The Staked Goat - Jeremiah Healy (16 page)

I packed very slowly, very deliberately. I could call
J.T. as easily from Boston as Washington. One sock. On the other
hand, Marco by then could be in custody. One pair of briefs. Of
course, he might make bail. A tie. No, his brother hadn't, and it was
Sunday. A crumpled shirt, the funeral-day one. Of course, it would
all depend on the judge at the bail hearing, and how high he set . .
.

Shit, I wanted somebody to beat, to really cream. I
wanted Marco, or the guys in the drugstore, or—best of al1—the
shadow who killed Al. I slumped down on the bed, then slid off and
down onto my knees. I leaned over, so the top edge of the mattress
pressed deeply and firmly against my tense solar plexus. Then I
buried my face in my hands and prayed.

After fifteen minutes or so, I surfaced. It was
stupid to go back to Boston tonight. I couldn't find Marco at my
leisure last week, with his family at least approachable. I'd never
find him on a Sunday night with the D'Amicos and their neighbors
buttoning up the fortress. Planning Jesse and Emily's funeral would
be simple enough, since neither had any family. All I had to do was
call George, the friend who had helped me with the arrangements for
Al. If I could reach Nancy by telephone, she could put things on hold
till Tuesday night, by which time I'd be back in Boston. I was also
pretty sure that whatever J.T. could give me would lead back to
Boston. So, Washington it was.

I finished packing and went downstairs. Dale was
scraping one-third of brunch for three into the garbage. He renewed
his insistence on driving me to the airport. We confirmed six
o'c1ock.

I left the house to cross the street. I debated
between Carol's house and Martha's. The biting February wind
encouraged me to make up my mind quickly. I chose Carol's. She
answered on the second ring and gave me a throw-your-head-back laugh.
"John, you look blue. Come in, come in."

I moved past her into the hall. What I could see of
her house was similar in floor plan to Martha's, and somewhere
between Martha's and Dale's in decor. She took my hand and tugged me
into the living room. "Your hand's like ice, Detective,"
she said, leading us to her couch. "You've got to learn to wear
a coat in this town."

We sat down. She had on a mesh sweater and the same
jeans. She didn't seem to be wearing anything under the sweater.
Again. Women seemed to be doing that a lot lately.

"What can I get you? Ask for what you want. If I
don't have it, I won't be embarrassed."

"Vodka. Maybe orange juice."

"Comin' up." She squeezed my hand and went
to the kitchen.

I looked around the room. Two chairs, the couch, a
coffee table. Dark brown rug and fireplace. Picture frames standing
on the mantel and some of the shelves. Photographs of Carol, of
Kenny, of Carol and Kenny together. One or two of Martha and Al, Dale
and Larry. Homey. But none of any other man. Like a man for Carol.
Not so homey.

She came back into the room juggling a tray with a
bottle of Gordon's vodka, a plastic decanter through which orange
juice showed, and two glasses with ice.

"For a waitress, you don't look too steady."

"Thanks," she said sarcastically, "but
I'm used to six-ounce glasses, not thirty-two-ounce bottles."

"They're metric now."

"Huh?"

"Metric. The booze bottles. It's not quart
anymore, or fifth. Now it's point-seven-five or one liter."

"Oh," she said, examining the bottle as if
it were a recently. discovered artifact. "You're right. I never
noticed before. Huh." She smiled. "So, how many whatevers
do you want with your juice?"

"One linger would be fine."

She smiled. "Glad to see some things don't
change." She fixed my drink and stirred it with a
spoon
on the tray, then repeated for herself.

She handed me my glass. "Cheers," she said,
clinking.

"Cheers," I said and sipped. She wasn't
breaking eye contact.

"So," she said, running her index finger
around the rim of her glass. "Did you sleep well last night?"
She smiling, eyes glittering naughtily.

I took another sip. "Fine," I said. "Carol,
look, I'm sorry to change gears on you, but I just got some bad news.
Some people I know, a couple who helped me in Boston, are dead. They
were—" I stopped. Carol had dropped her smile, and I realized
I was just taking a coward's way out, using Jesse and Emily as my
way.

