Name Games (25 page)

“That’s
Peter Grimes,
isn’t it?” I asked, recognizing a theme.

“Indeed it is, Mr. Manning,” he told me, shaking my hand, “indeed it is.”

As he seemed to know me, I asked, “We’ve met?”

“We have
now.
” He smiled. “Actually, I’ve seen your picture, in the
Journal
as well as the
Register.
Both are home-delivered every day.”

I instantly liked the man. He was not only a reader, but a subscriber.

He added, “And I’ve seen you about town in your car—a magnificent vehicle.”

I was liking the guy more and more.

Pierce said, “Speaking of cars, Ben, do you know your garage door is open?”

“Mary’s out running a few errands before supper,” he explained. “Now, Douglas, what can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if you could spare a few minutes. It’s about time that you and Mark got to know each other—both of you being such prominent citizens.” Pierce was laying it on a little thick, I thought. “But also, Ben, we’d like to talk a bit about the County Plan Commission.”

He chuckled. “I don’t suppose this relates to the obscenity issue?”

Pierce and I looked at each other. With a laugh, I admitted, “In fact, it does.”

Dr. Tenelli nodded. “I’ve been expecting a phone call from you, Mark. But face-to-face is better yet. If you don’t mind, let’s talk in the kitchen—I’ve been puttering with something. Come on, fellas.” And with sure, robust strides, he led us through the hall toward the back of the house.

Along the way, I recalled that Dr. Tenelli was some seventy years old. He didn’t look it—or act it. Not that I had a preconceived picture of some feeble, doddering geezer, but I simply hadn’t expected a man of such vigor, alertness, and easygoing humor. With his full head of hair (silver and thick) and still-handsome features, he could have passed for fifty-five or sixty. I was further impressed by his varied tastes and interests—the retired Italian doctor in the big German house with the loud English opera. Already, I could well appreciate Pierce’s description of Tenelli as a beloved and respected figure.

Entering the kitchen, I saw at once that it had recently been modernized. It appeared that interior walls had been removed from other rooms, leaving a large, open space intended for casual entertaining, where guests might pitch in with their hosts in the preparation of a late meal. That afternoon, something was simmering on the restaurant-style stove, and its rich, spicy smell produced in me an instant hunger pang (even though I still felt bloated by Chee-Zees). Obviously, Tenelli took his cooking seriously, as neat piles of ingredients, mostly vegetables, were stacked on various work surfaces, awaiting his surgical skills. An open bottle of red wine, meant for drinking as well as cooking, stood on the counter near the stove with a nearly empty glass at its side. Tenelli hoisted the bottle—“Join me?”

Pierce and I looked at each other. It was after four. We wouldn’t be returning to our offices that afternoon. “Sure,” we answered. “Thanks.”

Tenelli opened a cupboard, plucked two fresh wineglasses from a shelf, and set them with his own on the table in an oversize breakfast nook nestled in the curve of a bay window. Pouring, he said, “Have a seat, fellas,” then joined us, sliding into the upholstered booth, sitting across the table from Pierce and me. He lifted his glass in a silent toast, and as we drank, I took a close look at the bottle. I presumed he was serving Italian wine, maybe Californian, but it was French—another manifestation of his international tastes.

I told him, “That’s a wonderful Bordeaux, Doctor.” I was amazed by his extravagance in cooking with such a wine—it surely cost more than the entire meal.

He smiled and, leaning toward me with his forearms on the table, said, “Two things, Mark. First, my name is Ben. And second, I’m glad you appreciate the exceptional character of this
grand cru
Pauillac.” He swirled the glass. “When it comes to wine, no one holds a candle to the French.”

Thinking he’d appreciate the comment, I told him, “Some of the Italian vintners have been making great strides in recent years.”

“Bah!” He roared with laughter. “That stuff tastes like coal.”

His humor was infectious, and we laughed with him. I said, “In truth, Ben, I’ve never quite developed a palate for Italian wine myself, but somehow, I presumed you would have.”

“Why?” he asked with feigned resentment. “Because my last name ends with an
i
?” He winked at Pierce.

Ashamed, I admitted, “Something like that, yes.”

