Ice Blues ds-3

by Richard Stevenson

  He smiled sheepishly. “This is embarrassing. I can only remember a few.

  It’s been a while.”

  “Go for the hard-core stuff, the foundations of Judeo-Christian ethics.”

  Without hesitation he said, “Stealing.”

  “Thou shalt not steal.”

  “I’ve always believed strongly that people should earn anything of value they received, or be given it because they need it or deserve it. For a person to take something that doesn’t belong to him disgusts me. It’s the beginning of anarchy. Jack knew how deeply I feel about that. Is it possible? Do you think Jack stole something?”

  “Could be,” I said. “Though if he did, he didn’t consider it stealing, I think.

  Not in the usual strict sense of the word.”

  “But I would have. And he knew it.”

  “There’s a good possibility of that.”

  “What was it that you think he stole?”

  “Money. There is evidence that it was money.” Now he placed both feet on the floor and leaned forward. “But how could that be right? How could Jack consider stealing money a moral act?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’m curious too. Did Jack know anyone who owned a lot of money, or had access to it?”

  “How much money?”

  “A vast amount. A fortune.”

  “Not that I can think of-no one in Albany. Except drug dealers perhaps.

  But it wouldn’t be that, I’m sure.”

  “Did any of Jack’s former business associates ever come here, or phone?”

  “Absolutely not. I was firm about that. Anyhow, I think they were all in jail.”

  “All of them?”

  “As far as I know. According to Jack, he was the only one of that bunch who wasn’t convicted. The rest of them were locked up for twenty years.”

  “Jack must have had a terrific lawyer.”

  “Oh, he did-the best. Thomas Pelligrinelli came up from New York to handle his case.”

  “Really? Pelligrinelli has to be one of the most expensive criminal lawyers in the state of New York. Jack must have been paying him off right up to the day he died.”

  “Oh no, Jack’s mother paid for the lawyer. He told me that. I think it was one of the reasons he never intended to get in trouble with the law again.

  His acquittal had cost his mother so much.”

  “Is she wealthy? What does she do?”

  “Mrs. Lenihan’s a nurse. I don’t know, maybe she took out a loan, or has rich friends. Jack never went into that. But the day after the trial ended she wired him twenty thousand dollars and he paid off Pelligrinelli.”

  “She didn’t attend the trial?”

  “No, Jack said she detested Albany and never intended to set foot in it again. Her life here was awfully unhappy. Though I got the idea she’s doing much better now.”

  “It sounds that way.”

  “She must be taking Jack’s death very hard.”

  “Corrine told me she was, yes.”

  “I guess Ill finally meet her at the funeral,” Slonski said, and lifted his mug.

  I said, “She’s not coming.”

  “She isn’t?” The mug hung in the air.

  “She’s gone to bed, sick with grief.”

  “That’s terrible, just terrible. Jack told me his mother had never been sick a day in her life. She never missed a single day of work. He said she was made of iron.”

  “She sounds like quite an unusual lady.”

  “The Lenihans are an unusual family,” Slonski said, and I was only just beginning to understand that that was putting it mildly.

  I told him I had to leave for my dinner engagement, thanked him for his candid remarks about Jack and their relationship, and said I understood his initial skepticism about me.

  “Oh, no problem. But you still haven’t explained to me exactly what your connection with Jack was.”

  “It was professional on my part, which makes it confidential. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.”

  “You know, I miss him more than ever,” Slonski said in a shaky voice. “I still can’t quite believe that he actually left me. And that he’s never coming back.”

  “I’m wondering about something, Warren. What was it about Jack Lenihan that evoked such an emotional response in you? He was sweet-natured and had his other virtues, but he wasn’t a particularly attractive man physically. You seem to have a keener than normal appreciation for that which appeals to the senses. I would have expected you to bed down with a man who was-well, more like yourself.”

