Sheer Gall

by Michael A. Kahn

  “Rachel,” Benny said, “face it: if there was ever anything incriminating in any of those files, the odds are that Sally deleted it before she sent it to storage.”

  “Funny you should mention deletions,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  I told them what I had discovered when I ran Tyrone Henderson’s undelete program on Sally’s computer. For the most part, his program resurrected fragments of materials that were either abandoned or incorporated into larger documents: a partial table of contents for an Illinois appellate brief, a half-written letter to Visa about a disputed charge. But it did locate two complete documents: an outline for the deposition of someone named Browning and an outline of legal points for a hearing in the same case.

  “Here,” I said, leafing through the stack of undeleted documents that I had printed off her computer. I pulled out the two outlines and handed them to Benny.

  Benny studied them. “So?”

  “Look at the dates,” I said, pointing. “Sally created both documents on October thirteenth. The deposition outline was for a deposition on October fourteenth, and the hearing outline was for a hearing at one-thirty on October fifteenth.” I paused with a smile.

  Benny gave me a baffled look. “And the punch line is?”

  “Benny,” I said impatiently, “Sally was in my office at two o’clock on October fifteenth.”

  “Whoa,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Where was the hearing supposed to be?”

  “Springfield, Illinois.”

  “Which is how far from St. Louis?”

  My mother answered, “A ninety-minute drive.”

  Benny looked at me. “Did the hearing go forward?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “The court was already closed by the time I realized what these outlines might mean. I tried to reach the lawyer on the other side. He’s out till next Tuesday. I’ll call the court tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday,” my mother said.

  “Then I’ll call Monday,” I said. “If Sally was up in Springfield for a one-thirty hearing, that’s absolute proof that the person who retained me was an impostor.” I paused. “Saturday? Rats. It’s Friday night.”

  Benny gave me a curious look. “You are correct.”

  I looked at my mother. “I forgot to light the candles.”

  She patted me on the hand. “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not,” I said.

  I fetched the candle holders and two Sabbath candles from the pantry, got my father’s wine goblet down from the cabinet, took the Mogen David out of the back of the fridge, and located a yarmulke for Benny in the bottom drawer. I made him put it on. Although the Gold family had never been overly observant while I was growing up, there was one ceremony my father never let us miss: every Friday night he lit the Sabbath candles and said the blessing over the wine, using a silver goblet that had once belonged to his grandfather. When I went away to college, I left those Friday-night rituals behind—until the first Friday after we buried my father. My mother, whose religious beliefs did not survive the Holocaust (in which her grandparents, her father, and all of her uncles and aunts perished), gave me my father’s wine goblet after the funeral, and I haven’t missed a Friday night since. Tonight, I said the blessing over the candles, and Benny self-consciously mumbled the blessing over the wine.

  My mother was yawning by the time we finished. She announced that she was going home to bed.

  “Not even one movie, Mom?”

  “Not tonight, sweetie.”

  I walked her to the door and gave her a big hug. “Thanks for coming by.”

  She waggled a finger at me. “You make sure you lock up good tonight.” She gave me a kiss and a fierce hug. “I love you, doll baby.”

  “I love you, Mom.”

  Although Benny had rented two oldies but goodies—Kenneth Branagh’s Henry V for me and Arnold Schwarzenegger’s The Terminator for him—we agreed that one movie was enough for tonight, and I went along with his plea for Schwarzenegger over Shakespeare.

  When it ended, I stood up and stretched as Benny hit the rewind button.

  “Big plans for the weekend?” I asked him.

  “Nah.”

  “What about Amy?”

  He made a dismissive gesture. “She’s going to Memphis for tomorrow and Sunday to visit a college friend.”

  “How are you guys doing?”

  He shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

  I nodded silently, knowing enough to drop the subject. In guyspeak, the phrase “okay, I guess,” when referring to the status of a relationship with a woman, means “in the pits.”

  “How ‘bout you?” he asked.

