Snake Eater

by William G. Tapply

  I held it to her. “Cheers, then.”

  She touched my glass with hers. “Sure. Cheers.”

  We sipped. We sat not quite touching. It was Mendelssohn. The Italian Symphony. Lush. Romantic. I hummed the theme. Terri poked at the ice cubes in her drink with her forefinger.

  “Out with it, woman,” I said.

  She turned to face me. “Out with what?”

  “Whatever it is that Melissa’s presence has allowed you to avoid saying to me all evening. That’s been on your mind for a month.”

  She shrugged. “Who said anything’s on my mind?”

  “Well?”

  She nodded. “If I could put it into words I would.”

  “Don’t worry about being articulate. Please try.”

  She shrugged. “Aw, Brady…”

  “The thrill is gone, huh?”

  She put her hand on my leg. “No,” she said. “If the thrill was gone it would be easy. The thrill is still there, and it’s been a long thrilling time now, and…” Her hand fell away. She shook her head.

  “Scary, huh?”

  “Not exactly scary. It’s… uncomfortable for me. It almost hurts. It doesn’t fit into my life. It warps everything. It rubs against edges of myself that I didn’t know I had.”

  “Don’t you go using that L word on me,” I said.

  She frowned at me. I smiled, to let her know I was attempting levity. There were times when levity was uncalled for. I usually managed to find those times.

  “Damn you,” she whispered.

  I touched her hair. “Hey,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  She tilted her head away from my hand. “Don’t,” she said.

  “Try to tell me about it.”

  “I can’t,” she said. “It’s me, not you.”

  “The old S word, then.”

  “Sex? Hardly.”

  “Space,” I said.

  She shrugged and nodded. “It’s not much of a life,” she said, laying her head back on the sofa and addressing the ceiling, “but it’s mine, and it works, and it’s the only one I know.”

  “And I’ve screwed it up.”

  “No, you haven’t. Not yet. And I don’t want you to. It just seems inevitable that sooner or later it’s got to—I don’t know, change, evolve into something else. Something not as good.”

  “It doesn’t have to change.”

  “Sure,” she said. “You’d be happy just to go on and on this way, seeing each other a couple of times a week, sleeping together on the weekend, otherwise just going our own separate ways. And what happens? Where does it go? Nothing stays the same, Brady.”

  “You’re not alluding to the M word, are you?”

  “Oh, Christ,” she muttered. She laughed quietly. “Look,” she said, turning to face me. “If we end it right now, it will always be what it is. It’ll always be a thrill. I know you. You’ll never get married again. And don’t worry, because I don’t think I ever will, either. I mean, neither of us has the guts to utter the dreaded L word, never mind the forbidden M word. The way I see it, we’ve got two choices. We can just bumble along until we get sick of each other and start to despise each other, or we can keep it the way it is by not letting it go anywhere else.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Makes perfect sense.”

  “I’m serious. And you don’t need to be sarcastic.”

  I shook my head. “Dames,” I said.

  She smiled and crept her hand onto the inside of my thigh. She touched my neck, then leaned toward me. The kiss itself was soft and tentative. But Terri’s hand moved certainly. “Still a thrill, huh?” she mumbled, her mouth on my throat.

  Her fingers went to my belt buckle. I moved to help her, but she pushed my hands aside. “Let me,” she said.

  We lay together on the sofa long after the Italian Symphony ended, Terri’s head on my shoulder, our legs entwined.

  “We can remember it this way,” she whispered.

  “I’ll miss you.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Seems kinda dumb,” I said.

  “Listen to your head.”

  “This is all about Daniel, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know, Brady. All I can tell you is, it’s about me. Please don’t try to make me explain it.”

  “You are one complicated broad.”

  “We all are,” she said.

  I shuffled through the six photos and two index cards and picked one of the cards. The name on it was William Johnson. It sounded like an alias. He lived at a Summer Street address in Springfield. I dialed information and asked for his phone number.

