“The way to get away with it,” he said, “would be to make it look as though it wasn’t about him.”
“Wasn’t about him? Who are we talking about?”
“Fred,” Nicholson said. “Who else?”
“If a man gets killed,” Hedrick said, “it has to be about him. Doesn’t it?”
“Not if it’s about something else.”
“Like what?”
“Like golf,” Nicholson said. “If he were killed with a golf club, like we said, and if his body was found on a golf course . . .”
“I’m not sure I see what difference that makes,” Hedrick said, and then his jaw dropped and his eyes widened. “Jesus,” he said, “it was in the papers last week, wasn’t it? A fellow found in the deep rough at Burning Hills. The twelfth hole, wasn’t it?”
“I believe it was the fourteenth.”
“That’s the one with the water hazard, isn’t it? I didn’t pay much attention to the story, but he was killed with a golf club, wasn’t he?”
“Is that what happened?”
“My God,” Hedrick said, “you actually did it. And got away with it, from the sound of it. But why would you tell me about it now?” He frowned, then shook his head and took a step back, grinning. “Jesus, what a setup,” he said admiringly. “You had me going there for a moment, didn’t you?”
“Did I?”
“The poor guy at Burning Hills was a college kid, wasn’t he? A little too young to be your best friend and your wife’s lover, I’d have to say. You set up that whole story to get me going, and I have to give you credit.” He laughed. “ ‘Hit the ball, drag Fred.’ The college boy, I don’t suppose his name was Fred, was it?”
“He was somebody else,” Nicholson said.
“Well, I guess he was, wasn’t he? Hell of a thing, dying at that age. They haven’t found out who killed him or why, have they?”
“No.”
“Hard to make sense of, isn’t it? Why kill a college kid on a golf course?”
Nicholson addressed his ball, breathed in and out, in and out. He swung the seven iron and got just the right amount of loft. The ball floated all the way to the back edge of the green, backed up, and trolled to within inches of the cup.
“Beautiful,” Hedrick said.
“Thanks,” Nicholson said. “And to answer your question, I’d guess the boy was killed to establish a pattern.”
“A pattern? What kind of a pattern?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Nicholson said. “Look, you know something about clubs. Take a look at this.”
He drew the Big Brenda out of his bag. Hedrick’s face showed first puzzlement, then concern. He started to say something, but Nicholson didn’t wait to find out what it was. Instead he seized the club’s silver-colored head in one hand and the shaft in the other and twisted. The club head came off in his hand, revealing the end of the shaft, honed to razor sharpness. “Just look at this,” he said, and lobbed the club head underhand at Hedrick.
Hedrick reached for it with both hands. And Nicholson lunged at him, wielding the club shaft like a rapier. The sharpened end of the shaft sank into the man’s chest. Hedrick’s mouth opened, forming a perfect circle, but he was dead before he could utter a sound.
“Hit the ball, drag Fred,” Nicholson said, to no one in particular, and took hold of the dead man by his hands and dragged him across the turf to a convenient sand trap. He went back for Hedrick’s clubs and stretched them out alongside the corpse. With a cloth from his golf bag he wiped the shaft and head of the Big Brenda, and anything else he’d touched that might hold a print. He took one of Hedrick’s golf balls and stuck it in the dead man’s mouth, took four of his tees—two white, two yellow—and used them as plugs in the man’s nostrils and ear holes. He’d found this part of the process a little distasteful at Burning Hills, but discovered it was less objectionable now. Evidently a person got used to it.
He retrieved his own clubs—minus the Big Brenda, of course—and went to the green. He left Hedrick’s ball where it lay, thinking it was a shame the man hadn’t had a chance to try chipping for his eagle. But he wouldn’t have made it anyway, and, when all was said and done, what earthly difference did it make?
His own ball lay less than a foot from the cup, close enough to concede under ordinary circumstances, but in this case it was for a birdie, and you couldn’t make a habit of conceding birdie putts to yourself, could you? He drew the flagstick, got his putter, knocked the ball in, retrieved it, replaced the stick. There was still no one in sight, and this way he felt a good deal more sanguine about entering a four for the hole on his scorecard.
No mulligans taken, no birdie putts conceded. If you were going to play the game, you might as well play it right.
He walked briskly to the next tee. One or two more, he thought, over the course of one or two more weeks, and the pattern would be sufficiently established.
Then it would be Fred’s turn.
How Far It Could Go
She picked him out right away, the minute she walked into the restaurant. It was no great trick. There were only two men seated alone, and one was an elderly gentleman who already had a plate of food in front of him.
The other was thirty-five or forty, with a full head of dark hair and a strong jawline. He might have been an actor, she thought. An actor you’d cast as a thug. He was reading a book, though, which didn’t entirely fit the picture.
Maybe it wasn’t him, she thought. Maybe the weather had delayed him.
She checked her coat, then told the headwaiter she was meeting a Mr. Cutler. “Right this way,” he said, and for an instant she fancied that he was going to show her to the elderly gentleman’s table, but of course he led her over to the other man, who closed his book at her approach and got to his feet.
