I heard the door open and close behind me. Then I felt a prick of pain over my right kidney. “You just keep on doing what you’re doing, friend,” whispered a harsh voice in my ear, so close that I could smell the whiskey on his breath. “You just keep your hands full, there, and don’t turn around.”
The sharp pain in my back increased a notch. It was penetrating my skin, and it hurt. A sharp, pointed instrument. A switchblade. Or maybe an icepick.
“That hurts,” I said.
“You just keep ahold of your pecker, there, or you’ll lose it.”
He found my wallet in my hip pocket and removed it deftly. Then he patted my jacket pockets. “Put your hands up in the air,” he said.
I did, feeling vulnerable and exposed.
“Take off the watch.”
I did, and he took it from me.
“Thank you very much,” he whispered.
Then the lights went out.
It was probably only a few seconds later that I found myself sitting on the damp floor of the men’s room, trying to decide whether the back of my neck hurt worse than the wound over my kidney. I decided it was the neck, and I wondered if he had hit me with his bare hand, or had used something heavy and hard. I rubbed it until the pain began to subside into an ache. I pulled myself to my feet, brushed off my jacket and pants, zipped up my fly, washed my hands and face, and went back to join Zerk.
When I sat beside him, he looked at me and said, “You lookin’ a bit rumpled, my man.” He noticed that I was rubbing the back of my neck. “Hey,” he said. “You okay?”
“You didn’t happen to notice anyone go into the men’s room right after me, did you?”
“No. Why?”
“I just got mugged is all. Guy stuck a knife or something into my back while I was taking a leak, took my wallet and my new watch, and slugged me on the back of my neck.”
“It’s these threads, man. I told you. We’re dressed all wrong for this place. Might as well wear a sign. Rob Me.”
“Your sympathy is touching,” I said. “Take a look at this wound, will you?”
“Swivel around this way,” said Zerk. “Gimme a peek.”
I rotated so that my back was to him. He hoisted up my jacket and pulled up my shirt. “Hmm,” he mumbled.
“What’s it look like?”
He let go of my clothes. “Just a scratch. Stop whining. It’s a clean little incision, not a round puncture. In case you were thinking about icepicks.”
“That’s the thought that occurred to me, yes.”
THIRTEEN
ZERK AND I WERE back in my apartment. He had me draped over the back of my sofa like a blanket over a clothesline. He was swabbing the little wound on my back with a wad of cotton batting soaked with cheap vodka. I had told him I couldn’t spare any good bourbon. He seemed to be enjoying the poking and prodding.
“How’s it look, Doctor?”
“Hmm,” he said. “Merely a flesh wound. Fortunately, you have an abundance of flesh there. It could do with a couple sutures.” He whacked my fanny. “However, I stuck a Band-Aid on it. You can pull your pants up.” I did. “Interesting, wasn’t it, old Trixie placing Stu Carver right there at the Sow’s Ear on New Year’s Eve? And you think you know who was with him. I’ll bet the same thing occurred to you that occurred to me,”
“Probably,” I said, tucking in my shirt. “That the guy with Stu was the one that killed him. And if he wasn’t the one who actually icepicked him, that Stu said something to him that would help.” I went over to the cabinet where I kept my bottles. “I’m going to have a shot of Jack Daniel’s and a cigarette. I figure I earned them. Join me?”
“Scotch. Hold the cigarette.”
I poured our drinks and we sat at my kitchen table. I lit a cigarette. “I think I’ll invite David Lee to my office for a little chat.”
“David Lee. That the guy who was with Stu?”
“I’m pretty sure.”
“What about getting mugged and robbed? What’re you going to do about that?”
“I don’t know. That was a new Rolex he got. Not to mention my credit cards. Plus the humiliation of it all. Any suggestions?”
Zerk sipped his Scotch and frowned. “Nope. Guess not. Something occurs to me, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Pretty easy for a guy to get himself killed, sometimes. Happens a lot. In alleys, men’s rooms.”
“You mean Santis might be right? Just a random act with no logical explanation?”
“After what happened to you, I’m beginning to think it makes sense.”