“Look, Mark.” He leaned toward me again. “I’m American, period. My parents were Italian, born there, and I certainly respect their heritage—to say nothing of their food. But they came to this country to start over. I was born here, and they raised me as an American. They named me Benjamin, after Mr. Franklin, you know. They spoke some Italian around the house, and I can understand a few phrases, but I never learned the language. I spent my early years on a farm out in the county, but when I was old enough for high school, they moved the family into town—just to make sure I grew up like any other American kid. It was all part of their dream. They wanted a doctor as a son, an American doctor.”

Pierce told him quietly, “I’m sure they were very, very proud of you.

“Sure they were.” Tenelli sat back, recalling, “I never thought twice about establishing my practice anywhere but here—just to make sure that everyone they knew would never forget that they were ‘the doctor’s parents.’ I know they appreciated that.”

“
Everyone
appreciated the fact that you were here,” Pierce assured him. “Virtually every baby born in Dumont since the midfifties had you to thank for their first breath—including me. Why’d you retire, Ben?”

“I’m
old!
” He laughed, as if the answer should be self-evident.

“Hardly,” I told him. “Age can’t be measured in years alone.”

“Thank you, both of you. But the truth is, medicine has changed a
lot
since I was young. Hell, when I first hung my shingle, it was the height of the baby boom. We’d won another world war, the economy was spinning like a top, and folks were poppin’ out kids left and right—it was a golden age of unbridled optimism. But I don’t need to tell you, things got ugly. Assassinations, Vietnam, recession, you name it—and along with this general demoralizing of society, lawyers got greedy and medicine became a popular target. There was a dramatic rise in malpractice suits, and obstetrics became a particularly vulnerable field. It got to the point where I was working not for myself or for my patients, but for the malpractice-insurance guys. Who needs it? By the time I reached sixty-five, I felt more than ready to hand it all over to the next generation.” He paused, then smiled. “And I’m enjoying myself immensely.”

“Well,” said Pierce, “you certainly deserve it.” He raised his glass to Dr. Tenelli. I did likewise, and we all tasted more of the wine.

The doctor told us, “The day will come when you guys will be more than ready to hang it up—trust me. Of course, it seems that you, Douglas, are already neck-deep with this murder case.” He grunted a short burst of a laugh.

I wasn’t sure whether Tenelli was referring to the murder investigation in general or to Pierce’s being implicated in it, as revealed only an hour earlier on the radio. How quickly had word traveled? Had he heard that Pierce had shared the victim’s bed on the morning of the murder? Was he aware that Pierce had officially stepped out of the investigation? Steering the conversation away from these points, I told Tenelli, “Doug can handle it. In fact, we were brainstorming a new lead just this afternoon, which is really the purpose of this visit.”

“Oh?” said the doctor. “I’ll help any way I can, naturally.”

“Thanks, Ben,” Pierce told him. “There’s only so much I can tell you, of course, but we’re dealing with some new information suggesting that Carrol Cantrell’s murder may have some connection to the upcoming obscenity trial.”

Tenelli set down his glass and moved it aside. “Good Lord, that sounds terribly…involved…and sinister.”

“We don’t know much,” said Pierce, evading the need to elaborate, “but I’m wondering if you could tell us anything of your experience with the County Plan Commission. Specifically, how did the committee reach the conclusions that were filed in last Friday’s report?”

Tenelli lifted the wine bottle, topping up Pierce’s glass, then mine, but not his own, as the bottle was now empty. “I was hoping,” he told us, “for the chance to explain that. I’m truly sorry that we find ourselves on opposite sides of the issue.”

“It’s a free country,” Pierce told him. “That’s the purpose of public debate.”

“Yes, yes, of course. What I’m trying to say, though, is that in my heart of hearts, I
agree
with you both, at least on the fundamentals. Like most educated, rational, freethinking Americans, I deplore the very notion of censorship. When the content of reading and viewing material becomes a matter of public policy, we’re
all
in trouble. When that policy is shaped to reflect moralistic or religious standards, as is often the case in this debate, the situation is all the worse, having veered very far indeed from the enlightened intent of our Founding Fathers.”

Gosh, I thought, I couldn’t have said it better myself. I asked, “Then why did your report take the direction it did?” I wondered, Was he pressured? Was the name Harley Kaiser about to pop up?

No. Tenelli explained, “The committee was charged with addressing a very narrow issue—commercial development of the highway between the city line and the interstate. In our studied opinion, it was an inescapable conclusion that a strip of porn shops on the edge of town simply presents the wrong image to new businesses that may consider relocating to an industrial park being planned for the area. Many on the committee shared my serious reservations about the free-speech implications of the obscenity ordinance, but we ultimately felt that such objections could be judiciously overridden for the sake of Dumont’s economic development—which is precisely the issue we were charged with assessing.”

