The Staked Goat - Jeremiah Healy (12 page)

"Jeez," he said, looking down and fumbling
with his second button, "I'm late now. Gloria'll kill me if I
don't get home to see the brats into bed."

I waited until he looked up at me. I said evenly, "I
need to speak with someone about Al."

He exhaled. I wondered how he could smell like an
exhaust fan at a Seagram's factory and not show it. "O.K. ,"
he said, abandoning the button, "but honest, just a couple of
minutes, O.K.?"

"Thank you," I said, and we edged into a
corner of the foyer where there was no table or chair.

"I need to speak with whoever is in charge of
benefits at Straun."

He looked a little furtive. "Benefits?"

"Yes. Like life insurance, survivors' health
care, that kind of thing."

He swallowed and began again with buttons.

"Maybe you better call the company."

I slapped his hand away.

"Hey," he said, rubbing the slapped hand
with his other. "What's the idea?"

"The idea is you tell me who to contact at
Straun. Is there something wrong with that?"

"You can't reach anybody until Monday, anyways.
Look," he said, lowering his voice, "I don't want no
trouble. I got a job, and I do O.K., and that's a lot more'n most
have in this town right now, O.K.?"

"Go ahead."

"Straun—old man Straun, there's a son too, a
lawyer, but he works for the company—o1d man Straun hired Al
because he heard Jews were supposed to be good at `sellin' stuff, you
know. Now, Al, he wasn't. He was an O.K. guy, but he didn't wanna do
the stuff you gotta do to close sales with the customers. You know
anything about steel?"

"Not much."

"Well, the big boys, the heavy steel and sheet
producers, are gettin' murdered by the Japs and all dumping in our
markets. Dumping in the sense of sellin' steel in our markets below
our cost, I mean American companies' cost, to make the stuff. When
the big boys hurt, we hurt, 'cuz our best way of gettin' sales is by
piggybacking the reps of the big boys into the customer. To do that,
you gotta, well, sort of compensate the reps, you know?"

"I'm getting the picture."

"O.K. So Al doesn't like to do that stuff. So Al
thinks that after Straun's been in business somethin' like
fifty-three years—the company was started by old man Straun's
father in the twennies—and survived depressions and a war with
Straun's fuckin' cousins, Al thinks he can do it different. Al thinks
he can go in cold and sell to the generals—the guys who build the
buildings that use our stuff—direct, by personal contact. Well, he
thinks wrong. He couldn't do it, you couldn't do it. Nobody could do
it."

"All of which adds up to what?"

Norm stole a look at his watch and grimaced. "All
of which adds up to he wasn't making his draw, follow? He wasn't
closing the sales to cover his pay. He was overdrawn like at the
bank."

I felt a cold wave but nobody had opened the door.
"His insurance?"

"Buddy, I gotta guess that Al lost all that
months ago. The only thing keepin' him on was old man Straun's
stubbornness. He'd made the decision to hire him, and that meant he
couldn't admit he was wrong by firin' him. But stubborn don't mean
stupid, and it sure don't mean generous. Straun wouldn't carry a
puppy to its mother."

"Where can I find Straun?"

He went back to his buttons. "In the office on
Monday."

"Tomorrow is Saturday." I said. "Where
do I find him tomorrow?"

"Look, buddy, you gotta understand. There are
ten guys in this town, maybe twenny guys, who'd kill for my job. If
old man . . ."

"He won't iind out you told me."

"But if . . ."

"Where will he be?"

He buttoned the last button. "Till the last
couple of years, he'd be in the office. Catchin' up on paperwork.
Then he realized he could sit home and have his kid the lawyer bring
the paperwork to him. He'll be at his house."

"Address?"

"Aw, come on . . ."

"I don't know the city. All I know is your name
and where you work. Now what's the address?"

"Forrester Drive. One Hundred Forrester. He's
real proud of that, sounds impressive, don't it. Number One Hundred.
It's like a mansion, big red brick and white co1umns."

"Thanks," I said. "Sorry about the
slap."

