3 Strange Bedfellows

by Matt Witten

  "If you're so all-fired sensitive about Ducky," I said, "then how come this week you suddenly asked him to endorse you? After all, you're still having sex with his wife—"

  "No, that's over. I ended it two months ago."

  "Your nose is growing. Ducky walked in on you and Linda last week."

  Pierce looked startled. "No way. Who told you that?"

  "The quack man himself," I said triumphantly.

  "But..."

  "But what?"

  Pierce blinked. "I don't get it. I really did break up with Linda. And as far as I know, Ducky never found out about us. So why would he make up this story?"

  "Someone's making up a story, that's for damn sure."

  Suddenly his eyes lost their baffled look and snapped into focus. "That would explain it, though."

  " What would explain what?"

  "Why Ducky is supporting Susan Tamarack instead of me. He must've found out somehow that me and Linda used to sleep together."

  My head was spinning. If I believed Linda, she slept with the Hack last week. But Ducky said no, she slept with Pierce last week. Meanwhile Pierce said it wasn't last week, it was two months ago.

  This was worse than Peyton Place. I never knew Republicans had so much fun. I stood up.

  "I'll be in touch," I said.

  Pierce eyed me worriedly. "Where are you going?"

  "Home. Hanging around with Republicans is bad for my health."

  "You're not going to spread malicious rumors about me, are you?"

  "I might," I told him, "and I might not."

  When I opened the door to Grandma's at one a.m., the phone was in mid-ring. I ran to it, hoping it hadn't already woken up my stressed-out family.

  "Hello?"

  "I can't believe it! Jacob Burns, the man himself! I finally found you!"

  "Much to my chagrin. What's up, Shmuck? How'd the campaigning go today?"

  "Great. I got some awful strange looks, but a lot of support, too. Hey, did you see the Channel 6 late-night news?"

  "Can't say I did. Why?"

  Like the ESPN sportscaster Chris Berman announcing a touchdown, Will shouted, "He… could... go… all... the… way!"

  "Shmuck, don't shout at me, it's one in the morning. What have you been drinking?"

  "Just coffee, baby, but in ten days it'll be champagne! Channel 6 took a poll. Pierce: twenty-four percent. The widow: twenty percent. William Shmuckler: nineteen percent! We're in striking distance, my man! We're on the move!"

  "Wait a second. That doesn't add up to even close to a hundred."

  "Because we've got undecideds coming out the wazoo. Most of them are non-voters, so screw 'em. And the talking heads all said exactly what I've been saying: a lot of the birdbrains who say they're for Pierce or the widow won't actually go to the trouble of writing in their names. So the reality is, I'm probably winning!" There was a pause. "What do you say about that?"

  "Nothing. I'm too stunned. I'm in total shock."

  Will laughed. "So what exciting stuff have you found out today?"

  Good question. I knew a lot more than I did before . . . but what did it all add up to?

  "Come on, bro, what you got?" Will asked impatiently. "We need some good dirt on Pierce and the widow to put me over the top."

  "Hey, one thing at a time. I'm trying to keep you out of jail, not get you elected."

  "What's the difference? You do one, you do the other. Especially if you can prove Pierce or the widow killed him. It's gotta be one of those two."

  "What? I thought you were all psyched to pin it on Ducky."

  "Yeah, but I've been thinking. The motive is so obvious: either Pierce or Susan killed the Hack so that he—or she—could run for Congress."

  "They have other possible motives, too."

  "Like what?"

  I considered informing Will about the photograph of Pierce. But I didn't trust him to keep that juicy tidbit out of the papers, and I wasn't ready to go public with it yet. "I'll tell you as soon as I can," I said.

  "Tell me now," Will said. "Look, you don't know what I'm going through. Before I campaigned today, I had to spend two hours giving hair samples, tissue samples—"

  "You're kidding me. They had a warrant for that?"

  "No. They just asked me for it, and I said okay."

  "You said what? Why'd you do that?"

  "Why not? I'm innocent. Besides, it's better for my campaign if I can say I'm cooperating fully with the police."

