Name Games

by Michael Craft

  Without further discussion—and pointedly, without the niceties of greetings or handshakes—we all sat down, arranging ourselves around the table. The hostess had eyed this maneuver from across the room, sending a waitress with our bottled water. A buxom, middle-aged woman in a crisp white uniform (she looked like a nurse), she produced, seemingly from nowhere, a complete set of tableware for Roxanne and me, whisking everything into position with a few adept snaps of her wrist. Tucked under her arm were two menus, which she handed to us. “Today’s special is meat loaf—it’s real good,” she told us. “I’ll check back.” And she vanished.

  Roxanne and Pierce suppressed a snicker. In defense of our earnest server, I told the others, “I’ve had their special meat loaf—many times—and it is real good.”

  Roxanne now broke into open laughter, clamping her hand on my arm, as if telling me to stop. Pierce also laughed, but tried to cover it with a cough, which only added to the noise. Kaiser watched us sternly, sitting ramrod stiff, telegraphing his disapproval of the merriment. His blue-black pompadour jittered atop his head, and he suddenly looked like a pissed poodle. This ludicrous image was more than I could stand. Staring at the DA’s hair, I too broke into laughter. Good grief—Fin Kaiser, poodle with an attitude.

  Everyone at the table, including myself, seemed at a loss for words, as if afraid that whatever was said would take on comic overtones. In truth, our antic behavior had turned a tad juvenile, and it was time to shape up. Mercifully, our waitress returned at that moment to deliver Pierce’s and Kaiser’s main courses, removing their salad plates as she did so—an impressive feat of juggling that proved sufficiently distracting to curtail my laughing jag.

  “Decided?” she asked Roxanne and me.

  Though we hadn’t even looked at our menus, we were pressed for time, so I ordered the meat loaf without even considering other choices. Roxanne queried the woman about fish; learning that the closest available species was shrimp, she ordered the ubiquitous chicken Caesar.

  When the waitress had waddled off, I insisted that Pierce and Kaiser begin without us, which was of course the only sensible option under such awkward circumstances. With hesitation and apologies, they began to eat, which hampered their ability to converse. Roxanne and I were therefore left with nothing to eat and little to discuss. Speaking idly to each other, we attempted to include the other two in our patter, but their participation was limited to an occasional smile or nod while chewing.

  Our small talk could be stretched only so far. The unspoken topic of Carrol Cantrell’s murder hung over the table like a massive chandelier, supported by an impossibly weak thread, threatening to crash. What’s more, only moments before our arrival at the Grill, I had learned from Roxanne that Carrol’s overheard reference to the Miller standard was in all likelihood related to the issue of obscenity—what was that all about? And here we sat with the district attorney—not only did he have a vested political interest in an impending obscenity case, but he’d also invited the sheriff to lunch to discuss something important. The DA wasn’t talking, though, and my reporter’s instincts had revved into high gear. That metaphorical chandelier now creaked and swayed overhead.

  Avoiding the obvious issue of the murder, I said to Kaiser, “So then, Harley, do you think you’ve got a fighting chance to get an obscenity conviction this time?”

  Slowly, he swallowed what was in his mouth and placed his fork on his plate. He knew only too well that I was philosophically opposed to his antismut campaign; he had read my editorial rejoicings when his previous efforts had failed. He probably assumed that I now raised the issue to taunt him, an assumption that, while correct, was incomplete, as my deeper motive related to the intriguing possibility of some connection between the obscenity issue and Carrol Cantrell.

  In a flat, emotionless tone, he told me, “I have no comment on the impending trial, Mr. Manning.” He often addressed me as “Mark,” I noted, but not this time; today he saw me as the press, which is to say, the liberal press, the enemy. He continued, “The war against pornography will not ultimately be won in the courtroom, but in the hearts of the public.” This struck me as an odd statement, coming from Kaiser. Though there were many things I didn’t like about the man, I generally admired his sapless pragmatism; he rarely indulged in such flights of rhetorical blather. As if to explain this seeming inconsistency, he reminded me, “The County Plan Commission has issued its report, you know, and Dr. Benjamin Tenelli speaks with a highly persuasive voice in our community.” He said no more, but continued to eye me, smiling wryly. His implication was clear: Dr. Tenelli had called, in effect, for a crackdown on porn, so public opinion was destined to heed that call. This meant that Kaiser was more apt to recruit a sympathetic jury in his case against the porn shops at the edge of town. It also meant that Sheriff Pierce was less apt to find a sympathetic electorate in his bid for reelection.

