A fairly young man in a blue suit went by, looking expectant, and the girl said, “She’s free, now. You tell her what I said, Lee Kaprelian, and I’ll have your scalp.”
Ann’s office was the first one in the corridor behind the lobby. The door was open, and Ann was sitting at her desk, staring at the opposite wall.
A gray suit, with a white blouse. Her dark hair in a knot high on the back of her head, her slim, long-fingered hands folded on the desk top in front of her.
“Whistler’s Mother,” I said, and came in.
She looked up, startled, and then said, “Lee, oh, Lee — ” Her voice was husky.
“Easy,” I said, and came around the desk to kiss her forehead. I had one hand on her shoulder. “Knock off, now. We’ll have a drink before lunch.”
There was moisture in her eyes as she looked up at me. “Sam — Why did Sam — ”
“No fault of mine,” I said. “Sam was always one of trouble’s children. How are the folks?”
“You could come over and find out. Papa’s still angry, but Mother’s worried about you, Lee.”
“Maybe we could pick her up and take her to the funeral.”
“She’s going with Papa. Would you want him to go alone?”
“Get your hat and coat,” I said. “Let’s go.”
We ate in the Bunyan Room of the Schuyler, under the murals depicting the feats of the legendary Paul. I ate, and dabbled. I talked very little, and she talked less.
We were drinking our coffee, when she said, “Are you going to marry the girl, Lee?”
“I guess so.”
“You won’t be coming back to the business, then?”
“I guess not.”
“Berjouhi was over last night.”
“Oh.”
“She cried a lot. She said she knows you had nothing to do with Sam’s death. She said Sam was trying to blackmail Dykstra.”
“She should tell the police that.”
“She has. Lee — the police don’t think you — ?”
“Who knows what the police think? If they think. We’d better get going. It’s a long trip.”
It’s always a long trip to the south side, even when it’s a short trip. The winding rough road through the industrial district and then out into duplex town and through that to the cottages. Here’s where the Poles lived, the neat, industrious, thrifty Poles who made the factories hum. From the edge of the valley, south for miles, the people who worked the machines of the most diversified industrial town in America.
Ann was silent, her eyes on the houses.
“Marry the guy,” I said, “and move to River Hills.”
“Shut up,” she said.
“If you didn’t think like I did, you wouldn’t be making this trip with me,” I went on. “You’d be with the folks.”
“You’re forgetting something. You’re forgetting somebody.”
Carnig Andrikian, she meant, who’d died at Normandy.
“He’s just an out,” I said. “He’s just something you’re using for rationalization. You’re really afraid to bring home an Americatsi.”
“Shut up,” she said again.
I shut up. She’s as bright as I am, or brighter. What could I tell her?
St. Haroutiun’s Apostolic Church was a small frame building set back on a seedy lawn. My people stood on the walk in clusters, on the lawn, near the door. I knew them all.
I walked past them all, with my sister, and nobody looked our way. Everybody was suddenly intent on the speaker in each knot and cluster; nobody said a word.
It was dim in the church, and the casket was up near the pulpit.
Ann said, “I’ve seen him. I’ll be sitting back here.” She took a seat near the door.
Viewing the dead is an archaic vulgarism I’d always loathed. But the church was half full, and this was a gesture I needed to make. I left Ann, there at the back of the church, and went up to the casket.
It wasn’t a long walk, but it seemed like a mile. The eyes of all I’d passed were on my back, I knew. It had been a mistake, coming here. It looked like — defiance, to them. But it would have been a bigger mistake to stay away. They’d read something horrible into that, and they were still my father’s people.
Sam’s broad face was a caricature. The mortician had evidently decided Sam had been a jolly, laughing boy, being on the stocky side, and had made him up accordingly. He looked like a Charles Addams version of Santa Claus.
I shuddered, standing there, looking down at him. I knew they were all watching, but I couldn’t even pretend to pray. The medieval masochism, this pageantry of mourning was a self-indulgence I’d outgrown. I’d seen better men die for nobler reasons.