  “I have no William Johnson at that address, sir,” said the operator.

  “Maybe he has an unlisted number.”

  “No, sir. Not at that address.”

  She ended up giving me seven William Johnsons who had phones in Springfield. Between no answers, busy signals, and answering machines, it took me the rest of Monday and most of Monday evening to connect with all seven of them. None of them would admit he had ever lived on Summer Street or heard of Daniel McCloud. Two of them said that Summer Street was in a part of town they wouldn’t be caught dead in.

  One of those seven William Johnsons, I figured, was lying. But I had no idea which one, and I didn’t know how to pursue it.

  The names Daniel had written on the index cards were:

  William Johnson

  287 Summer St.

  Springfield, Mass.

  Carmine Repucci

  66 Farrow Dr.

  Chicopee, Mass.

  Chicopee is more or less a suburb of Springfield. The fact that the two index cards carried addresses so close to each other seemed as if it must be significant.

  The six photographs, which showed ordinary-looking men of indeterminate middle age, bore this information on the backs:

  Boris Kekko

  11 Broad St.

  Amherst, Mass.

  James Whitlaw

  422 Hillside Ave.

  Pawtucket, R.I.

  Mitchell Evans

  9 Windsor Dr.

  Saratoga Springs, N.Y.

  Michael DiSimione

  1146 W Central St.

  Providence, R.I.

  Bertram Wanzer

  2 Hubbard St.

  Holyoke, Mass.

  Jean Beaulieu

  245 River Dr.

  Manchester, N.H.

  On Tuesday morning I delivered a cup of coffee to Julie and told her to hold my calls until further notice.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she said. “Further notice?”

  “I’ve got to make some phone calls. I don’t know how long it’ll take. Maybe an hour. Maybe the rest of the morning.

  “Trying to scare up a date for the weekend, huh?”

  “That’s not really funny.”

  She arched her eyebrows. “Are we having girl problems?”

  I smiled, shrugged, and said, “We’ll survive.”

  She narrowed her eyes. Trying to decide whether to tease me or offer sympathy, I guessed. “You’ll grow up,” she said, which wasn’t exactly teasing but certainly wasn’t the least bit sympathetic.

  “Let’s hope not,” I said. I pivoted around and strode to my office. At the door I said, “Until further notice. Remember.”

  “Poor baby,” she said. Teasing, I decided.

  I spread the six photos and two index cards over my desk, studied the photos for a few minutes, then turned them over. I observed again that the names and addresses on their backs did not appear to have been written in Daniel’s hand, while those on the two index cards did.

  I lit a cigarette and reached for the phone.

  There was no listing for Carmine Repucci. So much for the two guys on the index cards.

  The information operator found no Kekko with a telephone in Amherst.

  There were several Whitlaws in Pawtucket, Rhode Island, two named James. One lived at 422 Hillside Avenue.

  A woman answered the pho
ne with a cheery “Hello?”

  “I’d like to speak to James Whitlaw, please,” I said.

  “I’m sorry.” The cheeriness in her voice had disappeared.

  “He’s not in?”

  “Who is this?”

  “My name is Brady Coyne. I’m an attorney, and—”

  “Please,” she said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Mr. Coyne, what is it?”

  “I just need to speak to Mr. Whitlaw. I think he has some information for me.”

  She sighed. “You can’t speak to my husband.”

  “But—”

  “Somebody’s either playing a dirty trick on both of us, or else you’ve been misinformed. James died eight years ago.”

  “Oh” was all I could think of to say.

  “What did you really want, Mr. Coyne?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m embarrassed.”

  “Can I help you?”

  “I don’t know. Does the name Daniel McCloud mean anything to you?”

  She hesitated, then said, “No. I don’t think so.”

  “A friend of your… of Mr. Whitlaw?”

  “Could be. I don’t know. I don’t know anybody named Daniel McCloud.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  She sighed. “I guess so.”

