“Come on in,” I said to him. “Pizza’s about ready. Oil and vinegar on the salad suit you?”
“Great,” he said without enthusiasm.
He went over to the big window and stared at the dots of light out on the ocean. I went to stand beside him. “How you doing?” I said.
He turned to look at me. He shrugged. “I’m doing.”
“About Alice.”
“I’m working on it.”
“We’ve got some problems,” I said.
He nodded. “Sure. I know. You got a beer?”
“I’ve got Pepsi,” I said. I went to the kitchen.
Buddy followed me. “You shitting me?” he said. “I drink beer at home. I drink beer all the time.”
“Good for you. But you’re not legal age, and you’re not my kid, and I’m not going to give you a beer.”
He sat at the table. “I always thought you were fairly cool, Mr. Coyne.”
“Oh, I am. I’m wicked cool. But I don’t give booze to underage kids. I don’t consider that cool.”
I slid a plate and a salad bowl in front of him. I retrieved the pizza from the oven, sliced it, and put it on the table. From the refrigerator I got a beer for myself and a can of Pepsi for him. Then I sat down across from him.
“I didn’t realize you were such a Puritan,” he said.
“You need a beer that bad?”
He shrugged. “It’s the principle.”
“Exactly,” I said.
He took a sip from the can of Pepsi.
“I think,” I said, “we have more important principles to talk about, anyway.”
“Well, yeah. I know. It’s just that I’m old enough to vote against my father, I’m old enough to go to prison, but I’m not old enough to have a beer.”
“That’s right. That’s the law.”
“I get it. You’re a lawyer.”
“Being a lawyer has precious little to do with it, actually,” I said, sliding a wedge of pizza onto my plate. “Anyhow, that’s what we need to discuss. Your being old enough to go to prison. Will you be straight with me?”
He looked at me for a moment, then nodded. “Sure. What do you want to know?”
“Did you kill Alice Sylvester?”
He stared at me, open-faced and childlike. “No, Mr. Coyne. Honest to God, I didn’t. I loved Alice.”
“I want to know everything that happened night before last.”
Buddy picked up a triangle of pizza and took a tiny bite from the pointed end. Then he put it back on his plate. “I didn’t kill her,” he said softly. He looked beseechingly up at me. There was a smudged look around his eyes, as if he needed sleep… “I met her after dinner. We didn’t have any particular plans. We usually just drove around, talked, maybe got ice cream or something. But that night, the first thing she told me was that she had plans for later, she could only see me for an hour or so. She was uptight about it. Like she was trying to pick a fight, get a rise out of me. Which, of course, she did. She knew all the buttons and switches on me. Like nobody ever did. I asked her what she had to do that was so important, and she said I didn’t own her. Anyway, we went and got ice cream, and then I let her off downtown. That was it. That was the last time I saw her.”
“That’s all?”
He shrugged. “Sure.”
“Did you make love with her?”
“Why would you say that?”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Did you use cocaine with her?”
“Of course not. I’m off that stuff.”
“What did you do after you let her off?”
He poked at his slice of pizza with his forefinger. “I was upset. I didn’t feel like going home. It was early. My mother would still be up, and I didn’t want to deal with her. I come home late, she worries about what I’ve been doing. I come home early, it means something’s wrong, that I’m depressed. So I drove around for a while. I was depressed, I’ll admit that. Arguing with Alice. I was worried I was losing her.” He smiled crookedly. “Pretty funny, huh? Anyway, after a while I said the hell with it. I drove to Cambridge. Walked around the Square for a while. I met a girl. We went back to her apartment. I ended up staying there for the night.”
“Who was the girl?”
“Bonnie something.”
“You don’t know her last name?”
He cocked his head at me. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know anything about her. She lives in a grungy apartment down near Central Square. She’s old. Twenty-five or something like that.”
I sipped my beer. “Why didn’t you go to work the next day? Yesterday?”
