The Eighth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  “I guess,” she said, sighing. “I’ve been a pain in the ass to them. Two different worlds—you know?”

  “You made the front page of the Post today,” I told her.

  “I did?” she said, brightening. “Hot shit! Have you got it with you?”

  “I have it at home,” I said. “I’ll save it for you if you can’t get a copy. You’re wearing a beaded headband and tin earrings.”

  “Oh, that old shot,” she said. “It was taken years ago at the Slipped Disco. I was stoned out of my skull.”

  “You look like it,” I said, and we both laughed.

  She reached for my hand again. “Listen, Dunk, when I get back to the land of the living, can we see each other again?”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  “Promise?”

  “Of course. I’m counting on it. If you promise me something first.”

  “What?”

  “If you ever get in the mood to try something like that again, will you call me first?”

  “Okay,” she said, “I will.”

  We linked our little fingers, shook, and both of us said, “Pinkie square!”

  I didn’t know what it was—maybe the sultry July day or maybe that childish business of “Pinkie square!”—but on the way home I had a sudden, irresistible urge to chaw on a frozen Milky Way. And I wasn’t even pregnant! Anyway, I stopped off to buy three of the candy bars. I put them in the freezer and waited patiently. I remembered they’ve got to be so hard you think you’ll break your teeth—but you never do. The joys of my youth!

  I was entering all the happenings of the morning into my notebook when I received my first phone call of the day. I thought it might be Al or Jack, alerting me to Natalie’s attempted suicide. But it was Enoch Wottle, calling from Arizona. I was delighted.

  “Enoch, dear,” I said, “I love to hear from you, but you’ve got to call collect. I don’t want you spending your money on my business.”

  “It’s nothing,” he said blithely. “I’m never going to outlive my bonds. Dunk, darling, how are you and what’s happening?”

  I gave him a précis of what had been going on, including my reinstatement at Grandby & Sons.

  “Good,” he said firmly. “They should be ashamed of themselves for putting you on leave of absence in the first place. Are you any closer to finding out who stole the Demaretion?”

  “Closer,” I said, “I think. But close doesn’t help. I’m still not sure who did it, Enoch.”

  “But you suspect?”

  “I suspect, but it’s so crazy I don’t even want to talk about it.”

  “All right,” he said equably, “then I’ll talk. I have something that might help. I checked with my friend in Rotterdam who, in turn, contacted that Beirut dealer. Dunk, from what everyone says—if they’re telling the truth—that Demaretion being offered for sale is absolutely authentic. Provenance will be supplied during serious negotiations. It sounds legitimate to me, Dunk. Not the source of the coin,” he added hastily. “Not how the seller got hold of it. But the dekadrachm itself—that’s not a fake. Does that help you?”

  “I think so,” I said slowly. “I’m not sure how it fits in, but everything helps. Thank you so much, Enoch. You’ve been a treasure.”

  “Now then,” he said briskly, “what’s next?”

  “What’s next? Enoch, you’ve done enough for me. Spending your own money on phone calls and cables. I can’t ask you to do anything more.”

  “Ask!” he urged. “Ask! Dunk, sweetheart, let me tell you something. My life is drawing to a close; I know it. But what am I supposed to do, just sit and wait? So what I do for you, I do for myself also. To keep busy, to be needed, wanted—that is something at my age.”

  My eyes teared. “All right, Enoch,” I said, “you certainly can help. Who else has your knowledge and experience? Tell me: Why would a collector—not a speculator but a true collector—sell off part of his coin collection?”

  He thought a moment. “Financial need,” he suggested. “That would probably be the first motive. Some investments go wrong, the stock market takes a nose dive, he needs ready cash. So he sells off some coins. That would be the first motive. Another would be that he wants to upgrade his collection. He sells off the lesser mintages, maybe some duplicates, so he can buy higher quality.”

  “But the true collector who sells and doesn’t buy, doesn’t add, that’s unusual, isn’t it, Enoch?”

  “I’d say so, unless he’s in a real money bind.”

