The Journals of Major Peabody

by Galen Winter

  I rang the buzzer at Peabody’s apartment at a quarter to eight. The door opened and the Major greeted me. “You’re early my boy. I didn’t expect you for another four hours. I thought you might be piqued by your unfortunate inability to celebrate with Stephanie and might have decided to spend the pre-midnight period sulking in your apartment.”

  “As a matter of fact,” I interjected, “I had intended to do just that, but my plans have changed. In view of the special occasion, it being a brand new year and all that, we can celebrate early. I’ll give you your check right now - but you’ve got to promise not to tell a soul. Happy New Year, Major” I said and proffered his check. Peabody stepped back without touching it.

  “Do you remember the first time we met?” he asked. “It was at the Smythe Hauser Engels & Tauchen law office. I desperately needed cash, but you insisted the terms of the Spendthrift Trust did not allow any kind of pre-payment. You insisted the Spendthrift Trust provisions provided for payment only on the first day of the month and those provisions could not be changed.

  “Please keep the check until midnight. If you give it to me before January 1, you will violate the terms of the trust. That violation might be used as a reason to petition the court for a new Trustee. The resulting publicity would be a terrible embarrassment to you as well as to all the other lawyers at your firm.” Peabody leaned back in his chair and smiled a wicked smile. “I couldn’t bear to see that happen.”

  “You wouldn’t do that, would you?” I asked. It was more of a plea than a question. Peabody merely continued his wicked smile. He had me and he knew it. He was torturing me - enjoying his pay-back time.

  * * * * *

  The television screen showed a huge, cheek-to-jowl, milling crowd watching the big lighted ball descend on Times Square as the announcer counted backwards “ten, nine, eight …” Over the sounds of festivity, Major Peabody lifted his glass of champagne, smiled and wished me a happy New Year.

  “Happy New Year yourself,” I snarled and handed him his check.

  Play the Cards You Hold

  We were in my apartment. Major Nathaniel Peabody settled himself comfortably into my favorite chair and, without asking, took an H. Upmann from my cigar humidor. It didn’t bother me. I don’t smoke and the Major knows I don’t smoke. He gave me the humidor and the box of H. Upmann cigars for a Christmas present. It was his way of assuring himself of a supply of good cigars whenever he visited me.

  It was nearly nine o’clock on a Monday evening. On the following morning Peabody and Doc Carmichael wanted to drive to Maine for a bird hunt. Of course, the Major was flat broke and in desperate need of money to fund the hunt expenses. He spent the previous hour trying to convince me to give him his trust check. He had not been successful.

  So - Peabody sat before the television set in my favorite chair, sipping my single malt and smoking up my apartment. He intended to remain there until he got his check and could go to Maine. Don’t get me wrong. I usually enjoy the Major’s presence. Tonight, however, was an exception. I am a Packer fan. The Monday Night Football game would start in another half hour and the Packer’s were playing the Miami Dolphins.

  Peabody’s aversion to both television and to football was well documented. The last time I attempted to watch a game in his presence, I returned from my kitchen with the Major’s refreshed drink to find my television set was turned off. A closer examination showed the electric cord had been cut and the end containing the wall plug had vanished.

  As long as Peabody was in my apartment, I would have a difficult time trying to watch a football game.

  The Major’s ulterior motive was clear enough. He knew my Packer preference. He knew he could keep me from watching the game. His unspoken threat was obvious. If I didn’t deliver his check, he would stay in my apartment and keep me from watching the Packers. That prospect did not please me, but I had no intention of surrendering. I planned to stick to my guns.

  In no uncertain terms, I told him his check was in the top drawer of my desk and there it would remain resting un-disturbed through all of Tuesday until Wednesday, Midnight, Eastern Standard Time. (I separately emphasized each of those last seven words.)

  Peabody watched a smoke ring rise in the air and slowly dissipate. “There are times when then Fates appear to conspire against you.” he said in an unenthusiastic tone. “There are times when men must face the inevitable and, as Longfellow wrote, fold their tents like the Arabs and as silently steal away.”