"John," she said putting down her drink,
"I'm so sorry. I . . . can I do anything?"

I shook my head. "No, the police are on it, and
there's—"

"The police?" she said. "You mean they
were . . .killed?"

"Yes," I said.

"Oh, God." She twisted her hands in her
lap.

"God, this doesn't have anything to do with . .
. with A1's . . ."

"Oh, oh, no," I said, and just stopped a
smile of relief in time. "No, they were helping me on an arson
case and,wel1, I won't be sure till I get back there, but I'm betting
the brother of the guy—" I stopped again and frowned.

"What's the matter, John?"

I took a long swallow from my drink and set it down.
"Carol, I'm kind of a jerk. My wife died and, well, whenever I'm
with someone who, well—I—I tend to . . ."

She was looking at me a little strangely. "You
tend to what?"

I sighed. "I tend to fend her off because I'm
still not ready. I start to use some story or whatever to deflect—"

She put her index and middle finger on my lips, but
made no move to kiss.

"You're a nice man, John. And while I took the .
. . uh, the hugging and crying to be more than . . ." She put
her hand back to her lap. "Look, I got divorced, you know,
almost four years ago. For eight years I'd been straight as an arrow
with Charley . . . that was my husband's name. He was a halfback in
high school who slid into a slob working at Big  Dorothy. That's
a steel furnace over to Duquesne. I didn't work. He wouldn't let me.
Pride, you know.

Well, steel went bad, and he had no seniority, and he
got laid off. I mean, no-hope time. So I went to work as a cocktail
waitress, in one of those places where the tips are big because the
costumes are small? And I was still straight with Charley. I had
plenty of offers, even some that I would have liked but I stayed
straight and—"

"Carol, I didn't mean—"

"Now be quiet and let me finish. You didn't know
what you wanted to say and I know what I want to say, O.K.?"

“
O.K.," I said.

"O.K. Anyways, I had the offers, and I turned
them down. For Kenny's sake as much as Charley's or mine. Well, one
day I was sick as a dog, I went to work anyways and, well, Charley
because of the pride and the lay-off and all, wasn't functioning too
good. At least, that's what I thought. So I leave work sick and come
home early, and the bastard, the unbelievable bastard, is in our bed,
with some bimbo he'd picked up in his bar, where him and his laid-off
buddies went. Can you imagine? I'll spare you the rest of the scene,
but I got a lawyer, and filed for divorce and Charley got nothing,
and basically instead of Charley and me sharing the equity in the
house, the lawyer and me—he was a customer at the club—the lawyer
and me sold the house and "shared" it. Oh, I was really mad
at Charley, and this lawyer was real smooth, tall, distinguished, and
it wasn't until maybe six months later that I realized the lawyer was
taking me worse than Charley had. So I broke off with him and got
this place and worked three jobs to persuade this banker—who was
also a customer at the club, but not a, well, you know, not like the
lawyer—so I got the house and worked myself into the ground to pay
for it, while Martha or Dale or Ruthie baby-sat Kenny. The point—"
She stopped to take a breath and a slug of screwdriver. She also
calmed down a little. "The point of all this is that after the
lawyer, I wanted no part of anybody, maybe for all the wrong reasons,
but I didn't. And it seems to me that what you're saying is that you
don't want, or aren't ready to want, but it seems to me, for all the
right reasons. So"—she picked up my glass and handed it to
me—"here's to friends, 0.K.?"

I could feel the tide rising in my eyes, and saw it
reflected in hers. "Here's to friends."

We clinked and drank.

"So tell me," Carol said, "you got any
relatives, male and unattached and ready, like you in Pittsburgh?"

We laughed, and the laughter made the few tears seem
natural.

"Carol, before I leave—"

She was wiping her eyes but interrupted me. "Oh,
John, you don't have to, we—"

"No, no," I said, holding up my hand. "I
mean, before I leave for Washington tonight. I have to . . . I need
to tell someone here."

"O.K."

