The Staked Goat

by Jeremiah Healy

  “I stayed at Martha’s as sentinel. Carol had to go home with Kenny.”

  Dale struck his forehead with a mock fist. “Ah, of course. The beauty of vodka is it doesn’t leave me with a hangover no matter how many brain cells it kills.” He looked back into the dining room. “Sundays are pretty casual around here. Join me for brunch?”

  I’m not too good at guessing whether truly courteous people are being sincere or just being courteous. I gambled on sincere. “Sounds terrific.”

  I won my gamble because he brightened considerably.

  “Dale, do I have time to brush my teeth?”

  “Sure thing,” he said. “And shower and shave too if you want.” He frowned. “I don’t mean you have to, I just mean …”

  “I’d rather shower and shave as long as it won’t wreck anything.”

  “Oh no, no, please do. Since I didn’t know when … I planned everything flexibly today.” He scratched the back of his neck, I thought to distract him, more than me, from his thoughts.

  “I’ll be down in twenty minutes.”

  “Perfect,” Dale said.

  As I trotted up the stairs, I thought, with the haughtiness of a true Boston liberal, that Larry was screwing up a pretty good man.

  Brunch was apple fritters, country sausage, fresh pineapple, and corn muffins. Neither of us had learned our lesson the night before, so we washed it down with fresh-squeezed orange juice laced with vodka. We had a pleasant talk, I assuring him that I would be flying out in the afternoon, he assuring me that I could stay as long as I cared to, me declining politely. I turned the conversation gently back to Martha and her progress, then toward Al’s house before asking him again.

  “Last night you said twenty-thousand dollars of renovation would satisfy the inspector.”

  “Twenty-thousand will do it.” Dale fixed me solidly. “But I can’t believe that Al left anywhere near that.”

  “Maybe he had some insurance.”

  “Through Straun?”

  I shook my head.

  Dale canted his head quizzically. “Through the Army?”

  “Maybe. In a manner of speaking.”

  Dale squinted at me. “What do you mean?”

  I rapped my knuckles lightly on the tabletop. “I’m not sure.”

  The sun kept a cold wind at the invigorating level. There were a number of couples out walking arm in arm, here and there two men or two women, not arm in arm. I hit the square in three blocks and turned into the drugstore.

  There were maybe ten or fifteen people shopping, dressed up from church, some with bakery or small grocery bags in their hands. Three or four kids squealed. Somebody’s mother told them to be quiet. I walked to the newspaper stands and hefted a thick Pittsburgh Press. I didn’t see any New York Times.

  I made my way to the counter. Two burly guys about my age in sweat outfits and workboots were thumbing through a Penthouse. They smelled pretty ripe, and I had a feeling they wouldn’t be buying it. They had their backs to me when I asked the older man behind the counter for a Times.

  “Sorry,” he said, “sold out.”

  “Maybe you’re saving one. I’m staying with the Sachses.”

  He smiled just as one of the guys said, “Sachs! That’s the fuckin’ faggot who got killed. Remember, you asked me and I couldn’t remember his name? Sachs, yeah.”

  The old man dropped his smile and grew sad and angry at the same time. The two still hadn’t turned around. “Hey! This ain’t no library. Buy somethin’ or get out.”

  It became quiet near the counter. Still without turning, Speaker gave the old man the finger while the other very deliberately dropped the Penthouse on the floor and picked up a Oui and began thumbing through it.

  I glanced at the other patrons. Most of the men were middle-aged or young and “professional” looking.

  I set my paper on the counter and cut off the old man’s next comment as I turned to face the backs of the two browsers.

  “Take it back,” I said, in a deeper than conversational tone.

  The second guy stiffened a little, but Speaker turned around easily, smiling meanly.

  “Ya’ say somethin’?”

  “Yes. I said, ‘take it back.’ ”

  The stiffer one spoke. “Take what back?”

  “What your buddy just said about my friend.”

  “Your friend?” said the relaxed one, stiffening a little now himself. “Whaddaya mean, your—”

  “Sachs. Al Sachs. We went through Vietnam together. I just buried him, and you just insulted him. Now, take it back.”

  There was a little buzz behind me. The counterman started to say something, but stopped when I held up my hand.