  “I’m going rollerblading in Forest Park tomorrow morning with Jennifer and Cory.” Jennifer and Cory were my sister’s children. “We were supposed to do it last week, but, well, things happened.”

  Benny slid the videotape out of the VCR. “Anything else going on tomorrow?”

  “Well,” I said, trying to keep my tone offhand, “I’m having dinner at Jonathan Wolf’s house.”

  Benny turned to me, his eyes sparkling with delight. “No shit?”

  I blushed slightly. “He invited me over for a havdalah service and dinner. It’ll be nice.”

  “Jesus, Rachel, lighting the Shabbos candles tonight, doing a havdalah service tomorrow—to quote Annie Hall’s grandmother, you’re getting to be what I’d call a real Jew.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, right.”

  He went into the kitchen and cut himself another slice of banana bread. “Listen,” he said, his back to me, “do you mind if I crash here tonight?”

  “Pardon?”

  “I’ve got my sleeping bag and a pillow in the car.” He turned toward me. “If you don’t mind, I’ll sack out on the living-room couch.”

  I gave him a strange look. “What’s going on?”

  “No big deal.” He shrugged and came back to the table. “That asshole Junior Dice is out of jail. You had another delightful encounter with Brady Kane. And, if I correctly recall, you are now on your second loaner car because of a rather dramatic recent problem with your own car.” He leaned down and scratched Ozzie. “I know you have the most vigilant guard dog on the block, but the Oz-meister might feel more comfortable with me here, and how can I deny the Oz?”

  “That’s sweet, Benny,” I said, genuinely touched, “but you don’t—”

  “Whoa, girl, don’t get mushy on me. You haven’t heard my payment terms.”

  “Oh?”

  He gave me a stern look. “I ain’t playing security guard for free, woman. The price of one night of Benny Goldberg’s Vigilant Home Protection Service is a homemade Rachel Gold breakfast special consisting of a pot of fresh hot coffee and a tall stack—and I do mean tall—of those incredible homemade buckwheat pancakes. Otherwise, woman, deal’s off.”

  I kissed him on the cheek. “You’ve got a deal.”

  “Excellent. Come out to the car, Ozzie. You can carry in my pillow.”

  ***

  Benny insisted on the living-room couch, even though I had an extra bedroom. He gave me some ridiculous excuse, but I assumed the real reason had to do with his idea of the optimal security position in the house. Whatever the reason, when I tiptoed downstairs in my terry-cloth bathrobe at six-thirty Saturday morning, he was on his back on the couch, snoring away with a crowbar across his stomach. Ozzie was asleep on the floor beside him.

  Forty-five minutes later, I woke them both with the smells of breakfast—buttermilk buckwheat pancakes bubbling on the griddle, sausage sizzling in the pan, and fresh-ground Sumatra coffee dripping into the pot.

  Benny staggered into the kitchen in his baggy pajamas, scratching himself in the usual early-morning guy places. “Lord have mercy,” he whispered hungrily.

  I looked over and winked. “Mo
rning, officer. Quiet night?”

  I scooped another pancake off the griddle and placed it on top of his tall stack. He came over to the stove and inhaled deeply over the sausage. “My God, what kind is that?”

  “Andouille, fresh from Louisiana. I got it at Bob’s Seafood yesterday. Yummy, huh?”

  His jaw dropped in delight as he nodded.

  I pointed to the plate. “One tall stack of homemade buckwheat pancakes. There’s fresh-squeezed orange juice on the counter. A pitcher of warm Vermont maple syrup in the microwave. The whipped butter is on the table, and the sausage should be ready in five minutes.”

  Benny got down on his knees and held his arms toward me in supplication. “We’re not worthy, we’re not worthy.”

  I laughed and knighted him on each shoulder with a clean edge of the pancake spatula. “Get on your feet, you nut, before you get splattered with sausage grease.”

  If I say so myself, it was an awfully good breakfast. Afterward, Benny helped me clean up, and then I went upstairs to take a shower while Benny headed for the den to watch Saturday morning cartoons. After my shower, I peered out the bathroom window to check the weather. It was overcast and windy. I called the weather line as I got dressed. The forecast was grim: showers throughout the day, temperatures in the low forties. Not the kind of day to go blading in the park.