“Billy Cutler,” he said. “And you’re Dorothy Morgan. And you could probably use a drink. What would you like?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “What are you having?”
“Well,” he said, touching his stemmed glass, “night like this, minute I sat down I ordered a martini, straight up and dry as a bone. And I’m about ready for another.”
“Martinis are in, aren’t they?”
“Far as I’m concerned, they were never out.”
“I’ll have one,” she said.
While they waited for the drinks they talked about the weather. “It’s treacherous out there,” he said. “The main roads, the Jersey Turnpike and the Garden State, they get these chain collisions where fifty or a hundred cars slam into each other. Used to be a lawyer’s dream before no-fault came in. I hope you didn’t drive.”
“No, I took the PATH train,” she said, “and then a cab.”
“Much better off.”
“Well, I’ve been to Hoboken before,” she said. “In fact we looked at houses here about a year and a half ago.”
“You bought anything then, you’d be way ahead now,” he said. “Prices are through the roof.”
“We decided to stay in Manhattan.” And then we decided to go our separate ways, she thought but didn’t say. And thank God we didn’t buy a house, or he’d be trying to steal it from me.
“I drove,” he said, “and the fog’s terrible, no question, but I took my time and I didn’t have any trouble. Matter of fact, I couldn’t remember if we said seven or seven-thirty, so I made sure I was here by seven.”
“Then I kept you waiting,” she said. “I wrote down seven-thirty, but—”
“I figured it was probably seven-thirty,” he said. “I also figured I’d rather do the waiting myself than keep you waiting. Anyway—” he tapped the book “—I had a book to read, and I ordered a drink, and what more does a man need? Ah, here’s Joe with our drinks.”
Her martini, straight up and bone dry, was crisp and cold and just what she needed. She took a sip and said as much.
“Well, there’s nothing like a martini,” he said, “and they make a good one here. Matter of fact, it’s a good restaurant
altogether. They serve a good steak, a strip sirloin.”
“Also coming back in style,” she said. “Along with the martini.”
He looked at her. He said, “So? You want to be right up with the latest trends? Should I order us a couple of steaks?”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” she said. “I really shouldn’t stay that long.”
“Whatever you say.”
“I just thought we’d have a drink and—”
“And handle what we have to handle.”
“That’s right.”
“Sure,” he said. “That’ll be fine.”
Except it was hard to find a way into the topic that had brought her to Hoboken, to this restaurant, to this man’s table. They both knew why she was here, but that didn’t relieve her of the need to broach the subject. Looking for a way in, she went back to the weather, the fog. Even if the weather had been good, she told him, she would have come by train and taxi. Because she didn’t have a car.
He said, “No car? Didn’t Tommy say you had a weekend place up near him? You can’t go back and forth on the bus.”
“It’s his car,” she said.
“His car. Oh, the fella’s.”
“Howard Bellamy’s,” she said. Why not say his name? “His car, his weekend place in the country. His loft on Greene Street, as far as that goes.”
He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “But you’re not still living there,” he said.
“No, of course not. And I don’t have any of my stuff at the house in the country. And I gave back my set of car keys. All my keys, the car and both houses. I kept my old apartment on West Tenth Street all this time. I didn’t even sublet it because I figured I might need it in a hurry. And I was right, wasn’t I?”
“What’s your beef with him exactly, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“My beef,” she said. “I never had one, far as I was concerned. We lived together three years, and the first two weren’t too bad. Trust me, it was never Romeo and Juliet, but it was all right. And then the third year was bad, and it was time to bail out.”
She reached for her drink and found the glass empty. Odd—she didn’t remember finishing it. She looked across the table at him and he was waiting patiently, nothing showing in his dark eyes.
After a moment she said, “He says I owe him ten thousand dollars.”
“Ten large.”
“He says.”
“Do you?”
She shook her head. “But he’s got a piece of paper,” she said. “A note I signed.”
“For ten thousand dollars.”
“Right.”
“Like he loaned you the money.”
“Right.” She toyed with her empty glass. “But he didn’t. Oh, he’s got the paper I signed, and he’s got a canceled check made out to me and deposited to my account. But it wasn’t a loan. He gave me the money and I used it to pay for a cruise the two of us took.”
“Where? The Caribbean?”
“The Far East. We flew into Singapore and cruised down to Bali.”
“That sounds pretty exotic.”
“I guess it was,” she said. “This was while things were still good between us, or as good as they ever were.”
“This paper you signed,” he prompted.
“Something with taxes. So he could write it off, don’t ask me how. Look, all the time we lived together I paid my own way. We split expenses right down the middle. The cruise was something else, it was on him. If he wanted me to sign a piece of paper so the government would pick up part of the tab—”
“Why not?”
“Exactly. And now he says it’s a debt, and I should pay it, and I got a letter from his lawyer. Can you believe it? A letter from a lawyer?”
“He’s not going to sue you.”
