The Lacey Confession (33 page)

He didn't call Conchita Crystal. Instead, he sent her a check returning her money, all except expenses, including the twenty thousand for the Isuzu Rodeo sitting in long-term parking at the Albuquerque airport. Although he wished he was, he wasn't wealthy enough to forget the expenses. In addition to the car, travel alone had been more than thirty thousand dollars. He sent the check with a note explaining his refund and the embarrassing necessity for keeping the expense money. He really didn't want any of it. She never cashed the check and she never called either.

Nothing was ever said between Billy and Walter about Tucker Poesy. Just a look, eye contact the first day Walter returned. He knew well enough if there had been any trouble Billy would have mentioned it. The trip home had taken its toll. The flight from Atlanta, the taxi to the ferry, the boat ride over to St. John, all of it was more than he counted on. Walter was tired and weak when he walked into Billy's. Ike was shocked at Walter's appearance, sunken eyes, thinner, older. He never expected to see his friend look like that. Billy was worried. God only knows what happened to Walter. He was a week late coming back and he looked like shit. What kind of a beating had he taken? Helen, however, could smell a hospital a mile away. She knew right off the bat. Heart attack. Had to be. He told his friends she was right and that he would be all right soon, that he was going to rest awhile at home and he would see them soon. “Maybe a few days,” he said. “Maybe longer.” They said they would check on him, if he didn't mind. Of course he didn't. St. John is a small island. Everyone knows everyone else. They were all family. “I'll see you guys,” Walter said and then sat down to wait for Sonny to bring a car around, to drive him up into the hills, to take him home.

The bushwhackers thin out a little bit in March and a little bit more when April arrives. Rental prices go down—owners are more willing to take short-term guests, even for long weekends, instead of the two-week minimum at high season—and the room rates at the Westin and Caneel Bay are no longer scary. After February, Billy's isn't usually crowded before lunch. Walter recuperated quickly, as quickly as a man his age could. Dr. Willie knew what he was talking about. Walking was good for Walter. It was too hilly where he lived, so he drove down to the beaches and would trek across the sand from one end to the other, and back again. Sand walking was like water walking. Good for the stamina. Good for building up strength. As time went on, he took to doing it twice a day, in the morning before breakfast and again late in the afternoon. For her part, Denise showed a lot of her aunt in her. Even though she was more than thirty years his junior, she took command, asserted herself as she had not done before and assumed the mantle long worn by Clara before her. She cooked—she cared—she was there. And Walter was happy with it. He needed her. Dr. Willie had been right again. Six weeks. And all that time to think—think about what happened—think about who—think about
the Cowboy.

As he saw it, there were three players—Devereaux, the Kennedys and the Georgians. Sure, he realized it wasn't really the Kennedy family, probably none of them except Abby O'Malley, and yes, the Georgians were not really Georgians, strictly speaking. But that's how he thought of them—Kennedys and Georgians. Devereaux was the easy one. He was out there all by himself, a guilty-looking sonofabitch.

He started with the Kennedys. Was he wrong about Amsterdam? Had the Kennedys simply made a mistake by sending the Irishman? Must they have been the ones who killed Sir Anthony and the American Ambassador in order to have killed Harry? Or, could they have killed Harry and not the others? Who wanted Lacey's confession more than they did? Their motives were the most obvious, their need already demonstrated by Sean Dooley and by Abby O'Malley's visit. If it was them, if the Kennedys killed Harry and took the document, how did they know about Leonard Martin? Whoever it was who intimidated Isobel already knew Harry had been taken to Leonard's hiding place. And, they should have known, all along, that Harry had the document. If that was so, why did they have to kill Sir Anthony and Ambassador Brown? If they didn't learn about Harry until later, how did they find out? Walter was confident he had been right in Amsterdam. Sean Dooley was no killer. Why send him if you had someone else, someone who had already shown he could kill a helpless old man and two naked homosexuals. Dooley didn't do that, so why send him to Amsterdam? More to the point, how did Abby O'Malley discover them in Amsterdam in the first place? Tucker Poesy knew. Devereaux obviously told her and she was waiting. But, Abby O'Malley—who told her? The questions did overwhelm him. As he had been doing for decades, Walter lined them up, pieces in the puzzle waiting to be fitted properly.

Walter could not forget, it was him they found, not Harry Levine. He couldn't bring himself to forgive his own stupidity. He led them to Harry, in Holland and in New Mexico as well. Christ! If Harry had just stayed on his own, who knows, maybe he'd still be out there hiding somewhere, still alive. Walter covered himself with a blanket of doubt. If he had not fallen for Conchita Crystal's act—it was an act, wasn't it? If he had just said no to her. If he never found Harry . . . Shit! What an asshole. Aat was right. He was an old fool. Devereaux made him in Atlanta. The girl had him down in Holland. Was it all gone, into the crapper? Did he have anything at all left? Ike was right. The old man had it cold. He should have stayed retired.

