The Staked Goat - Jeremiah Healy (9 page)

The DA put Teresa under witness protection in a
hotel. Just before the permanent relocation funding was approved by
the appropriate bureaucracy, somebody slipped down a rope and into
the hotel room. The somebody bashed the female operative and did
Teresa. By the time the guys outside in the hall realized the inside
operative should have answered their knock, the somebody was gone.
Along with Teresa's eyes, ears, and tongue. He left the rest. Alive,
sort of.

"Sixteen," Nancy said, bringing me back.
"She was sixteen." She shivered for the second time since
I'd come in. Nancy looked up at me. "The Coopers weren't really
part of our case, but I'll ask McClean. And Drew, too. But I can't
promise."

"I know." I checked my watch. "I
better call a cab."

She shook her head vigorously and hopped up. "No
way. It'd take forever, and I said I'd drive you. I'll be out in a
minute."

She disappeared for more like two and a half minutes.
She reappeared in an L. L. Bean parka like one I owned, and jeans and
eskimo boots. She handed me her business card, home phone written on
the back. She walked over to the towel and slipped the gun out from
under it and into the parka's left side pocket.

"The pocket in my parka's too shallow for that,"
I remarked as she tossed me my coat.

"Mine was too," she said. "Mrs. Lynch
slit the interior and resewed it deeper."

I picked up my bag and we clomped downstairs and into
the cold clear night.

When we arrived at Logan Airport, Nancy gave me a
quick kiss. I said thanks and entered the terminal just as a cop was
waving for her to move along. I checked my bag at the passenger
ticket counter and asked directions to the cargo area.

It took a little explaining, but I used George's
name, and the Delta cargo employee expressed his sympathies and
escorted me to the loading platform. His first name was Dario. He was
middle-aged and compact. He also looked strong as a bull.

As we approached the platform, there was a young guy
uncertainly maneuvering a forklift and pallet toward a
canvas-wrapped, coffin-sized container.

"Pat, yo—Pat," said Dario.

The forklift operator stopped and turned around.
"Pat, let me take that one for the gentleman here."

Pat gratefully hopped off, and Dario replaced him. He
coaxed and sidled the lift perfectly. Even without the canvas as a
buffer, I doubt the casket would have been marred.

Dario carefully, even solemnly, drove the lift across
to a weighing machine. After weighing, he completed a multicarbon
form and tore off one copy. He gave me the tearsheet.

"I don't think you'll need this in Pittsburgh,
but, just in case."

"Thanks, thanks a lot," I said, folding and
pocketing the sheet. "What happens now?"

"We put the coffin into a covered, locked cargo
cart and get it on the plane before the other baggage."

I glanced down at my watch.

"Not to worry," said Dario. "It'll
make the flight. My personal guarantee."

I thanked him, and we shook hands. I went back out
and up to the gate for boarding.

There was no one in the aisle or middle seat in my
row on the right side of the plane. The stewardess leaned over and
asked me if I wanted a drink. After having had dinner, I thought a
fourth screwdriver wouldn't depress me. I was wrong. I began thinking
of happy things I'd be doing the next day, like calling J. T. and
watching Martha try to sit shivah.

We arrived in Pittsburgh at 8:45. I decided to pick
up my suitcase later and asked directions to the cargo area. When I
got there, a guy in a green worker uniform was standing over Al's
canvas-draped coffin on a heavy-duty conveyor belt. In front of the
coffin was a three-foot square box stenciled "U.S. Steel."
Behind it was a wildly shaped package that looked home-wrapped. I
walked up to the man in uniform. He was fortyish with brown hair and
a dead cigar in his mouth. He was just pulling off a pair of work
gloves.

"Help ya?" he said through the cigar.

"I hope so. I'm with the coffin. I want to see
it safely on the hearse."

The man shook his head as he removed the second glove
and stuffed them in a back pocket. He pulled out the cigar. "You
know which home?"

"You mean funeral home?"

