by Stuart Woods
“Scout’s honor?”
“And cross my heart.”
“I’m from the Ashkenazi tribe.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s one of the twelve tribes of Israel. Ashkenazi.”
“You’re drunker than I thought.”
“That’s true, but I’m still Ashkenazi.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“I’m making perfectly good sense.”
“But that would make you Jewish.”
“Right.”
“A Jewish Indian?”
“Nope. Just Jewish.”
“What are you talking about, Ed?”
Eagle reached for the brandy bottle and poured himself a generous slug. “Let me see if I can clear this up for you, Wolf. I’m not an Indian. I’m a Jew.”
“What the living fuck are you talking about?”
“I think I’d better start at the beginning.”
“I don’t see how that could possibly help, but go ahead.”
“Okay, I’ll start at the very beginning. I was born in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn, New York.”
“What the hell kind of Indian is born in Brooklyn?”
“Well, there were some Mohawks, but I wasn’t one of them.”
Wolf sighed. “This isn’t making any sense, but go on.”
“My parents were Hassidim—that’s a very strictly orthodox Jewish sect.”
“I know what Hassidim are, for Christ’s sake.”
“Well, I was one—at least until I was fourteen.”
“Then you changed into an Indian?”
“No, not yet. I started to play basketball.”
“Wait a minute, I’m getting a déjà vu here. Isn’t this a Chaim Potok novel?”
“That was softball or something; I played basketball.”
“Why?”
“Because I loved doing it. It drove my parents nuts, though, because there weren’t any Hassidic kids good enough to play with me. I wanted to go to public highschool and play basketball.”
“So you went to an Indian high school?”
“There aren’t any Indian high schools in Brooklyn.”
“So, anyway, what happened then?”
“Big family crisis. I moved in with my Uncle Harry and Aunt Nellie, who had also left the Hassidim, and I went to public high school and played basketball.”
“What does all this have to do with Indians?”
“There was a Mohawk kid on the team, name of Marty. There’s this Mohawk settlement in Brooklyn—they’re all steelworkers on buildings—up high, you know?”
“I think I read something about it once.”
“Anyway, Marty and I were the best players on the team, and people got to calling us Big Chief and Little Chief. I wasn’t an Indian, of course, but nobody knew that. My name sounded Indian, and in this particular school, which had a lot of Irish and Italian kids, tough customers, it seemed like a better idea to be an Indian than to be a Hassidic Jew. So I kept my mouth shut and became an Indian. I had a prominent nose and sort of dark skin, but I never actually claimed to be an Indian; the other kids did that for me. Marty thought it was funny as hell, so he kept his mouth shut, too.”
“Ed, you’re drunk.”
“Sure. Well, four years of high school went pretty well; Marty and I made All-City, and the colleges started sniffing around. Marty was too short, but I got some offers—N.Y.U. wanted me—even Fordham. Then along came Arizona State, and I saw an opportunity to get out of New York for good, so I accepted.”
“Were you an Indian at Arizona State, too?”
“It was effortless. There were a bunch of Indians in the school, but I ran around with basketball players, mostly, who thought I was pretty exotic. I refused to talk about my background, and that made me mysterious, started a lot of rumors. The consensus was, I think, that I was a Mohawk who had gotten too tall to work on high buildings.”
“So how did that get you into practicing law in Santa Fe?”
“It didn’t, exactly. I came up to Santa Fe with a girlfriend a few times when I was at Arizona State, and I liked it; the Indian thing seemed to work very well here. I got into Yale Law School, and Uncle Harry put me through. When I graduated, the best offers were in New York, but I didn’t want to go back there, so I came to Santa Fe, put out my shingle, and hung around the courthouse looking for work. The rest, as they say, is history.”
“And everybody thinks you’re an Indian?”
“Right. Remember, though, I never said I was an Indian.”
“What about the Indians? They buy it?”
“Seem to. I haven’t met many, really; only had one for a client. Their crimes aren’t usually big enough for my kind of help, and anyway, they can’t afford me.”
“So you’re not an Indian.”
“No, Wolf. I’m a Jew.”
There was a long silence while Wolf considered this. “Ed, what are you talking about?”
CHAPTER
22
Ed Eagle waited a week before he told the district attorney how he had known who James Grafton was. A few days passed, then Martinez called him back.
“Ed, are you trying to fuck with me, or what?”
“What are you talking about, Bob?” Eagle asked, genuinely puzzled.
“I’m talking about the Schlemmer woman.”
“What about her?”
“I sent a man to New York to interview her, Ed.” Martinez sounded thoroughly exasperated.
“Good move, Bob,” Eagle replied sarcastically. “And I’ll be willing to bet you he didn’t get any more than I did.”
“You know damn good and well he didn’t get anything.”
“I’m only guessing, Bob; you make it sound like I queered your man’s interview.”
“What interview?”
“Bob, you’re not making any sense.”
“She wasn’t there, Ed.”
“Schlemmer?”
“Right. She was paroled last week.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that. She said she was coming up for parole soon, but she didn’t say that soon.”