Leonard Martin had changed everything. Lost more than a hundred pounds. Cut his hair short. Grew a beard. Stopped wearing suits and ties and switched to jeans and down jackets, boots and a floppy, wide-brimmed hat. Yes, Walter thought, he made himself a better man, a different man. He became
the Cowboy
. Somehow Walter felt a need to do the same. He'd already hardened his body some and was in even better shape now, after his heart attack, after his bypass surgery. Sixty? Shit, he was feeling more like forty. He didn't have a new heart, but he had the closest thing to it. Revascularization, they called it. Revitalization, as far as Walter was concerned. In much the same way as Leonard Martin, he thought of himself as a better man. Like Billy said, Walter was every bit as better as Tommy John. Transformed. Could he be
the Cowboy
? Why not?

Harry Levine wasn't family, blood, kin. He didn't really know Harry that well, although you can get quite close to another person traveling around the world with killers on your trail. No, he was not family. But Harry Levine was his responsibility, his charge. He had been hired to keep him safe, not get him killed. Things had turned out bad before. Not every client was satisfied, not every conclusion the right one. Still, he'd never had anyone killed—murdered—while in his care. And he'd never been played the fool at the cost of another's life. He had a duty, an obligation. Walter took it upon himself to find whoever killed Harry Levine, and then . . . he would know, wouldn't he. Could he be
the Cowboy?

“You look great,” said Ike. “A couple of months here, do that for anyone.” St. John is what he meant and they both knew it. From his barstool to Ike's table, Walter sent his friend a nod of thanks. Territory had been firmly established years ago. Ike already had his table when Walter arrived. Billy's former management—Frogman's, it was called back then—either didn't notice or didn't care. The owner, a man named Jorge Castillo, lived on St. Thomas where he'd come from Kansas City or Milwaukee or some place like that. The Virgin Islands were filled with people, Americans who came from somewhere, none of them—for reasons nobody ever talked about—too eager to go back. When Billy bought the place, he did not change the way it looked, the placement of tables or any of the fixtures, including the barstools. He did allow for a more or less official recognition of Walter's and Ike's already settled presence. The hostess and wait staff knew to keep customers away from their spots without certain knowledge that either of them would not show up. Billy never minded. In fact, Billy liked it that way from the beginning. Ike was thinking about that, watching his friend at the end of the bar, near the kitchen, getting healthier and healthier every day.

“You look great,” he said again.

“This surgery you had, Walter,” chimed in Billy, “I think it made you even better than before. You think I could be right?”

“Yes,” Walter said. “Yes I do. But I think Ike's right too. Don't I look great?” His smile quickly turned to full blown laughter. “Seriously though,” said Walter, “I think he's right about being here, on St. John. If I lived in Cleveland, or someplace, I don't believe I'd feel as good as I do or look as good either, thank you very much.”

“Damn right, Walter. Shit, that's true for us all, isn't it?” laughed Billy proudly, extremely satisfied with his own observation.

“Wise man,” said Ike. “Billy, you definitely a wise man.” For his part, Billy was as happy as he could be with Walter's recovery.

Billy Smith—previously William Mantkowski in another life altogether—knew a little something about recovery. He had seen men, including himself, injured in a way no one ever thought they would come back, come back all the way that is, come back to their old selves. He knew there was a lot more to it than drugs and doctors. Billy was certain as the day was long that among other things, the grace of God, the loving hand of Jesus, as well as his own good food had done wonders for his friend's robust improvement. If Walter wasn't praying, Billy was sure his own would suffice.

“They took something from your leg—is that right?” Billy asked.

“And they used it for my heart,” said Walter.

“Bypass,” Ike said, at the same time he was sucking into his lungs a volume of cigarette smoke that might have killed a first-time smoker. “Bypassing. Gotta go around something. Gotta use something to do it.”

“True, true,” said Walter.

“Like they did with Tommy John.”

“Tommy John—again, Billy?”

“Let me tell you something, Ike,” Billy said, dropping his bar rag on the counter and leaning over, with both hands on the bar, in the direction of the old man. “There's been other players in baseball besides Negroes. Players like Tommy John.”

“White boy, huh? The one you always talking about? Must be your favorite player, or something.”

“White boy, huh?” mocked Billy. “Tommy John threw out his arm. You know, that's what they called it back then—throwing out your arm. When a pitcher did that, it was all over. But, with Tommy John, they operated on him—took something out of his leg, I think, and used it somehow to fix his bad arm, you know his elbow or shoulder or whatever it was he threw out. Anyway, he recovered and he was better than before. Better.”

“Tommy John,” laughed Ike. “Must be a Negro, with two first names, you know.” He laughed again. “Walter?” asked Ike. “You better than before? Now, before you say anything, I want you to know I think you look better. You know what I mean?”

“I think so, Ike. And again I thank you.”

“You know,” the old man said, with a sad shake of his head, “You walked in here, after you came back, and you looked like—” once more he shook his head the same way. “You looked like shit, you know what I mean?”

“I feel a lot better now,” said Walter with a generous smile. “Living here. The sand. The water. The weather. Billy's food, of course, and . . .” He held up his bottle of Diet Coke. “Couldn't have done it without this.”

