The Green Revolution (16 page)

*   *   *

When the picture curled from the printer, Larry held his breath. Then he held the print for a full minute before he began to study it. Ever since Laura had drawn attention to shoe prints on the putting green, which had then been matched by identical ones at the ball washer, Larry had been dreaming of a way to turn her coup into his own. The sight of the photo next to Grafton's story had given him an idea. At the time, he was seated on the edge of his bed, bedraggled, unrested, looking at his shoes lying on their sides on the floor just out of reach.

“Larry, you don't work today.”

He ignored Laura. His hand went out and grasped his shoe. He turned it over and studied its sole.

“Larry?”

“Go to sleep.”

“Well, thanks a heap.” She rolled onto her side, causing the waterbed to ripple, and pulled the blanket over her shoulder.

It wasn't that he was ignoring her. He hadn't heard her. He stumbled across the room to the early bird edition he had bought at some godawful hour the night before. Asking Laura in was the line of least resistance. He did not want to make the long drive to where she lived. There he would have had to park and grapple for half an hour before she let him go and went inside. The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was her grumbling, “I hate waterbeds.”

All through the night, his subconscious had apparently been at work. When he sat on the edge of the bed, his eye had been drawn fatefully to his shoe, to its sole, to the mark in the curve where sole met heel. Now, in the drugstore, he peered closely at the color print of Grafton's photo. He could have cried out. A diamond, a word beneath it. He would need a magnifying glass to make it out. No, no, he could read it. Stromberg! The same brand as the shoes that Bridget Sokolowski had turned over to him.

*   *   *

“Thanks,” he said to Grafton, putting the camera on his desk.

“Let me see it.”

The reporter took the print and held it some distance from his eyes. He nodded. “Of course it's clearer, and color helps.”

He handed it back, and Larry began to breathe again. What would he have done if Grafton had noticed the trademark on the sole of the shoe? They could have formed a team. Perhaps a time for that would come, but for the moment it was Larry Douglas alone. Rather than go back to his room and Laura, he headed for campus security, where he could use a telephone.

None of the shoe stores in the area carried Stromberg shoes. Larry was disappointed but not discouraged. He pulled up Stromberg on the Internet. A Massachusetts firm. A number, but not an 800 number. Larry dialed it anyway.

“I'm calling from South Bend, Indiana. Where is the nearest outlet for your shoes?”

“Outlet? Retail outlet?”

“Shoe store.”

“My dear fellow, Stromberg shoes are custom made.”

“Each customer orders his own?”

“Our feet are our chief contact with the world,” the voice went on. “Feet are not to be trifled with, feet…”

Larry hung up. There was no point in asking that fruitcake if he would tell Larry who his customers were. That could come later, after he matched the shoes Bridget had given him with the prints on the putting green.

*   *   *

“I wonder,” Grafton said, when Larry went back to the reporter's office to enlist his help. There seemed no point now in keeping his big inspiration a secret. “There must be a way.”

“I could go around looking for people with big feet and ask them to show me the bottom of their shoes.”

“The Cinderella Fella.” Grafton smiled, in approval of the phrase he had had to fight with the editor to have above his story about the prints. “I wonder what would happen if I mentioned the make of the shoes in another story.”

The little leap of hope in Grafton's voice reminded Larry of the eagerness with which he had rushed off to the drugstore to make that print.

“Who knows?”

*   *   *

It was when he was outside again, at his car, that he remembered that he still had the plastic bag in his trunk. He drove to a parking place by the St. Joseph River where he and Laura had spent hours he would rather not think about. After turning off the engine, he reached down, depressed the button to open the trunk, and got out. He reached into the bag and brought out a huge shoe and turned it over. Stromberg but nothing more. He was about to put it away again when it occurred to him to examine it further. The name was etched into the inside of the shoe. George Wintheiser.

2

Phil had been with Jimmy Stewart when the call from Father Genoux came. Jimmy's eyebrows shot up, and he handed the phone to Phil. “It's for you.”

“Philip Knight?”

“Yes.”

“Father Genoux. We've met.”

“Yes.”

“I was told I might find you there.”

“What is it, Father?”

“I wonder if you've heard of the demonstration at the Main Building yesterday.”

“I saw it on television.”

“I know, I know. In any case, I received a call saying that Professor Lipschutz is missing. He can't be found. No one knows where he is. After what happened yesterday, you can imagine…”

“I'll be right there, Father.”

“Father Carmody tells me that he has retained your services, on behalf of the university.”

“That's right.”

“Whatever you can do, Mr. Knight. There's no need to come here. I will be anxious to hear what you may find out.”

“Lipschutz,” Phil said to Jimmy, when he had put down the phone. “He's missing.”

“He's been all over television.”

“He's not on campus, he's not at his home.”

“They want you to find him?”

“I think they fear he might harm himself.”

*   *   *

Alone on a slow day, Jimmy went across the street for lunch, a hamburger and a beer. He read Grafton's story about the Cinderella Fella and saw the photo of the shoe print. The guy must be a giant. Jimmy's eyes lifted from the paper. He stared at the winking name of a beer in neon in the window of the bar. Products have brands. Shoes are products.

He finished his lunch and went up the street to the paper.

“Great minds,” Grafton purred. “The shoe is a Stromberg.”

“Never heard of it.”

“They're custom made.”

“Where?”

“Massachusetts. They have a Web site.”

Everybody had a Web site, even the South Bend police. Jimmy had never brought it up on his computer.

Back in his office, he decided he would tell Phil Knight about the Stromberg brand. His phone rang, and he wasn't surprised to find that it was Phil.

“Phil, I have something to tell you. Maybe important.”

“Jimmy, Roger isn't here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought he had gone to class. I don't think his bed has been slept in. His golf cart is missing, too.”