He shrugged. “I would’ve been late. I didn’t care. Bob wouldn’t mind, I knew that. I was still depressed about Alice. Fighting with her, I mean.”
“You didn’t know what happened to her?”
He shook his head. “Not then. Not till later.”
“So what did you do all day?”
“Nothing. Hung around.”
“And last night?”
“I stayed in a hotel room. Had room service. They brought me a beer.”
“What hotel?”
He looked at me and shrugged. I decided not to press the point. “What about today?”
“Nothing.” Buddy got up and went over to the glass doors. He stared out a moment, then bowed his head and leaned his forehead against the glass. Then he turned to face me. “Look, I know this doesn’t sound very good. But it’s the truth. I was depressed about Alice. She was the only thing in my life that was any good. And I was getting the brush-off from her. I saw it clearly. She was seeing some other guy.”
“Do you know that?”
“I could just tell.”
“Who was the other guy?”
He shrugged. “No idea whatsoever. That’s what we argued about. I accused her of seeing someone else. She denied it. I begged her to tell me. She said there was nobody. She tried to be jolly about it. Like I had nothing to worry about. I knew she was lying. I told her that. That’s when she got pissed.”
The pizza tasted like cardboard, but the sour taste in my mouth came from Buddy. I lit a cigarette. It didn’t taste any better. “Listen to me,” I said carefully. “For the time being, I’m your attorney. And you are in serious trouble. You’ve got to tell me the truth. Your story doesn’t hang together. You’re trying to make me believe that an argument with your girl friend caused you to hole up in a hotel for a couple days. You were with some woman named Bonnie who you can’t identify, so she won’t be able to verify what might be an alibi for you. You said you and Alice didn’t make love, and you said you didn’t do any drugs, and I don’t believe you. Look,” I said, as he stared out at the night, “pay attention here. You can tell me the truth. You have to tell me the truth, because right now you need me.”
Buddy didn’t speak, nor did he look at me. I got up and went to where he was standing. I grabbed his shoulder. He tensed and twisted away from me. But he looked at me. “Why don’t you believe me?” he said.
“You left some things out of your story.”
“Like what?”
“How did you know I was looking for you? How did you find out what happened to Alice?”
He nodded. “I called a friend this afternoon. A girl I know.”
“And she told you about Alice?”
“Yes. I called her because she and Alice were friends. To find out if she knew anything about what was going on with Alice. A boy or whatever. She told me. That Alice had been killed. And she said a guy was at the school asking about me. She heard Mr. Speer talking on the phone. She heard him say your name and mine and Alice’s. My friend remembered your name and described you. I figured I’d better call you.”
“And that was the first you knew about the murder?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Here I am, being mad at her, feeling sorry for myself, and she’s dead.” He stared at me. “I did lie to you about one thing. I can’t see how it matters, though.”
“Well?”
“We did make love. After we got ice cream we went to a place we go to and—and she seduced me, I guess you’d say.”
“Where did you go? To the school?”
He frowned. “No. We have a place. It’s by the ocean. There’s a development going in. A road goes right down to the beach, and a lot of half-finished houses. It’s very private. Sometimes we take a blanket down by the ocean. That night it was a little chilly. We stayed in the car.”
“Why would you lie to me about that?”
I saw tears well up in his eyes. He turned back to stare out at the ocean for a moment. Then he wiped his eyes on his forearm and looked back at me. “Because after we—we had sex—we argued again. She said she had to get going, as if that should hold me for a while, see? Like it was a little favor she was doing for me to appease me. It hadn’t been like that before. I was confused, my feelings were hurt. I was angry. I—I slapped her. I mean, not hard, not to hurt her. I didn’t want to hurt her. But I might’ve left a mark on her face, I don’t know. I didn’t mean to hit her as hard as I did. She laughed at me. She called me a baby. It was like—like she was somebody I didn’t know, like some kind of monster, almost. She was cruel. She mocked me. Called me a loser, a druggie. It wasn’t her at all. There was something going on with Alice, and I don’t know what it was.”