"And I don't want to upset Martha anymore, and
Dale seems a bit shaky right now, and—"

"John, just what the hell is it?"

"Carol, promise me that you won't tell anyone
anything about what I'm going to say unless I tell you to."

She gave me a hard stare and frown. "But why—"

"Please, promise first."

She sighed. "I'm a sucker for promises. But I
guess you can tell that already." She inhaled. "O.K., I
promise."

"Carol, I don't think Al was killed by some
sexual psychopath."

"Oh, but the paper said—"

"I know, I know, that's how even the police have
it figured. But I roomed with Al and you've known him for years."

"Yes, but John, at the club, you see guys get
drunk, and with all the pressure on Al, he could have . . ."

"I know, I know." She looked frustrated.
"Look, I'm sorry I keep saying that but I heard you out, now you
hear me, O.K.'?"

She nodded. She didn't like it, but she let me
continue.

"I don't think A1 got drunk and was drawn into
anything. I think Al was pretty desperate for money, and he knew
Straun was about to fire him. I also know that when Al called me in
Boston, there was an edge in his voice. I was half asleep, and I
can't remember every word he said, but there was something in his
voice I'd never heard before. Fear. I can't say it wasn't fear over
money, but the point is that I think Al was killed for something he
set up."

"Set up?" Carol said. "What do you
mean, set up?"

"Basical1y, I mean blackmail."

She nearly swung, but decided to stand up and stamp
around instead. She crossed her arms against her chest. "Blackmail,"
she snorted. "Why, John, that's crazy. Ridiculous. Al Sachs was
the most honest guy I ever met."

"Al was honest, Carol, but he had a funny twist.
You ever hear him talk about squaring things?"

"What?"

"Squaring things. Like paying off a debt."

She closed her eyes for a minute. "Once. Just a
comment. Somebody . . . what the hell was it. Oh, I was at their
house, and Kenny and Al were watching a Steelers game and there was
some commotion on the field and Kenny asked Al what happened and Al
said something like, 'The Eagle hit the Steeler quarterback late, so
the Steelers went after theirs. Squaring things.' I remember I told
Al I would just as soon that he didn't explain things that way to my
son. Al shrugged and that was it." "Yeah, well, he signed
off his telephone conversation with me like that and"—I
thought of Al's broken pinkie and decided conclusions were better
than details—"I'm convinced someone killed him, someone Al
felt had a debt to repay. So for Al, the set-up wasn't blackmail, it
was like squaring things. Paying the debt."

Carol sat down next to me again, arms still crossed.

"John, I could be wrong, but I don't remember Al
even mentioning he knew anyone in Boston. Not even you."

"That's why I'm going to Washington. I don't
think A1 would have met anybody in the steel business who would have
. . . gone to such lengths to cover a killing. With luck, I may find
something in the files from when he and I were in Vietnam."

Carol looked dazed. "A1's death was bad enough.
But this . . . blackmail, murder. I don't know."

"Carol," I said softly, "snap back to
me, please."

She looked at me, blinked a few times, then busied
herself with the vodka bottle. "I'm sorry, another drink?"

"Yes, a light one." She fixed one more for
each of us. No toasting, no clinking, just a couple of long draws. .

"The reason I told you," I said, "is
that I was wondering if you knew anybody on the local police force?"

"Police force?" she said. "Well, yeah,
a couple of guys- Why?"

"I'm not trying to start a panic, and I have no
reason to think anybody is interested in Martha or—"

"Oh, Jesus Christ!" Carol burst out. She
slammed her drink down on the table. "This isn't funny, John. I
don't want to hear—"

I set my drink down and took both her hands in mine.
"I'm sorry to put it on your shoulders, kid, but you're the most
solid person in the group. Just keep an eye out for anyone out of the
ordinary. If you see something, like an unfamiliar car on the block
for a long time, or guys in doorways, or even workmen in a vaguely
painted utility truck, I want you to call your friends on the cops,
and I want you to call me, and if you can't reach me, a lieutenant on
the Boston force named Murphy. I'll write out names and numbers for
you. But I need your promise to watch over things. O.K.?"