The Staked Goat - Jeremiah Healy (11 page)

Kenny said, "From 'Nam?"

The abbreviation had a hollow ring coming from his
young body. "Yes," I said.

"Did you—"

"Kenny," said Carol sharply.

Kenny shut up and went back to his food. We all ate
breakfast a little faster after that.

I excused myself, saying I wanted to go over to Dale
and Larry's to clean up. Carol followed me into the living room.

I turned to her and she helped me on with my coat.

"You were real good with her last night, you
know."

"It would have been a disaster without you
there."

She closed her eyes. "It's still going to be
one. She's got nothing now. No way to go."

I gave her a false wink. "I'l1 talk to his boss
at the wake. Don't worry."

She crossed her arms and followed me to the door,
locking it behind me.

The morning was clear, the air brutally cold, a
torrent against the face. I ached everywhere from unnaturally held
sitting positions. I tried to walk it off into the wind. A solitary
jogger in a ski mask and Gore-Tex suit passed me. I got a block and a
half before I had to turn back. With the wind behind me, the walking
was almost pleasant, the cold piercing only the pants below my coat's
hem.

I reached Dale and Larry's doorway. My watch said
7:15. I keyed the lock quietly and slipped in.

Their foyer was warm. Larry appeared in a restored
wooden archway to the right. He wore lilac designer sweat pants
cinched at his waist, no shirt. His upper . body was spare and taut,
like a junior high athlete.

"How's Martha?"

"Tough night, but she's holding up. I thought
I'd flop upstairs for a while."

He nodded, wary. "Want some breakfast?"

"Had some already, thanks."

He nodded again and disappeared back through the
arch.

I trudged up the stairs.

I recognized the light tapping.

"Dale?" I asked.

"Yes," he said outside the door. "Larry
said you looked pretty beat but it's almost twelve noon and I thought
. . ."

I sat bolt upright in the guestroom bed. My watch
agreed with Dale.

,". . . you might like some lunch before . . .
beforehand, that is."

"I need a shave and a shower first."

"All yours," he said, a little quickly.
"Take your time. Cold lunch. No rush."

"See you soon."

"Right," he said.

As I unpacked my suitcase, I began to appreciate the
extent of the restoration in the house. In my bedroom, the furniture
was perfect: mahogany four-poster, dry sink, and night table; powder
blue wing chair with matching hassock; one hurricane lamp. Only the
window was modem, double glazed and aluminum. Everything else seemed
original equipment. Brass wall sconces, glass doorknobs, wainscoting
naturally woodstained (which undoubtedly meant laborious stripping
and prestaining). The floors were wide-board hardwood, probably
sanded and polyurethaned. I had friends in Boston who had undertaken
similar projects on one-bedroom condos. Redoing an entire townhouse
would register near the top of the sweat-equity scale.

The bathroom contained a large tub with raised claw
feet and a massage-style showerhead. Brass rings on the wall held
dark blue towels, contrasting nicely with the light blue tiles and
paint. A home that would be a pleasure to live in.

I was dressed and downstairs by twelve-thirty. Larry
and Dale were sitting at a table in the dining room, which was just
through the archway I'd seen on my way into the house. Larry, back
from the bookstore, had changed to a continental-style, gray
pin-striped suit, and was laconically turning the pages of a
magazine. Dale was in the trousers and vest of a solid gray suit, a
small bulge of shirt-covered belly visible above the belt buckle. The
table was set but no food served.

"We can offer smoked breast of chicken with
lettuce and tomatoes on homemade bread," said Dale rising and
smiling broadly.

"Sounds terrific," I said. He moved quickly
into the kitchen ignoring my proffered help.

I sat down across from Larry. It was silent for an
awkward twenty seconds.

"The house looks super," I said. "You
must have poured a lot of time into it."