I turned and all their eyes were on me. Their warm brown eyes were cold; they needed somebody to hate. A man was dead and they had to have somebody to hate.
In the front row, Sam’s mother and father looked at me with no sign of recognition. Next to Sarkis, Berjouhi sat, and her eyes were sad on mine.
I walked past, and heard a stir behind me. I walked quietly up the aisle to where Ann sat near the door. She slid over, as I approached, and I sat down beside her.
Then she slid over even farther, and I saw the reason why. Berjouhi was coming up the aisle, toward us.
There was a murmur in the church, and a few heads turned. Berjouhi was white-faced, her full mouth working.
She sat down beside me, and said, “The sanctimonious bastards, I’d like to tell them the score.”
Chapter Ten
“WHAT’S to be gained?” I said. “Sam’s dead. They’ll think what they want to think, anyway. Facts aren’t important, now.”
The church was starting to fill up. In the far aisle, my mother and dad came in and walked down to where Sarkis and his wife were sitting. They didn’t look around.
Berjouhi said, “I hear you’re in love.”
“I’m afraid so, kid.”
Ann said, “This week, he’s in love. Maybe it’s her money.”
“Get off my back, girls,” I said. And to Berjouhi, “What did you tell Sergeant Waldorf?”
“What Sam told me. He saw that car of Dykstra’s, that black Buick, parked down on the lake front the night before you two found Ducasse’s body. That’s only a block from Ducasse’s apartment.”
“That’s all he told you?”
“That’s all.”
The minister was entering the pulpit, now; quiet settled in the building. Next to me, Ann opened her purse and took out a handkerchief.
The service was completely in Armenian. Including the music, and even our dance music sounds sad. Berjouhi was crying, before it was through, though she held out longer than Ann.
The ritual at the cemetery was short, but the service had lasted over an hour. It was after three when we headed back toward town.
The sky in the north was dark and there was a chill wetness in the breeze off the lake. We were just crossing Oklahoma Avenue when the first wet flakes of snow came down.
“Here we go, again,” Berjouhi said. “Isn’t spring ever coming?”
“We’ve got two seasons in this town,” I said. “Winter and August.” And thought, Honolulu, Bermuda, Palm Beach, Palm Springs …
“I wonder what’s happened to Selak?” Ann said. “Do you think something could have happened to him, Lee?”
“He’s left home, before,” I said.
“Once, before. When he was seventeen.”
“I hear he has a yen for the blonde,” Berjouhi said.
I said nothing. I could sense that Ann was nudging Berjouhi. We crossed Greenfield Avenue. The road was already wet with the quickly melting snow. I turned on the wipers, and the heater.
It was very quiet in the little convertible. Berjouhi opened the window a little on her side, and then lighted up a cigarette. Ann stared at the traffic, her eyes dull.
Maybe Ann was thinking of Palm Beach, too. Her boss had that kind of money.
I said, “Maybe we ought to stop a
nd see Selak’s sister. There might be something she needs.”
“Papa’s talked to her,” Ann said. “She’s all right.”
National Avenue, and then the viaduct. Over the smelly valley, black with industrial smoke, over the countless railroad tracks, the grimy taverns and leaning houses.
Up the grade that led to the Avenue, the town’s main artery. Quiet, again, in the car, all of us peering out through the double swaths the wiper blades had cut into the sticky snow on the windshield.
Down the Avenue all the way, past the store of N. Kaprelian and Son, of Sarkis Sabazian. Up Prospect, past the Prospect Towers. No words from the girls to here. Here, Berjouhi coughed, but it could have been coincidence.
On Eastern, Berjouhi, said, “You can drop me here. I’ve some shopping to do.”
I pulled up at the curb, and she got out. “Luck, Lee,” she said. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Luck, yourself,” I said. “Thanks for the gesture.”
We drove a block before Ann said, “Men. Men, men, men — ”
I said nothing.
“The best wife a man could have,” Ann went on. “You’re a stupid jerk.”
I said nothing.