Pierce said, “I noticed that the report stopped short of specifically recommending beefed-up enforcement of the ordinance.”

“Exactly. There are those who will infer what they will from the report, and that bothers me greatly. Our
intent,
though, was merely to address the desirability of commercial development along the highway, not the means of achieving it.”

He’d stated his position well. Fingering the rim of my wineglass, I wondered if I myself would have the intellectual flexibility to endorse the same findings if I’d sat on the County Plan Commission. Would I be able to focus on the committee’s stated purpose and draw a pragmatic conclusion, or would I be a slave to my journalistic principles, deciding that the march of commerce was secondary to the rights of a handful of smut peddlers? Tough call.

Pierce told him, “I really appreciate these insights, Ben. I was worried that there might—”

“
Who’s here?
” lilted a friendly voice, a woman’s voice, interrupting Pierce as the back door swung open. “Why,
Sheriff,
what a surprise,” she said, entering the kitchen with a single bag of groceries, setting it on a counter near the refrigerator. She wriggled out of her tweedy autumn topcoat, flung it over the back of a barstool, and approached the table.

We all rose. Tenelli kissed her. Pierce kissed her. She waited—I was next—but I didn’t even know the woman. I assumed, of course, that this was Mary Tenelli, the doctor’s wife.

She said, “Okay, Mark—your turn.”

I obliged with a peck. “My pleasure, Mary. How’d you know my name?”

She jerked her head toward the front of the house. “That car—everybody knows
that
car.” She winked at her husband, who laughed.

Was that a joke? What was I missing? I found it odd that both the doctor and his wife, within moments of meeting me, had mentioned my car. Was it simply too conspicuous for the streets of Dumont? Was I thought pretentious for driving it? Surely the Tenellis, with all their affluence and their worldly tastes, would not begrudge me the delights of an overengineered automobile.

Tenelli asked her, “Care for some wine, Mary? I can open another bottle.”

“Too early for me”—she flicked her hands—“I’d sleep through dinner.” She thought of something: “Did you invite the boys to stay for supper, Ben?”

“Not yet. But I was about to.” He turned to us. “How ’bout it?”

“Thanks, but no,” said Pierce. “There’s a lot going on right now.”

I seconded his thanks, telling the doctor, “That’s awfully kind of you, but I’m expected at home. Perhaps some other time? I’d enjoy it, and I think you’d enjoy meeting my ‘better half,’ Neil Waite.”

“Anytime,” Tenelli told me, clapping an arm over my shoulder.

“We’d
love
to meet Neil,” echoed Mary. “We’ve heard so much about him.”

I’ll bet.

“Say,” said Tenelli. “You fellas like a good beer now and then, don’t you?”

“Sure,” said Pierce, “but not now, I’m afraid. We really ought to go.”

“Yes, I understand,” the doctor said while sidestepping to a door near the hall. “This’ll be for later. I want you both to take home something special.” He opened the door, switched on a light, and descended the stairs to the basement, calling up to us, “I won’t be a minute.”

Mary fluttered toward the bag of groceries she’d brought home, telling us over her shoulder, “Lord only knows what he’ll find for you down there—he keeps an overstocked kitchen.”

Her statement confused me. We were
in
the kitchen, weren’t we?

Pierce must have read my puzzled expression, as he explained, “It’s sort of a traditional setup among Italian-American households in this area. They have a second kitchen in the basement, used for
serious
cooking, for big family events. More often than not, it’s the husband’s domain.”

“That it is,” Mary assured us while arranging on the counter the contents of her shopping bag—bunches of fresh basil and cilantro, fist-size bulbs of garlic, and of course tomatoes—the most gorgeous I’d ever seen. Where had she gotten them? Was there an Italian market in town? While she fussed with all this, we could’ hear the doctor fussing in the basement. There was a clatter of bottles, then the distinct latching sound of a refrigerator door. As his footsteps creaked up the stairs, Mary told us, “It really
must
be something special if it came from that fridge. He won’t let me near it—claims it’s his own private stash.” She laughed off this territorial eccentricity, doubtless one of many whimsical details that had lent color to their decades of marriage.