“Denise too,” added Helen from her spot over by the wine cooler, the newest addition to Billy's behind-the-bar equipment.

“Yes indeed,” said Ike. “Denise. Good girl.” And again Walter lifted his bottle. It was not necessary to say more. Good girl.

“So,” said Billy unwilling to give up on Tommy John just yet. “Tommy John was a good pitcher. Maybe even a great one. That's not for me to say. But he's better known for the surgery than for his pitching.” He glared at Ike. “That is among people who know who he is at all.”

“There's others,” Ike interjected, coughing and spitting up phlegm into a bar napkin. one he then rolled up and left on the table in front of him. Still, despite his obvious discomfort, he dragged a huge inhale, exhaling from his mouth and nose simultaneously, once more, for the millionth time, appearing as if he was on fire himself. “There's others more famous for what they did than what they did.”

Helen looked at the old man with a stare that had hopelessness written all over it. No one was going to change this man, not now, not ever. He was, she was sure, going to kill himself with those cigarettes.

“Damn!” Billy said, looking over at Ike.

“Ike,” said Walter. “You ever hear of those Buddhist priests who lit themselves on fire in Vietnam?”

“I have,” the old man answered. “Fine people, every one of them.”

The conversation turned back again to Tommy John and the surgical procedure that came to bear his name. Billy felt that alone was proof of his argument. “The man's name is on it,” he said. “Like Lou Gehrig's disease.”

“Jim Brown,” said Ike, with a period, like that was all that was necessary. More was required, however.

“Jim Brown? What about him?”

“I tell you, Walter, Jim Brown's more famous for what he's done after football than for when he was playing.”

“What's that for?” Helen chided. “Throwing women—small women at that—off hotel balconies?”

“That too.”

“That too? Geez, Ike!” said Helen obviously too upset to say anything further about Mr. Brown.

“I don't agree with that either, Ike,” said Walter. “Jim Brown—for all his difficulties, Helen—was the greatest player ever to suit up in the National Football League. Number thirty-two for the Cleveland Browns. Nothing he's done since—movies, or anything else, good and bad—outshines that. I think we're talking more about somebody like . . .”

“Mike Tyson,” shouted Billy. “Mike Tyson. I'd say Michael Jackson, but he's even crazier than Mike Tyson, too crazy to talk about.”

“Well, how about Ronald Reagan?” the old man offered for consideration.

“Now you're talking, Ike,” said Helen. “More famous for being President of the United States than for his time as a second- or third-rate actor. Good one, Ike.” The old man flashed her one of his patented, yellow-toothed smiles complete with a tip of his cap, which today was a John Deere hat. It had to be one of Ike's jokes. There couldn't have been a half-dozen pieces of John Deere equipment on the island of St. John, all of them probably lawn mowers.

“Or Kennedy,” said Billy.

“Kennedy? For what? Which one?”

“Either one of them, Helen. They're both more famous for being dead than for anything they did when they were alive.”

“Now Billy, John F. Kennedy was the President of the United States. How much more famous are you going to get than that?”

“Yeah, and when you think about him, what do you think of? Come on, don't sit there with that silly look on your face. What do you think of? That's right, you know it. The same with his brother Bobby too.”

“Billy, do you know who Roosevelt Grier is?”

“Sure, I do, Walter.”

“Well, since you bring up the Kennedys, I'll go with him—Rosey Grier. All pro, famous as you can get as an athlete. Yet, better known as the man who caught Robert Kennedy's assassin, Sirhan Sirhan.”

“He did too,” said Ike. “Jumped on the man, right there in the kitchen where he shot him. That's a good one, Walter.”

Billy broke the pause, the momentary silence among them, with a question. “You want me to write it up?”

“Put me down for Roosevelt Grier,” said Ike. “Thank you. Walter, if you don't mind.”

“I'll take Tommy John,” said Billy, showing loyalty to himself and his unwillingness to be moved off his original conviction. “Walter, what about you?”

“No,” said Walter. “Don't write it, not yet. You say the Kennedys are more famous for being dead. Okay, I say the same for Wild Bill Hickok.”

“Wild Bill Hickok?”

“That's right, Billy. Aces and eights.”

“Well now, boys,” cautioned Ike. “This is getting out of hand, if you know what I mean. Billy, you say the Kennedys, either one. Walter, you have Wild Bill Hickok—which I think is a good one—but I'm taking John Lennon.”

“That's a stretch, don't you think? Christ, he was a Beatle.”

“You don't like it, Walter, don't vote for it. Go on now, Billy,” said Ike, “Now you write it up.”

On the chalkboard, near the old register, Billy scrawled, KENNEDYS/WILD BILL/THE BEATLES.

“Beatles? Not what I said, but that'll do,” said the old man with the silly cap. “They ain't all dead yet, but that'll do.”

“And just what does this prove?” asked Helen pointing toward Billy's handiwork. “I don't get it, and I'm not sure you fellas do either.”

“It shows,” Ike pronounced, “you never can tell what you'll be remembered for. Isn't that right, Walter?”

“As rain, my old friend. Right as rain,” said Walter. Helen seemed unconvinced.