“What about cocaine, Buddy? Did you tell me the truth about that?”
He nodded. “Oh, yes. I’ve been clean for nine months. Almost ten.”
“What about her?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did Alice do drugs?”
“Alice?” He hesitated. “She…”
I waited. He was staring out at the sea again. When he didn’t say anything, I said, “What, Buddy? What are you thinking?”
He turned. He had a different look. I couldn’t read it. “Yeah,” he said. “Alice had a little problem. Thing is, she was okay last night. I mean, when I was with her.”
He stared hard at me for a moment. “Buddy—”
He shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about it. Okay?”
I shrugged. “For now it’s okay. Come on. Let’s finish eating.”
We went back to the table. Buddy picked languidly at his salad. I ate another wedge of cold reheated frozen pizza. “This other guy…,” I began.
“If there was one,” he said. “She never admitted there was. I just suspected there was.”
“Oh, there was one, all right,” I said.
“I know she was murdered, but…”
I looked at him. “You think you’re old enough to drink beer, I guess you’re old enough to be talked straight to. Somebody murdered Alice. You know that. Before he killed her, he had sex with her.”
Buddy’s eyes widened. “Raped her, you mean?”
I shook my head. “They don’t think it happened that way.”
“How do you know?”
“The autopsy report. It also showed that she smoked cocaine.”
“Crack. Yeah. It figures. Shit!” Buddy pounded his thigh with his fist.
“Who was it, Buddy? You must have some suspicion.”
He looked hard at me. “No,” he said. “I have no idea.”
“Listen—”
“I don’t know who it was,” he said. His tone told me to back off. I decided to comply.
“Okay,” I said after a moment. “Speculate.”
He shook his head. “No. I can’t. I can’t think about it. I don’t know.”
“Have it your way,” I said.
We finished eating in silence. Buddy ate a few bites of salad. I polished off most of the pizza. When we were done and had stacked the dishes in the sink, I said, “Now we go to the police. Ready?”
Buddy’s head snapped around. “Now?” he said. I detected a hysterical edge to his tone. “Now? Wait a minute. Hey! Just wait a minute.”
“There’s a warrant for your arrest,” I said mildly. “You’ve got to go.”
“I’m not going now. No way, Mister.” Buddy’s eyes darted wildly around the room, as if he were seeking escape. I moved toward him, and he backed away as if I were attacking him. “Stay away from me, Mr. Coyne. You’re not taking me anywhere. Not tonight.”
I leaned back against the wall, hoping my example would relax him. He remained standing in the middle of the living room, half crouched. “Listen, Buddy,” I began in soft tones.
“No. You listen. I know how this works, see. You take me in now. They book me, or whatever you call it. Then they stick me in a cell, because my old man can’t get bail for me until the morning. And there’s no fucking way I’m going to spend a night in a cell. I still get nightmares. Sometimes I think I’m over the edge and not coming back. Walls close in. The floor drops out from under my feet. The old hallucinations. From the bad shit I used to take. If you think I’m going to spend a night in a jail cell—listen. Jesus Christ, please listen to me! I’ll beg you, if that’s what you want. I’ll do anything. But I’m telling you, I’m not going. Not tonight.”
“Buddy, you don’t understand. It’s my duty. I’ve got to take you.”
“Now? Can’t it wait till morning? Look. I didn’t have to come here. So what’s the big deal? Just wait till morning. When the sun’s shining. That’s all I’m asking.” He was pleading, his eyes wide. He held his hands out to me as if I could give him salvation. They were trembling.
He sensed my hesitation. “Look,” he said. “We can go in the morning. Let me stay here with you. I’ll be okay here. Then tomorrow take me in.”
Unstable young people hang themselves in Massachusetts jail cells with alarming frequency. And Buddy Baron was an unstable young person. I decided I’d rather have a minor professional dereliction on my conscience than the possible tragic consequence of a hard-nosed adherence to the very letter of my duty. Another ten or twelve hours wouldn’t matter.