  “I ain’t takin’ nothin’ back,” said the formerly relaxed one. His partner stole a quick look at the entrance to the store.

  I looked at the partner. “Long ways away, that door.” I looked back at the speaker. “Now, take it back.”

  “Fuck you,” he said, growing less relaxed by the minute. “My brother-in-law’s a cop.”

  “Take it back, or you’ll wish he was a plastic surgeon.”

  Speaker wet his lips with his tongue. He searched around for support from behind me. I was pretty sure he wouldn’t find any, and his eyes told me he hadn’t.

  “I ain’t takin’ nothin’ back.”

  “This is like the schoolyard, boyo. You said something I didn’t like. All you have to do is take it back. But you have to do that.”

  “You can’t hold us here,” said partner, eyeing the door again. “That’s like kidnappin’ or somethin’.”

  “In a minute,” I said, “it’s gonna be like ‘atrocious assault and battery’ or somethin’.” I could feel my blood rising for the fight, and I suspect that showed in my voice. “Now, take it back.”

  Speaker wet his lips again. He glanced around the crowd futilely a final time. He dropped his eyes and mumbled something.

  “Louder,” I said.

  “I take it back! I take it back! Awright, awright, ya satisfied now?”

  “Yeah,” I exhaled. “I’m satisfied.”

  Speaker flew by his partner who dropped the Oui and followed him outside. A few people talked quietly but nobody laughed. I bent over and replaced their magazines on the rack. I took the shaking Times the man extended to me. I dropped four dollars on the counter, scooped up my Pittsburgh paper, too, and left.

  As I walked back to Dale Palmer’s, my spirit was down again. I tried to persuade myself that my macho show was a reaction to the derogatory word Speaker had used. Rather than a reaction, you see, to the underlying implication. And the resulting association that I still found insulting and threatening. Yeah, sure.

  Dale and I polished off the remaining screwdrivers while exchanging sections of the Times. He tried to camouflage his glances toward the clock, but as they became more frequent, I had the impression that my presence was increasing rather than lightening his embarrassment over Larry’s continuing absence. I asked if I could use his phone, and he directed me to the one in the upstairs hall. I asked him if he had heard from a J. T. Kivens. He said no, but, with being out, literally and figuratively …

  I went upstairs. I started with the airlines. USAir had a flight to D.C. that night and two the next morning, but both the Monday a.m. flights were full. I chose the 7:30 p.m. flight, which gave me five hours ’til I had to check in. I remembered Marriott had a hotel at the Key Bridge, and I used their 800 number to book a room for that night and Monday.

  I had directory assistance scour the listings for D.C. and every surrounding suburb I could think of, but no “Kivens.” J.T. might be unlisted, or he might live farther out from the District. I called the Pentagon direct dial number for J.T. No answer. I tried the Pentagon main number. The duty officer who answered was about as helpful as a 1963 calendar. He would not confirm that a Colonel Kivens was still at the Pentagon and certainly could not divulge any “data” about anyone’s home address or telephone. He suggested that I try
again on Monday morning.

  Next I used the operator to call the Coopers. The voice at the other end was familiar, but chilling. “I’m sorry, but the number you have dialed is not in service. Please—”

  It was their new, unlisted number, but it had rung all right on Friday.

  I hung up immediately and called Nancy Meagher’s home number. No answer.

  I hung up and tried District C, the police division in Dorchester. “Boston Police Emergency—Sergeant Jenkins—you are being tape-recorded. Go ahead, please.”

  “My name is John Cuddy. I’m a private detective in Boston, but I’m calling from Pittsburgh. A couple who helped me catch a guy were threatened by his brother, and I get a number-not-in-service when I try to reach them. Can you send a car to check it?”

  An exasperated grunt. “Look, buddy, this is an emergency line and—”

  “The guy who threatened them is the brother of the torch who tied up and left an old watchman to die in a warehouse last—”

  “Oh, shit, I’m sorry. Damn, that’ll be on the tape. I’ll have it checked. What’s their name and address?”

  “Cooper. Jesse and Emily. Two-thirty Beech Street.”

  “Cooper. What was that address again?”

  I repeated it for him.

  “Got it. I’ll—hey, wait a minute. Hold on.”