“I'll be right there.”

3

“We got there too late,” Bingham lamented.

“How
did
you get there?”

“We walked.”

“No wonder.”

“It was all on television.”

“We had signs,” Potts said, having got the drift of the conversation. “
SAVE OUR CLUB
.”

“Old Carmody would have torn that up, too.”

“I thought he was retired.”

“Retired, not dead.”

“I know the distinction.”

“They had to bring him back,” Armitage Shanks said, in the tones of an insider. “These young pups can't handle anything.”

“Do you approve of the humiliation of a colleague?”

“When it's self-administered.”

What had happened on the steps of the Main Building the previous day might have been unknown by most and forgotten by the few who had witnessed it had not the local television station played the film made of the occasion over and over and over. By the magic of television, it loomed as large as another lost football game. Of course, the station could now justify this repetition because of the disappearance of Lipschutz.

“They should drag the lakes,” Horvath advised.

“My wife reported me missing once.”

“Missing what?”

“I had gone to Chicago, on impulse. Got caught in a snowstorm coming through Michigan City. Slid off the road and spent the night there.”

“So you
were
missing.”

“I was gone, not missing.”

The others left Potts to his memories. Who would report any of them missing if they failed to show up someday?

“Whatever happened to the guy they found on the putting green?”

“I suppose they buried him.”

“Was he killed or what?”

“What,” said Potts, and it didn't seem to be a question.

“Potts is right. The verdict was suicide.”

“Have they looked for Lipschutz on the golf course?”

“They should check the ball washers for missing towels.”

Debbie, the hostess, was scooting by, but Shanks caught her attention by catching her arm. Stopped abruptly, she teetered, then fell onto his lap, smiling saucily, then jumped up, and looked around her favorite table.

“Where are you hiding him, Debbie?”

“Who?”

“Lipschutz.”

She wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue.

“You have him locked in your basement,” Bingham mused. “Your love slave. Probably drugged. Sooner or later, the neighbors will notice.”

Debbie pulled out a chair and sat. “Not a chance, sweetie. You spoiled me for anyone else.”

“What do the Algonquins say about Lipschutz?”

“That isn't how they pronounce it.”

“It is the lowest form of humor to make fun of another's name,” Potts said.

“Who's the big guy with them?”

Debbie's eyes lifted. “What a dream. He used to play football. George Wintheiser.”

“What are they talking about?”

“Does anyone know what Hittite is?”

“I think you wash sweaters in it.”

“Well, that's what they're talking about.”

“Must be a salesman. There is life after football.”

“Tell it to Lipschutz.”

“Let him go, Debbie. Kidnapping is a federal charge.”

Debbie got up. “Anyone want dessert?”

A chorus of groans.

“Another drink?”

A chorus of happy affirmations.

4

George Wintheiser had taken to stopping by Rimini's office, although they had pretty well exhausted any topics they had in common. Hittite did not seem a promising substitute for football. George was staying through the week, at either end of which was a Notre Dame home game. He would provide color during the contests and throughout the week appear on various ESPN panels dissecting the collapse of Notre Dame football. He wanted Rimini too be a guest and an ally defending the Fighting Irish.

“If we aren't there, they will be writing our obituary.”

George always sat in the easy chair, which was low, and when he crossed his legs, his huge feet seemed suspended in the air between them. Today he was wearing sneakers that were the size of snowshoes. It was the memory of those huge feet that had disturbed Rimini when he read the third news story about the Cinderella Fella.

“Those aren't Strombergs, are they?” He tried to laugh as he said it.

“Nikes.” George jiggled his feet, bringing back olfactory memories of locker rooms of yore. “I do own a couple pair, however.”

“Strombergs?”

George nodded. “I know what you're thinking. I read that story in the local paper. A pair of Strombergs was stolen from my motel room.”

“I wouldn't tell the police that.”

“Will
you
?” His smile was pleasant enough, but Rimini, in the circumstances, found it slightly menacing.

Imagine what the police would say if they asked George if he wore Strombergs and he said yes, but a pair had been stolen. Who would want shoes his size anyway?

“Have you heard anything about the effort to find out how many Catholics are on the team?”

“Did you read Bartholomew's story about the Methodist kicker and the Muslim wide receiver?”

“Interesting.”

“Incredible. Admission has refused access to the press.”

Rimini heard more of the same from Bartholomew Hanlon later.

“They told me all those records are confidential. Like grades. I told them about the Freedom of Information Act.”

“So you're stymied?”

“Up to a point.”

“You might have better luck following up on the death of Ignatius Willis.”

Bartholomew ran his hand over his face. Was he trying to grow a beard? “We got a funny call. Some woman said, ‘George Wintheiser wears Stromberg shoes.'”

“He does.”

“How do you know that?”

“How do I know you're wearing Rockports? I can read your sole.”

“Is Wintheiser still around?”

“He's staying at the Morris Inn.”

*   *   *

That was all Rimini could do. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed that Wintheiser wanted the whistle blown on himself. It was as if he were telling Rimini: You tell them, I can't. He thought he owed it to George to let him know that
Advocata Nostra
wanted to interview him.

“They got a call telling them you wear Strombergs,” he told Wintheiser.

“Was it you?”

“George. It was a woman.”

“That would be Pearl.”

“Your wife!”

“I wonder if it was a local call.”

“Who can tell anymore?” Why would Wintheiser's wife give that kind of information to the police? “She mad at you or what?”

“Are you married?”

“A long time ago.”

“Divorced?”

“Hey, I'm Catholic. No, she died.”

“I'm sorry.”

Rimini had felt sorry at the time; at least, he told himself he should feel sorry. How many people realized he had been married to an untamed shrew? She hated academic life and had nagged him about getting another job.