  The quotation surprised me. It sounded like a sign of Peabody’s surrender. I was pleased to hear him acknowledge the defeat of his attempt to talk me into an advance trust payment. I was not happy to surmise he intended to make me pay for my victory by staying with me and keeping me from watching the Packer game. I’m sure my expression showed it.

  “You seen preoccupied, my boy,” the Major observed. “I have no idea why you appear to be ill at ease and I won’t pry into your personal affairs, but let me offer a bit of advice. One must accept the cards one has been dealt and play them to the best of one’s ability. The Fates have not always been kind to me,” he explained. “They have challenged me many times and many times I have lost - but sometimes I have won.” He paused and smiled, probably thinking of some past event, before telling his story.

  “At about this time last year, I was preparing to go to Maine hunting with Michael Durham on Charlie Ainsworth’s land. Charlie’s cabin is located in the center of some prime Ruffed Grouse covert. Michael is a trial attorney and, there-fore, not entirely trustworthy. Still, he is a popular hunting companion. By that, I mean he has a great grouse dog. It’s a German Shorthair named Deuces Tecum. ‘Deuces Tecum’ is lawyer Latin. It translates into English as ‘Bring it with you’. It’s a good name for a retriever.

  “Most hunting dogs flush grouse and too many of them work too far away from their masters. Deuces Tecum occasionally commits that second crime, but not the first one. Deuces Tecum has the ability to find grouse, point them and, most important, keep them from exploding into the air until Michael, with shotgun at the ready, walks up to him.

  “It is Deuces Tecum that makes Michael a successful bird hunter. Michael is a very good shot, but he is very nearsighted. He can read law book all right, but things became quite fuzzy when they are more than twenty feet away. Without a good dog to locate the bird and keep it on the ground, Michael might be able to hear a bird take off, but he would never see it in time to shoot at it.

  “It was later in October - this time of year. Michael and I were going to drive to Maine for a grouse hunt. Just like Doc Carmichael and I planned to do tomorrow morning. As I loaded my gear into Michael’s van, I noticed Deuces Tecum was not with us. Michael didn’t mention the dog during our trip. That bothered me. Had it been a simple matter of a trip to the veterinarian or, perhaps, a visit to a lady German Shorthair in need of company, I was sure Michael would have told me of it.

  “I feared Michael’s silence signaled a tragedy. Certainly, it would be very difficult for a hunter to talk about putting his dog down. I acknowledged his reluctance to speak of it and made no reference to the animal, but I was disappointed. I shared Michael’s sorrow. It had been a joy to hunt over Deuces Tecum.

  “Our conversations centered on the beautiful colors of the Maine woods, grouse hunting and old, shared experiences. Michael talked of some of the occasions when he had been on the unfortunate side of wagers with me. He wanted revenge and bet he would drop more birds than I during the next day’s hunt. I was in an expansive mood so I disregarded my better judgment and agreed to the wager.”

  “Disregarded your better judgment? Agreed to the wager?” I asked in disbelief. “Without Deuces Tecum, he couldn’t see a bird to shoot at. You couldn’t lose. You old rascal. You took advantage of a guileless attorney.” The phrase ‘guileless attorney’ elicited a look of disbelief from the Major. He disregarded my comment and continued with his story.

  “When we got to Charlie’s cabin, the reason for Michael’s
bet became clear. Deuces Tecum was tied to the door latch. The note pinned to the door said: “Mike - Here’s your dog - well fed and watered. Hope you got the Major to bet with you. I’ll be in camp tomorrow night. Charlie’.”

  “That evening, the deceit and duplicity of my companions hung over me like a dark cloud. My gentle nature, however, was sustained by my knowledge that one must play with the cards one has been dealt and, in the morning, my attitude returned to its normal, pleasant condition. When we arrived at the scene of our hunt, as I let Deuces Tecum out of his cage in the back of the van, I stole the clapper from his bell.