  I could hear some clattering, more like clipboards than computer keys.

  “Mr., ah, Curry, was it?” He sounded subdued.

  “Cuddy. My name is Cuddy. Their name is Cooper.”

  His tone grew quieter. “Mr. Cuddy. I’m sorry. Here’s Detective Mooney.”

  “Mr. Cuddy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Detective Dan Mooney. I’m afraid you’re too late. Somebody blew up the Coopers’ place. Call came in at two-oh-four a.m. I just got back. The place cooled down enough to go in. They were in a back room. In bed together. Both burned to death. Are you a relative?”

  “No,” somebody said.

  “Can you tell us who might have—”

  “Do you know Nancy Meagher?” the somebody continued.

  “Assistant DA?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yes, I know her.”

  “Talk to her. The killer’s name is Marco. Marco D’Amico. His parents live on Hanover Street.”

  “In the North End?”

  “Yeah,” replied the somebody.

  “Mr. Cuddy, can you tell us—”

  The somebody on my end hung up the telephone.

  Thirteen

  I WALKED INTO THE guest bedroom and swung my suitcase up on the comforter. I could fly on to Washington or back to Boston. I snapped the latches and opened it up. If I flew on to Washington, I could probably see J.T. sooner about Al. I twisted the bars that held the suit compartment closed and bent back the barrier. If I headed back to Boston, I could probably see Marco sooner about Jesse and Emily.

  I packed very slowly, very deliberately. I could call J.T. as easily from Boston as Washington. One sock. On the other hand, Marco by then could be in custody. One pair of briefs. Of course, he might make bail. A tie. No, his brother hadn’t, and it was Sunday. A crumpled shirt, the funeral-day one. Of course, it would all depend on the judge at the bail hearing, and how high he or she set …

  Shit, I wanted somebody to beat, to really cream. I wanted Marco, or the guys in the drugstore, or—best of all—the shadow who killed Al.

  I slumped down on the bed, then slid off and down onto my knees. I leaned over, so the top edge of the mattress pressed deeply and firmly against my tense solar plexus. Then I buried my face in my hands and prayed.

  After fifteen minutes or so, I surfaced. It was stupid to go back to Boston tonight. I couldn’t find Marco at my leisure last week, with his family at least approachable. I’d never find him on a Sunday night with the D’Amicos and their neighbors buttoning up the fortress. Planning Jesse and Emily’s funeral would be simple enough, since neither had any family. All I had to do was call George, the friend who had helped me with the arrangements for Al. If I could reach Nancy by telephone, she could put things on hold ’til Tuesday night, by which time I’d be back in Boston. I was also pretty sure that whatever J.T. could give me would lead back to Boston.

  So, Washington it was.

  I finished packing and went downstairs. Dale was scraping one-third of brunch for three into the garbage. He renewed his insistence on driving me to the airport. We confirmed six o’clock.

  I left the house to cross the street. I debated between Carol’s house and Martha’s. The biting February wind encouraged me to make up my mind quickly. I chose Carol’s.

  She answered on the second ring and gave me a throw-your-head-back laugh. “John, you look blue. Come in, come in.”

  I moved past her into the hall. What I could see of her house was similar in floor plan to Martha’s, and somewhere between Martha’s and Dale’s in decor.

  She took my hand and tugged me into the living room. “Your hand’s like ice, Detective,” she said, leading us to her couch. “You’ve got to learn to wear a coat in Pittsburgh.”

  I didn’t bother to correct her this time. We sat down. She had on a mesh sweater and the same jeans. She didn’t seem to be wearing anything under the sweater. Again. Women seemed to be doing that a lot lately.

  “What can I get you? Ask for what you want. If I don’t have it, I won’t be embarrassed.”

  “Vodka. Maybe orange juice.”

  “Comin’ up.” She squeezed my hand and went to the kitchen.

  I looked around the room. Two chairs, the couch, a coffee table. Dark brown rug and fireplace. Picture frames standing on the mantel and some of the shelves. Photographs of Carol, of Kenny, of Carol and Kenny together. One or two of Martha and Al, Dale and Larry. Homey. But none of any other man. Like a man for Carol.

  Not so homey.

  She came back into the room juggling a tray with a bottle of Gordon’s vodka, a plastic decanter through which orange juice showed, and two glasses with ice.