  “How did your husband die?”

  “He drove his car into a bridge abutment. It exploded. They said he was drunk.”

  “Oh, gee…”

  “It was a long time ago, Mr. Coyne.”

  “Would you mind if I ran a few other names by you?”

  “What kind of names?”

  “Just to see if you recognize any of them. People your husband might’ve known or mentioned to you.”

  “I suppose so.”

  I read the other seven names and, as an afterthought, added Al Coleman.

  “No,” she said. “Uh. They don’t ring any bells.”

  “Well, then, I’m sorry to bother you,” I said. “Thank you for your time.”

  “It’s okay.”

  There were half a dozen phone listings for Evans in Saratoga Springs. None lived on Windsor Drive or had the first name of Mitchell.

  An entire DiSimione clan lived in Providence, but none lived at 1146 West Central. I jotted down the numbers of the five Michaels, thinking I’d try them later if nothing better turned up.

  A man’s voice answered Bertram Wanzer’s phone in Holyoke. Bingo, I thought. Finally.

  “Is this Bertram Wanzer?” I said.

  “This is Robert.”

  “Is Bertram there?”

  “No,” he said, “the bastard is not here.”

  “Could I leave a message for him?”

  “Look,” he said, “what do you want, anyway?”

  “I’m a lawyer,” I said. “I need his help on a case.”

  “Well, good luck.”

  “Can you tell me how I can reach Bertram Wanzer, please?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Do you mind—?”

  “Look, friend. Old Bert walked out on my mother six years ago, okay? No good-bye, no note, nothing. He just fucking left her, not to be heard from since. It took her three years to realize the sonofabitch wasn’t coming back. So she divorced him. That’s it. He’s dead, as far as we’re concerned. So when you talk to him, tell him we’re doing just fine without him. Better than ever, okay?”

  “But you don’t know how I can reach him.”

  “I told you—”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. Listen, I didn’t know any of this, obviously. Maybe you can help me.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “You’re Bertram Wanzer’s son?”

  “His stepson. I don’t like to admit it.”

  “How old were you when he… left?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Do you remember his ever mentioning a man named Daniel McCloud.”

  “I don’t remember much of anything about him. No. No McCloud.”

  “Are you sure? It’s very important.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Is your mother there?”

  “She’s working.”

  “Would you mind leaving a message for her? Ask her about Daniel McCloud. If it rings a bell have her call me. Will you?”

  He sighed. “Give me your number.”

  I left my office and home numbers with Robert Wanzer, less than hopeful that I’d ever hear from Bertram’s former wife. I scribbled a reminder for myself to try her in the evening.

  There were several Johns but no Jean Beaulieu on River Drive or anywhere else in Manchester, New Hampshire. I took down all the numbers for John. I should, I knew, try them all.

  But I had lost my enthusiasm for this research. I knew how private investigators did it. They just kept calling. They’d visit all the William Johnsons in Springfield, all the Michael DiSimiones in Providence. They’d drop in on Mrs. Whitlaw and the former Mrs. Bertram Wanzer, ingratiate themselves, get them talking. Doggedly, mindlessly, they’d keep at it until something turned up.

  Private detecting was more painfully tedious, even, than practicing law.

  I lit a cigarette and swiveled around to look out my office window.

  Eight names from Daniel’s insurance file.

  I’d taken my best cuts. I had struck out.

  I tried Lieutenant Fusco’s number. A female cop told me that Fusco wasn’t available. I told her to tell him that I had some names that might interest him in regard to the McCloud investigation. She said she’d have him get back to me.

  I hung up and buzzed Julie.

  “Hi, there” came her voice over the console.

  “This is your further notice,” I said.

  “Goodie. Wanna do some law?”

  “Not especially.”

  “I’ll be right in.”

  Charlie McDevitt and I had lunch at Marie’s two days later, which was the first Thursday in November. When the coffee came, Charlie leaned across the table and said, “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Well, what do you want?”