He became the salesman again. "Hey, no problem.
You're upset. We all are. Hey, tell Martha again I'm sorry I couldn't
stay." He stole another look at his watch. "Jeez, Gloria's
gonna kill me."

I walked back into the room. Dale suggested dinner,
but Martha said she'd rather stay through till nine, so we all did.
No one else came to say goodbye.

We stopped on the way home and picked up a deli
spread that Dale had had the foresight to
order.
 
 

TEN
-•-

IT HAD BEEN DECIDED, BECAUSE OF THE DELAY WITH Al's
body in Boston, to have the funeral on Saturday at 1 P.M., after only
one day of wake. In view of Friday's turnout, it looked like a good
decision. I had a quick and simple breakfast with Dale, Larry having
gone off on his own somewhere. Dale had a full morning of lessons,
but he insisted I borrow his car and gave me detailed directions to
Forrester Drive.

Number One Hundred was as Norm described it
objectively, but not subjectively. It was made of red brick, but the
brick looked dyed. The columns were too short, and the grounds more
lot like than estate-like. There was a cast-iron lackey in black-face
at the ornate lamppost and two Cadillacs, one silver, the other blue,
in the driveway. The overall impression was nouveau tacky.

I parked on the street and caught a chill walking to
the house. I pressed the doorbell and got no immediatc response. The
cold made me press the button again, a little sooner than was
necessary. The door opened. It was a young man with thinning hair and
a narrow nose. He wore black, horn-rimmed glasses with small frames,
like the kind the army would issue you for free. He asked what I
wanted. As he spoke, the glasses slid halfway down his nose.

"I need to speak with your father," I
guessed. "About Al Sachs."

The man swallowed and pushed his glasses up with his
middle finger. "I'm sorry, but we're busy on other matters.
Please call my office on Monday--"

I stepped one foot over the threshold before he
thought to close the door. "I won't be here on Monday."

"Now look, fel1a—" he said, glasses
slipping again and being righted again.

An authoritative voice from inside the house yelled,
"Buzz, who the hell is it?"

Buzz. I immediately felt deeply sorry for anyone who
looked like this and was nicknamed "Buzz."

"It's a man who wants to talk about Mr. Sachs."

"Get rid of him."

Buzz looked down at my foot. His glasses slid again.
"He won't leave," said Buzz for me.

A disgusted guttural sound from inside the house.
"Well, then, bring him in before you let every fuckin' degree of
heat outta here."

Buzz showed me in.

We turned left into a large living room. There was a
fire in the hearth. The furniture was expensive but ill-matched. A
man in his late fifties sat on the couch, papers spread on a coffee
table in front of him. He had a gray crew-cut, stolid features, and
would probably have been stocky if he'd stood to greet me. He didn't
bother.

"Who are you and what do you want?" he
said.

Papa Straun wore black horn-rimmed glasses too. They
and the last name appeared to be the only things father and son had
in common.

I took one chair and Buzz took another. "My name
is John Cuddy. I want to know what Al Sachs has coming to his
fami1y."

Straun snorted. Buzz said, "Are you an attorney,
Mr. Cuddy?"

"No. Al was a friend from the army."

Buzz seemed to fill out a bit, perhaps relieved that
he was the only lawyer in the room. "My father and I are in the
process of reviewing Mr. Sachs' file, and we intend to provide Mrs.
Sachs with a detailed memo of—"

"Cut the shit, Buzz," said Straun. "You
an MP too?"

"Yes."

"I was Armor. With Patton. Didn't have to go.
They had deferments then for guys in steel. Defense plant priorities,
that kind of stuff. But I went anyway." He gestured toward the
papers spread on the table. "Sachs said in his interview that he
was an MP. Weren't many Jews in my outfit."

I made no comment.

"Aren't a hell of a lot of Jews in the city.
Some people think I hired Sachs because he was a Jew and could sell.
That's bullshit. I hired him because he was from New York, and we
thought we could get some orders back there by usin' a guy from
there. But he wouldn't play the game, you know."