  “Usually, Michael knows when Deuces Tecum was rigidly at point because the bell on the dog’s collar stopped ringing. Without a clapper in the dog’s bell, Michael never knew where he was and never knew if or where he stopped. Michael was decidedly at a disadvantage.”

  Peabody rattled the ice cubes in his now empty glass. I dutifully retrieved it and went to the kitchen to prepare a replacement. I also made some cracker and aged cheddar cheese hors d’oeuvres. When I returned to the living room, I was ready to spend the next few hours listening to the Major instead of watching the game.

  The room was empty. Peabody was gone. I wondered whatever could have caused him to leave so abruptly and without so much as a fare-thee-well. Then I saw the top drawer of my desk was open. The envelope containing his end-of-month remittance was, like Major Peabody, gone. In its stead, I found a note:

  “Your subtle telling of the location of my check allowed me access to the moneys you improperly withheld. As a result, it also allows you to watch the Packer game. Very clever of you. Enjoy the game. You’ve learned to play the cards you’ve been dealt.”

  - Peabody

  The Sure Thing

  I arrived at the grouse camp in time for the evening meal. It was the last day of the month and Peabody’s Spendthrift Trust remittance rested safely in my wallet. I was greeted in an effusively friendly manner by Major Peabody and Doctor Carmichael. The other two men, who, apparently, were local hunters, took the news of my arrival in a calmer fashion.

  Peabody and the Doctor solicitously inquired into my health and general well being. Doctor Carmichael invited me to sit in the chair closest to the wood stove. It was a thread bare lumpish overstuffed thing that would have been put out on the curb in any town in America, but it was the best one in the cabin. Peabody handed me a Scotch and water and toasted my safe arrival.

  The dinner was excellent. The Major prepared the breast of Ruffed Grouse. Its firm white meat was delicious. Doctor Carmichael opened bottles of a vintage year chateau bottled Merlot and, contrary to the usual custom, my glass was always the first one refilled. The other two hunters - John Somebody and Bob Somebody - were polite to me. In other words, all the warning flags were flying.

  Whenever the Major and his friends treat me with this kind of respect, experience has taught me abuse and mistreatment are sure to follow. The preferred treatment they extended to me reeked of conspiracy. Something was up their collective sleeves. Call it paranoia if you wish, but I was immediately suspicious and on guard. I resolved to be particularly cautious. I intended to avoid whatever outrage they had planned.

  It was either Bob or John who filled the wood box with the chunks of aged maple neatly piled near the front door of the cabin. Doctor Carmichael started doing the dishes. He poured a pail of warm water into the sink. The pail had been resting on the top of the wood stove and, now empty, he handed it to either Bob or John and asked him to go to the creek for a re-fill. We would need water for the breakfast dishes. These were the jobs usually assigned to me whenever I found myself in a hunting camp.

  Instead of the “Get it yourself” policy I had become accustomed to, Major Peabody brought me a Scotch and water and wondered if I was comfortable. This was too much. It was time for the reason of all this strange behavior to be explained. My eyes narrowed as I took the glass and I made no effort to answer his question.

  “All right, Major,” I said. “What’s up?” Peabody leaned close to me. He whispered: “Doc and I told Bob and John that you were a very wealthy and respected Philadelphia attorney. We asked them to be very nice to you.”

  This was not a satisfactory explanation for the reason behind their deferential treatment. “And…?” I coldly inquired.

  “And,” Peabody whispered, “you know how nearly impossible it is to enjoy a poker game when there are only four players.”

  The truth came out. The ulterior motive behind the Major’s pleasantries was disclosed. He wanted more than a fifth player. He wanted someone he could count on to contribute to his financial well-being. He had his sights set on me. This time I would not be victimized.

  As I stiffened and started to pull away, Major Peabody took a firm grip on my arm and kept me in the chair. “Now, don’t be too hasty, young men,” he said in low tones. “I know you have been visited by incredibly bad luck and have regularly had most unfortunate experiences at the poker table. This time,” he emphasized, “things will be different.”