"Yeah."

"Cribbs and Son."

He smiled and replaced the cigar. "You're lucky.
Jake Cribbs is the only guy who'll come out, day or night. Matter of
pride to 'im."

I breathed a sigh of relief. "Do you have his
number?"

"I can call him for ya. No charge." He
dropped his smile and nodded toward Al. "Family?"

I shook my head. "Friend. From the army."

He put the dead cigar in his shirt pocket and wiped
his hand. He extended it to shake. "Good a' you to see him
through." We shook and exchanged names. His was Stasky.

"I was navy. Just before Vietnam. You there?"

"Yes."

"Him too?"

"Uh-huh."

Stasky pointed to a chair and table with a coffee urn
and some mugs in a corner.

"Make yourself comfortable and have some. I'll
call Cribbs."

I abstained from the coffee. Stasky returned shortly.
"Old man Cribbs'll be here in twenny minutes. He'll give you a
lift into town if you need it."

"Thanks, but someone's meeting me."

He left me at the table while he tended to the
freight.

Half an hour later, Stasky helped me and Cribbs, a
wiry older man in a black stadium coat and commissar's hat, to
maneuver the coffin on the folding high stretcher into the back of
the hearse. The air was dry and cold. Stasky said near zero.

Cribbs said that Mr. Palmer had taken care of
scheduling arrangements at the home. I thanked him, and he said he'd
see me tomorrow. I watched him enter the driver's side and pull away.

I tromped back into the terminal, my exhaled breath
remaining a visible cloud about a heartbeat longer than in
comparatively balmy Boston. I followed signs for the passenger area
and the baggage carrousels. The stores along the corridor were the
usual collection of coffee shops, shoeshine parlors, silly little
bars, and Steeler memorabilia stands. Only the bars were open, the
rest locked with chromed gratings in front of them.

I got to the baggage area. My three-suiter wasn't on
the nearly empty and stationary carrousel. I looked around the room.
A short, chunky man with a toupee stood up from one of the plastic
seats. My suitcase was on the chair next to him. He waved to me, and
I walked over to him. He didn't match Larry's description of either
of them.

"Mr. Cuddy?" he asked.

I recognized his voice and extended my hand. "John,
please, remember? You're Dale Palmer?"

He smiled confirmation and shook.

"When I didn't see you," he said, "I
thought I'd better grab your bag."

"Thanks. I was with . . . the undertaker."

The smile dropped. "Ah, yes. Well, my car is
just out front and to the right." He turned.

I hefted my suitcase and followed him.

EIGHT
-•-

“
IF YOU DIDN'T KNOW HER, YOU'D THINK SHE WAS DOING
pretty well." We'd driven about five miles in his small Pontiac
from the airport toward downtown. So far, we had determined my
accommodations for the night, me insisting on a motel, him insisting
that Larry and he already had made up their guestroom, me not wanting
to put them out, him assuring me that it would make logistics easier
tomorrow and Saturday. I relented. We had finally gotten around to
Martha.

"I've never met her."

"I know. That is, she told us. After the . . .
ah, call."

I rubbed my eyes with my right hand. "I'm truly
sorry about that."

"Listen. It wasn't your fault." His right
hand started to leave the gearshift knob and come toward me. He
stopped it abruptly and brought it back to the steering wheel
instead.

"I appreciate your concern," I said. "And
all you've done for Martha."

He swallowed once, hard. "Martha was our friend.
I mean from before they were married. We persuaded them to move into
the neighborhood." He paused. "Al was a good friend, too."

I let out a long breath. I was too tired. And
depressed. I shut up the rest of the trip.

As we drew toward the city, Dale began speaking
again. He. gave a sort of nervous, pointing geographic orientation of
the U of Pittsburgh, Camegie-Mellon, downtown, Three Rivers Stadium
and half a dozen residential neighborhoods whose names meant nothing
to me. Dale identified the bookstore where Larry worked. Dale taught
piano at home.