  "Look, you really should get a lawyer already. Like I said, I'll be glad to lend you the money—"

  "I don't need your money, Jake, I just need a little good news after being treated like a goddamn criminal. Is that so much to ask?"

  I sighed. "All right, lay off the Jewish guilt trip. You ready?"

  "I'm way past ready."

  So I broke down and told Will all about the hidden photograph, and Pierce and Sarafian's explanation that the money was just a "legitimate campaign contribution."

  "Legitimate, my ass," Will snorted.

  "Hey, it's possible. With campaign finance laws the way they are, how can you tell a legit contribution from a bribe?"

  "So what do you plan on doing about it?"

  I'd figured that one out already. "I'll see Zzypowski first thing Monday morning, find out if a thousand bucks buys me a few more details on what really went down between Sarafian and Pierce."

  A repeated thumping noise came over the phone, which puzzled me until Will explained it. "That sound you hear is me clapping with excitement. If you can prove Pierce took a bribe, and the Hack was busting his chops about it, then we've got a murder motive and a killer campaign issue! Now all we need is the goods on the widow."

  "Wrong. All I need is to get off the phone and catch some sleep."

  "Wait a minute, Jake—"

  But I hung up, then pursued Plan A and took the phone off the hook. My adrenaline had run out and I was dog-tired. Acting like a hard-ass all day can wear a man out, especially if he's an artiste type like me. I almost stumbled and fell as I headed downstairs to the basement bedroom where Andrea and I sleep when we're at Grandma's house.

  Before going to bed, though, I went to Derek Jeter and Bernie Williams's room to give them a kiss. As I opened the door, my nose was greeted by a most unwelcome smell. It didn't take any clever sleuthing to figure out that Bernie had peed in the bed again.

  I guess I wouldn't be going to sleep just yet. I sighed and rummaged in the boys' suitcase for a fresh pair of underwear and pajama bottoms.

  A private dick's work is never done.

  The next morning, a Sunday, Andrea was planning to drive to her college so she could sneak into Jeremy Wartheimer's office. But she was stymied when she realized she didn't have the key to the front door of McCracken Hall, which is locked on weekends. The AAA card trick wouldn't work on the front door.

  So she decided to put off her big burglary until Monday morning between nine and eleven, when Jeremy would be busy teaching his elective on "A Re-Deconstructive Analysis of Capitalist Literature." He only had two students in the class, but they always met for the full two hours. That would give Andrea plenty of time to do a re-deconstructive analysis of Jeremy's door lock.

  With her criminal activities postponed, Andrea and I had time for a quiet breakfast in the kitchen. The boys were on the back porch with Grandma, showing her the Yankees' web site. Now that the kids were safely out of earshot—or so I thought—I brought Andrea up to date on all the blackmailing sex, and wife-beating.

  But it turned out they weren't out of earshot. I discovered this later that day, much to my consternation, at Derek Jeter's first baseball practice.

  The practice itself, at Saratoga's West Side Rec, was thoroughly entertaining. Charles Schulz, of Peanuts fame, once said that the reason little league is so funny is because kids love baseball so much—and yet they're so bad at it. I think he was right on the money. Watching these kids go through careful, elaborate windups before throwing the ball�
�only to miss their target by thirty feet—was funnier and more poignant than most Broadway plays.

  Andrea, Bernie, and I sat in the bleachers eating Twizzlers and enjoying the action. Only one thing prevented me from fully relaxing: the fact that Hack Sr. was in the bleachers too, a couple of benches up. His grandson Sean was on Derek's team. The old man alternated between cheering on his grandson, coughing, and giving me the evil eye. I was almost glad when he had an especially horrible coughing spasm and headed off to the snack bar, presumably in search of something to drink.

  At that point the team was playing a five-on-five scrimmage. Derek was at shortstop, and Sean was in the dugout waiting to bat. Bernie turned to me and asked, "Daddy, can I go sit in the dugout, too?"

  Since it was just a practice, I didn't think the coaches would mind. The dugout was right next to us, so I could keep an eye on him. "Sure, go ahead," I said.