  “For a waitress, you don’t look too steady.”

  “Thanks,” she said sarcastically, “but I’m used to six-ounce glasses, not thirty-two-ounce bottles.”

  “They’re metric now.”

  “Huh?”

  “Metric. The booze bottles. It’s not a quart anymore, or a fifth. Now it’s point-seven-five or one liter.”

  “Oh,” she said, examining the bottle as if it were a recently discovered artifact. “You’re right. I never noticed before. Huh.” She smiled. “So, how many whatevers do you want with your juice?”

  “One finger would be fine.”

  She smiled. “Glad to see some things don’t change.” She fixed my drink and stirred it with a spoon on the tray, then repeated for herself.

  She handed me my glass. “Cheers,” she said, clinking.

  “Cheers,” I said and sipped. She wasn’t breaking eye contact.

  “So,” she said, running her index finger around the rim of her glass. “Did you sleep well last night?”

  Smiling, eyes glittering naughtily.

  I took another sip. “Fine,” I said. “Carol, look, I’m sorry to change gears on you, but I just got some bad news. Some people I know, a couple who helped me in Boston, are dead. They were—” I stopped. Carol had dropped her smile, and I realized I was just taking a coward’s way out, using Jesse and Emily as my way.

  “John,” she said putting down her drink, “I’m so sorry. I … can I do anything?”

  I shook my head. “No, the police are on it, and there’s—”

  “The police?” she said. “You mean they were … killed?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Oh, God.” Carol twisted her hands in her lap. “God, this doesn’t have anything to do with … with Al’s …”

  “Oh, no,” I said, and just stopped a smile of relief in time. “No, they were helping me on an arson case and, well, I won’t be sure ’til I get back there, but I’m betting the brother of the
guy—” I stopped again and frowned.

  “What’s the matter, John?”

  I took a long swallow from my drink and set it down. “Carol, I’m kind of a jerk. My wife died and, whenever I’m with someone who, well—I—I tend to …”

  She was looking at me a little strangely. “You tend to what?”

  I sighed. “I tend to fend her off because I’m still not ready. I start to use some story or whatever to deflect—”

  Carol put her index and middle finger on my lips, but made no move to kiss.

  “You’re a nice man, John. And while I took the … uh, the hugging and crying to be more than …” She put her hand back to her lap. “Look, I got divorced, you know, almost four years ago. For eight years I’d been straight as an arrow with Charley—that was my husband’s name. He was a halfback in high school who slid into a slob working at Big Dorothy. That’s a steel furnace over to Duquesne. I didn’t work. He wouldn’t let me. Pride, you know. Well, steel went bad, and he had no seniority, and he got laid off. I mean, no-hope time. So I went to work as a cocktail waitress, in one of those places where the tips are big because the costumes are small? And I was still straight with Charley. I had plenty of offers, even some that I would have liked but I stayed straight and—”

  “Carol, I didn’t mean—”

  “Now be quiet, and let me finish. You didn’t know what you wanted to say, and I know what I want to say, O.K.?”

  “O.K.,” I said.

  “O.K. Anyways, I had the offers, and I turned them down. For Kenny’s sake as much as Charley’s or mine. Well, one day I was sick as a dog, I went to work anyways and, well, Charley because of the pride and the lay-off and all, wasn’t functioning too good. At least, that’s what I thought. So I leave work sick and come home early, and the bastard, the unbelievable bastard, is in our bed, with some bimbo he’d picked up in his bar, where him and his laid-off buddies went. Can you imagine? I’ll spare you the rest of the scene, but I got a lawyer, and filed for divorce and Charley got nothing, and basically instead of Charley and me sharing the equity in the house, the lawyer and me—he was a customer at the club—the lawyer and me sold the house and “shared” it. Oh, I was really mad at Charley, and this lawyer was real smooth, tall, distinguished, and it wasn’t until maybe six months later that I realized the lawyer was taking me worse than Charley had. So I broke off with him and got this place and worked three jobs to persuade this banker—who was also a customer at the club, but not a, well, you know, not like the lawyer—so I got the house and worked myself into the ground to pay for it, while Martha or Dale or Ruthie babysat Kenny. The point—”