  “Archibald Havistock has been selling for the past five years,” I told him. “About a hundred items, maybe more. I’d like to find out how much he got for them. Not for individual coins, but the total. How do I do that? Go to the Society?”

  “No,” he said immediately. “Privileged information. They wouldn’t know—and if they did, they’d never tell you. Do you know who he dealt with?”

  “No, I don’t. But he’s a wealthy man, Enoch. Very upright, very honest. He wouldn’t deal with shlockers.”

  “That means there are maybe a half-dozen people in Manhattan he’d go to. I know them all. You want me to check?”

  “Would you?”

  “I would and I will. This gives me something to do. I feel important.”

  “You are important, Enoch, and I love you.”

  “Why aren’t you fifty years older?” he said, groaning. “We could make such beautiful music together.”

  I laughed. “Enoch,” I said, “you’re a dirty old man.”

  “I was a dirty young man,” he said, “and I haven’t changed. Dunk, darling, as soon as I learn something, I’ll get back to you. It may take some time.”

  “I don’t care how long it takes,” I said, “but be sure and reverse the charges.”

  “All right already,” he said, “I’ll reverse. Thank you, Dunk.”

  After we hung up, I wiped my eyes. Sweet, sweet man. Thanking me. For what? I knew. I returned to my journal and continued entering all the latest intelligence I had garnered that day. Then I dashed to the refrigerator. The Milky Ways weren’t yet hard enough, but I chewed on one with pleasure, remembering hot summer days in Des Moines when I was all legs and a stomach that could never be filled.

  Would you believe I pigged down all three frozen Milky Ways that afternoon? I did, and I’m not ashamed of it. I should tell you that in spite of the Lean Cuisines I gobble, I’m blessed with a fantastic metabolism and can eat anything without putting on a pound. Sometimes I wish I could—in the right places.

  Maybe all that sugar gave me energy, or maybe what I had heard that morning made me think I was making progress; whatever it was, I was in a charged mood and had no desire to spend the evening all by my lonesome. So I called Al Georgio.

  And while I listened to his phone buzz, I wondered why I hadn’t called Jack Smack. Did my choice indicate a preference—or was it just a chancy act with no significance whatsoever. I didn’t know.

  I had to wait almost three minutes before they located him and got him to the phone. He came on breathless and laughing.

  “Hey there, Dunk,” he said. “I was going to call you in a half-hour, I swear. How’re you doing?”

  “Surviving,” I said. “How are you doing?”

  “Surviving,” he said. “I guess you heard about Natalie Havistock?”

  “I read it in the Post. I went over to the hospital this morning and saw her.”

  “You did? They wouldn’t let me in. She say anything about why she tried to off herself?”

  “She didn’t say and I didn’t ask. I was with her for only a few minutes, and it was just girl talk. Anything new on the Demaretion?”

  “Nah,” he said disgustedly. “A lot of little bits and pieces that don’t come together. The same goes for the Vanwinkle kill. The homicide guys are still checking out all the names in his little black book. I passed along your tip that he was AC-DC, and they’re working that angle. Nothing yet.”

  “Listen, Al,” I said, suddenly bold, “
I’d like to take you to dinner tonight.”

  “You would?” he said. “That’s the best offer I’ve had all year. What’s the occasion?”

  “I was put back on salary at Grandby’s, and I’m still working for the Havistocks, so I want to celebrate. How about it?”

  “Sounds great. But we’ll go Dutch. Got any idea where you want to eat?”

  “There’s a new Chinese restaurant in the neighborhood I’d like to try. Over on Amsterdam. The menu in the window looks good. It’s Szechwan. Too hot for you?”

  “You kidding? I put Tabasco on my corn flakes. What are you giggling about? The joke wasn’t that funny.”

  “The name of the restaurant…” I said. “It’s called Hung Lo.”

  “My kind of joint,” he said. “Pick you up about eight?”

  “Try to park if you can,” I said, “and we’ll walk over. It’s only two blocks away.”

  Hung Lo, although recently opened, looked like a million other Chinese restaurants in New York. But there were a lot of Orientals at the tables, which Al and I figured was a good sign. Also, the menu said you could have your food with or without monosodium glutamate, and you could designate mild, hot, or superhot.