  “Who said I wanted something? Any reason a man can’t buy his old roomie lunch?”

  “You don’t just buy me lunch. We do each other favors and repay them with lunch. Or else we buy the lunch first, thereby creating an obligation. That’s how you and I do it.”

  I lit a cigarette. “A sympathetic ear, maybe.”

  He cocked his head and smiled. “The beauteous Terri Fiori, huh?”

  “She decided to break it off. Before the thrill was gone.”

  “You’re the one who usually does that,” said Charlie.

  I nodded. “I guess that’s true.”

  “So it must’ve been easier this time, her doing it.”

  “Easier, I guess. But it hurt more.”

  “You ought to settle down, Brady.”

  “Think so?”

  He looked at me. “No, I guess not.”

  “She did it nicer than I ever could have.”

  “Give yourself credit,” said Charlie. “I bet you made it easy for her.”

  I shrugged. Charlie and I did not exchange locker-room talk.

  “So you’re sad. That’s good. You’ll remember it fondly.”

  “Boy,” I said, “I sure as hell will.”

  Our waitress refilled our coffee cups.

  “You want advice?” said Charlie.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  “I’ve been trying to get ahold of Lieutenant Fusco,” I said after a minute. “The state cop in charge of Daniel’s murder.”

  “And?”

  “He won’t talk to me, won’t return my calls.”

  “Why should he?”

  I shrugged. “I’m trying to help. I want to know what’s happening.”

  “Hey, Brady,” said Charlie.

  “Yeah?”

  “Forget it.”

  “Who says?”

  “Me. Your friend
.”

  “I said I didn’t want advice.”

  “On matters of the heart, I don’t have any useful advice. On stuff like this I do. Whether you want to hear it or not. Forget it. Go practice your law. Last time I looked, you were getting rusty.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  He sighed, then smiled at me. “Okay. I tried. What can I do?”

  “I’d sure like to know who rammed a broadhead into Daniel McCloud’s heart.”

  “Me, too. The cops’ll do that for us.”

  “I got the feeling they won’t. I got the feeling they aren’t even trying.”

  “Just because they aren’t confiding in you?”

  “Partly, I guess. But I’m getting these vibes.”

  “Yeah. Vibes are good.”

  “I mean it,” I said. “Something’s going on.”

  “Fine. So I repeat. What can I do?”

  “I’ve got some names.”

  “Names?”

  “Cammie gave me Daniel’s records. I’m handling the probate for her. Anyway, we found an envelope in with his insurance stuff. It contained six photographs and two index cards. Eight names and addresses.”

  “Insurance?”

  I nodded.

  Charlie stared at me for a moment. “And you think one of ’em killed Daniel?”

  I shrugged. “There’s more. Daniel had written this book, and I sent it to Al Coleman. Remember?”

  He nodded.

  “Listen, Charlie. At first Al loved Daniel’s book. Then a couple of weeks later he called to tell me that he’d changed his mind and was sending the book back. Said he didn’t want to deal with Daniel. Sounded almost like he was afraid of him or something. Anyway, the manuscript didn’t arrive, so I tried calling to find out where it was. Kept getting their answering machine. Finally last week I got ahold of Al’s wife. Bonnie, the girl he used to bring to our place in New Haven. She told me Al got mugged. They found him dead in a subway station.”

  “Shit.” Charlie shook his head slowly.

  “This had to’ve happened sometime shortly after he called me to reject Daniel’s book.”

  “So?”

  I shrugged. “Coincidence?”

  “Most things are, Brady. What are you getting at?”

  “I don’t know. I just want to know who killed Daniel, and why. That’s all.”

  “And you think this book…?”

  “I don’t know what to think. I keep remembering how Daniel’s trafficking charges got mysteriously dropped. That’s when he gave me the book. Next thing we know, he and Al Coleman are dead. Now I’ve got these names…”