  The phone rang as I was pulling on my black leggings and trying to decide on a fun alternative plan. Maybe ice skating. I lifted the receiver, thinking it might be my sister, Ann. “Hello?”

  “Rachel?” The voice was tense and familiar.

  “Tammy?”

  “I think I’m ready.”

  “For what?”

  “To meet with you.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  The windshield wipers, set on intermittent, swept across the glass, temporarily clearing our view.

  “I don’t like this,” Benny said.

  He had pulled his car over to the curb facing south on Broadway, just beyond the entrance to the downtown Marriott Hotel. Ahead of us on our left was the Stadium East parking garage. Ahead of us on our right was Monument Plaza in front of Busch Stadium. Dominating the plaza was the towering bronze statue of Stan Musial, posed in his signature left-handed batting stance, front leg collapsing toward the back one, bat cocked high, head turned squarely toward the invisible pitcher located somewhere above and behind us.

  It was a bleak, miserable day—chilly, overcast, and windy, with a mist of rain blurring our windshield. Nevertheless, a trio of intrepid tourists—mom, dad, and daughter—were smiling in front of Stan the Man as a passerby backed up to frame a snapshot with their camera. The word MUSIAL was engraved in gold letters in the black marble pedestal above their heads. The camera flashed in what seemed a pitiful attempt to brighten the day.

  I put my hand on the door handle. “You stay right here,” I told Benny.

  Benny leaned forward to squint through the windshield. “Where the hell is she?”

  I looked around. “Probably watching that statue from somewhere nearby.”

  He looked at me gravely. “And what if she’s not alone?”

  “I think she will be, Benny. She was the one who picked the meeting place. I can’t imagine a more public spot. It’s right out there in the open. Remember, she’s the one who’s freaked out over this meeting. It took me fifteen minutes on the phone to persuade her to do it.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not convinced.”

  “If she wanted to do something bad, why this setup? I think she wants to talk to me.”

  He looked at me with concern. “What if you’re wrong?”

  “That’s why you’re here. If you see anything suspicious, start honking the horn like a maniac.” I peered around. “Look over there.” I pointed behind us. A mounted police officer trotted by on his horse. “We’ll be fine.”

  “I’m telling you, Rachel, I don’t like this.”

  I sighed. “Benny, try to understand. I need to get this case behind me or I’ll go crazy. I have to do it. I’m praying she can help.” I put my hand on his arm. “Wish me luck.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” he said, his hands gripping the steering wheel, “forget that bullshit with the horn. Someone tries anything funny on that plaza,” he said, pausing to rev the engine, “and I’ll turn them into fucking roadkill.”

  I gave his arm a squeeze and opened the door. “My hero.”

  “Be careful out there, goddammit. You’re not the Terminator.”

  I shoved my hands into my coat pockets and headed toward the plaza. Since Tammy and I had never met, we had described our outfits so that we could recognize each other. I’d told her I’d be wearing a black leather bomber jacket, black leggings, thick gray wool socks, and hiking boots. As I walked across the plaza, leaning into the wet, icy wind, I wished that I’d thought to mention a hat, too.

  By the time I reached the Stan Musial statue, I was the only person on the plaza. Mom, Dad, and Sis had disappeared into the lobby of the Marriott. I slowly turned all the way around, scanning the area for a woman with red hair wearing a dark scarf, sunglasses, and black trench coat. Two older women came out of the parking garage across the street. One was wearing a dark scarf, but neither had a trench coat or red hair. A father and son crossed the street to the west of me, heading toward the Bowling Hall of Fame.

  I looked over at the Marriott, which was directly to my north. That was the most likely place for her. I guessed that she was in there, watching the plaza from one of the windows on the first floor.

