by Parnell Hall
“I don’t really see how this helps?”
“Well,” I said. “It’s early yet.”
He frowned. “What does that mean?”
“If the medical examiner puts the time of death around when you were losing that big hand, it’ll help a lot.”
8
SAM KESTIN WORKED IN A BANK.
Don’t get me wrong. The guy was no wage slave. This was not some poor teller, counting and recounting stacks of money all day long for people cashing checks. No, Sam Kestin wore a three-piece suit and sat in an alcove cordoned off from the rest of the bank by a velvet rope, behind a desk, to which I had no doubt the privileged few would be summoned, one at a time, to be told with an icy smile why the loan they had requested had not been approved.
Sorry. I’m a bigot. It’s entirely possible Sam Kestin was a benevolent banker, engaged in the humanitarian work of dispensing wealth and wisdom to the upwardly mobile middle classes in an effort to help them better themselves.
But I doubt it.
“I’ll try to make this brief,” I said. “I realize you’re busy.”
There had been a half a dozen people waiting to see Mr. Kestin. Not wanting to wait with them, I had barged ahead with my ID.
Kestin waved it away. “I’m always busy. No need to rush. Sit down and tell me what you need.”
Sam Kestin sat at his desk. He was a young man; indeed, he looked too young for his position. He was plump, with a pudgy baby face. It occurred to me, in terms of the poker game, that made three for three.
“Now, then,” Kestin said, “this is about Anson?”
“That’s right.”
He shook his head. “Terrible business. Terrible. I knew Barbara, you know.”
“Barbara?”
“His wife. Didn’t you know her name?”
“I did, but I think you’re the first person who referred to her. As Barbara, I mean.”
“Yeah, well, I knew her. Known them for some time. We even had dinner.”
“Are you married?”
“No. Why? Oh, you mean for a dinner date. No, I brought a girlfriend the times we went out.”
I was sure he had. I was also sure she was half his size, sleek, svelte, every inch a knockout. Ah, the simple joys of prosperity.
“And you run a poker game,” I said.
He frowned. “Well, I wouldn’t say run. I play in a poker game. It’s sometimes at my house.”
“I didn’t mean to imply you were Nathan Detroit. The fact is, two nights ago there was a poker game in your house.”
“That’s right.”
“This was a regular game, though not necessarily at your house?”
He nodded. “Exactly.”
“And Anson Carbinder is a regular at this game?”
“Yes, he is.”
“And was he there at your house two nights ago?”
“Absolutely.”
“Was he there for the whole game?”
“Absolutely.”
“What time did he get there?”
“I don’t know exactly. But sometime between eight and eight-thirty.”
“Was he the first to arrive or the last?”
“He wasn’t the first and he wasn’t the last. Somewhere in the middle. I think Phil was first and I think Ollie Pruett was last. You remember those. First, because you’re alone, so when the guy arrives it’s just you and him. And the last because you’re all there except him. And you’re saying things like, Should we start, or should we wait for Ollie?”
“Right. And Anson Carbinder?”
“Arrived somewhere in between. If you want to guess, I’d say eight-fifteen. It might have been closer to eight. It might have been closer to eight-thirty. I just don’t know. But sometime in that half hour.”
“And when did he leave?”
“Two o’clock. When the game broke up.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Absolutely. He stayed till the last hand.”
“Did everybody stay till then?”
“Oh, sure. Except for Tim Hendricks. He always quits early.”
“Tim Hendricks?”
“Yeah. He cut out at midnight. Always does. You could set your watch by it.”
“I see,” I said. “So how many people played the last hand?”
He paused, thought. “Six.”
“You sure?”
“Sure. There were seven in the game. Tim went home, that left six. Right. The last two hours there were just the six of us.”
“And one of them was Anson Carbinder?”
“Yes, of course.”
I frowned. “That’s not what Marvin Wainwright said.”
Sam Kestin’s eyes widened. Then narrowed. “You mean Marv said Anson wasn’t there?”
“No, no,” I said. “I didn’t mean that. But according to him everyone was there at the end. He didn’t tell me anybody left.”
“Oh, that,” Kestin said. He smiled. “I’m not surprised. Marv’s a nice guy, but he’s the type of guy wouldn’t notice if it was raining. You can’t really go by what he remembers.”
“That’s a shame,” I said, “because it just might matter.”
“I know,” he says. “But I wouldn’t worry. There’s enough of us who’ll get it right.”
“I know,” I said. “But that’s not the point.”
“What is?”
“We’re going to wind up with six separate recollections. The more they differ, the more the prosecutor will have to pick apart.”
“I see,” Kestin said. “But don’t worry. I’ll straighten Marv out.”
I put up my hand. “I’d be careful there. Sure, you don’t want glaring discrepancies. But if your stories dovetail too nicely, they sound rehearsed.”
Kestin nodded. “I hear you. Anything else?”
“Not really. Unless Mr. Carbinder happened to leave the game at any point during the evening. I assume if he had, you’d have mentioned it.”