“Ed, do you swear to me you didn’t know she had been paroled?”
“I swear I didn’t. And anyway, I didn’t know you were sending a man east.”
“You’re sure.”
“Bob, I promise you. Listen, if she was paroled, she must have had an address. Didn’t they give him her address?”
“Sure they did. Turned out to be her old house, where she lived with her husband. His mother was there, said she hadn’t heard a word from Schlemmer.”
“Well, I’m sorry you had to go to all that trouble, but I really told you everything she had to say.”
“All right, then, tell me if she was in something with Grafton.”
“Bob, they were convicted at the same time; they were in different prisons. It would have been pretty tough for her to be in something with him, wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t like coincidences.”
“Who does? I told you, my theory is that somehow—from Schlemmer or the papers, or something—he found out that Julia Willett was Schlemmer’s sister, operating under a new name. Grafton was just the kind of slime who would try for a blackmail score on Julia. Doesn’t that make some kind of sense?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, it’s all I’ve got to offer. If I think of something new, I’ll call you. I’m not obstructing your investigation, Bob, I really want to help. So does Wolf Willett, but he’s in the same box you and I are in: He read about the sister in the newspaper. That was the first he knew of her, and he never heard of Grafton. That’s what he told me, and I believe him.”
“All right, Ed, we’ll leave it at that. But if you hear from the Schlemmer woman, I want to know about it, you understand?”
“Bob, I haven’t the slightest reason to think that she will ever cross my path again, but if she turns up, you’ll be the first to know, I promise.”
Martinez hun
g up, and Eagle sighed. That was that, and he was pleased that the district attorney had never gotten to the woman; it would have been embarrassing if he had turned up something that Eagle had missed.
His secretary stuck her head in the door. “Excuse me, Ed, but there’s a Barbara Kennerly in reception. She says you know her.”
Eagle put his face in his hands and whimpered. “Christ, Martinez is never going to believe this.” He sat back and sighed. “Send her in.”
Barbara Kennerly walked into the room wearing a Chanel suit and looking like a million dollars. “Good afternoon, Mr. Eagle,” she said.
Eagle stood up. “Good afternoon, Ms. Kennerly. Have a seat, and call me Ed, please.”
“Call me Barbara,” she said, sitting down and crossing her long, beautiful legs.
“You’re out on parole, Barbara?”
“That’s right, Ed.”
“Then I think we have a little problem, here.”
“What’s that?” she asked, looking surprised.
“It’s customary when a prisoner is released on parole for him—or her—to report regularly to a parole officer, to have a fixed address, and, most important, to remain in the jurisdiction.”
She smiled broadly, revealing perfect teeth. “Oh, that. I was unconditionally released.”
“Now, why would the State of New York do that?” Eagle asked skeptically.
“I got lucky. Shortly after your visit, a federal judge ruled that several state prisons were overcrowded and that the populations had to be reduced immediately. I was only a few months away from my parole hearing, and I was a model prisoner, so they brought it forward.”
“But why was your release unconditional?”
“Half a dozen other prisons had to release prisoners early, too, and the numbers apparently placed a heavy strain on the parole system. The parole board gave unconditional release to those it felt were unlikely to be repeat offenders. Since I had no previous record and had cooperated at my trial, I was one of them.” She spread her hands. “I’m a free woman.”
“Congratulations,” he said. “Now—”
“Why have I come to see you?” she interrupted. “Well, in all the time I was in prison, you were the only visitor I had, apart from the Times reporter, and I have kissed him off, refused to cooperate further on the book. The only people I knew in New York were friends and relatives of my late husband, and they would not have been pleased to see me. I wanted a new start in a new place, and you did, after all, say to call you if you could be of any help.”
Eagle laughed. “That’s right, I did say that. All right, Barbara, how can I help?”
“I need a job,” she said. “As I told you, I’ve had experience at running an office, with bookkeeping and computers; I’m smart, pretty, and I’d be an asset to any office.”
“I believe you would.”
“How about your office? You need somebody?”
Eagle shook his head. “No, we’re training somebody new right now, and she’s working out well. I’m afraid we’re fully staffed.” I’m also afraid, he thought, that if you came to work here, I’d soon find myself banging you on my desk.
“Oh,” she said, crestfallen.
“Do you have any other work experience?”
“Well, before I was married, I worked in a restaurant as a hostess.”
“I know a few restaurateurs around town,” Eagle said. “Let me make some calls.”
She rewarded him with another dazzling smile. “Thank you,” she said.
“There’s something I want to ask you first,” he said.
“Shoot.”
“When was the last time you communicated with James Grafton?”
She looked surprised. “How did you know his name? I never mentioned it, did I?”
“No. I did my homework.”
“Communicated,” she said, looking at the ceiling. “I suppose we communicated at the trial; he stared daggers at me through the whole thing.”
“Did you speak to him or write to him or send him any messages while you were both in prison?”
“Certainly not.” She snorted. “I don’t think he would have been glad to hear from me, after I testified against him, and I wanted to forget the bastard existed. To answer your original question, the last time I communicated with Jimmy was in the moment before the police burst through the door of our hotel room in Miami. I was telling him that I was going to turn myself in, and he was telling me that he’d kill me before he’d let that happen.”