  Bernie scampered down from the bleachers into the dugout. Then he walked straight up to Sean and asked, "Did your dad beat up your mom?"

  Talk about mortifying. Andrea and I jumped up, intending to run over to the dugout and pull our son away from poor Sean. But something kept us rooted to the spot. I guess we really wanted to hear Sean's answer.

  But Sean didn't speak right away. So my little five-year-old private eye continued his relentless interrogation. "Did your dad beat up your mom?" he repeated.

  "I'm not supposed to talk about it," Sean finally answered.

  "How come?" Bernie asked.

  "Because people might vote against my dad."

  "Oh." Bernie frowned in thought, then asked, "But isn't your dad dead?"

  "Yeah, but now they might vote against my mom."

  Bernie's forehead was so furrowed, it looked like you could plant rows of corn in it. Trying to figure out politics has the same effect on me. "You mean people might not like your mom because she got beat up?"

  "I'm not supposed to talk about it," Sean said.

  Then one of the coaches called out, "Sean, you're up next!"

  He ran to get his bat. The interrogation was over just in time, because Hack Sr. was heading back toward us. He had a large soda in his hands. Meanwhile Bernie came running back up the bleachers. "Daddy, guess what?" he called out, obviously proud of himself. "I asked Sean about his dad beating up his mom!"

  Several other parents in the bleachers turned startled eyes at me. "Be quiet, Bernie," I whispered urgently.

  "Sean's not supposed to talk about it," Bernie went on, oblivious. "He said people might not vote for—"

  "That's enough," Andrea said sharply. "We don't want to hear it." Especially because Hack Sr. was almost upon us, and he was listening.

  Bernie looked hurt. "But I thought you wanted to know!" he complained loudly. "Don't you want to know if the Hack was beating her up and so then she killed him?!"

  Hack Sr. was so busy staring at us, he tripped over a small tree root by the bleachers. As he fell forward and tried to steady himself, he hit the bleacher rail with his forearm. A bloody red gash opened on his wrist. He sank onto a bench.

  "Mr. Tamarack!" I exclaimed. "Are you all right?"

  For reply, he threw what was left of his soda at me.

  I couldn't say I blamed him.

  11

  Bernie Williams's baseball practice, which began two hours later, was much less tense—thank God—but just as comical. A lot of these kids had never played baseball before, so they were running the bases backward, putting their gloves on the wrong hand, and in general acting unbearably cute.

  I was disappointed that I had to go to prison before practice ended. As a teacher, not an inmate. Ordinarily, with so much going on in my life I might have canceled class. But today was the first day of the new semester, and I hated to disappoint the guys. When you're in jail, everyone you know—relatives, lawyers, social workers— is always promising you things and then not following through. So I do my best to be reliable.

  I didn't feel too reliable, since I hadn't prepared at all for the class. Fortunately this was the fifth time I'd taught Creative Writing at the prison, so I more or less knew what I was doing.

  But no amount of experience teaching in prisons can ever make you totally lose that seasick feeling you get in your stomach when the guards escort you down those hallways and the metal doors start clanging shut all around you.

  These men weren't dogs, they were caged animals. Or at least that's how they were treated.

  So I tried to treat them like men. When I came into the classroom and they were all hanging out by the front desk, I took care to shake their hands individually and look them in the eyes.

  I'm a big believer in education and job training for prisoners. But still, my gut impression is there's nothing more important to these despised men than having someone simply shake their hands, look them in the eyes, and give them at least some modicum of respect.

  Actually, another thing that means a lot to them is if you bring them homemade cookies. But the last time I tried that, I got so much grief from the guards—"How do we know those cookies don't contain contraband? What if those chocolate chips are really bullets?"—that I haven't tried it since.

  As I went through my class list and took the roll for the first time, I came upon the name "Geronimo Owens." It belonged to a cheerful-looking, dark brown-skinned young man in the front row.

  " 'Geronimo Owens.' Cool name," I said, just making conversation, trying to establish a little first-day-of-class rapport. "Were you named after the Apache chief?"

