A Man's Game

by Newton Thornburg

  “At least not there.”

  “And not at the strip club either. She didn’t remember you, right?”

  “So I gathered.”

  Steiner made his sour face again. “So they got zilch, my friend. They got nothin. And we don’t want to give them nothin. So you don’t play footsie with Sergeant Lucca anymore. He picks you up or calls you in, you don’t say word one. You call me and I talk to him, understood?”

  “Understood.”

  “Good. Meanwhile I’ll wander over there later and see what they think they got. If it’s no more than you say, then you’re home free. They ain’t got a prayer.”

  Leaving Steiner’s office, Baird wanted to feel as optimistic as the little lawyer apparently did. But of course he knew things that Steiner did not. He would have thought that the worst of these was that he knew he was guilty. But that barely crossed his mind. What worried him most was the chance that someone else at the Oolala would remember him—and identify him—as being with Slade on the night of the killing. And he knew that even Steiner would not consider that to be zilch.

  Things at home seemed to be improving. Kathy at least appeared to be in better spirits, again sitting close to her father in the evenings as they watched television with Ellen, who knitted steadily, saying almost nothing. Neither woman pressed him about the case, either because they were totally convinced he was innocent or because they were afraid that certain questions might elicit answers they did not want to hear.

  After the interrogation, Baird had expected something to appear in the newspapers about the case, at least that the police had brought in a suspect for questioning. But there was nothing, and he imagined the reason for this was that Lucca at the time was running his own private investigation. The sheriff’s police, who had jurisdiction, probably hadn’t even been told about Baird, and wouldn’t be, not until Lucca had the case all wrapped in a neat little bundle so he could take it over to the county building and drop it in their laps, show them and the media how the pros got things done. Whatever the reason, Baird was grateful not to be reading about himself in the papers.

  At work he kept silent about the whole affair, knowing that old man Norsten was a stickler for appearances. When one of the other salesmen got a divorce, Norsten insisted that he keep his disgrace as secret as possible, certainly not let his customers know what a miserable failure he was. So Baird felt safe in assuming that the old man would not have enjoyed keeping a murder suspect on the payroll.

  More and more, though, Baird felt a need to talk to someone about the case, especially about his own depressing predicament. Leo seemed a logical choice: a close friend with sufficient self-confidence that he wouldn’t feel the need to make points with his patrons by spilling secrets. So one slow afternoon, when Leo asked him what had turned him into a doubles drinker, Baird told him the whole story, omitting only the end of it, the fact that he was guilty. He even told Leo about his second night at the Oolala, something he had not shared even with his lawyer. And he confessed that his marriage was on the rocks and that he’d had an affair with one of the detectives on the case, the sexy young woman who had come into the bar to see him on a couple of occasions.

  “In short, Leo,” he told him, “I feel like I jumped off the Space Needle some time ago and haven’t quite reached the ground.”

  Shaking his head in amazement, Leo made and served him a triple vodka with a dash of tonic. “On the house, man,” he said. “Jesus Christ, this is unbelievable.”

  “Ain’t it, though?”

  “But the marriage thing, and the black chick—I did know about that.”

  “What do you mean, you knew about that? I didn’t tell anybody about that.”

  “Sally told me.”

  Baird laughed wearily. “Sally—Jesus. She ought to work for the Inquirer.”

  “You got a point.”

  “But don’t tell her about this, okay? This is just between us.”

  “Right.”

  Yeah, right, Baird thought a few days later, when everybody in the bar began to treat him like a wounded war hero. Serving him, Sally reached out and fervently squeezed his hand.

  “It’s going to be all right, Jack,” she said. “You’re going to make it, honey, you hear? And if you need an alibi—any day, any hour—just say the word. You got it.”

  Forcing a smile, Baird thanked her. He also threw Leo a look that the big man pretended not to see. And he noticed in the days that followed that it was almost impossible for him to pay for a drink. If one of the regulars didn’t pick it up, Leo would say it was on the house. Whenever Baird spoke, the others hushed. And when he said something funny, they howled. When Wyatt Earp or Ralston climbed down from their stools and headed for the men’s room, which was exceedingly often, they seemed unable to pass Baird without a laying on of hands, a back pat or friendly shoulder poke, as if to assure him that all was well, they were in his corner.

  Though he was touched by all this concern and loyalty, he also was made uncomfortable by it. He did not like being made a star, especially for such a dubious achievement. And he couldn’t help worrying about what was said in his absence. He could almost hear Leo and Wyatt and Ralston, all the earnest arguments about whether or not he had actually done the deed. Worst of all, he could imagine the numerous non-regulars listening in, fascinated, eager to spread the news to the guys at work or in the bar down the street.

  On a Friday night, ten days after Lucca’s interrogation, Baird was sitting out on his deck in a winter jacket, smoking cigarettes and nursing a brandy while he gazed out at the lake and the lights of the city. It was a view he knew he would greatly miss if he ever had to move elsewhere, such as prison. After a day spent dealing with small hassles and large worries, he found that the view often brought things into a more tolerable perspective. It made him feel not quite so overwhelmed. And that was a good thing, especially on this night, when Ellen came out and joined him, bundled in a hooded ski jacket. The temperature was hovering around fifty degrees, too cold to sit in any real comfort. So Baird figured that his wife’s visit would be brief and casual. But he was wrong.

