Right To Die - Jeremiah Healy

by Jeremiah Healy

  "Or death."

  Taking a slug, Hebert said, "Right, right. That's my point. Maisy's got this idea she can save the world by encouraging people to help each other die peaceable. Fine by me. I'm not about to go threatening her about it. I'm happy as can be. You know why?"

  "No."

  "Take any professional athlete — tennis, football, you name it. Once you've seen Paree, it's tough to give that up. Tougher than kicking drugs, I'm told by those who've known both pretty well. But your body, this thing that's made your fortune, sooner or later it lets you down, John. It goes and gets old on you.

  "Now, I never held on to a dime longer than it took to order another round for the house. But it turns out I'm one of the lucky ones. Wasn't a year I was out of the tournaments, with not too many options staring me in the face, when I met up with Maisy. Boy, I was just plain dazzled by her. Don't know what she saw in me other than the usual stuff that the gossips'll spread, and there'd sure be some truth to that."

  Hebert grinned. "I learned two things on the tour, John. How to serve and how to bed a woman. You've got to practice both every day, and I can still do the one to beat the band. But Maisy also provides for me."

  He waved his hand around the room. "This used to be some kind of library. Well, she let me turn it into a shrine. A place I feel comfortable, like old St. Francis enjoying his sainthood before the pope declared it for him. I get everything I want out of this relationship, and I don't have to speak nice with old fogies that couldn't hit a dead hog with the sweet spot on a windless day. Nossir, I don't have to worry about tips or the IRS or club ladies getting fussy because I haven't made a move to lift their skirts. A lot of players I knew — good ones, too, John. Tough, chew-your-leg-off competitors — they've got to worry about those things. Not me. And if you think I'd piss in the well by threatening Maisy, you've got another think coming."

  "Why would I think that?"

  Hebert put his drink on the table, nearly sloshing it. "Because I was here when Inés found the threat note in the mailbox."

  I thought about it. "You hear or see anything unusual that day?"

  "Nothing. Sound asleep for a good part of it. Friend of mine from the old old days, he was in town, and we tied one the night before."

  "You were sleeping off a drunk."

  "Dead to the world till I heard all the commotion downstairs over the note."

  "And tonight?"

  "What about tonight?"

  "You were there, at the auditorium and the bookstore. You see anything?"

  "Just what everybody else did. Bunch of neurotics talking to themselves, except for my Maisy. But I was smiling, John. I was smiling because that's my job, and I'm happy to be doing it."

  "And you're not taking the threats that seriously."

  Hebert retrieved his drink. "You have any notion how many threats Maisy receives in a week?"

  "You have any notion who's behind this batch?"

  "Sure don't."

  "You ever meet the first husband's son?"

  "Who?"

  "The doctor had a son. You ever meet him?"

  "Oh, yeah. Not at the wedding though, I can tell you that. No, there was some kind of business for the estate in Spain. Couple of years ago, still dragging on all that time. Name of . . . just a second . . . Ramone was what Maisy called him."

  "What was your impression of him?"

  A sip. "You ever traveled through Europe, John?"

  "No."

  "Well, you do, and you get certain vibes from people. Like they know you're richer, maybe more powerful than they are, but they still think they're better?"

  "Go on."

  "Well, this guy wasn't like that. All-American and pleased as punch about being in the States. Even changed his name to just Ray, I think."

  "Anything else?"

  Another sip. "Not that I remember. Seems to me Ray signed all the papers he had to, no muss or bother. I don't believe he's been around since."

  "So you wouldn't think the son was behind this?"

  "No. I'll tell you something, though."

  "What's that?"

  "I find the feller's been sending these things . . ." Hebert tossed the rest of his drink at the back of his throat and started to get up, then paused halfway. "I'll crush the sumbitch, John. I will, messing with my life support system like he is."

  * * *

  I closed the doors on Hebert and was halfway around the landing when Maisy Andrus stuck her head through the other threshold on the floor.

  I said, "How are you doing?"

  "All right, I suppose. Do you have a minute?"

  "Sure."

  I followed her into the study, also lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, these actually containing books. There were law titles, but many seemed to be from other disciplines such as philosophy, sociology, medicine, and history. Andrus settled into a desk chair. Off to one side, computer components ranged over a trilevel table. The monitor was still glowing above one of those backless chairs that resemble a disoriented Catholic kneeler.

  I said, "Kind of late to be working, isn't it?"

  A tired smile aimed at the computer table. "I sometimes find it easier to write at night. And you're still working, aren't you?"

  "Your husband's an interesting man."

  Reclining in the chair, Andrus closed her eyes. "Tell me, John. Do you use the word 'interesting' when you're fishing for information about a person?"

  "Sometimes."

  A laugh with an edge of superiority in it. "Actually, I agree with you about Tuck being interesting. Most people don't adjust well to a fading of the limelight. But Tuck seems to be an exception."

  I thought about other people, including me, who'd "adjusted" with alcohol, but I didn't interrupt her.

  "You see, John, Tuck truly lived in the fast lane. Money, cars, women. Real glitz, if that's not an oxymoron. But when it was over, he acknowledged the fact, and he's entered a new phase of his life."