  “Let’s go with hot,” I suggested. “If it’s not incendiary enough, we can always pepper it up. But if the superhot turns out to be too much, we’re stuck with it.”

  So that’s what we did, ordering eggrolls and barbecued ribs as small appetizers, wonton soup, and deciding to share our main dishes, shrimp with peanuts, shredded pork with garlic sauce, and servings of white and fried rice.

  “And beer instead of tea,” Al told the waiter. “Cold, cold beer. Okay, Dunk?”

  “Just right,” I said.

  Maybe I was hungry despite those Milky Ways. I know Al seemed to be famished. We went through all that food like a plague of locusts. I had a bottle of Heineken, and Al had two. Then we had pistachio ice cream and opened our fortune cookies. Mine read: “Your fondest wish will come true.” Al’s was: “The wise man wants for nothing.”

  “The story of my life,” he said. “That’s what I’m getting—nothing.”

  I excused myself, telling Al I wanted to find the ladies’ room. But I grabbed our waiter, paid the bill, and tipped him. Then I went back to our table.

  “All set?” Al said. “I’ll get the check.”

  “I took care of it,” I said.

  He looked at me, shaking his head. “You’re sneaky, you know that? I said we’d go Dutch.”

  “That’s what you said. I didn’t agree.”

  He laughed, took up my hand, kissed the palm. “You’re something, you are. The new woman.”

  “Not so new,” I told him. “A little worn around the edges.”

  “You’re worn?” he said. “I’m frayed.”

  We strolled slowly back to my place. He insisted on stopping off to buy a cold six-pack of Heineken. Which was all right with me. I could still feel the glow of the Szechwan cooking, and I was happy we hadn’t ordered the superhot. My eyebrows would be charred.

  We hadn’t said a word about the Demaretion or the murder or Orson Vanwinkle all evening. I think we both wanted a brief respite from all that. So we chatted lazily about new movies, whether roast duck was better with mandarin oranges or black cherries, and the problems Al was having with his cleaning woman. She kept stealing his Future floor wax.

  “I swear she’s drinking the stuff,” he said.

  When we got home, he asked if he could make himself comfortable, and I said sure, go ahead. He took off his jacket and eased out of his shoes. He was wearing a knitted sport shirt with no animal insignia, which gave him a plus in my book.

  No way was he ever going to be an elegant, dapper dude. He just didn’t have the body, and he just didn’t care. But there was something comforting in his lumpiness. Winston Churchill wasn’t Beau Brummell, and neither was Pope John XXIII. But both men made you feel good just to look at them, they were so solid. They knew life wasn’t to be taken lightly. The same with Al Georgio.

  “I got a Sunday coming up with my daughter,” he said. “I’d like you to join us. Will you?”

  “You sure it will be all right?”

  “No, I’m not sure,” he said. “But let’s try it.”

  “Okay.”

  “You like the beach?”

  “Love it, but I’ve got to be careful. I freckle, get red, and then I peel.”

  “So you cover up,” he said, shrugging. “Maybe we’ll go to Jacob Riis. The water should be warm enough by now. Do you swim, Dunk?”

  “Like a fish,” I told him. “An eel.”

  “You’re always putting yourself down. Does it bother you that you’re so tall and slender?”

  We were both working on cold beers, drinking out of the bottle. I took a deep gulp before I answered.

  “Thank you for saying slender instead of skinny. It doesn’t bother me, but I know it’s there. When I look in the mirror. The way people sometimes stare at me. Trying to buy clothes that fit. But I can handle it.”

  “I figure you can handle just about anything,” he said. “Fifteen years ago my waist size was thirty-two. Now it’s forty. I’ve tried everything: diet, working out. Nothing helps. So I’ve learned to live with it. I know I’m a slob.”

  “You’re not a slob,” I said indignantly. “Don’t say that. You’re just a very, uh, robust man.”

  “That’s me,” he said. “Robust.”

  He said it so wryly that we both laughed, and that made our physical shortcomings seem unimportant.