I made no comment again.

"He had ideas about how to do things different.
So I gave him a chance. But he sucked." Buzz flinched, and
Straun dug out a ledger sheet. "He made his draw three months
outta the last twelve. I shoulda sacked him in August." Straun
tossed the sheet in a spinning motion so it ended up on my side of
the table. "See for yourself."

I didn't look down at the paper.

Straun worked his mouth a little without speaking.
Buzz was fidgeting. I broke the silence.

"He left a wife and a child. What do they have
coming?"

"Nothing," said Straun.

"You see, Mr. Cuddy," said Buzz, "Mr.
Sachs exercised his option to convert what insurance was provided to
cash as a credit against his draw. It's all here in detail in a draft
memo-"

"Buzz," snapped Straun, pushing a mug
toward him, "get me some more coffee."

Buzz looked from me to him then back to me.

"Mr. Cuddy," he said, crestfallen, "would
you like . . ."

I shook my head. Buzz picked up the mug and stepped
from the room.

"You ever read Dr. Spock, Straun?"

"What?" he said.

"Skip it. In plain English, where does Al's
family stand?"

"The kid's right," said Straun defensively.
"Law school, Harvard Law School, can you imagine. He goes
through Harvard and he's like a rabbit, you couldn't trust him to run
a pony ride and do it right. But he writes a hell of a memo, that
boy. He's dead right about Sachs. The guy gave up every kinda benefit
we give to keep covering his draw. He was gettin' the heave-ho this
week. Then he got killed.”

Straun's face changed a little, almost human. "Funny,
you know the papers had how he was done in. I never figured him for a
queer."

I tried to remind myself that guys like me aren't
supposed to hit people older and smaller without physical
provocation. "Did A1 know he was going to be fired?"

Straun blinked at me. "Yeah, he knew. I told him
two weeks ago. Two weeks ago today. The state says you gotta give 'em
two weeks' notice, so that's what he got."

Buzz came back in, clutching the coffee mug in both
hands. His hands trembled and some spilled onto his top fingers. He
winced, but kept silent and kept coming.

"Anything else?" said Straun, taking the
mug in his left hand.

"Yes," I said. "The funeral's at one.
Today."

Straun slurped some coffee. "Don't wait for us,"
he said, motioning Buzz to the paperwork.

I leaned across the table and grabbed Straun's left
wrist. I thought about twisting it toward me, spilling the coffee
onto the papers, but I figured that would only inconvenience Buzz. So
I twisted away, toward Straun's ample lap. He jumped up screaming.

"What the fuck was that?" he shrieked,
grabbing his crotch and jumping from one leg to another.

"A small gesture," I said.

Buzz ran to get some
towels and ice while I let myself out.

* * *

When Beth died, Joe Mirelli, a priest and friend,
said her funeral mass. I remember him delaying the beginning of the
service so that the latecomers could be parked outside and seated
inside. I'm sure Jake Cribbs often made the same suggestion. But not
that day.

Martha and Carol, Dale and Larry, and me. The kids
were at Carol's house with her sitter. The elder Cribbs and the
younger Cribbs. All told, one man short on pall bearers.

We stood in the same room as yesterday. Jake Cribbs
checked his watch at the stroke of one and bade us be seated. After
Martha sat down, Cribbs walked over to her, bent at the waist and
held her right hand with both of his. He said something, and she
nodded. Then he walked graduation step to the slim podium next to
Al's coffin at the front of the room.

He spoke for perhaps four minutes. Al's birth,
schooling, military service. Meeting Martha, marriage, life in
Pittsburgh. No mention of work, means of death, or thinness of crowd.
Acknowledged each in the audience by first name, correctly assigning
us to one or another part of his or Martha's life. Then a pause, then
a moment of silence for Al. I recalled Beth's hour—long high mass
and eulogy. Religion be damned, tradition be damned, when my time
comes, let there be a quiet, sincere professional like the elder
Cribbs. To recount briefly and acknowledge accurately. No incense, no
ritual, no organ music.