  He flushed and looked away. “The thing is,” he said after a moment, “I’ve always gone for men who are less attractive than I am. I guess they-make me look better. And feel better. And the chances are, they’re not going to leave me. It’s a way of controlling the situation, I suppose you could say, of protecting myself. For instance, you really turn me on. But I would never make a direct move with somebody like you. You might turn me down.”

  Now it was out in the open, a slight relief. “But if I did turn you down-and reluctantly I would-it wouldn’t have anything to do with you. It would be the fact that I have a lover, my deep and entirely rational fear of AIDS, and my already-too-elastic professional ethics. It wouldn’t be personal at all.”

  His face fell. “There. You see what I mean?”

  I started to laugh, but didn’t when he didn’t. I would have liked to hang around and attempt first aid on Slonski’s damaged soul. Five years earlier, such acts of warmhearted crisis intervention were not uncommon for me, and I always got as much as I gave, often more. But my life had its complications now, and Slonski’s needed a few, none of which I was in a position to provide.

  He put some Wagner on the stereo, and I went out and rubbed snow on my face before driving off. The islands beckoned again briefly, but that was not where I was headed. From a pay phone I reached a friend at the Times

  Union who provided me with background information on the three men I was about to dine with. By the time I hung up, I thought I had figured out what Jack Lenihan’s morally ambiguous project was.

  If I was right, then Lenihan had been correct in his prediction that I would approve of it. We had spent only ten minutes together one summer afternoon, yet he knew me that well. I would have liked to ask him how he’d done that.

  EIGHT

  I was led to the last available table for four at Queequeg’s, a restored artrdeco diner-all streamlined aluminum glitz on the outside, goldenly glowing carved wood paneling on the inside, as in a wagon-lit-that had been turned into a kebab, salad and beer joint for the youngish trendies who lived and worked around Albany Medical Center.

  The food at Queequeg’s was good and cheap, and the owners had managed to conjure up an illusion of authentic fast-lane city life by packing a large number of eaters and drinkers into an area of severely constricted square footage. The music-jazz, disco, fusion-was sufficiently loud, as were frequently the customers, so that, amidst the atmosphere of boozy congestion, it was possible to converse without being overheard, or even, if your diction was sloppy or you were a little bit shy, heard at all.

  Sim Kempelman was the first to arrive at five till seven. I’d never met him, but I watched for a middle-aged lawyer in the throes of mild culture shock, and I spotted him right away and signaled for him to join me.

  “Mr. Strachey?”

  “Attorney Kempelman, I presume.”

  “That’s me, kiddo. And how are you today? This establishment reminds me of my student days at the University of

  Pittsburgh. There was a place just like this one just off Schenley, near Forbes Field, before it went the way of the rest of my youth. Do you know Pittsburgh?”

  “I’ve only passed through. It’s somewhere near St. Louis, isn’t it?”

  He navigated his physical amplitude onto one of the chrome steel chairs.

  “It’s not quite that far beyond the New Yorker’s pale. I take it you’re a Manhattanite, Mr. Strachey. You must
find Albany to be somewhere near St.

  Louis too.”

  “I’m from New Jersey, so I’m adaptable. It’s not quite a real place to most people-like saying you grew up on an offshore barge. But it was real enough for me.”

  “And how are you enjoying Albany? Is it real enough for you?”

  “More than enough.”

  He had a big amiably droll face whose weight seemed to pull his head forward, and the brownest eyes I had ever seen. “I’m an attorney,”

  Kempelman said, bending toward me, “but sometimes I think I would appreciate this city better if I were an anthropologist. In many ways Albany is like a museum display of American urban political folkways during the first half of this century. It’s the powerful few snuffling at the public trough with the not-so-powerful many picking up the tab when it comes due each year. It’s an outmoded system-like Havana before Castro, or Prague after Dubcek. You don’t find patronage-and-payoff politics in the more prosperous, future-oriented cities-Atlanta, San Diego, Denver. It’s outmoded, it’s unfair, it’s too expensive, and it doesn’t work.”