I nodded. “Me too. I’m still going to talk to Lee.”
“Don’t you think you ought to inform the authorities?”
“I probably should give Gus Becker a call,” I said. “Think I’ll talk to Lee first, though.”
After Zerk left, I snapped on the eleven o’clock news and sprawled on the sofa. The lead story reported that “sources close to the White House” had released a trial balloon hinting that the President was contemplating sending “military advisors” into Haiti. A member of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, known to be close to the Administration, commented to an interviewer that the American people should be wary of drawing close parallels between Haiti and Vietnam. Haiti, he declared solemnly, was different. He invoked the Monroe Doctrine, the Cuban Missile Crisis, Franklin Roosevelt, Winston Churchill, and, in what I could only interpret as a telling slip of the tongue, the Tonkin Gulf Resolution. He refrained from mentioning the attempted assassination of Thurmond Lampley in Boston a month earlier.
Scary stuff, I thought.
There had been a big drug bust in Revere. The television camera lingered on a tabletop in police headquarters, where glassine bags of white powder, sets of scales, assorted firearms, and stacks of high denomination bills were displayed. I wondered if Gus Becker had finally hit the jackpot.
A giant blizzard had paralyzed Chicago, and was heading our way. The Celtics won. The Bruins lost.
Nothing, I decided, snapping off the set, was new.
I showered, letting the hot water splash against the back of my neck, where a hard little knot had formed. The incision over my right hip stung. I remembered my feelings when the knife had pricked my skin. Humiliation, I had told Zerk. That, yes. But fear, too. I had been acutely aware that a quick, easy thrust of that razor-sharp weapon could have killed me. I wondered if Stu Carver and Altoona had felt the same sphincter-tightening fear the moment that icepick touched the skin inside their ears. Perhaps they had been too drunk to contemplate clearly the imminence of death. I hoped so.
I toweled myself dry and slipped into my ratty old flannel pajamas. I poured two final fingers of bourbon into my glass and brought it to bed with me. I was drinking too much, I thought idly. Smoking too much, too. Somehow, the thought of sudden, unexpected death in a dirty men’s room put Surgeon Generals’ warnings and actuarial charts into perspective.
That thought led me to the next one. I picked up the phone beside my bed and tapped out Heather Kriegel’s number.
“Hmm,” she answered after two rings. “Whozit?”
“You were sleeping. Sorry.”
“Mmm. S’okay.” She yawned. It sounded like a moan of pleasure. I imagined her springy muscles stretching and flexing, her hair tousled, her bedclothes rumpled. “Wha’s up, friend?”
I resisted the impulse to answer, “Me.”
“Wanted to say hi is all,” I said.
“Miss me?”
“Yup. Guess I do.”
“Hey, now,” she said. “Don’t go getting all mushy and sentimental with me. Hang on a sec. Let me sit up.” A moment later she said, “There. I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“You have?”
“It’s—annoying, is what it is, I guess. Kinda scary, in a way, too. It’s Meriam. She called me this afternoon.”
“What did she want?”
“She wants Stu’s notebooks. She stopped a little short of calling m
e a whore and a thief, but the implication was clear enough. She practically accused me of killing Stu.”
“Don’t worry about Meriam, Heather. She’s harmless.”
“She didn’t sound harmless.”
“Hey, she’s an old lady whose only son got murdered.”
“So what about the notebooks? What do I do about them?”
“Nothing. Ignore the whole thing.”
“Is this a legal opinion, Brady?”
“It is. If she wants to take you to court for the notebooks, it’ll be about five years before anything happens. Then you can get a couple of continuations…”
“I get it.”
“Did you tell Zerk about this?”
“No. I will.”
“He’s your lawyer. He’s the one you should be talking to, not me.”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
I said nothing. Heather couldn’t see me smile.
“You there, Brady?”
“I’m here.”
“Am I going to see you sometime?”
“You name it.”
“Now?”
“Well…”
“Just kidding,” she said. “You’re not all that big on spontaneity, are you?”
“Let’s make a date, Heather.”