  Geronimo's smiling face instantly turned blank. "Don't know," he mumbled, and looked away from me.

  My mind must have been elsewhere, because I missed his obvious cues to shut up and lay off him. "So are you part Indian?" I asked.

  Geronimo turned back to me, his face no longer blank. Instead it filled up with pure, unadulterated hatred. I seemed to be inspiring that emotion in a lot of people lately. If this were a dark alley, I'd be dead in five seconds, or at least missing a kneecap or two.

  "Don't know," Geronimo answered me, in a voice colder than Pluto.

  "Oh, sorry," I said quickly, then moved on as fast as I could to the next name on the list. I blushed hotly, feeling everyone in the class staring at me.

  I understood, too late, what I had just done. I'd humiliated Geronimo in front of the other men by forcing him to admit that he knew little—if anything—about his parents.

  I'd noticed this kind of dynamic before. Most of the inmates had virtually no contact with their fathers, and many of them had seriously messed up mothers, on crack and so on. But even though they shared similar family problems, they almost never talked about this stuff with one another. They were ashamed of their aloneness. They all tried to make it sound like they had much love waiting for them on the outside, be it from parents, girlfriends, big-time drug dealers, or whomever.

  And here I'd busted through Geronimo's cheerful facade, without even meaning to. Phooey. What a way to start the new semester.

  I managed to recover somewhat, giving the men a couple of writing exercises that they got into, and then doing theatre improvs. It helped that one of the men had been in my class last semester, and he acted like a de facto teaching assistant. He led one of the improvs himself, and when I asked for volunteers to read their writing aloud, he raised his hand immediately. Hopefully he wouldn't get grief from the other men for being a teacher's pet . . . though at six foot four and two hundred fifty pounds of hard jailhouse muscle, he could probably handle himself just fine.

  When class was over, I chatted with him. There were still a few minutes left before the guys had to be back in their cells for last count.

  "What's up, Brooklyn?" I asked. "I thought you'd be out on parole by now."

  "Yeah, fuck Pataki, what can I say?"

  "That's too bad. You know, I wrote a letter for you to the board."

  "I appreciate it, man. So what's up with you? I saw on TV about you getting shot at and everything. You gotta stay out of tro
uble, Mr. Burns. We need you in this fucking place."

  "Hey, it's not my fault I got shot at."

  "Yeah, that's what they all say," he joked. "So what happened?"

  Several other guys from class were standing around listening, including Geronimo. I figured I might score a few points if I told them about my foray into the world of politics and murder, so I did. I laid out the entire story, because I knew if these men ever repeated the scandalous rumors I was telling them, it wouldn't matter.

  Since they were just prison inmates, no one would believe them.

  When I finished, Brooklyn spoke up. "So the Hack got capped right before the big debate, huh? What was he gonna say in that debate?"

  "I don't know."

  "Well, I suggest you find out."

  "Why?"

  A couple of the men exchanged looks, like they were amused at my obtuseness. Then Geronimo stepped in. " 'Cause maybe someone popped the man to keep him from saying what he was gonna say. I'm surprised you ain't thought of that. What's the matter with you?"

  Geronimo gave me a nasty sneer, and I realized he was paying me back for humiliating him. But I didn't mind. If Geronimo felt like we were even now, then he wouldn't spend the rest of the semester trying to get even.

  Another reason I didn't mind his sneer was because I was too busy thinking about what he'd just said. "You got a point, Geronimo," I told him. And he did. Maybe the Hack was planning to say something in that debate, and someone found out.

  But how would I find out?

  Did the widow know?

  A guard came by to say it was just three minutes until last count. The inmates went back to their cells and I went back to freedom. I ate dinner with my family and saw them off to their safe haven at Grandma's. I promised I'd be there in a little while. Then I headed for the widow's house.

  When I got there, it was already dark. It had started to rain too, a steady, miserable drizzle. The streets in Susan Tamarack's chichi neighborhood were deserted.

  I got out of my car and shut the door. The sound was oddly muffled in the rain-soaked night. Pulling my baseball cap down low over my eyes, I walked toward the widow's front door.