went on inside that house.

  “According to him, Declan could never do anything right. Mr. McNally has this big thing about how he came up from nowhere. He got his law degree while still a cop. He moved them from Queens to the Upper Eastside. Declan was somehow supposed to do the same thing, even though it was his father who put him in Eli. There’s no bootstrapping in our school. We’re already up. It was like Mr. McNally was angry at the opportunities he created for Declan. I don’t know how to explain it exactly. It doesn’t make sense. Whatever choices Declan made, they were the wrong ones.”

  A tear spilled down her cheek, then another. She put her face in her folded arms. Her narrow shoulders gently heaved.

  The laughter of Taylor’s own father returned. “A copyboy? I expected something ridiculous, but you’ve always found ways of exceeding my low expectations for you. Congratulations, copy-BOY.” The professor mixed himself another vodka tonic and began reciting Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s poem, “Christabel.”

  If that’s what Declan had to deal with, Taylor could understand the boy’s anger. “Mr. McNally said he and Declan argued over homework on Sunday night. That Declan blew up and ran out of the house.”

  “Declan was upset afterward. That man rode and rode Declan about everything.”

  “You saw Declan Sunday night?”

  “He came here. He stayed the night in the guest room.”

  “When did he leave?”

  “I’ve told the police all this. He ate breakfast. Said he’d see me at school. That was the last time we talked. He didn’t come to Eli on Monday.”

  “Your parents knew he was here?”

  “Of course. They liked him very much. They didn’t care for his father.”

  “Did the arguments between Declan and his father ever get violent?”

  “He never hit him. Not that I know of. He was just such a goddamn hypocrite. Fuck, I’m so sick of all the hypocrisy.” She took a Kleenex from a silver box and wiped her nose. “I need a break from the girls who don’t get it. Their mothers too. ‘Oh dear, how sad you must be.’ Then they start wailing and telling me how fucking terrible they feel.” Her pain was real and easier to see the harder she tried to stay in control. She squeezed her knees. “You’ll find out who did it to him? Get to the truth? That’s most important. Declan always said what’s true is all that matters.”

  He’d dig out all the facts he could. He never promised anyone the truth. He wasn’t going to start with this sad teenage girl.

  “What do you believe happened?”

  “He was murdered.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “It must be. I mean everything we’re hearing. They found him dumped on the street. Dressed like a homeless person. Someone did that to him.”

  “Something happened to Declan. That’s certain. How long had you two been dating?”

  “Dating? You think we go to sock hops?”

  “Eli? More like cotillions.”

  “We were with each other. It was simple.”

  “For how long?”

  “About four weeks.”

  “You were with Ronald Carlson before that?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did it end with Ronald?”

  “Five weeks ago.” She fiddled with the corner of the silver tissue box, seemed to catch her own reflection in it. Puffy eyes. Black streaks from running mascara. She shook her head and turned away.

  “So a week between the two?”

  “I got bored with Ronald. I became very interested in Declan.”

  “How did Ronald take it?”

  “You should definitely talk to him. And that bully van der Meer.”

  “Why?”

  “They attacked Declan last week. Beat him up badly. We were supposed to meet after lacrosse, and he showed up an hour late with a bloody nose and a bruised face. He claimed it was just a tough practice.”

  “How do you know it wasn’t?”

  “I heard from others. The three of them had a screaming argument. Coach broke it up. Declan was fine when he left the gym. Ronald and Martin followed him.”

  “If Ronald thought Declan convinced you to leave—”

  “I make my own choices.”

  “Do you think Ronald attacked Declan because of you?”

  “ ‘Because’ doesn’t matter. He did it. Him and van der Meer. I told you that.”

  “Did they kill him?” />
  At this question, her adult pose collapsed. She picked up a homemade rag doll on the shelf and held it. “I don’t know. Maybe. They’re stupid boys. I didn’t think Ronald was that angry.” She started crying again. “I’m sorry. I’m so tired of being sad. I know it’s only starting.”

  “Any idea where I can find Carlson and van der Meer after school today?”

  She looked at a clock on the shelf. “It’s TGIF. Once practice is done, try the Blarney Rock at 44th and Eighth Avenue. Say around five. That’s their happy hour.”