“Okay.” She sighed. “Let’s see. Tomorrow’s no good. Ted Kennedy’s taking me to the opera. Just kidding. How about the next night? Tell you what. I’ll broil us a couple of steaks. You bring a bottle of expensive wine. I’ve got a new Miles Davis tape you’ll really love, and we can play a few hands of gin. How’s that sound?”
“Perfect. How’s seven?”
“Seven is good. I’ve got a session in the afternoon. That’ll give me a chance to shower and unwind. Maybe even grab a quick nap.” She yawned again. “’Scuse me. Listen. I’m still deciphering Stu’s notebooks. There’s some funny stuff in them. Funny strange, I mean. References that I can’t figure out. Maybe you can take a look at them when you’re here.”
“What kind of references?”
“If I read it accurately, he jotted down thoughts on Haiti and Cuba.”
“Well, that’s been on the news a lot, of course,” I said. “Tonight, as a matter of fact.”
“I know. Can you believe that guy? What I don’t get is why Stu would mention that in these notes.”
“What was the context?”
“No context that I can figure out. It’s as if he were trying to write reminders for himself that no one else would understand. Purposely ambiguous, almost. And anyway, his handwriting was so lousy that I’m not sure I’ve even got the words right. Anyhow, maybe you can help.”
“Sure. I’ll try. You didn’t come across any references to drug dealing, did you?”
“Are you still on that kick?”
“It’s not a kick, Heather. It’s a hypothesis that the police are pursuing.”
“Nothing on drugs. Nothing on David Lee, either, in case you were wondering.”
“Matter of fact, I was, yes.”
“Well, nothing on that.”
“Hey, don’t get angry with me,” I said. “That’s not why I called at all.”
She sighed. “I’m not mad. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a kvetch. It’s just that…”
She was silent for a moment.
“I know,” I said. “I know how you feel about Stu. I do, too. Also his friend Altoona. I’m just trying to resolve it all.”
“Oh, when you told me about that poor old man…”
“I considered not telling you.”
“No, I’m glad you told me. But it’s just so sad. Stu was really fond of him, I can tell from what he wrote.”
“Yes. I was, too. And that’s what I want to understand.”
“I know, Brady. You don’t have to explain.” She paused. “I miss you,” she said in a small voice.
“Me, too.”
“There you go, getting all syrupy again. Look. Bring one of those hugs with you when you come over, will you?”
“I’ll bring several.”
We exchanged soft good-byes and hung up. I picked up the copy of the Yale Law Review that I kept on the floor beside my bed. It was full of important stuff that an up-to-date attorney was truly obligated to know. But my eyelids kept falling down. “Mañana,” I muttered to myself, and the last thought I had before I fell asleep was the translation of that word that I had heard from an Hispanic attorney I knew. Mañana doesn’t mean “tomorrow,” he told me. It means, “not today.”
It was, I thought, an important distinction.
At five minutes of four the following afternoon, Julie buzzed me and said, “Mr. Lee is here for his appointment.”
I swiveled my desk chair around to look out the window at the end of another gray winter day in Boston. “Let him wait,” I said.
“But…”
“I want him to stew in his own juices for a little while, okay?”
“Certainly, sir,” she said. She did not approve.
I gave him twenty minutes before I went to the door and said, “Mr. Lee, won’t you come in, now?”
I went back behind my desk. David Lee entered, paused in the doorway, then came and took the straight-backed chair across from my desk. I didn’t stand for him or offer him my hand.
He leaned toward me. “I really don’t appreciate being summoned like this, Mr. Coyne. I hope you understand that it’s damned inconvenient.”
“Then why did you come?”
He looked startled. “I—I thought I owed you the courtesy.”
I lit a cigarette and stared at him for a moment. “You do, Mr. Lee. You do owe me the courtesy, as you put it. And I thought I would extend to you the courtesy of this meeting before I speak to the authorities.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He tried to convey outrage. He fell just short of succeeding.
“You lied to me, Mr. Lee. It changes everything.”