I nodded. “Okay. Tomorrow morning. Without fail. You won’t give me a hard time?”
He sighed, then managed a small smile. “Oh, Jesus, Mr. Coyne. Thank you. Oh, man.”
“I hope the sofa is okay,” I said. “I’ve got an extra bedroom, but there’s no bed in it. It’s full of junk.”
He nodded. “The sofa is great. I owe you, Mr. Coyne. You have no idea.”
I rinsed off the dishes and loaded up the dishwasher. Buddy wandered over to the television. He flicked it on and watched it for a few minutes. Then he came over to me.
“Can I help?” he said.
“I’m done. Thanks.”
“Want me to pick up a little?”
I glanced around my apartment. Sylvie always teased me about my preference for disarray. She was right—it was a leftover from a marriage to a compulsively neat woman. “No,” I said. “Everything’s where it belongs. Thanks for the thought, though.”
He shrugged. “What do you do, then?”
“What do you mean?”
“At night. Alone.”
“I’m not always alone.”
He nodded with mock sagacity. “Of course. Sure. How about when you are alone?”
“I read. Tie flies. Daydream. Study chess problems.”
“You play chess?”
“Rarely. Badly. Under duress. When I have an opponent.”
“Well?”
“You’d probably find me no challenge,” I said.
He grinned. “Chicken?”
“No,” I said. “I am not chicken.”
“Let’s play for a beer.”
“No dice, kid,” I said. “We will play for the sheer joy of the competition. Thrill of victory, agony of defeat. The chess pieces are in the drawer.” I gestured at the kitchen sink, and he went and pulled open the drawer next to it, while I swept the magazines, newspapers, beer cans, and socks off the coffee table in the living room. A moment later I heard Buddy laugh.
“Mr. Coyne,” he said from the kitchen, “this drawer is unbelievable. There’s all kinds of junk in here. The chessmen are loose.”
&n
bsp; “I think there are two or three sets in there.”
“You ought to organize things a little.”
“I don’t need to organize it,” I said. “I know everything that’s in there. Batteries, a set of socket wrenches, spare keys for everything, screwdrivers…”
“Fishhooks, a broken transistor radio, cassettes, dollar bills, golf tees, about three gross of pencils. Jeez! Anyway, you’re right about the chess pieces. More than enough here, for sure.”
We set up the board on the coffee table. Buddy played a cautious, defensive game, which I didn’t expect. Most young chess players are impulsive, looking for the quick kill. That, in fact, more accurately described my style, which, I supposed, signified something important. Buddy declined most of the exchanges I offered, and he erected a wall of knights and pawns in front of his king that appeared impregnable. What I thought might be a crack in that defense cost me a pawn. It looked like enough of an advantage for Buddy to wear me down.
I smoked a lot of Winstons. Buddy drank a lot of Pepsi. We didn’t talk much while we played. He was very intense about it. I had trouble concentrating.
We were well into what promised to be a long, tedious end game, advantage Buddy, when Doc Adams called.
“Bluefish!” he shouted at me. “Bluefish, Coyne. Can’t you taste ’em, still flipping and flopping when we toss ’em onto the skillet?”
“PCB’s,” I intoned. “Mercury. Red tide.”
“What’s a little adventure in your life? Take a chance. No risk, no reward.”
“I don’t call consuming poison adventure, old buddy. Anyway, whose boat?”
“Your friend Frank. I thought he let you take it whenever you want.”
“He used to.”
“You’ve got to take better care of your friends. Especially those with boats. Bad form, getting on the outs with Frank. Damn bad form. Call him. Make up with him. Send him a bouquet of posies. Another week or two, the blues’ll be all gone.”
“Frank’s boat got stolen.”
“Ah, nuts.” Doc hesitated. “You don’t feel like renting one, do you?”
“Me? Not especially.”
“Me neither. Let me think. We could go up to Plum Island and cast for them from the beach. Hit or miss, but fun.”
Vulgar Boatman Page 7