“You think money will do anything,” she said. “That’s all you know, money.”
“The boss too, huh? Has he been giving you the good-living pitch? Is that why you’re so riled?”
“Oh, shut up,” she said.
“You started it. Did you get the new furniture?”
“We haven’t even cashed the check.”
“Well, cash it. Spend it. That much you owe Ma. Stop worrying about me and about yourself. Decide what the hell you’re going to do about the boss, and start living.”
“You’re qualified to hand out advice, aren’t you? You’ve got everything all figured out.”
“No comment.”
Here was the house, and I stopped. She looked at me. “Coming in?”
“No. Tell Mom I’ll call her, tomorrow. I’ll come over, maybe, and take her out to lunch.”
“Stubborn, aren’t you?”
I thought of the church, where she’d walked down the aisle with Papa, and never even looked around. I said, “Stubborn. Thanks for coming with me, Ann.”
She was out of the car, now, standing on the curb. “I’m sorry I did. Oh, no I’m not. Lee, be careful.”
“I will. Don’t forget to tell Mom I’ll phone her, tomorrow.”
“All right. And Lee, be smart.”
“I try to be. You be smart, too.”
She waved, and turned, and I pulled away from the curb. It had stopped snowing, and the snow on the windshield was melting from the heat of the hood.
The sun was out; the snow everywhere was melting.
Be smart, think, use your head, Lee Kaprelian…. A bus went by, splattering the Chev with slush. I drove down to the telegraph office on Eastern.
There was an angle gnawing at me, the obvious angle I’d avoided, for some reason. I had a good friend on the coast, in the crack-pot town, and he knew everything that went on in the oriental rug business out there. Not that there was much of it, but he had most of what there was.
I went into the office, and sent a telegram to Los Angeles.
And then home. There was no sound from the baby, upstairs. There was the smell of roasting beef and the dull throb of a radio and the drip on the porch from the melting snow on the roof.
I sat on the davenport, thinking of the telegram I’d sent and realizing that if the wrong answer came back, Claire would be involved. This would be the biggest lie of all. Why had I sent it? Why didn’t I either believe in her or accept her as she was? Or why didn’t I leave her?
The radio throbbed, the melting snow dripped. My phone rang.
It was Claire. “Thank God you’re home. That — Selak phoned me, Lee. I don’t know what to do.”
“What did you do?”
“I told him I was going on another trip. He wanted to see me, he said. He wanted to play rummy.”
“You should have told him to come up, later, and then phoned me. His sister is looking for him. And so are the police.”
“I didn’t think. Why didn’t you phone me? How long have you been home?”
“Two minutes. I’ll be up later. Don’t worry about Selak. He’s harmless.”
“I’ll bet. Can’t you come now? Is there any reason why you can’t come now?”
“Yes,” I said, “there’s a reason. I’d be bad company. I’ll see you later.”
A silence, and then, “Well, all right.” And a dead phone.
I started to pick it up again, to make a call, and then changed my mind. It was only a few blocks from here.
I walked over to the Egans’. If that Chinese was his, he had a nice wad of money coming. I wanted to be sure he knew the price I’d sold it for.
His wife came to the door. She looked at me a moment and then said, “Alan isn’t home. Come in, Lee. I want to talk to you.”
I followed her through a narrow entrance hall to a high-ceilinged, drab living room with small windows. Mohair-upholstered furniture, mahogany end tables; only the Kermans on the floor giving the room any life. I sat on the davenport, as she indicated.
Her dry-skinned, thin face was gaunt, her voice dead, “What kind of business is this that you and Alan are involved in?”
“Hasn’t he told you?” I asked.
“He told me you were selling some rugs for him. He didn’t say it would result in visits by the police.”
“Police — ?”
She nodded. “A Sergeant Waldorf. Lee, who is this woman Alan’s so — so captivated with?”
“Miss Lynne — you mean? Mr. Egan’s not — captivated with her, Mrs. Egan. He probably admires her — business ability, but I’m sure there’s nothing beyond that.”