Larry gave an ironic smile and held his place with a
finger. "Look," he said, "I'm not being rude, but I
just don't think you and I mix well. The Better Homes and Gardens
routine is Dale's bag, not mine. He'll really appreciate the
compliments, honest. Me, I just don't feel much like talking, O.K.?"

"O.K." I said. He returned to his magazine.
Dale appeared a long two minutes later with a tray of sandwiches and
a magnum of white wine.

"I think you'll like the chicken," he said.
"A farmer friend of ours raises and smokes them himself."
He hefted the wine. "I also think we all could use a brace for
this afternoon."

"This house is magnificent, Dale," I said
as I reached and took half a sandwich.

"Oh, thank you," he said, pouring my wine.
"It was a ton of work. We should have time for a little tour
after lunch."

We ate in one—sided silence, Larry's only
contribution being, "Good wine, Dale." Dale beamed and
continued the I-love-Pittsburgh theme begun on our ride in from the
airport. I was mildly interested in the information and deeply
grateful for his filling the air.

Larry insisted on clearing the table so that Dale
could show me the house. The living room was tasteful in old rose and
powder blue, with a matching-background Oriental rug and a
functioning fireplace with Italian cherub tile. Beyond the dining
room and alongside the kitchen was a back parlor with a baby grand
piano and a southeastern exposure. The rear wall was glass,
overlooking a twenty-by-twenty back garden. Many plants, all cacti in
pots, hung by mono-filament inside the glass. Dale explained that the
piano couldn't tolerate a lot of humidity, so the interior flora
selections thus were limited.

We skipped the basement ("a small wine cellar,
some herbs and mushrooms under grow lights") and took in the
second story. The master bedroom was a macro-version of the guestroom
and occupied the front half of the floor, with a private bath and a
huge walk-in closet under an cave. We climbed an attic pull-down
ladder in the closet and up through a hatchway. The snow shook down
deeper onto a redwood deck.

"I got the idea from two friends in New York.
You don't see many roof decks in Pittsburgh, but there's nothing
better for really enjoying the sun without all the sand and
catcalls—" he broke off.

"I agree with you," I said. "Sundecks
have it all over the beach."

He followed me back down the ladder, securing the
hatchway above him.

I picked up my coat and we went downstairs. The three
of us saddled up and, insufficiently braced by the wine, crossed over
to Martha's house.

Carol let us in. She and Martha were dressed and
ready. Neither could get a sitter until Carol's regular one came on
at four. Larry enthusiastically volunteered to stay behind and watch
Al Junior and wait for Kenny to come home from school. He said he
would join us thereafter. The four of us easily fit into Dale's
Pontiac, the two women in the back. It was a quiet ride to J. Cribbs
and Son.

The funeral home was a renovated Victorian on a
commercial street three miles away. It was white with black shutters
behind a sidewalk and semicircular drive more manicured than shoveled
of the dirty snow around it. There was plenty of parking behind the
house. We walked in pairs as we had ridden, silently, exhaling frosty
breath into the wintry overcast. Cribbs the Son met us at the front
door, dressed in his profession's uniform and speaking in low,
comforting tones. We introduced ourselves and were guided into a
parlor with a dark blue decor and cushioned chairs arranged as if to
hear a speech.

Cribbs the Father was standing respectfully with
hands folded, in front of Al's closed coffin. We said hello again,
and he cued his son, who left the room. The father took Martha's coat
and showed her to a front row, center aisle chair. The rest of us
shucked overcoats and arranged ourselves around her. We took turns
moving haltingly to the comn and saying our first good-byes to Al.

