Don't Ever Get Old (4 page)

“You didn't have to. You represent everything that's wrong about this department and everything that's wrong with law enforcement. Max told me once that trying to be a cop in this town was like wading balls-deep into a river of shit, and you're part of the reason for that.”

I sighed. “So I guess you're not going to do any kind of computer search for me, are you.”

“Get out of my office,” said Randall Jennings.

“Good to meet you, Detective,” I said.

And that's how I found out I wouldn't be getting any help with my Nazi hunt from the Memphis Police Department.

 

Something I saw on the television that I don't want to forget:

“So many movies these days seem to feature overweight, out-of-shape male comic leads,” said the television host. “Why do you think that is?”

“It's a side effect of a larger cultural transition regarding our conception of masculinity,” said the guest. He was kind of a reedy guy. Beard, glasses. Jewish name. The floating text below his bulbous head indicated that he was a film studies professor at NYU. My grandson's school. That figured.

Moving around had become progressively more troublesome for me, so I'd decided that the best course of action was to leave the sofa as rarely as possible. I watched a lot of television. I liked the news and the talk programs. It was like having a conversation with someone I could switch off when I got bored.

“Explain further, Professor,” said the host.

“Your traditional American masculine archetype is the sort of man you might refer to as a ‘tough guy.' He works with his hands, protects his family, whips his slaves, exterminates the indigenous population. He does, in short, what tough guys do. In twentieth-century film, we see this figure embodied in the western or cowboy picture, beginning with Gary Cooper in
High Noon
. Later, we added urban analogues to the western hero, like the supercop or the modern vigilante.”

“Well, what changed?”

“Society's expectation of men changed. More and more, we see the most powerful figures are the ones who spend their days working at computer terminals. And when America keeps two million people in prison, there aren't that many bad guys left on the street for tough guys to beat up.”

I started digging in the sofa cushions for the clicker. I'd seen a fair number of regular, tough-guy heroes on Fox News, and lately, too many of them were coming home in flag-draped boxes.

“But the tough guy surely still remains prominent in our shared consciousness,” said the host. “Audiences are flocking to the new hard-edged James Bond films.
Batman
is grossing half a billion dollars.”

“Look,” said the professor, smiling. “I liked
Jurassic Park,
but that doesn't mean dinosaurs still matter.”

I changed the channel.

 

4

A couple of days after Wallace died, I awoke to the sound of Rose shuffling around in the bedroom.

“Good morning, Buck,” she said when she saw me moving. “How are you doing today?”

I lifted my head off the pillow. It was twenty after seven. I had a full day of doing nothing ahead of me, and I'd overslept. “I'm still here,” I said.

“I laid your suit out.”

“I'm not wearing any suit. What have I got to wear a suit for?”

“The Wallace funeral.”

“Oh, I'm not going to that. I already saw him.”

She shook her head and laughed a little. She'd seen my obstinate routine before. “Just because you visited him in the hospital doesn't mean you don't have to go pay your respects.”

“Yeah, but he died while I was there, so I went ahead and paid all my respects, to save myself a trip.” I sat up and scratched at my armpit.

“We're going, Buck. Get out of bed and put your suit on.”

“Woman, you're going to put me into an early grave.”

But I got dressed. She knew I'd go. I always went. I insisted on driving, though.

There was a memorial service before the funeral, so we headed out to Jim's church in Collierville. It was one of those big new ones, made of vast sheets of tinted glass and fresh walls of white stucco. The place came complete with a food court, and it looked like a shopping mall.

The massive central auditorium had movie-theater-style seating for two thousand and packed in such a huge crowd on Sundays that the church hired off-duty sheriff's deputies to direct traffic in the parking lot. When we came for the memorial service, the lot and the sanctuary were pretty much empty, though. There weren't enough young mourners to be pallbearers, so Jim was carried by some Mexicans who were at the church to trim the hedges and mow the soccer field. Jim had lived long enough to bury most of the people he loved, and everyone else had forgotten about him.