We pulled into an older, seedier neighborhood of
party-wall townhouses, some with two stories, some with three. Most
were old brick, few had bay or bow-front windows. One block had ten
beautiful, restored houses, another ten burned-out shells. Dale
explained this area was called Mexican War, each of the streets named
after an event or personage in the 1840s conflict. He slowed and
parked in front of a picture-perfect two-story and cut his engine.

"Home at last," he said with false cheer.
"This is our place. Carol is directly across the
street"—gesturing and twisting—"Martha's the ash-toned
one, two doors down from her." He dropped the merriment. "How
do you want to handle this?"

I glanced at my watch. Ten-twenty-five. "Too
late to see Martha?" I asked.

"Oh, no," he said. "I'm sure she'll
still be up. That's part of the problem."

"Maybe if I could drop my suitcase at your place
and then we could go over?"

"Perfect," he said. We left the car and
climbed his three steps. He let me in and sensed the Cook's Tour of
the house could wait. He showed me to my room and signaled toward the
bathroom. I popped my suitcase and hung up my suit for the next day.
Then we both sucked in a little courage and walked over to Martha's
house.

The three concrete steps leading up to Martha's door
were chipped and cracked. The heavy door and jamb were painted, but
the overhead light betrayed it as gray primer futilely waiting for a
top coat. There was no doorbell and only a residual outline and a
screw hole where the brass knocker might have been. Dale drew one
ungloved hand from his pocket and tapped lightly with two knuckles.
The air was painfully cold. Dale tapped again, harder.

The door swung halfway open. "In! Come on, come
on. In quickly, before we lose heat!"

Dale scooted ahead of me with a short laugh. I hopped
over the sill. Our greeter, a slim, boyish man in a Beatle haircut
and a tight ski sweater, closed the door with an extra push needed at
the end. He threw the deadbolt and turned to us without a smile.

"Larry Estleman," said Dale. "John
Cuddy."

I extended my hand. Larry's features sagged and he
shook my hand. "Again, I'm sorry . . . about . . ."

"I'm sorry, too," I said. "It was a
bad time all around."

Larry said, "Yeah," and dropped my hand.

“
Where's Martha?" asked Dale.

"In the kitchen," said Larry. "With
Carol. We have the oven on."

Dale nudged Larry to precede us. I took off my coat.
We walked through a small living room; I tossed my coat on a chair.
The walls needed repainting, the ceiling replastering, and the
furniture replacing. It didn't feel much warmer inside than it had on
the stoop.

Dale whispered to me. "They hadn't paid their
oil bills, so . . ."

I nodded to stop him, but he continued.

"The stove's electric, and Larry put an old
space heater of ours in Al Junior's room. I called the oilman, he'll
deliver tomorrow and add it to our bill.

I nodded again as we entered the kitchen.

The two women sitting at the table looked up. One was
blond and a little prim. She looked calm and one hand held a pencil
hovering just over a grocery pad. The other resembled Audrey Hepburn
in her early thirties, short black hair and a thin, tired face. Both
had sweaters and coffee cups.

Larry leaned against the refrigerator and stuck his
hands into his pants pockets. Dale spoke to the blonde. "Martha?
This is John Cuddy."

She smiled and got up. I awkwardly waved her to stay
down, but she came over and gave me a peck on the cheek and a polite
hug. "Oh, John, welcome to our house. Al told me so much about
you." She spoke in a falsely buoyant tone.

Her head inclined to the woman still sitting, Martha
spoke again. "And this is Carol Krause."

I looked at Carol, she riveted angrily on me. "Why
don't we move into the living room'?" said
Martha.
"We'll be more comfortable."

"I felt a little chill in there, Mart,"
said Carol. She had the smooth, even voice of a TV anchor. Or a
hostess in an expensive lounge. "Couldn't we all just stay in
here?"

Martha blinked then smiled. "But chairs . . . we
wouldn't all—"