  “Not the place I’d expect.”

  “They think they’re slumming. And they don’t get proofed.”

  Chapter 13

  The sky was the inky blue of dusk turning into evening when Taylor reached the corner of 44th and Eighth. The temp was supposed to be higher than yesterday, but the AP weatherman got that wrong. He used a phone booth to try Laura at the paper; she was still out. Maybe she was working the leads they’d discussed. What if he’d screwed things up last night when he didn’t take her back to his trailer? That was just like him. Mess up a relationship before it even got started. He made another call to Harry Jansen’s pay phone number. No news on Mark Voichek. More frustration. His best lead was going cold. He considered putting a story about Voichek in the paper to see what flushed out. A tip maybe. Or Voichek himself. Laura could byline the piece. No, he didn’t want to give away the one advantage he had over everyone else. Not yet. Anyway, how would Worth react if Laura filed a story? He’d probably go after her for working with Taylor. He wouldn’t let that happen.

  The blue neon “B” flickered in the sign over the Blarney Rock. He entered, and murky darkness dropped over him like a blanket. Cigars and steam-tray food filled the air. He stood for a minute to let his eyes adjust. As they did, small pools of yellow light illuminated at his feet from low-watt bulbs recessed into the black ceiling. They led to the bar.

  The two schoolboys were there, both in khakis and button-downs, their school jackets slung over bar stools. They giggled as they waved around drinks of a washed-out cola color. Probably rum. Carlson and van der Meer both held cigarettes in that obvious way kids did when they wanted others to notice they were smoking.

  One stool away sat an old man in a battered blue suit. His head moved like it was on a swivel given too much lubrication. He snatched at a shot glass full of something clear, parked its edge carefully at his anemic lower lip, and slowly tipped the contents into his mouth. He set the glass down. Liquor ran down his chin. He didn’t bother to wipe.

  “Know what you’re tryin’ to do,” the old man slurred and lurched against the bar. “You’re trying to get me snockered. Thass not polite company.”

  The boys laughed louder. Van der Meer’s was a strange wheeze for a boy in such a big body, and Carlson’s was a cruel snicker.

  “Get our friend another.” Carlson waved at the bartender. “Whatever’s next down.”

  “Cancel that.” Taylor stepped to the bar. “They’re underage. Cokes, and I mean just Cokes for them.”

  The sleepy-looking bartender hesitated a moment, put two RC Colas in front of the boys, and picked up their half-finished drinks.

  “What are you ruining our fun for?” asked Carlson.

  “Fun, is it?”

  “Yeah.” The cruel laugh again. “The old man said he could drink anything. So we took him up on it. We’re going down the bar one bottle at a time. That was gin. Was that gin?”

  “Yeah, gin,” said van der Meer.

  “This a regular after-school activity for you two? Mixing with the masses and killing them with your kindness?”

  “Get away from us, man.” Van der Meer waved at the door. “We don’t have to talk to you. Not at all. Coach said so.”

  Cruelty, youth, and money were such an ugly combination. He didn’t like these boys. That wasn’t enough to put them in the story. Let go of the anger. Go for the facts.

  “I can talk to your parents instead. Ask them about your regular Friday evening party here at the Blarney Rock.”

  Carlson took a sip of soda. Van der Meer frowned and did the same. Was the bigger boy always the follower? He had more of the bluster. Carlson might be quiet, but maybe he was the one in charge.

  “Why are you bothering us?” van der Meer asked.

  “I want to know what happened between you two and Declan.”

  “Told you at school. Nothing.”

  “I know there was a fight. Declan came out on the short end of that stick.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Use your brains, kid. When there’s a girl in the middle, and people keep saying a lot of nothing, the wrong folks get the wrong idea. Cops and prosecutors. Reporters even. They all get interested. Tell me what happened.”

  Carlson bit his lower lip. “It’s not what you think.”

  “Tell me and I’ll let you know.”

  “We both were friends with Marcella. He never said a thing when we started going out. You know, that he wanted her. Then one week she’s with me, the next with him. I tried to talk to her. She gives me this whole women’s lib trip. Like nobody owns her.”

  “What did Declan say?”