The box they'd put him into looked unfinished and flimsy, like an arm might flop out if somebody jostled it a little too hard. There were a couple of small wreaths, but the flowers were sparse and anemic. Someone had gotten an old photo of the dead man blown up at Kinko's, to put next to the coffin. They'd run it off in black and white, on the cheap kind of cardboard. It was clear that whatever treasure he might have taken from Heinrich Ziegler, Jim had nothing left but his guilt when he finally died. His awful sin had left him wretched.

I couldn't forgive him when I saw him withering up in the hospital, but looking at that crummy casket, in that empty church, I pitied him. We walked up onto the stage and stood next to him. “Consider it square, I guess,” I whispered to the box, as if it meant something. Rose squeezed my arm.

Emily and Norris were in the front row of the auditorium, right next to the stage where I had no hope of avoiding them. Emily was wearing black and crying. Norris was wearing a pink shirt and a blue tie. He looked like an Easter egg. For the occasion, he had tucked his gut into his unbelted trousers and tried to slick some wispy hairs across his shiny dome of a skull. He'd also gotten himself a fresh manicure. Rose hugged Emily, even though they'd only just met, so I couldn't avoid shaking hands with Norris.

“You've been so kind to Jim, and it's so good of you to be here,” he said.

“It is what it is.”

“Emily and I would like to have you and Rose over to our home for dinner later in the week.”

“Yeah, it's real nice of you to offer, but we're not going to be able to do that.” The thought of having to eat food those fingers had touched made my insides churn.

He ran the tip of his tongue over his upper lip. “Oh, I see. Busy, busy Buck. The game is afoot, eh?”

“I don't know what that means.”

I eyeballed the rest of the attendees to avoid Feely's squinty gaze. There were two slack-jawed guys who looked like they might be Jim's relatives; the kind who lived close enough to drive and weren't smart enough to think of anything better to do. One had brought his wife and a fidgety little kid.

Also present: a few other old people, sitting alone and making no effort to speak to the family or anyone else. Maybe they were his friends, or maybe they were parishioners. Maybe they just saw the obituary in the paper and showed up, hoping for free food.

Rose and I took seats near the back, away from everyone else, and I lit a cigarette. Counting from when I flicked my lighter, it took a little less than thirty seconds for someone to come over to make me put it out.

“Excuse me, sir. I'm sorry, but we don't allow smoking in the church.”

He was maybe in his mid-thirties. Clean-shaven. Light brown hair, cut short and neatly parted; wearing a blue button-down dress shirt and khakis. No tie. He had dimples, and when he spoke, he laid a friendly hand on my shoulder.

I scowled at him. “Take a hike, pipsqueak. Can't you see we're grieving here?”

“You must be Buck Schatz,” he said. His hand was still touching me. “Emily told me about you. I'm Dr. Lawrence Kind.”

“Oh,” I snorted. “One of the doctors. You guys did a real good job on Jim.”

He smiled at me. “My doctorate is in divinity. I tend the spirit, not the body. I certainly hope I did a good job for Jim, and that he was at peace in his final moments.”

I started to say something about how Jim died, but I had an odd feeling that Kind was fishing for information. I took another long look at him. Maybe Jim had confessed to him about the Nazi and about the gold. This was a Southern Baptist church. Did Southern Baptists confess? No, I didn't think so. That was just for Catholics and Pentecostals. Or Episcopalians, maybe. There were so many types of goyim to remember.

Anyway, even if he wasn't the kind that confessed, Jim still might have unloaded his conscience to this preacher. If Norris's odd behavior was any indication, my old army buddy hadn't been too good about keeping his secrets buttoned up near the end.

And something was off about Kind. He had the kind of smile that flayed his face open, showing off spit-slick expanses of pink gums and lips and his tongue flicking between gaps in his small, crooked teeth. The preacher seemed smart, though, or at least like he thought he was smart. So I played dumb.

“This is your church?” I asked.

“I minister to the souls of this flock, yes.” He beamed at me, and his reptile face filled with God's boundless love. I thought I felt a chill run up my spine, but it could have been just poor circulation.