“Yes, I would. But the fact is he didn’t.”
“Anything else you can remember that might be of help?”
“Like what?”
“You remember any of the specifics of the game—particularly with regard to Anson—that would help cement the idea he was there? Any particular hand, for instance?”
“Oh, sure,” Kestin said. “There was one killer of a hand Anson won, where he went high when it looked like he was going low.”
“Would that be seven-card stud?”
“That’s right. Seven stud, high/low. Anson looked like he had a low straight, turned out he had a full house. A lot of people got burned.”
“Including you?”
“Especially me. I could have gone low with a nine. But I also had three eights. Anson’s showing four to a wheel. That’s ace, two, three, four, five. We call it a wheel, because it goes both ways if you’re playing fifty-four low. Anyway, who’s going to go low with a nine looking at a wheel? Particularly sitting with trips? So of course I go high and get burned.”
“Along with everybody else?”
“Well, I think he’d bumped half of us out by then. But it was still a big pot.”
“And everyone went high?”
“Sure did; And Anson took it all. I remember thinking, this was his lucky night.” Kestin snorted. “Yeah. And look what he went home to.”
“Right,” I said. “And this hand—was that just before he went home?”
“Not just before. Maybe an hour or so.”
“That would be around one o’clock?”
“That’s a guess. But somewhere in that neighborhood.”
“You have any idea if it was before or after one?”
“Not really. Around one’s the best I can do.”
“I’m sorry to push. But it might be important.”
“Why? Oh, is that when it happened?”
“We don’t know yet. That’s why I say it might be important.”
“Right. Well, you gotta understand. You’re playing c
ards, there’s no reason to remember when a particular hand took place. A big hand, you’re concentrating on the cards, not looking at your watch.”
“I understand. Can you think of anything else that might help.”
“Not offhand. If I do, who should I call?”
I took out one of Richard Rosenberg’s business cards, scribbled my name on the back. “The attorney’s Richard Rosenberg, of the law firm of Rosenberg and Stone. I’m Stanley Hastings. You can reach me through this number.”
We both stood up and he offered his hand, I guess out of habit. As I shook it, he said, “For what it’s worth, I hope they catch the creep who did this.”
“Me too.”
“I feel terrible about this. I liked Barbara. I like Anson.”
I guess I’m just a cynic.
I couldn’t help wondering if he liked Connie Maynard.
9
“ANSON WON A BIG HAND.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Real big. It was a high/low hand and he won it all.”
Ollie Pruett hadn’t bothered with any of the amenities. I’d barely gotten in the door when he started telling me about Anson Carbinder’s big hand.
Ollie Pruett was a fidgety little man. He was the first nonpudgy poker player, and the first one whose manner was decidedly nervous. I wondered if the two went hand in hand. At any rate, the man was certainly jumpy. I could imagine him in a poker game, agonizing over every bet.
Not that he needed to. Where Ollie Pruett matched the other poker players was in being affluent. So much so, he didn’t seem to see the need to go to work on a mid-week afternoon. Of course, if you own your business, who’s going to complain? Ollie owned his—a chain of camping-supply stores which I understood were doing well. At least well enough to let Ollie maintain a rather nice penthouse apartment on Central Park South.
And to stock it with birds. Ollie Pruett’s living room boasted a spectacular view of Central Park, and upwards of fifty varieties of birds.
Exotic birds. Colorful birds. I know nothing about birds, but it occurred to me they must be valuable. It also occurred to me that some of the birds were tropical, and the living room was rather warm.
Most of the birds were in cages, but a few were flying around wild. I found this strangely disconcerting. “A big hand, you say?”
“Yes, yes, that’s right,” Pruett said. “Oh, I’m sorry. Please sit down.”
I did, not without some trepidation—would sitting down make me seem a perch?
Ollie sat himself across from me on a chrome and leather chair, looking himself very much like a bird that at any moment might take flight. “Yes, that’s right,” he said. “Anson won a big hand.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. It was a seven stud, high/low, and Anson won the whole pot.”
“A big pot?”
“Real big.”
“Tell me about it.”
Ollie hesitated a moment. “You talk to the other guys?”
“Some of them.”
“Didn’t they tell you about the hand?”
“Sure. But I’d like to hear your version.”
“Version?”
I smiled. “Everybody remembers things differently. No two people’s recollections are going to be the same. It’s interesting to compare and contrast.”
“Is that what you’re doing?”
“Sure. So tell me what you remember.”
Ollie Pruett frowned, looked uncomfortable. “I don’t like this.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s like it’s too important. You know. Like Anson’s in trouble if I don’t get it right.”
“Not at all,” I said. “There’s no right or wrong. There’s just what you happen to remember.”
“Uh-huh,” Pruett said. He still didn’t look happy.
“So just tell me what you know.”
“Well, it was a big hand, and I thought Anson was going to go high, but he went low.”
“Oh?”