“Did Grafton know Julia?”
“I think you asked me that when you visited me in Poughkeepsie. No.”
“Did he know about Julia?”
She looked thoughtful. “He knew she existed. Once, he saw some photographs I had of Julia and me together.”
“When Julia got married to Wolf Willett, were there pictures in the papers?”
“I saw it mentioned in some gossip column in the New York Post, but there was no picture. Listen, why all this sudden interest in Jimmy Grafton?” She suddenly looked alarmed. “He hasn’t turned up in Santa Fe, has he?”
“You might say that. He turned up at Wolf Willett’s house and got himself shotgunned for his trouble. He’s on a slab in Albuquerque right now, missing most of his head.”
“What?”
“At first they thought he was Wolf. They eventually identified him by his fingerprints.”
“My God.” She sighed, shaking her head. “This is bizarre.”
“It is.”
“Do you think he saw Julia’s picture in the papers and…” she paused for a moment. “I’ll bet he tried to blackmail her about her record.”
“That’s my best guess.”
“He’d do that. The man would stop at nothing to get money.”
“Speaking of money, the diamonds he stole from your husband were never recovered. What happened to them?”
“Jimmy got rid of them before we even left New York.”
“And what happened to the money he got for them?”
“I don’t know, but I never saw any of it. The police said he only had a few thousand dollars when we were arrested, but what he took was worth more than a million wholesale.”
“So Grafton had the money stashed somewhere?”
“He must have. He didn’t have time to spend it, and he didn’t give it to the United Way.”
“If he was flush when he got out, why would he rush off to blackmail Julia?”
“Money didn’t last long with Jimmy; he was a big-time gambler.”
“I’m sorry to be grilling you like this, but it’ll be good practice for you. The local district attorney is very anxious to talk to you about Grafton.”
She looked alarmed. “Does he know my new name?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, that’s a relief. If I’m going to start some sort of new life here, I don’t want the local law breathing down my neck all the time. Do I have to see him?”
Eagle shook his head. “No, but I’ll have to tell him I’ve talked with you. I said I would.”
“Oh.” She looked depressed.
“Tell you what. Call him, say you talked to me and that you want to help if you can. Tell him the truth, and tell him if he needs to get in touch with you he can call me.”
She brightened. “All right.”
He dialed the number for her and listened while she talked at length with Martinez. Finally she wound up the conversation. “If you need to reach me, call Mr. Eagle, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” She hung up. “God, I hope that’s the end of that.”
“So do I,” Eagle said. “Where are you staying?”
“I found a nice bed and breakfast off Canyon Road.”
Eagle thought fast. This woman was not his client, she was not a suspect in the murders, she was square with the D.A. No problems here. “Would you like to have dinner one night soon?” he asked.
She flashed her smile. “I’d love it.”
CHAPTER
23
The week before Christmas, the weather did the right thing. In the middle of the night snow began to fall in Santa Fe, and by the time Wolf woke up there was a soft coat of white on the mountainside at Wilderness Gate. When he saw it, he remembered Christmas.
Wolf had been working nonstop on Jack’s last screenplay—editing, rewriting, tightening. He’d gotten it down to a hundred and ten pages, then sent it to Hal Berger in L.A. for revised costing. In the normal course of events, he’d have been in preproduction in a week, ready for casting by the new year and shooting in February, but not now. All he could do was get the script right and wait.
Wolf had spent the last Christmas in Santa Fe with Julia, who hadn’t liked Christmas much, except for the gifts he gave her. She wouldn’t have a tree in the house—claimed she was allergic to them, so they had just gone to a few parties and had slept late on Christmas morning. Thinking back, he realized he hadn’t had a proper Christmas since the death of his first wife, and he had always loved the holiday.
Glancing at his watch, he picked up the phone and called Jane Deering.
“Hello,” the sleepy voice said.
“Come on, it’s eight o’clock. How come you’re still in bed?”
“Oh, hi. Sara’s out of school for the holidays, and we’re both sleeping in.”
“What are your plans for the holidays?”
“Oh, not much. We’re sticking close to home.”
“I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you pack a bag for yourself and Sara, get on a plane this afternoon, and come to Santa Fe for the holidays?”
There was a long silence at the other end.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “How’s it going to look? Well, I know I screwed it up when you were here before, but this time we’ll lie low, take drives in the desert, stay home a lot.”
“Wolf, I don’t know.”
“Sara will love it here. It’s snowing; we’re going to have a white Christmas.”
“Kids are funny about Christmas. I don’t want to upset her by yanking her away from home.”
“Talk to her about it, see what she says, and call me back.”
“Okay, give me an hour.”
Wolf hung up, went to the kitchen, and made himself some breakfast, nervous about what her answer would be. If she couldn’t come, then he’d be stuck in the house by himself. He’d been turning down invitations to parties, even one for Christmas dinner with friends, and now he realized, too late, that he didn’t want to be alone. The phone rang; he grabbed the kitchen extension.