  “What about you, Dunk?” he said, staring at me. “What do you want? Marriage? The patter of tiny feet?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, looking down at my beer bottle. “I really don’t. I’m not sure I’m ready for all that yet. I want to do something first.”

  “Seems to me you’ve done a great deal.”

  “Not enough. Tonight my fortune cookie said my fondest wish will come true. Al, I don’t even know what my fondest wish is. I’m just floating.”

  “Nothing wrong with that. I’m the same way. Sooner or later things will point us in one direction or another. No use trying to force it.”

  “That’s the way I feel. Things will happen.”

  “They always have,” he said. Then, suddenly: “May I stay the night?”

  I knew that if I had said no, he’d have said, “All right.” But I said, “Sure. I paid for dinner, didn’t I?”

  He cracked up. When he finally got his guffaws under control, he said, “I love you, Dunk, I really do. You’re a lot of woman.”

  “You can handle it,” I told him.

  “I’m going to give it the old college try,” he said.

  He was ponderous in bed, almost solemn. It was obvious that sex was a serious thing to him. But it’s nice to be with a man who doesn’t think it’s just recreation. Al thought it was important, and every kiss was a commitment.

  Lord knows I wasn’t an artful or practiced lover. Very little experience. So what Al brought to our coupling was new—for me. He was so—so earnest. Not clever but sincere. I’m not sure I’m telling this right, but he gave me more comfort than pleasure. Just snuggling in his strong arms gave me a feeling of relief and contentment. As if I had come home.

  24

  I AWOKE THE NEXT morning and found Al had departed. He left a little note on my bedside table, a page torn from his pocket notebook: “Thank you for dinner—and everything. Especially everything. Al.” Sweet man.

  By the time I bathed (bumping my noggin on the shower head, as usual) and dressed, I realized I had an enormous appetite that a bagel and a cup of coffee would never appease. I mean I was ravenous. There was a down-home diner over on Columbus Avenue, a scuzzy place, that on a scale of 1 to 10 ranked 1 for cleanliness and ambience and 20 for their country breakfasts. I decided I was going to have grits and fried bologna—and if you haven’t tried it, don’t knock it.

  I went through my new drill of checking the vesti
bule and areaway before I went out. All clear. But when I got to the corner, there was Sam Jefferson, also known as Akbar El Raschid, leaning negligently against the mailbox. He flashed his white teeth at me.

  “Morning, sweet mama,” he said.

  Then, when he saw my reaction—I didn’t know whether to scream, run or both—he held up both hands, pink palms outward.

  “Hey,” he said, “look. No shiv, no gun, no brass knuckles. All I want is a few minutes of your valuable time.”

  “I already spent a few minutes,” I told him. “With two of your goons. The mustache and the gold tooth.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “I know. That was stupid, stupid, stupid, and I apologize. Okay?”

  “I don’t like getting hassled.”

  “You know anyone who does? How about it—friends again?”

  I considered a moment, then: “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Nettie,” he said. “My main woman.”

  “I’m on my way to breakfast,” I said. “Grits and fried bologna. You want to come along?”

  “Grits?” he said, his eyes glazing over. “Haven’t had them in five years. Oh, yeah, let’s go. The treat’s on me.”

  In the greasy diner, sitting in a back booth, he looked around and then inspected the tattered menu.

  “The cook has got to be a brother,” he said. “Who else is going to offer ham hocks for breakfast? Sweet mama, if the food’s as good as it sounds, I’m going to move right in. Let’s go for broke.”

  So we both had field hand breakfasts with the best hashbrowns I’ve ever tasted and chicory-laced coffee that made you sit up and take notice.

  “About Nettie,” he said, digging into his grits, “you hear what happened to her?”

  I nodded.

  “Silly, silly woman,” he said, groaning. “She had no call to do that.”

  “Apparently she thought she did. Your argument with her was about Orson Vanwinkle, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh, you know about that?” he said, not surprised. “So do the cops. They been around asking questions. Yeah, our little altercation was about that honky flake. You know, some flakes are crazy and funny. He was crazy and not so funny. A miserable shit if the truth be known.”