  “It’s chilly out here,” she said, slipping into the chaise next to his.

  “Want some brandy?”

  “No thank you.” She said nothing more for a short time, then hit him with it. “Jack, I’ve filed for divorce.”

  “Just like that?” He was surprised at his self-control.

  “No, I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. And it’s not because of your fling, or your drinking, or this Slade thing. In fact, it really hasn’t got anything to do with you. I’m lucky to have you, that’s what my friends are always telling me. Such a handsome man, they say, and so nice and charming. And I agree. Until lately you’ve been a terrific husband. But it just doesn’t matter anymore. I’m simply tired of marriage. I’m tired of being a mother. I want to live alone. I yearn to live alone.”

  Baird took a gulp of the brandy, then one last drag on his cigarette before flipping it out into the wet grass. “Well, there’s not much I can say to that,” he said. “I knew you were unhappy. I’ve known that for a long time. But it never dawned on me that living here was such a trial for you. It’s hard to figure—a wife and mother yearning she didn’t have anyone.”

  “I didn’t say that. I just said I want to live alone.”

  “It’s the same thing, isn’t it? But then I guess it really doesn’t matter. You want your freedom, of course you can have it—not that it’s mine to give or take away. I know I’ve really put you through hell this summer, and I’m sorry about that.”

  “Jack, you’re not listening. This isn’t about us. It isn’t about you or anything you’ve done. It’s me, that’s all. I want a different kind of life.”

  “Who’d you see—Dagleish?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of life?”

  “I’ve been accepted into law school at the university. Pre-law actually. I figure that I can be practicing by fifty. I w
ant to do legal-aid work for the homeless.”

  “Sounds real profitable.”

  “I’m not going into it for the money.”

  “Dagleish gonna take me to the cleaners?”

  “No, I explained that this house is about all we have. A fifty-fifty split, I figure I can live with that.”

  “So we’ll have to sell it?”

  “I’ve already talked to a realtor.”

  Baird lit another cigarette. For some reason, the thought of her contacting a realtor on her own irritated him every bit as much as her having seen a lawyer. “Busy hands are happy hands,” he said.

  “You ought to know.”

  He smiled bleakly. “You’ve got a point.”

  “No, it isn’t that. Even if it was you who took care of that creep, that’s not why I want a divorce. I just want a new life.”

  “I know. You just told me.”

  “I want to make sure you understand.”

  Suddenly Baird’s eyes had filled. “There is one little problem, though,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I still love you.”

  “And I still love you,” she said, with so little feeling he wanted to punch her.

  “That much, huh?”

  She didn’t seem to hear. “But I still feel frustrated and unfulfilled. And I have to change that.”

  “What about Kathy? Have you told her?”

  “Not yet. But she’s a big girl now. She’s a woman. It’s time she went off on her own anyway.”

  “And Kevin?”

  “He’s coming down tomorrow morning. I thought we might have a kind of family meeting. I’ll tell them about this, and you can fill us all in on the case—where you stand and what you think will happen. I’m sure they’re as worried as I am.”

  “I’ve told you everything,” he said.

  “I know, but I’m still worried.” She got up from her chair and leaned over him, to kiss him on the forehead. But he tipped his head back and pulled her farther down, to kiss her on the mouth. She pulled back, but he held her there a moment longer, trying to push his mouth into hers. All she would allow, however, was a chaste, sisterly touching of their lips.

  “Don’t stay too long,” she advised. “It’s chilly out here.”

  As she went inside, he smiled sadly. “It sure is,” he said.

  Ellen held her “family meeting” the next day at lunch. She told Kevin and Kathy not to make any plans for that time, not to go running off anywhere, because there were important matters that had to be discussed. Though both of them seemed impressed by their mother’s serious manner, that didn’t keep them from making short work of the lunch itself, which consisted of ham sandwiches and a tossed salad. First, Ellen asked Baird to tell them about the “Slade thing,” as she called it, so they could have some idea of what to expect. Baird told them about his meeting with Steiner and what the lawyer had concluded.

  “He said all they have is motivation, the possibility that we felt threatened by Slade and that I might have decided to end that threat. But the fact is, I didn’t kill the man—probably couldn’t have even if I’d wanted to—and I wasn’t with him. So I’m not worried. Next week they’ll probably move on to some other suspect.”

  Kevin expressed amazement that the police would even bother to investigate his father. “Two minutes with you, you’d think they’d have the sense to see you’re not the type. I can’t believe they’re so stupid. My God, I’ve got plenty of motivation to kill my accounting prof, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to do it.”

  Baird expected Ellen to point out that the professor had not turned up dead, but she let it pass. Instead, she refolded her napkin, took a drink of water, then quietly dropped her trio of bombs: that she had filed for divorce and had put the house up for sale and would soon be starting law school. Kathy did not respond at all, either because these were developments she had expected or because her mother had already told her of them. But Kevin reacted strongly, becoming angry and tearful. He told Ellen and Baird he realized that their marriage was not a perfectly happy one in recent years—but then whose was, he wanted to know. He accused his mother of expecting too much and of not “standing by Dad in his hour of need.” More immediately, he expressed concern about his college funds, whether Baird and Ellen would continue to pay for his tuition and books and half of his living expenses.