  “He wouldn’t talk about it. Not one word. He had this way of ignoring people. He switched you off. ‘I don’t need to hear from you anymore.’ ” Carlson turned an invisible switch and gave a dismissive wave. “That’s how he did it.”

  “So you jumped him after practice?”

  “No! We went to get answers. Find out what was really going on. For the good of the team.”

  Van der Meer stepped away from the bar toward Taylor. “Yeah, definitely that. The prick wouldn’t talk to either of us. He was a cop’s boy. A nobody. Our families opened Eli.”

  The drunken old man slid off his stool to the floor with a muffled thump and didn’t move. The two boys looked at his prone figure and started laughing again.

  Taylor waved over the bartender. “Give me a hand.” They lifted the dead weight and started carrying him but were immediately in a tug-of-war. The bartender pulled toward the front door and Taylor toward a booth. “What are you doing?”

  “Taking him outside.”

  “You let these kids load him up and now you want to dump him on Eighth Avenue?”

  “He’d have drunk his way there on his own.”

  “The kids did it. You let them. He sleeps it off in a Blarney booth.”

  “I got a fucking job to do here, buddy. You fall down in the bar, you’re out the door. Nothing’s going to change that.”

  “You know what? Maybe you’re my story tomorrow. Feeding booze to two under-aged sons of very rich families. Letting them poison this guy. Was that your job today?”

  “Oh, c’mon, man. You’d have to go a long way to poison Charlie. This was like a lottery win for him.”

  “I like that quote.” Taylor gently lowered the old man’s legs, leaving the bartender holding Charlie by the armpits. He took out his notebook.

  “This … was … like … a … lottery … win … for … him.”

  “Shit.”

  No one had ever called Taylor on his bluff. No matter who the person was, no matter how small-time the thing they’d done. They were always sure they were the big story.

  They carried Charlie to a booth, and Taylor returned to the bar. “Tell me what really happened after practice.”

  “He took the first swing,” said Carlson.

  “It was the last he took too.” Van der Meer started hiccupping.

  “Shut your face, Martin. Like, don’t you get it? This is serious.” He turned back to Taylor. “We tried to talk to him. Tried explaining how things worked.”

  Taylor looked up from his notebook. “The respect that a nobody should show his betters?”

  “Nice way of putting it.” Van der Meer hiccupped again.

  “He wouldn’t say a thing,” said Carlson. “I started yelling at him. Out of nowhere he swings his lacrosse stick at my head.”


  “You hit him back?”

  They stayed quiet.

  “So he swung first and you beat him up?”

  “He tried to keep swinging,” said van der Meer. “We were just too fast.”

  “And there were two of you. Where were you on Monday?”

  “In school,” said Carlson. “There’s a building full of teachers and students to tell you that.”

  “After that?”

  “I was studying at Martin’s house.”

  “Yeah, he was with me.”

  “Your parents?”

  “Sure, they were there,” said van der Meer.

  “No,” said Carlson. “They were out until eleven.”

  “Oh right.”

  “So from the end of practice until eleven you’re his alibi? And he’s yours?”

  They both nodded.

  “Convenient.”

  “This is crazy.” Carlson picked up his jacket. “We didn’t do anything to Declan. Not after the fight.”

  “These boys have had their last evening here,” Taylor told the bartender, who was sulking in the corner. “I’m sure their fathers have very nice liquor cabinets they can pilfer.”

  Chapter 14

  Mrs. Wiggins worked at a file cabinet on the right side of the morgue. Taylor took the seat at the carrel.

  “Are you turning my morgue into your office?”

  “I’m sorry. I need to work somewhere. Till I’m fired, at least.”

  “Mind how you go.” She pulled her glasses off. “They don’t really care what I’m up to down here. I like it that way. Did you hear? Susan Hayward died.”

  “That’s Marmelli’s problem now. There’s nothing he likes better than picking through wire copy on dead celebs.”

  A sly smile. “Just thought you’d want to keep up.”

  “I’m dealing with the dead one at a time from now on. Whatever happens.”

  Taylor called Harry Jansen’s pay phone again and finally got a break, if a small one. Jansen believed Voichek would show at Joshua Harper’s memorial service the next day. Taylor would definitely attend. Laura walked into the room as he was hanging up. His face warmed.