  “How long is it going to take you to change it?”

  “Another twenty-five years at the rate we’re moving. Two years if my organization can find a way to tap the support we know is out there. Are you familiar with Democrats for Better Government in Albany? Or maybe you’re even a dues-paying member, could that be so?”

  “I’m not a member, no. But I’ve read about your group.”

  “But you are politically progressive, I take it. I received the distinct impression from a number of colleagues that you might be.”

  I said, “I’m an old-fashioned liberal, Mr. Kempelman. I’d be a socialist if I thought governments could be counted on always to do the right thing. But they can’t, so I’m not. I am sort of fond of the social democracies. I like to think of Denmark with all those cheese fields waving in the northern sunlight. Of course, I’ve never been there, so that makes it easier. In this country I work for the Democrats in national elections, and in Albany I vote Republican, which makes me an anarchist. I’m gay, too, so around here that makes me pretty much of an outlaw if I do much more than leave the house, which I often do. I suppose my brazen behavior in that respect automatically confers on me ‘progressive’ credentials. But I don’t know, you’re the president of the club.”

  He had listened carefully to this, and now he gave me a little half-smile. He said, “You know why I wanted to speak with you, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jack Lenihan told me that if anything happened to him, I should contact you.”

  “I guessed that.”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “No, but you are merely one of the legions Jack seems to have mentioned my name to.”

  He frowned. “I think poor Jack died horribly on account of some money he had-a great deal of money. That’s my opinion.”

  “Jack Lenihan was murdered. Have you gone to the police with your opinion?”

  “Yes. This afternoon, after much soul-searching, I spoke with Detective Lieutenant Bowman. I had no choice but to report my knowledge to him.

  You understand that, don’t you?”

  “I do. Did my name come up?”

  “It had to, naturally. I believe Officer Bowman would like to speak with you, in fact. He is searching for you at this very moment.”

  “I’ll give him a call when I get a chance. I already saw him once today, which was plenty. What did you tell him?”

  “That Jack Lenihan had offered my organization two and a half million dollars to finance a campaign to elect a progressive mayor of Albany.”

  “Oh.”

  “And that you were involved in his plans in a manner which Jack did not spell out to me.”

  “You told Bowman all that?”

  “I had to.”

  “Crap.”

  “You said the word, Mr. Strachey, Jack Lenihan was murdered. Under the circumstances, there is no way I could have withheld information that is clearly relevant to the police investigation. My duty as an officer of the court is both legally and morally clear.”

  I said, “But you hesitated, didn’t you?” I watched him squirm. “You waited half a day before you went to Bowman trying to figure out a way to get hold of Lenihan’s cash before you did your moral duty.”

  “Yes, I did take time out to mull over the ramifications of any action I might take.”

  “Good for you, Kempelman. I think I’ll join your club.” He chuckled mildly.

  “But first I have to tell you that Jack Lenihan used my name without permission. Before he died, I knew nothing of his money or his plans for it.

  That sounds like a line for the cops, and you can take it or leave it, but it’s true.” He shrugged. I said, “When did Jack first approach you?”

  “January third.”

  “Was he making an offer, or was he just feeling you out?”

  “It was a feeler. Jack made it plain that other political organizations might possibly become the recipients of his public-spirited largesse. He said he would be in touch but that he was having unspecified problems with some people whose identities he did not reveal, and if anything happened to him I should get in touch with you.”

  “Jack Lenihan was a waiter on Lark Street who was not independently wealthy. Where did he say he got the money?”

  Kempelman smiled and shook his head. “From his godfather. He inherited two and a half million dollars from his godfather in Los Angeles.”

  “No.”

  “That’s what he said. He showed me documents-Jack was prepared for a certain skepticism on my part, you see-and he sat in my office and dumped a pile of documents on my desk. A probated will, tax-payment receipts, the whole lot of it, and all entirely on the up and up. I photocopied the papers, made some calls to attorneys of my acquaintance in Los Angeles after Jack left, and was convinced in my mind and heart that the whole business was legit.”