  "Which is?"

  "Being thought of as a 'trophy husband'."

  I remembered the phrase as "trophy wife" from a magazine article on successful male executives. "Meaning you sport Tuck as a trophy husband to show you've made it as a female professional?"

  A brighter smile, the eyes opening. "No pun intended?"

  "No pun intended."

  "My point is, that's how others think of Tuck, as an object of Maisy's overcompensating. But it's not how Maisy thinks of him."

  "I see."

  "What do you see?"

  "I see that you and Wade Boggs are the only people in Boston who refer to themselves in the third person."

  Another laugh, but hearty, not superior. "That's what I mean."

  "What?"

  "My first husband was considerably older than I was. Tuck is somewhat younger than I am. But while that does have its advantages, Tuck is really very smart. Not in a book-learning sense, but like your observation just now. The needle that deflates the balloon, that makes you rethink your own position. From class this morning, I recall my insistence that the students use 'he or she' when referring to an unidentified person such as a client or a judge?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, Tuck once heard me do that, and he remarked that saying it that way took more time. I said that I wanted the students to be comprehensive as well as inoffensive, and he asked me what I did if the client were a corporation or governmental body. I replied that 'he, she, or it' might be appropriate. At that point Tuck gave me that good-ol'-boy grin of his and took out a piece of paper. He wrote 'S/HE/IT' and said 'How about having your students just say it like this?' Well, I pronounced what he'd written, him grinning wider, and it struck me that I had to do a little more justifying with the class on why my approach was important. Tuck wasn't being disrespectful to women. He simply used his wit to make me reexamine my position."

  "Can I do the same?"

  The tired smile this time. "Go ahead."

  "You think your husband is above suspicion?"

&
nbsp; Her features distorted. "Certain of it."

  "How does he benefit if you die?"

  "You call that using your wit'?"

  "I call that getting you to reexamine your position. How about it?"

  Andrus squared her shoulders and sat a little straighter. "He would receive the bulk of my estate, the residue after some charities and public service organizations."

  I inclined my head toward the center of the mansion. "Quite a residue. You have everything here but a two-car garage."

  She didn't get it. "We keep the Benz around the corner, in the Brimmer Street garage."

  A Mercedes in a condo parking space. Add another hundred and a half to the estate. "My point is — "

  "I can see your point, John. I just don't think it has any merit. Tuck is many things, but not a killer. Or somebody who'd threaten it by note. He's an in-your-face sort of man. Besides, trite as it may sound, he loves me and we're happy together."

  "How about Walter Strock?"

  "Walter?"

  "He was there tonight, both at the lecture and the signing when Inés opened the labeled book."

  "Oh, my, John. Perhaps one of us has seen too many movies. Walter Strock is an anachronism. A foolish, petty man whose last refuge from real world inadequacy is a law school faculty where he can play his little mind games. He had to leave practice because the pressure got to him. Anything outside the school itself is now beyond his horizons."

  "The Rabb is 'outside the school'."

  "True, but Walter's performance at the library was a real stretch for him. Believe me."

  "Strock seems pretty bitter toward you."

  "No doubt. Walter thinks I'm somehow the reason he didn't get the deanship, an opportunity to turn Mass Bay into a kind of legal Levittown, his dream of how academia should work."

  "How about your stepson?"

  "My stepson?"

  "Ramon, or Ray'?"

  Andrus shook her head. "No, no. Ramon and I may not care much for each other, but all that was resolved years ago. Besides, if I were to die, he gets nothing."

  "Except the satisfaction that you wouldn't be enjoying all this anymore."

  "John, Ramon is just not interested in me now."

  Andrus seemed to flush a little.

  I said, "Was he ever interested in you?"

  "That's not material here. Believe me, Ramon cannot be part of this." She softened a bit. "John, I remember what you said this morning about psychopaths, and I'm not trying to cover old ground. But tell me, this . . . warning in the book tonight. Does it change your view of the situation?"

  "According to the bookstore manager, anybody could have doctored that copy anytime in the last week. Whoever did it probably knew you wouldn't be likely to see it until tonight. If you want my opinion, our friend is trying to escalate, to move in closer to you. Maybe a better question would be, does tonight change your view of the situation?"

  "No. No in the sense that I'm not about to back down from my positions on the issues. But I have to admit I'm taking the possibility of danger more seriously now. And, consequently, I have to admit that I'm also more interested in what you're going to do next."

  "I went through the box of letters Inés gave me at the school today, and I talked with the cop on the case. I'm going to approach some people who might know something. You have any objection to my seeing the Reverend Givens and Dr. Eisenberg'?"

  "Really'? They couldn't be involved, John."

  "Not directly. But someone who hates you might have sidled up to one of them at some point."

  "I suppose that's possible. So you want to know if I object to your telling Givens and Eisenberg about the notes?"

  "Yes."

  Andrus thought about it. "No, no objection. I've met both of them before, and I know each by reputation. I would trust them to hear what you have to say and to help without publicizing my concern about it."