  I am sure the expression on my face telegraphed the firm, unyielding and uncompromisingly negative attitude with which I approached any suggestion of again playing poker with Major Nathaniel Peabody. The Major recognized my expression and before I could say anything, he quickly whispered: “Don’t say ‘NO’ young man. You are about to receive the opportunity of a lifetime. This time you can’t miss.”

  Peabody looked over his shoulder. Doctor Carmichael had John (or Bob) occupied with drying the dishes and Bob (or John) hadn’t returned with the water. Satisfied he would not be overheard, Peabody told me: “Bob and John are patsies.” He went on to explain how they both loved to play poker, but neither had a grasp on the fundamentals of the game.

  “Moreover,” he whispered to me, “the two of them, combined, don’t have the card sense of a garden slug. They know even less about poker than you do. Compared to them, you have the playing ability of Texas Dolly Brunson.”

  I was not convinced. I remembered the Major’s oft repeated admonition: “Fool me once - shame on you. Fool me twice - shame on me.” Peabody had fooled me more than once - many, many more times than once. I had been conned into playing with him and his friends on a various occasions and always with disastrous financial results. My better judgment screamed at me: DON’T DO IT, YOU IDIOT. I violently shook my head - from side to side, not up and down.

  The Major did not relax his grip on my still rigid arm. “Listen for just a moment, my young friend,” he said. “Doc Carmichael and I are convinced this is such a sure thing that we are willing to cover all of your losses up to and including the amount of fifty dollars. And, who knows,” he added, “with these two guys at the table, you might come out a winner.” He paused, looked pensive and said, more to himself than to me: “Yes, it is possible. You could come out a winner.”

  I stopped trying to pull away from him. My arm began to relax. “Is that fifty dollars between the two of you or fifty dollars each,” I slowly asked.

  “That’s fifty dollars each,” was the Major’s quick reply.

  * * * * *

  For most of the evening, I was actually ahead. Bob and John were not good poker players. When they got too far behind, it looked like the Major or the Doctor folded what seemed to be better hands and let them take the pot. The last half hour or so, my luck ran out and Doctor Carmichael and Major Peabody were the only winners. I lost a hundred and five dollars. John or Bob lost 65 and the other one lost 80.

  When the game was over, Doctor Carmichael looked at his companions and said: “It looks like each of you did better than our attorney friend. He and the Major smiled while John and Bob looked glum. I was happy and chuckled to myself. Things had worked out quite well. After getting the one hundred dollar reimbursement, I had lost only five dollars. That’s the best I’ve ever done. I came very close to being a winner. I returned to Philadelphia without knowing what had happened two hours before I got to the grouse camp.

  * * * *
*

  The four hunters returned to camp in the early afternoon. They cleaned their birds and Peabody promised to cook grouse breasts and wild mushrooms for the evening meal. The two local hunters were told it would impress Peabody’s attorney who was scheduled to arrive later in the day.

  Once inside the cabin, the men kicked off their boots, relaxed and enjoyed a libation. Major Peabody looked at Bob and John. They seemed a bit pensive. “I feel sorry you two had such bad luck at the poker table,” the Major said. “My conscience almost bothers me.”

  “I feel the same way,” Doc Carmichael volunteered. “You fellows had such rotten luck. Second best hands are always costly.”

  “Yes,” Peabody agreed. “It’s much better to be dealt a bust hand. You can muck your cards before making a serious investment. I wish we could, somehow, make it up to both of you.”

  “When does your lawyer get here?” Carmichael asked - right on cue.

  “He’ll be here in a couple of hours,” the Major answered. “Hey, I’ve got a great idea.” He turned to Bob and John. “My lawyer is the worst poker player in the civilized world. To be more accurate, he’s the worst poker player in the entire universe. If we could talk him into a game, you boys might recover some of your losses.

  The Major’s suggestion was not greeted with enthusiasm. “After what happened to me during the last two evenings, Bob answered, “I’m more than just a bit gun-shy about playing poker with you two. I suspect John shares my opinion.” John immediately enthusiastically nodded in agreement.