  Roxanne seemed befuddled by this exchange, knowing nothing of Dr. Tenelli. Pierce seemed wearied by it, preferring to focus, no doubt, on a murder investigation that needed quick and total attention. As for me, I was truly angered by Kaiser’s smug attitude and prim self-righteousness. These were character traits I would find disagreeable in anyone. In a public servant, they were nauseating.

  “Listen,” I warned him, dropping any pretext of kissy-face, “if you’re planning to wage a public-relations battle, you’d better be aware of what you’re up against. The power of the press, especially in a small town, can be brutal, Harley.”

  “Is that a veiled threat, Mr. Manning?”

  I laughed. “It’s not the least bit ‘veiled.’ I’m telling you to watch your step.”

  He wadded his napkin and tossed it on the table. “If you think for one moment that you can flounce into town and—”

  “I know a homophobic crack when I hear one, Harley, so again I warn you: Watch your step.”

  He seethed; I seethed back at him.

  Roxanne watched eagerly, waiting for the next volley.

  Pierce just sat back in his chair, shaking his head, having lost interest in his lunch. Assuming the role of mediator, he told us, “That’s enough, guys. For the moment, I, for one, could care less about obscenity. What I am concerned about is the murder of Carrol Cantrell. I’m beginning to fear that this case isn’t as open-and-shut as we’d hoped.”

  “Sorry, Doug,” I told him, feeling duly chastised. I added, “Sorry, Harley. Roxanne and I didn’t mean to horn in on your lunch meeting with Doug. I understand you’ve got important business to discuss.” Naturally, I wanted to add, What’s up? But it was none of my business, and I doubted that Kaiser was in the mood to gift me with a hot news tip.

  Roxanne, who had remained atypically mute during all this, now ventured further than I dared, asking Kaiser point-blank, lawyer to lawyer, “Why would Cantrell have any knowledge of, or interest in, the Miller standard?” She sipped from her glass of mineral water, fingering the stem casually, as if she’d just asked nothing more consequential than the time of day.

  Judging from Kaiser’s reaction, though, the question came as something of a bombshell. His jaw drooped; his hand gripped the napkin crumpled on the table. It was clear enough that Roxanne had heard about the Miller reference from me, so Kaiser could guess that I had since learned from Roxanne the meaning of Carrol’s words. Was there in fact some connection between Carrol’s visit to Dumont and the obscenity case that Kaiser was preparing to bring to trial? It hardly seemed likely, but why else would Kaiser be so shaken by Roxanne’s question?

  “There’s something I’d better explain,” he said tenuously, voice lowered. “On Saturday morning, when Miriam Westerman and I visited the coach house and Mark guided us up the back stairs, I was astounded to overhear Cantrell mention the Miller standard as he talked on the phone. I was further astounded by the sheer quantity of obscene material that was openly displayed in his room. But you must understand this: I did not go there with any such expectations, and in fact, I was baffled by the point of our
visit in the first place. It was Miriam’s idea.”

  For his part, Pierce was confused both by the meaning of Roxanne’s original question and by Kaiser’s convoluted reply. He asked the DA, “What’s this about, Harley—obscenity or murder?”

  “Murder!” Kaiser assured him, assured all of us, beating both palms once, simultaneously, on the table. His abrupt response had sufficient intensity to quell conversation at several surrounding tables. Without wavering, his eyes held Pierce’s for a long moment while the nearby babble rose again to its previous level. Then he leaned to tell Pierce, speaking loudly enough that his words were intended for Roxanne and me as well, “Damn it, Doug, something’s happened—something on the case. I brought you here so that I could confide this development to you first.”

  “Great,” said Pierce with an uncertain laugh. “What’s the new wrinkle?”

  “Wrinkle?” repeated Kaiser. “This is serious, Doug.”

  Pierce exchanged a glance with Roxanne and me before asking Kaiser, “Well?”