  “What was the godfather’s name?”

  “Albert Piatek.”

  “May I have copies of the documents?”

  “Of course. I have already provided Lieutenant Bowman with copies, and there is no reason I shouldn’t do the same favor for you. Now I have a question for you, Mr. Strachey.” He looked me carefully in the eye and said,

  “Where’s the money?”

  “Good question.”

  “Jack left the impression that the money would be in your possesssion. For safekeeping, he seemed to be saying. Did you kill him for the money?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. I’ve asked around about you-discreetly, mind you-and your reputation is that of a pain in the ass but not a murderer.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Lieutenant Bowman-a man in love with the obvious if I ever met one Officer Bowman may have other ideas about you. He is not fond of you and this interferes with his objectivity, I think.”

  “Oh, hell.”

  “So, where’s the money?”

  A waitress charged up to our table and rapidly recited the menu, which consisted of four items. Kempelman picked the chicken teriyaki and I ordered the beef teriyaki rare. I asked him if he’d like to split a pitcher of beer, but he said a glass of white wine would suit him better. I went ahead and ordered the pitcher.

  When the waitress left, Kempelman said it again. “Where’s the money?”

  “It’s safe,” I said. “But I have no instructions as yet concerning its disposal.”

  “Did Jack leave a will?”

  “I don’t know. I thought you’d know. You’re the lawyer.”

  “No will has been filed in Albany County. Or Los Angeles County. I’ve looked into that.”

  “Did you tell Bowman you were meeting me here tonight?”

  “No, I am giving you that much. I think it’s what Jack Lenihan would have wanted. So, where’s the money?”

  “As I said, it’s safe.”

  “What will become of it?�
�

  “I don’t know. That’s kind of a confused area.”

  I had been looking over Kempelman’s shoulder at a man elbowing his way through the bar crowd, and when I signaled to him, Kempelman turned around. His two bushy eyebrows shot up.

  Kempelman said, “Him too?”

  “I’m afraid so. He’s Creighton Prell, right?”

  “That’s Creighton, sure enough.”

  The Republican county chairman was a tall dewlapped man in an alpaca coat with puffy hazel eyes and a wind-burned patrician nose. I guessed he was the man with the fifty-dollar haircut who’d been looking for Jack Lenihan at Annie’s Quiche Quorner on Friday. When Prell saw Kempelman with me, he winced, hesitated, then moved toward us with a look of despair.

  “Mr. Strachey?”

  “I am he.”

  “And Sim-Sim, what a delightful surprise.”

  “You look more surprised than delighted, Creighton.”

  Prell eased himself onto his little seat. “I had no idea you were involved in this business, Sim. Or are you?”

  “Involved in what business, Creighton?”

  “May I speak frankly?” The question was for me.

  I said, “I’m all for it.”

  Instead of speaking frankly, Prell went gray as his eye caught the eye of another man making his way into the dining area.

  I said, “That must be Larry Dooley. Hey, over here, Lar!”

  Dooley, a low heavily ballasted primate in a shiny blue suit and wet cigar in his paw, pummeled his way toward us and scowled down. “What is this crap? You Strachey?”

  “Yeah, I Strachey. This Creighton, this Sim.”

  “I know these two buggers. What are they doing here?”

  “Sit down, Larry,” Kempelman said. “Come on, kid, take a load off your feet.”

  “You might as well join us,” Prell said. “May I inquire, Mr. Strachey, if you have invited still other guests to this little fete? It’s already awfully crowded in here, if I may offer an opinion.”

  I said, “This is it, gents. Otherwise I would have hired the Hilton ballroom.”

  Dooley banged the remaining chair around, then sat on it. I looked around the table and said, “Which one of you killed Jack Lenihan for the money?”