“Who knows? That’s what the lawyer letter says he’s going to do.”
He frowned. “He goes into court and you start testifying about a tax dodge—”
“But how can I, if I was a party to it?”
“Still, the idea of him suing you after you were living with him. Usually it’s the other way around, isn’t it? They got a word for it.”
“Palimony.”
“That’s it, palimony. You’re not trying for any, are you?”
“Are you kidding? I said I paid my own way.”
“That’s right, you said that.”
“I paid my own way before I met him, the son of a bitch, and I paid my own way while I was with him, and I’ll go on paying my own way now that I’m rid of him. The last time I took money from a man was when my Uncle Ralph lent me bus fare to New York when I was eighteen years old. He didn’t call it a loan, and he sure as hell didn’t give me a piece of paper to sign, but I paid him back all the same. I saved up the money and sent him a money order. I didn’t even have a bank account. I got a money order at the post office and sent it to him.”
“That’s when you came here? When you were eighteen?”
“Fresh out of high school,” she said. “And I’ve been on my own ever since, and paying my own way. I would have paid my own way to Singapore, as far as that goes, but that wasn’t the deal. It was supposed to be a present. And he wants me to pay my way and his way, he wants the whole ten thousand plus interest, and—”
“He’s looking to charge you interest?”
“Well, the note I signed. Ten thousand dollars plus interest at the rate of eight percent per annum.”
“Interest,” he said.
“He’s pissed off,” she said, “that I wanted to end the relationship. That’s what this is about.”
“I figured.”
“And what I figured,” she said, “is if a couple of the right sort of people had a talk with him, maybe he would change his mind.”
“And that’s what brings you here.”
She nodded, toying with her empty glass. He pointed to the glass, raised his eyebrows questioningly. She nodded again, and he raised a hand, and caught the waiter’s eye, and signaled for another round.
They were silent until the drinks came. Then he said, “A couple of boys could talk to him.”
“That would be great. What would it cost me?”
“Five hundred dollars would do it.”
“Well, that sounds good to me.”
“The thing is, when you say talk, it’ll have to be more than talk. You want to make an impression, situation like this, the implication is either he goes along with it or something physical is going to happen. Now, if you want to give that impression, you have to get physical at the beginning.”
“So he knows you mean it?”
“So he’s scared,” he said. “Because otherwise what he gets is angry. Not right away, two tough-looking guys push him against a wall and tell him what he’s gotta do. That makes him a little scared right away, but then they don’t get physical and he goes home, and he starts to think about it, and he gets angry.”
“I can see how that might happen.”
“But if he gets knocked around a little the first time, enough so he’s gonna feel it for the next four, five days, he’s too scared to get angry. That’s what you want.”
“Okay.”
He sipped his drink, looked at her over the brim. His eyes were appraising her, assessing her. “There’s things I need to know about the guy.”
“Like?”
“Like what kind of shape is he in?”
“He could stand to lose twenty pounds, but other than that he’s okay.”
“No heart condition, nothing like that?”
“No.”
“He work out?”
“He belongs to a gym,” she said, “and he went four times a week for the first month after he joined, and now if he goes twice a month it’s a lot.”
“Like everybody,” he said. “That’s how the gyms stay in business. If all their paid-up members showed up, you couldn’t get in the door.”
“You work out,” she said.
“Well, yeah,” he said. “Weig
hts, mostly, a few times a week. I got in the habit. I won’t tell you where I got in the habit.”
“And I won’t ask,” she said, “but I could probably guess.”
“You probably could,” he said, grinning. He looked like a little boy for an instant, and then the grin faded and he was back to business.
“Martial arts,” he said. “He ever get into any of that?”
“No.”
“You’re sure? Not lately, but maybe before the two of you started keeping company?”
“He never said anything,” she said, “and he would. It’s the kind of thing he’d brag about.”
“Does he carry?”
“Carry?”
“A gun.”
“God, no.”
“You know this for a fact?”
“He doesn’t even own a gun.”
“Same question. Do you know this for a fact?”
She considered it. “Well, how would you know something like that for a fact? I mean, you could know for a fact that a person did own a gun, but how would you know that he didn’t? I can say this much—I lived with him for three years and there was never anything I saw or heard that gave me the slightest reason to think he might own a gun. Until you asked the question just now it never entered my mind, and my guess is it never entered his mind, either.”
“You’d be surprised how many people own guns,” he said.
“I probably would.”
“Sometimes it feels like half the country walks around strapped. There’s more carrying than there are carry permits. A guy doesn’t have a permit, he’s likely to keep it to himself that he’s carrying, or that he even owns a gun in the first place.”
“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t own a gun, let alone carry one.”
“And you’re probably right,” he said, “but the thing is you never know. What you got to prepare for is he might have a gun, and he might be carrying it.”
She nodded, uncertain.
“Here’s what I’ve got to ask you,” he said. “What you got to ask yourself, and come up with an answer. How far are you prepared for this to go?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
Enough Rope Page 119