  Kaiser hesitated. Then, to my surprise, he turned to address me. “Don’t be offended, Mark, but this information simply isn’t intended for your ears—not yet.”

  Though disappointed, I understood his position. Their investigation stood to gain nothing by involving the press at this stage. I offered, “No offense is taken, Harley. Roxanne and I would never have intruded, had we understood your need for privacy. Excuse us, please, and we’ll wait at the door for another table.” I started pushing my chair back.

  Pierce made a silent be-seated gesture, urging us to stay.

  Kaiser echoed the gesture, telling Roxanne and me, “No, Doug and I are finished anyway. We can talk in the car. Take the table and enjoy your lunch.”

  The waitress was waddling toward us with our food, so I offered no argument. “Thanks, Harley. We hate to inconvenience you.”

  He rose. “No trouble at all.” His tone was oddly inflected, as if to tell me that I owed him one.

  Pierce rose with him, telling all of us, “Sorry this turned so awkward.”

  Roxanne assured him, “You were only trying to be gracious.” Then she barbed Kaiser, “Besides, I rather enjoyed the display of raw emotions—it rouses the appetite.” The irony of her little joke was that she had enjoyed the tension.

  Kaiser ignored her comment, moving off toward the door, followed by Pierce, while the waitress wordlessly delivered our lunch. As Kaiser stopped near the entrance to sign his check, Pierce turned back to us, miming a phone in his hand. The message was clear enough—he’d call me later with the poop.

  When they’d left, I turned to Roxanne. “What was that all about?”

  She forked a strip of chicken from her salad. “Good question.” Pausing in thought, she tasted the charred bit of meat. “Not bad”—quite a compliment, considering the jaded standards of its source.

  The Grill’s special meat loaf was perfect for the cool, soggy day; the taste, texture, and warmth all said “comfort food.” I savored it slowly, ate it deliberately, as if storing calories for the colder weather that would arrive unannounced some night during the approaching weeks. Silently, I laughed in appreciation of the rhythm of life—summer was barely over, and there I was, packing away meat loaf like a squirrel hoarding nuts.

  Roxanne and I enjoyed our meal together, alone. Back in Chicago, we would frequently phone each other at the last minute for an impromptu lunch date, meeting somewhere between our offices. Those days, however, were behind us. While she proved to be a frequent visitor to Dumont, she was often accompanied by Carl Creighton, her “love interest,” and our meals together always included Neil. I loved Neil, and I had come to think of Carl as a friend, but my relationship with Roxanne predated those others by years, and at times I simply wanted to be alone with her. So our lunch that Monday in September was a rare opportunity, dampened only by the knowledge that she was soon due at a meeting on the far side of town. We attempted to be inconspicuous while checking our watches, but it was obvious that we both felt rushed.

  Our conversation brought us up-to-date on each other’s life, covering such topics as her law practice, Neil’s architecture practice, Thad’s interests at school—but we kept drifting back to the murder. She asked, “You’ll let me know if you learn anything juicy from Sheriff Pierce?”

  Laughing, I reminded her, “I’ll tell the whole town if I learn something juicy.”

  “I’m sure. But I don’t get to see the Register back in Chicago. And the news will be stale by next Monday.”

  “You’re driving up again next week?”

  Adopting a lawyerly tone, she explained, “Neil’s Quatro project necessitates frequent face-to-face meetings.” Wryly, she added, “Wait till you get the bills.”

  Just as wryly, I told her, “They won’t make a blip in Quatro’s budget.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Hey.” Thinking of something, I dabbed my mouth with my napkin. “Why don’t you come up early—for the weekend. There’s always plenty of room for guests on Prairie Street. And you won’t face the drudgery of a Monday-morning drive.”

  Her features brightened as she flipped through a mental calendar. “Carl will be out of town next weekend. I’d love to come up.”

  “Consider it booked.”

  Finishing lunch, we walked back from the restaurant together, then each went our separate ways—Roxanne got into her car and drove off to her meeting with Neil at Quatro Press, and I zipped through the lobby of the Register. Prepared for a busy afternoon, I started up the stairs, taking them by twos, headed for the newsroom.