Pruett made a face. “I’m sorry. I mean the other way around. I thought he was going to go low and he went high.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes. He had four low cards showing. So everyone thought he was going low. But he went high and won the whole pot.”
“Because everybody went high?”
“Right.”
“Including you?”
“Sure.”
“What did you have?”
“I’m sorry,” Pruett said. “Do you want something? Coffee? A drink?”
I couldn’t imagine eating in that apartment. There were bird droppings on the floor. I wondered if he noticed. “I’m fine,” I said. “But about the hand.”
“Oh. I had two pair. But Anson had a full house.”
“Uh-huh. Did you stay in till the end?”
“Yeah,” he said. When I said nothing, he added, “Well, you know how it is. You get sucked in, and then it’s hard to fold.”
“Right,” I said. “A lot of other people stay in?”
“Yeah. A lot did.”
“How many?”
He frowned. “I’m not sure. There were seven in the game. I don’t think they all stayed. But how many actually did? I’m really not sure.”
“Sam Kestin?”
“Huh?”
“Did Sam Kestin stay?”
He squinted at me. “You talked to him already, right? Well, if he says he did, he did. I just don’t remember.”
“You remember when the hand was over?”
“What do you mean?”
“When Anson had a full house. Wasn’t there talk about why didn’t anybody go low?”
“Oh, sure.”
“And could anyone have gone low?”
“Huh?”
“Anyone have a low hand? Anyone say, Damn, I should have gone low?”
“I think so. But I don’t remember who.”
“You weren’t thinking of going low?”
“No. I didn’t have a low. I had two pair.”
“Right. Anyway, when Anson won the pot, you remember what time it was?”
He frowned. “No, I don’t.”
“Would you know if it was before or after midnight?”
“I really couldn’t say.”
“You have no idea at all?”
He shook his head. “That’s how it is in these poker games. You lose all track of time.”
“Uh-huh. But you know what time you got there?”
“Between eight and eight-thirty.”
“And who was there then?”
“Let me see. Sammy. Phil. Marv, I think.”
“What about Anson Carbinder?”
“He was there.”
“When you arrived?”
“I think so. Either then, or right after. Everyone came more or less the same time.”
“What time did you go home?”
“Two o’clock. The game broke up at two o’clock.”
“Was Anson still there?”
“That’s right. Anson was still there.”
“He ever leave the game?”
“Huh?”
“Between the time he got there, between eight and eight-thirty, till the game broke up at two o’clock—did he ever leave the game? Did he ever leave the apartment? Did he go out for any reason?”
“No.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Absolutely. That I would not have missed.”
“Anyone else leave the game for any reason?”
“No. Oh, except Tim went home early.”
“Tim?”
“Tim Hendricks. He leaves early.”
“Uh-huh. But, aside from that, no one left the game all night long?”
“That’s right.”
“Including Anson Carbinder?”
“Including Anson Carbinder.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “You remember anything else about the game? Anything at all that might be important?”
A parrot settled on Ol
lie Pruett’s shoulder. It was a beautiful red and yellow and green.
He barely noticed. “No, I don’t,” he said.
“You’ve told me everything you know?”
“Yes, I have. That’s it. Everything.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Ollie Pruett said.
But he did not look happy.
10
“SO HOW’S IT GOING?”
“Okay, I guess. I’m really just getting started.”
“Uh-huh,” Richard said. “How many of the poker players did you talk to?”
“Three.”
“Stories jibe?”
“Pretty much. A few discrepancies. As you’d expect.”
“But nothing out of line?”
“No. Why, should there be?”
“There should not. But that doesn’t mean it won’t happen.”
“Uh-huh. So what’s up? Why’d you call me in?”
Wendy/Janet had beeped me as I was leaving Ollie Pruett’s and when I’d called in she’d told me to report to the office. I’d assumed it was to meet with Anson Carbinder and was surprised to find he wasn’t there.
Richard tilted back in his desk chair, cocked his head. “I thought we should map out our campaign.”
“Campaign?”
“Yes. It looks like this may drag on a bit. I don’t expect it to go away.”
“Neither do I.”
“So we need to take a long-range viewpoint. What is the worst-case scenario? Anson Carbinder is charged with murder and goes to trial.”
I said nothing. Richard might describe that as a worst-case scenario, but I happened to know there was nothing the man would love better. It would be the fulfillment of a lifelong dream.
“If that is the case,” Richard said, “we have an incredible amount of preparation to do. The bit with the witnesses is fine, but it’s really just scratching the surface. There’s still an awful lot to be done.”
“Why?”
Richard frowned. “What do you mean, why?”
“Just that. If the poker alibi checks out, how can there be a case?”
“No alibi is airtight. Everything is based on allegation and belief. These guys are friends of Anson. The prosecutor will make the argument that they would certainly lie to save him.” Richard shrugged. “Now, the more the merrier. You give me six stories that check out, that’s hard to break down. But, still, even the best testimony isn’t rock solid.”