  "In that case, I'll let you get back to work. Or sleep."

  I was up and turned when she said, "John?"

  "Yes?"

  "I must confess. I really asked you to step in here because I'm curious."

  "Curious?"

  "About what you thought of the debate tonight."

  The debate. "First time I ever watched three pep rallies in the same room."

  A throaty laugh. "You ought to spend more time with Tuck. You'd like each other."

  =12=

  "JOHN?"

  I'd almost reached the bottom of the staircase, watching Manolo sitting in a chair near the front door while Manolo watched me descending the steps. When I turned around, Alec Bacall was holding open the swinging door to the kitchen.

  "Yes, Alec?"

  "Are you on your way out?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Let me walk with you."

  Bacall got our coats from the entry closet, and we bundled up as Manolo unlocked the front door to let us into the cold.

  I said, "Where's Del?"

  "I phoned a cab for him. He has an early call tomorrow."

  "Early call?"

  "Del's an office temp. Knows three word-processing programs by heart. That's how we met, actually, although not really."

  "I don't get you."

  "Well, I met him when he came for an interview — I'm Bacall Office Help. On Boylston, across from the Common? But I didn't really say anything to him then."

  "Why not?"

  "Because he was hoping for a job, and I've always thought it a little unseemly to put the move on potential employees."

  "Sounds like a good rule for any business."

  "It is, believe me. About two months later, though, we ran into each other at a First Night party — last New Year's Eve — and that got us started."

  We'd reached the intersection of Beacon. "Well, this is where I turn."

  Bacall said, "The meter still running?"

  "I charge by the day, not the hour."

  "There's something I want to talk over with you. How far is your car?”

  I pointed up Beacon. "Six blocks that way."

  "A little closer than mine. Can we take a drive?"

  "A drive? Where?"

  "South Boston?"

  * * *

  "So that's the famous Powerhouse Pub?"

  We were passing the gigantic Edison plant on our left, the tavern on the right across Summer Street as it becomes L Street. Bacall was swiveling his head like a kid at the circus.

  I said, "You've never been to Southie before?"

  "How could you tell?"

  "Most people would come by car, and this is the most typical route. You can't miss the Edison, and the pub's pretty obvious."

  "Well, you're right. I moved to Boston in 1974. Can you imagine the impression I had of Southie from the bussing controversy?" In the seventies a series of federal court orders desegregated the Boston public schools. No white kids from South Boston were bussed out, but black kids from other parts of the city were bussed in. The television cameras captured white mothers and fathers throwing curses and rocks at innocent black children, local politicians taking stands that would have made Lester Maddox blanch.

  I said, "Not Southie's finest hour."

  "No. But it all looks so . . . I'm sorry, but ordinary."

  "It is ordinary. Just a stable neighborhood in an era when most people move around a lot. You've still got at least two and sometimes three generations under the same three-decker roof."

  "Fascinating. "

  I didn't think demographics were the reason for the ride, but I gave him time.

  Bacall squinted at a street sign. "Broadway. This is where the St. Patrick's Day parade goes?"

  "That's right. They march between Broadway station and Andrew Square. Not as big a deal now as when I was little."

  "You grew up here?"

  "No, but I used to think so."

  "Good line to remember. I'm from New Jersey myself, near the George Washington Bridge. When they built the lower level, they called it Martha. That was pretty much the humor
when I was little."

  When I didn't respond, Bacall said, "John, does my being gay bother you?"

  I glanced away from the traffic. He was staring at me. I said, "It keeps me from being completely at ease."

  "How do you mean?"

  "Having to be careful what I say."

  "In the sense that . . . ?"

  "At the Rabb tonight, I enjoyed you and Wonsley joking. But I didn't jump in."

  "Why?"

  "I was afraid I might say something you'd take the wrong way."

  "You don't know many gay men, do you?"

  "A few. No real close friends so far as I know."

  Turning left onto Day Boulevard, I glanced at Bacall again. He was smiling, but not in a condescending way. "You put things very well, John."

  "Is there a reason you're asking me all this'?"

  Bacall looked ahead. "Is that Castle Island?"

  The old stone fortress loomed out of the moonlit water. "That's it."

  "Can you pull in and park?"

  "Sure."

  We went over the curbstone, the only car in the lot. I killed the engine.

  Bacall unfastened his seat belt so he could face me. "I was raised Catholic, John."

  "Me too."

  "It wasn't till junior high that I realized I was interested in other boys rather than girls. I didn't do anything about it, not even those gross circle jerks that stupid boys do. I went to church a lot, and to confession about the unclean thoughts. I played basketball, a good small forward. I even dated one of the flag twirlers to look right, though I obviously didn't feel right. I came out sophomore year of college, and I haven't regretted it one day since."

  Not knowing what I was supposed to say, I didn't say anything. "It was difficult, but life's difficult. Any life, all life." He lowered his voice. "Have you been following the AIDS epidemic?"

  "Just TV reports on the victims."

  " 'Victims.' Not a good word, John."

  "It isn't?"

  "No. Victims shrivel up and die. Persons with AIDS, or PWAs, fight back."