When my turn came, I had to fight my dipping reflex,
there being no kneelers at the coffin as in Catholic establishments.
I pictured Al as I knew him in the service, sitting in an old French
easy chair in his room in Saigon, reading or listening to symphonic
music on the stereo set he had bought at the PX. I skipped back to
him clouting the Virginian in the brawl at the BOQ. I skipped forward
to Martha and Al Junior in the rundown townhouse with little food and
less heat. Then I thought about 13 Rue Madeleine and Al on the slab,
and somebody, the somebody, who was going to pay for all that. Then I
said good-bye and returned to my seat. i

The rest of the afternoon took a lot longer to pass
than it does to describe. The outside door kept opening and closing,
but the hushed voices and occasional sobs gravitated toward another
room and someone else's sorrow. At three o'clock, the older Cribbs
came in and, perhaps embarrassed at the turn-out, stayed with us for
a bit. Dale bravely tried to start a few conversations, but not even
Carol was contributing so he stopped. I excused myself and got
Cribbs' permission to use his office phone.

I wanted to call my number first, to check my
telephone tape machine. I took out my Ma Bell credit card. I tapped
my jacket pocket for my remote beeper, but it wasn't there. I closed
my eyes and could picture me putting it on the desk at home, then
forgetting to pack it in the suitcase. Terrific. Really professional.

I tried J .T. at the Pentagon instead. Same
receptionist, same response. No one else there could help me. I
chanced leaving Al's name and Dale's number with her. I spelled the
names and repeated the numbers twice.

I tried Nancy second. Not in, but I left both Dale's
and Martha's home numbers with her secretary. Next I tried my friend
at the company that had covered the torched warehouse. He was not in
and was not expected back. I asked his secretary to please follow
through on the security request for the Coopers. She said she would
do her best, but "it's three-thirty on a Friday afternoon, after
all.”

Next I called and reached my friend at the telephone
company in Boston. He gave me the Coopers' new, unlisted telephone
number. It rang five times before I got Jesse's tentative hello.
Relieved it was me, he said mine was the first call on their new
line, and they had neither heard from nor seen Marco. I told him that
was certainly good news. Jesse and Emily (who had come on the line)
both thanked me profusely. Emily asked about Al's family, and I told
a few lies to make them feel better. As I rang off, they insisted I
come over for dinner as soon as I got home. I agreed.

Lastly, I dialed Lieutenant Murphy. This time I drew
Cross. She confirmed Daley's conversation with me, said she had
spoken personally with Al's two business appointments, neither of
whom were going to order anything from him or knew anything more
about him. Murphy's investigatory approach was comprehensive and
professional, but I could hear the "case closed but unsolved"
tone creeping determinedly into Cross' voice. I told her I would
check back with her on Monday and hung up.

I got up, thanked Cribbs' secretary, and went back
downstairs. The crowd had not filled in since I'd left. At 4:20,
though, Larry joined us. Dale nudged him in the ribs, and Larry went
up to the coffin and stood there for fifteen seconds or so, head
bowed. When he turned and came back, I was surprised to see he was
crying. He sat back down and began sobbing into  Dale's
shoulder. Carol clenched her teeth, the tears welling within her but
not pouring from her. I blinked a lot and twice went to my eyes with
the edge of my index finger. Martha simply sat, stoically staring at
the coffin.

At five o'clock, a young heavyset girl of perhaps
nineteen came in. She looked at us and began sniffling. She fumbled
in her bag for some Kleenex and got to it just as the tide broke. I
got up and guided her to a chair.

Her name was Trudy Murcher, and she was the secretary
for the salesmen at Straun Steel. She saw the newspaper story and was
so shocked, and had tried to call Martha at home, and got Larry, and
felt she had to . . .

She lasted seven minutes and then had to leave. At
5:40, a dumpy guy with a blue polyester sports jacket and polyester
houndstooth pants came in. He introduced himself as Norm Denver and
had been a salesman with Al. Norm apologized for coming so late and
having to leave so soon, but he'd just come from an all-day meeting
and had to get home. He had Scotch on his breath and a stain on his
tie. The stain dated from the late seventies.

He wished Martha luck, stood uneasily in front of the
coffin for a couple of seconds, and then turned to go. I caught him
in the foyer as he was buttoning up and an after-work rush was
heading into another wake.

"Mr. Denver," I said, "can I speak
with you for a moment?"