“Nonsense,” she said flatly. “What kind of prices are you getting for my rugs?”
“I don’t know which rugs are yours, Mrs. Egan,” I said quietly.
“You mean, you have others, too?”
I nodded.
“You’ve left your father’s store, haven’t you?”
I nodded.
“Why?”
I took a breath, and looked at the floor. “Well — personal reasons, Mrs. Egan.”
“Miss Lynne?”
I didn’t answer.
“That’s too personal a question?”
I nodded.
“I’d like to know,” she said, and now there was a break in her voice. “Because if it’s the girl — if it’s you and Miss Lynne, then I’d know — Alan isn’t — ” She broke off, biting her lower lip.
“Miss Lynne and I are going to be married,” I said, and stood up. “I’ll let you know about the rugs, Mrs. Egan.”
“I’ve heard all I want to hear,” she said. “I don’t care about the rugs. He can have the money from them.” Her face softened, and she smiled at me. “I hope you and Miss Lynne will be very happy.”
“I hope so, too,” I said. “Thank you, Mrs. Egan.”
She wasn’t listening to me; her eyes were somewhere back in her history. She said, “Alan and I were the happiest newly-weds you could imagine.” And her eyes came back to now. “I wish I’d been born poor.”
Then she never would have had Mr. Egan. The gentleman, the man I’d always held as a symbol of the true aristocracy. Mr. Alan Egan, purse snatcher.
Water ran along the gutters, a thin trickle of dirty water; the snow was already gone. The breeze was from the southwest, warm and full of spring-promise.
I was hungry. For food and for Claire. I went back for the Chev and drove to a little market right off Eastern where I could get U.S. Select and Choice beef. I bought a little over a pound of filet at a little under three dollars a pound.
The home-bound traffic was clogging Prospect as I parked in front of the Towers. There was a Lincoln at the curb ahead of me that I should recognize but couldn’t place.
It was Carl Lieder’s. He was
sitting on one of the love seats, a litter of papers spread out on the coffee table in front of him.
“I called him,” Claire said. “When you wouldn’t come, I phoned Carl. I won’t be alone while that man’s loose.”
“Quit fretting,” I said. “Selak’s harmless. I guarantee it.”
Carl smiled, his blue eyes studying me genially. “Some job you did on Gendron.”
I shrugged. I handed Claire the steaks. “I don’t know if it’s enough for three.”
Carl chuckled. “I can take a hint.” He started to arrange the papers neatly.
Mummified, Claire had called him, but that wasn’t the impression I got. Thin and wire-hard, one of those Teutons who makes no mistakes, who watches out for number one every second of the day.
“You can stay for dinner,” I said. “I didn’t intend the remark that way. We’ve probably got business to talk about. Including Ismet Bey.”
Some annoyance on his thin face. “Why don’t you let me worry about Ismet Bey, Lee?”
“Because you don’t worry enough,” I said. “I’ve got a feeling both Ducasse and Sabazian died because you didn’t worry about Ismet Bey.”
He stared at me. “That’s — rather farfetched.”
“Maybe. Why else would Bey sick Dykstra onto them, unless he thought they were tied up with you? This whole deal has been damned mixed up, right from the start. And I’ve been in the dark on most of it.”
His chin line tightened. “And you’ve been complaining ever since you got in. Is it the easy money you dislike?”
“No. It’s the unnecessary finagling, and your attitude about Bey. I think you overestimate yourself.”
He looked at me as impersonally as a hangman. “Listen, Junior, you can get out any time you want. Claire and I had the idea your curly hair and your youth might be valuable in dealing with women customers. You haven’t got anything else to offer, and we can get along without you.”
“Maybe,” I said. “It wasn’t my curly hair that sold Gendron, though. Places like that, you couldn’t even get through the door. And you weren’t the one who wanted me, anyway.”
He was standing, now, the papers rolled in one hand. “No, I wasn’t. But I can deal you out, and that’s what I’m doing.”
I looked at Claire. “Is that it, Boss?”
Bloody Bokhara Page 15