  “Mr. Manning,” Connie warbled through the hole in her glass cage, “yoo-hoo, Mr. Manning.”

  “Yes?” I asked, stopping to peer back down at her.

  “Sheriff Pierce called with a message.” She hesitated, presuming it improper to shout the message across the lobby.

  I came down to her window. “What’d he say?”

  She held a pink slip in her hand, but didn’t need to read from it. With lowered voice, she told me, “He said it was very important.” She lowered her voice even further. “He’s over at Grace Lord’s house and wants you to join him there.” She added, mouthing the word without voicing it, Alone.

  “Thanks, Connie.” I checked for my keys—yes, I’d put them in one of my blazer pockets, along with my notepad and Montblanc, so I was ready for anything.

  Or so I thought. I left the lobby by the rear door, which led to the reserved lot where my car was parked. Getting in, I started the engine and pulled onto First Avenue, collecting my thoughts.

  I’d left the radio switched on that morning, and it now played a local talk show, Denny Diggins’ Dumont Digest, hosted by a virulent announcer with an affected BBC accent—he came across as an amalgam of Rush Limbaugh and Alistair Cooke, if one can imagine such a fusion. Everyone knew the accent was fake because Denny was born and raised in Dumont. He claimed to have studied in England, but he never said when, and it was common knowledge that he’d gone to college in Madison.

  Though I didn’t think much of the program, I sometimes listened to it, as its guests occasionally provided fresh insights into current stories of importance to the community. In that sense, Dumont Digest was the town’s only news outlet other than the Register—a distinction that Denny never ceased touting to his listeners, missing no opportunity to publicly trash the paper—my paper. More often than not, I listened to him defensively. That afternoon, he was blathering about some inane crafts show being planned by the ladies’ auxiliary of the local hospital—“an utterly mah-velous extravaganza,” he called it—so I switched him off. After all, I had murder on my mind. (Carrol’s, not Denny’s, though the thought had merit.)

  Turning off Park Street, headed toward The Nook and the Lord residence, I expected to see something of a commotion on the street. Pierce’s message had implied a breakthrough in the investigation, so I would not have been surprised to find a convoy of police vehicles scattered about the property. Ins
tead, there was just one car, Pierce’s tan sedan—even the convention’s setup crew had better things to do that afternoon.

  Parking across the street from the house, I saw that Pierce was waiting for me in his car, parked at the opposite curb. Checking for pen and pad (an obsessive-compulsive habit, as I knew very well that I’d brought them), I got out of the car and met Pierce in the middle of the street.

  “Let’s talk,” he said flatly, then led me to the sidewalk, ambling away from the house, toward the fringe of the quiet neighborhood, where vacant lots still had the look of virgin prairie.

  He’d called this meeting, he’d wanted to talk, and he’d set the course of our stroll. But after a full minute, he’d said nothing. So I asked, “What is it, Doug?”

  “Uh…,” he suggested, “let’s sit down.”

  A creek ran through the vacant land there—no more than a crease in the terrain, but it flowed that afternoon with runoff from the recent rains. Near the sidewalk, in a cluster of small trees, a concrete embankment allowed the water to trickle under the street, and this structure offered a convenient, dry slab where we could park ourselves. Settling onto this makeshift bench, I found that it offered a pleasant, secluded setting, which I hoped would be conducive to the discussion that Pierce was hesitating to open. I prompted, “Yes?”

  “Mark,” he said, swallowing hard, “I’m gay.”

  Well, hallelujah—he’d finally said it. But why now? Somehow, I gathered from his tone that this coming out was not motivated by the joy of self-liberation. I wanted to give him a hug, and in fact, neurons fired from some remote recess of my brain instructing my muscles to begin moving in that direction. But as I leaned toward him, something felt wrong, and I aborted the hug by simply shifting my weight. I nodded pensively, telling him, “I’d always wondered, but I didn’t want to ask. Thanks for taking me into your confidence.”

  He managed a smile—a smile of truth that at last acknowledged what had gone unspoken since we’d met—and in that instant, he was made…beautiful. An odd word, perhaps, to describe this ruggedly handsome man, this cop in designer clothing. But a barrier between us had just fallen; he now allowed me to see him openly. And I saw that he was beautiful.