  “You know, MBA’s don’t come cheap,” he reminded them.

  Ellen told him not to worry. “The money will keep coming,” she said. “Especially if we’re able to sell the house soon. But keep in mind, Kathy still has her schooling ahead of her. And she’s thinking of starting Cornish next semester.”

  This was the first Baird had heard of any such plan, and it pleased him greatly. “Is this true?” he asked, taking hold of Kathy’s hand.

  She smiled and shrugged. “I guess so. It’s about time, wouldn’t you say? It’s what I’m interested in—fashion design. I’d still work part-time, though.”

  Baird was grinning. “Well, that’s great news, honey. I’m very pleased.”

  Other than that happy moment, it was a sad little luncheon, much like the last get-together of the employees of a bankrupt company. Ellen was management, cool and efficient, consigning the rest of them to futures they had not sought and did not want. Baird and Kathy were the resigned majority, Kevin the disgruntled minority.

  “Where do we go for Thanksgiving?” he asked. “McDonald’s?”

  The next day he went back to school, and on Monday, Ellen and Kathy went back to work, as did Baird. He coasted through that day and the next three like a drugged man, trying hard not to think about anything except the selling of paper products. Each night he drank heavily and each morning he rose late, after the women had already departed for work.

  It was on Friday morning that Sergeant Lucca came calling again, this time with handcuffs and an arrest warrant.

  Seventeen

  Though Baird was arrested under a warrant issued to the sheriff’s police, Sergeant Lucca acted as if he were in charge of the operation. The man nominally in command, Detective Sergeant Holcomb with the sheriff’s police, did not seem to mind. Clean-cut, thirtyish, immaculate in a banker’s gray wool suit, he deferred to Lucca with the eagerness of one who knew his authority was unearned.

  They let Baird call Steiner from the house, then took him straight to the county jail, where he was booked, fingerprinted, strip-searched, outfitted in a baggy orange jumpsuit, and finally photographed against a height chart, front and profile, just like Slade. Just like a killer, Baird thought.

  The jail itself was only a few years old, immensely expensive and already overcrowded, a place of carpeted floors and cells formed of glass instead of iron bars—unbreakable glass that a number of prisoners already had broken through to freedom.

  For over an hour Baird languished in a holding cell with a dozen other prisoners. Then two jailers came for him, manacled him, and took him to a small room, where Lucca and Holcomb sat waiting at a conference table. As the jailers left, Lucca told Baird to sit down at the table, which Baird did, holding up his manacled hands in the process.

  “Is this really necessary?” he asked.

  “Rules,” Lucca said.

  “Where’s my lawyer?”

  “Soon. First we want to give you one last chance, Jack. We’ve got you cold now. A dancer and bouncer at the Oolala will testify that you were with Slade the night of the murder and that you left together around eleven-thirty. And Miss Dean—the sexy Satin—has helpfully changed her tune and now admits she saw you with Slade at the club that night and that later you were one of her assailants, the one who saved her from the other—obviously Slade. So in a word, Jack, your goose is cooked. You’re going to jail for murder-one. If you’re smart, you’ll go for a plea. We’re going to let your lawyer in now and you two can talk it over in private. Then—if you’ve got any smarts at all—we’ll call in a D.A. and wrap this up. Okay?”

  Baird said not
hing. The two detectives got up and left the room and seconds later Steiner came in, breathing hard.

  “The bastards!” the little lawyer bawled, banging his briefcase down on the table. “They got no right talking to you without me here! Fuckin Lucca thinks he’s the law! Well, I’m gonna show him a thing or two.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” Baird said. “Lucca just told me what they have now, the new stuff. He suggested we go for a plea.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Then we don’t. Their case is still all circumstantial. They can’t place you at the scene, they don’t have the murder weapon, they don’t have a fingerprint, they don’t have shit. And the stripper changing her testimony—I’ll eat her alive. They ain’t got a prayer.”

  “So we go for it,” Baird said.

  “We plead innocent—right?”

  “Right. What else?”

  Grinning, Steiner pounded Baird on the back. “Good boy!” he exulted. “That’s what I wanted to hear. We gonna make Lucca look like the fuckin jerk he is.”

  Baird was arraigned at three o’clock that afternoon, manacled again, feeling as if he were about to faint from humiliation and rage as he sat next to the wheezing Steiner, listening to the judge read the charges against him: murder in the first degree of one James R. Slade, twenty-four, of 628 Thurman Avenue in West Seattle, and second-degree assault and battery upon the person of Miss Terri Dean, twenty, of 1700 104th Street in Juanita.

  Ellen and Kathy were in the first row behind Baird. Across the aisle, Lee Jeffers was sitting with Lucca and Sergeant Holcomb just behind the prosecuting attorney, who was a tall, heavy young man with a brute’s face and a surprisingly soft and appealing voice. His name was Jimmy O’Neil.