“Now, just a minute—”
“No,” I said. “You wait a minute. You were with Stu Carver the night he died. The night an icepick slid into his brain. You told me you hadn’t seen him since October. That was a lie. There is only one reason why you would lie about that.”
“Now, listen,” he said, placing both fists on my desk. “I wasn’t lying. I never saw Stu.”
I shrugged. “Have it your way, then.” I buzzed Julie.
“Yes?” she answered.
“Get Detective Santis for me, please.”
“Certainly.”
I sat back and stared at David Lee. He returned my gaze for about five seconds, then dropped his eyes. “Okay, Mr. Coyne. I’m not going to call your bluff. Will you listen to me?”
“Why bother? You can talk to the police.”
“Please.”
I nodded. “Okay.” I buzzed Julie again. “Cancel it,” I told her.
“Playing games, are we?” she said sweetly into the phone.
“Yes, that’s right,” I said. I turned to Lee. “Okay, then. Go ahead.”
He sighed. “It was the afternoon before New Year’s Eve. Stu called me at home. I was correcting a set of exams. He sounded quite agitated. He said he wanted to see me, he had to talk to somebody. I said that of course I’d meet him. I missed him terribly, and I told him so. I hoped he had decided to come home. He told me to meet him at this awful place…”
“The Sow’s Ear,” I said.
Lee grimaced. “Yes, that’s right. Stu was there before me. He had already had several drinks. I didn’t think too much about it. He did that sometimes. But this was different, I quickly realized. He was in a corner booth, sitting back in the shadows. As if he were hiding, you see. His eyes kept darting around, as if he were afraid he had been followed, or someone might have followed me. I sat down across from him and touched his hand. He snatched it away from me. ‘Jesus Christ,’ I remember him saying. ‘Not here.’ Well, I took encouragement from that. If not here, I thought, then someplace else. But that wasn’t what Stu wanted
. Matter of fact, it wasn’t at all clear what he did want, because he started mumbling about how he shouldn’t have called me, he didn’t want to get me involved, and the more I asked him what the hell he was talking about, the more he said I should just leave. I told him I wasn’t going to leave until he told me what the trouble was. He said it wouldn’t be fair to tell me. It went on like that for a while. He had some more drinks. I kept begging him to tell me about it.” Lee paused. “Mr. Coyne, may I have a drink of water, please?”
“How about Scotch? That’s what you prefer, isn’t it?”
He looked startled. “Why, yes. Yes it is. Scotch would be fine. And water, if that’s all right.”
I went to the cabinet and poured each of us a drink. He took his and sipped at it. “I told him I really meant it, I just wouldn’t leave him until he told me what was on his mind. I’d never seen him so excited. Upset and excited both. Finally he leaned across the table and whispered to me. ‘I’m really onto something,’ he said. ‘Something big.’ Then he said he shouldn’t tell me. It was too dangerous.”
“Dangerous,” I said. “Was that his word?”
“Yes. He said dangerous. But then he started to tell me this story when a girl came and sat with us. We tried to be polite with her. She was a prostitute. I tried to suggest that we weren’t interested. All the while, Stu is mumbling about being onto something big. Once he got started, he couldn’t seem to stop. At last the girl went away. I said to Stu, ‘What is it? Tell me what this is all about.’ He was pretty drunk, Mr. Coyne, but I gathered it had something to do with that business in Haiti, and the assassination attempt back in December. Remember?”
“I remember,” I said. “Felix Guerrero. The Happy Warrior, as Mickey Gillis called him. Thurmond Lampley. Sure, I remember. What about it?”
Lee shook his head. “I don’t exactly know. Stu was not coherent. I begged him to come with me. We’d talk to the police, I told him. He said, no, he was already dealing with it.”
“What did he mean by that?”
Lee sighed. “I wish I knew. He might still be alive if he had told me. But he got very sly. Paranoid, almost. He told me to go away, mind my own business, as if it were I who had called him up rather than the other way around. I think he was trying to protect me, do you see? Anyway, he wouldn’t budge. He just got abusive.” He sipped at his Scotch and shrugged. “So, after a while, I left.”
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