“Well, you'll know where to find me an ashtray around here, then.”

Kind frowned. “Buck, you can't smoke in here. I hope you're not going to make this difficult for me.”

“Not having to care about making things easy for anyone else is one of the three best things about being old,” I told him. “The other two are smoking and telling people what I think about them. I never go anywhere that I can't do at least two out of three.”

“It's funny you should mention that,” Kind said. “Emily is taking this very hard, and she doesn't feel she can compose herself enough to speak today, but it would be good if somebody close to Jim could say a few words. They think you knew him as well as, maybe better than, anyone else. I'd surely appreciate it if you could stand up during the service today and share what's in your heart about your friend.”

“Doesn't seem like it would be a very neighborly thing to do, what with him being dead and all.”

“Buck would be honored to speak, Dr. Kind,” said Rose.

Kind looked at me. “So we can count on you?”

I sighed. “I guess.”

“So happy to hear it.” He lifted his hand off my shoulder and walked back toward the front of the auditorium.

“I hope he doesn't forget about my damn ashtray,” I said to Rose.

“Behave yourself,” she told me.

Kind stepped up onto the stage next to the coffin and grabbed his microphone. I figured he was probably used to playing to a bigger crowd.

“Good morning, all of you blessed children of Christ,” he said. “I'm pleased to see you here, but I wish it could have been in happier circumstances.”

He'd let me keep my cigarette, so I was happy enough. I'd have been happier if I didn't have to get up and give an extemporaneous eulogy.

“One of the benefits of a congregation like this one is that, together, we can have a real impact on the community.”

I looked around. The crowd had swelled up to fourteen people, counting Dr. Kind.

“But one of the drawbacks to leading such a large flock is that I often don't have the opportunity to get to know everyone very well. With Jim Wallace, I missed that chance, and, now that he's gone, I am filled with deep regret. Jim's family tells me he was an easygoing man who found great pleasure in simple things, like a cold beer on a hot summer day, and crispy bacon with his breakfast. And God loves most those who find joy in everyday blessings.”

“God loves people who eat bacon,” I whispered to Rose. “How come nobody told the Jews?”

“And Jim deserved all those pleasures. He worked hard for many years in this community, and though he was never rich in material goods, he was rich in the love of his family and his many friends in the church and throughout the Midsouth.”

All fourteen of them.

“One of those friends, Baruch Schatz, a man of the Jewish faith, has been close with Jim for more than sixty years. These two men served together in World War Two, and Buck came to Jim's bedside to comfort him in his last moments earlier this week. Such lifelong friendships are the greatest blessing the Good Lord Jesus Christ can bestow upon any of us. I believe Mr. Schatz has a few words to share today.”

I stood up with a groan and walked to the stage. Kind handed me the microphone.

“I want to thank you, Dr. Kind, for that beautiful speech,” I said. “You say you didn't know Jim very well, but I think you got to the essence of the man, especially with the part about the beer and the bacon. Not gonna be easy to top that.”

“Just say what's in your heart, Buck,” said Dr. Kind.

I considered taking his advice, but it didn't seem like a good idea under the circumstances.

“Jim lived a long life, and died an old man, and I guess that's something,” I said. I realized I was still holding my cigarette.

“Um, Dr. Kind told me they don't allow smoking in the church, but I told him to take a hike.”

Kind chuckled, failing to hide his discomfort. I wasn't going to make too big a scene in front of Jim's dozen mourners, but I was happy to let the pastor sweat a little.

“I always smoke at funerals, because, I figure, when the day comes that I'm the guy in the box, I don't want to be wishing I'd had time for one more cigarette. Actually, I have a lot of catching up to do in that regard.”

I coughed.

“I quit smoking these in 1974. I figured if I kept on, the habit would kill me, likely as not. I wanted to see the year 2000. I wanted to see my grandchildren grow up. Now I've seen those things, and they were disappointing. Thirty years I wasted, breathing clean air. So, around the time my son passed on, I went to the store and bought a carton of Luckys.”