  The front of the hotel faced east, and I could see Benny’s car there, idling at the curb. A cab pulled up to the entrance behind Benny’s car, and a uniformed doorman came down the stairs to open the door. He moved back with a friendly smile as an elegantly dressed man and woman stepped out of the cab. Although the woman was wearing a trench coat, she had blond hair and wasn’t wearing a scarf. I slowly surveyed the south side of the Marriott, which was the side of the building facing Monument Plaza. Two women and a man were walking along the sidewalk, but neither woman matched Tammy’s description.

  I moved slowly around to the other side of the statue, scanning the area. I pulled the jacket tighter around me and gazed up at the pedestal. Engraved in the black marble were the words of Baseball Commissioner Ford Frick at the ceremony marking Stan Musial’s last baseball game in the fall of 1963:

  Here stands baseball’s perfect warrior,

  Here stands baseball’s perfect knight.

  I leaned back to look up at the statue. In the mist I could barely make out the number 6 on the back of his uniform.

  I checked my watch: 10:42 a.m. I was supposed to meet her at the statue at exactly 10:30 a.m. She was nowhere in sight.

  In sight.

  The thought made me shiver. Directly behind me was Busch Stadium. Cautiously, I turned to face it. The curved outer rim of the coliseum structure was supported by huge cement columns that reached from the ground all the way up to the roof overhang. The columns were spaced about twenty-five feet apart. From where I stood I could count more than a dozen of them in either direction before they curved out of sight. My eyes moved from column to column, searching for a sign of movement in the shadows. I didn’t detect any, but that didn’t prove a thing. Each column was wide enough for three or four people to hide behind.

  I quickly glanced toward Benny’s car and then back again. Nothing. I edged around the base of the Stan Musial statue until there was a solid slab of marble between the stadium columns and me. I turned to face Benny’s car, my back against the pedestal.

  I checked my watch: 10:52 a.m.

  I’d give her five minutes.

  A phone rang. The sound came from behind me. I peered around the statue toward the stadium. The gates were locked for the winter. The phone rang again. The sound seemed to be coming from somewhere closer than ins
ide the stadium. I scanned the area. On the five stadium columns closest to me were red-and-gold banners honoring the five Cardinals whose numbers have been retired: Dizzy Dean (17), Ken Boyer (14), Stan Musial (6), Bob Gibson (45), and Lou Brock (20). Concentrating on the sound, I suddenly located the phone. It was against the fence between the Dizzy Dean and Ken Boyer columns. I stared at the phone as I counted the rings. I reached six. I assumed it would stop soon. It didn’t.

  Eight.

  Nine.

  Ten.

  I looked around. Not a soul on the plaza. No one in sight.

  Thirteen.

  Fourteen.

  Fifteen.

  On the eighteenth ring I took a few tentative steps toward the phone, glancing anxiously at the columns on either side. I looked back toward Benny’s car and then took another few steps toward the phone. Still it kept ringing.

  Twenty-one.

  Twenty-two.

  I lifted the receiver.

  “Hello?” I said, my voice constricted.

  “You lied to me.”

  It was Tammy. “What do you mean?” I said.

  “You promised to come alone. You broke your promise.”

  “But I am alone.”

  “No you’re not!”

  I said nothing. I could hear static on the line.

  “I saw that man in the car,” she said.

  “He’s my friend, Tammy.”

  “Sure,” she said cynically. “You’d say anything.”

  “I promise, Tammy. Please believe me.”

  “You break your promises. I can’t trust you. You’re like all the rest.”

  “Please don’t hang up, Tammy. He’s my friend. He drove me down here. Please believe me.”

  “He could be anyone. He could be a cop. He could be a TV reporter. How can I believe you? Forget it.”

  “I’m sorry, Tammy. Please give me another chance.”

  I had the feeling she was watching me as I spoke. The static on the phone line suggested she was calling from a portable phone. Slowly, I shifted my gaze toward the parking garage. It was a logical place to call from, especially since the upper levels had a panoramic view of the plaza. I scanned along the levels, searching for a woman with a portable phone watching the plaza. I didn’t see anyone.