The Staked Goat - Jeremiah Healy (15 page)

"Don't be silly. I There's coffee on. Help
yourself."

"I don't take it," I reminded her.

"Oh, right. I'm sorry. I forgot. Help yourself
to anything else."

"Thanks, but I think I'll hop over to Dale's and
clean up instead. Anyplace nearby where I can get a newspaper?"

"The Pittsburgh papers are in a couple of stores
in the square. If you want the
New York Times
,
go to the drugstore." She looked up at the clock. "Tell
them you're staying with us, Al always . . . they save one for us."

"Right," I said. "How's Al Junior?"

"Fine. He was up at seven pounding on me to play
with him."

"Carol had said Kenny was a little sick last
night. She took him home."

"Carol's a' wonderful girl. Really a heart of
gold. Always watching out like an older sister." Martha stopped,
then added quickly. "She's not really older, you know. I mean,
she's maybe a year or so older than I am. I mean she just seems more,
well mature."

"Hard times can do that," I said, and
immediately regretted it.

Martha's silence confirmed that she was just thinking
about that herself. I said I would see her later and left.

I used my key at Dale's front door. I closed it
quietly behind me. There was some soft symphonic music playing
through the living room stereo speaker.

"Larry. Lar—" Dale stopped when he saw
me. He was standing in the archway to the dining room. He was wearing
a black kimono with orange dragons. It looked like silk from across
the living room. He recovered by saying, "Oh, John! You know, I
had forgotten all about you. I was too soused to have heard you come
in last night, anyway."

"I stayed at Martha's as sentinel. Carol had to
go home with Kenny."

Dale struck his forehead with a mock fist. "Oh,
of course. The beauty of vodka is it doesn't leave me with a hangover
no matter how many brain cells it kills." He looked back into
the dining room. "Sundays are pretty casual around here. Join me
for brunch?"

I'm not too good at guessing whether truly courteous
people are being sincere or just being courteous. I gambled on
sincere. "Sounds terrific."

I won my gamble because he brightened considerably. .

"Dale, do I have time to brush my teeth?"

"Sure thing," he said. "And shower and
shave too if you want." He frowned. "I don't mean you have
to, I just mean . . ."

"I'd rather shave and shower as long as it won't
wreck anything."

"Oh no, no, please do. Since I didn't know when
. . . I planned everything flexibly today." He scratched the
back of his neck, to distract him, more than me, from his thoughts.

"I'll be down in twenty minutes."

"Perfect," he said.

As I trotted up the stairs, I thought, with the
haughtiness of a true Boston liberal, that Larry was screwing up a
pretty good man.

Brunch was apple fritters, country sausage, fresh
pineapple, and corn muffins. Neither of us had learned our lesson the
night before, so we washed it down with fresh-squeezed orange juice
laced with vodka. We had a pleasant talk, I assuring him that I would
be flying out in the afternoon, he assuring me that I could stay as
long as I cared to, me declining politely. I turned the conversation
gently back to Martha and her progress, then toward Al's house before
asking him again.

"Last night you said twenty thousand dollars of
renovation would satisfy the inspector."

"Twenty thousand will do it." Dale fixed me
solidly. "But I can't believe that Al left anywhere near that."

"Maybe he had some insurance."

"Through Straun?"

I shook my head.

Dale tilted his quizzically. "Through the army?"

“
Maybe. In a manner of speaking."

Dale squinted at me. "What do you mean?"

I rapped my knuckles
lightly on the tabletop. "I'm not sure."

* * *

The sun kept the cold wind at the invigorating level.
There were a number of couples out walking arm in arm, here and there
two men or two women, not arm in arm. I hit the square in three
blocks and turned into the drugstore.

There were maybe ten or fifteen people shopping,
dressed up from church, some with bakery or small grocery bags in
their hands. Three or four kids squealed. Somebody's mother told them
to be quiet. I walked to the newspaper stand and hefted a thick
Pittsburgh Press
. I
didn't see any
New York Times
.

I made my way to the counter. Two burly guys about my
age in sweat outfits and workboots were thumbing through a Penthouse.
They smelled pretty ripe, and I had a feeling they wouldn't be buying
it. They had their backs to me when I asked the older man behind the
counter for a Times.

"Sorry," he said, "sold out."

"Maybe you're saving one. I'm staying with the
Sachses."

He smiled just as one of the guys said, "Sachs!
That's the fuckin' faggot who got killed. Remember, you asked me and
I couldn't remember his name. Sachs, yeh."

The old man dropped his smile and got sad and angry
at the same time. The two still hadn't tumed around. "Hey! This
ain't no library. Buy somethin' or get out."

It became quiet around the counter. Still without
turning, one guy gave the old man the finger while the other very
deliberately dropped the Penthouse on the floor and picked up a Oui
and began thumbing through it.

I glanced around. Most of the men were middle-aged or
young and "professional" looking. I didn't believe the guys
knew that I was the one who had mentioned Al's name.

I set my paper on the counter and cut off the old
man's next comment as I turned to face the backs of the two browsers.

"Take it back," I said in a deeper than
conversational tone.

One guy stiffened a little, the other turned around
easily, smiling meanly.

"Ya say somethin"?" asked the relaxed
one.

"Yes. I said take it back."

The stiffer one spoke. "Take what back?"

"What your friend here just said about my
friend."

"Your friend?" said the relaxed one,
stiffening a little now himself. "Whaddaya mean, your friend?"

"Sachs. Al Sachs. We went through the service
together. I just buried him, and you just insulted him. Now take it
back."

There was a little buzz behind me. The counterman
started to say something, but stopped when I held up my hand.

"I ain't takin' nothin' back," said the
formerly relaxed one. His partner stole a quick look at the entrance
to the store.

I looked at the partner. "Long ways away, that
door." I looked back at the speaker. "Now, take it back."

"Fuck you," he said, growing less relaxed
by the minute. "My brother-in-law's a cop."

"Take it back or you'l1 wish he was a plastic
surgeon."

Speaker wet his lips with his tongue. He searched
around for support from behind me. I was pretty sure he wouldn't find
any. His eyes told me he hadn't.

"I ain't takin' nothin' back."

"This is like the schoolyard, boyo. You said
something I didn't like. All you have to do is take it back. But you
have to do that."

"You can't hold us here," said partner,
eyeing the door again. "That's like kidnappin' or somethin'."

"In a minute," I said, "it's gonna be
like atrocious assault and battery or somethin'." I could feel
my blood rising for the fight. It showed in my voice. "Now, take
it back."

Speaker wet his lips again. He glanced around the
crowd futilely a final time. He dropped his eyes and mumbled
something.

"Louder," I said.

"I take it back! I take it back! Awright,
awright, ya satisfied now?"

"Yeah," I exhaled. "I'm satisfied."

Speaker dew by partner who dropped the Oui and
followed him outside. A few people talked quietly but nobody laughed.
I bent over and replaced their magazines on the rack. I took the
shaking
Times
the man
extended to me. I dropped four dollars on the counter, scooped up my
Pittsburgh paper, too, and left.

As I walked back to Da1e's, my spirit was down again.
I tried to persuade myself that my macho show was a reaction to the
derogatory word speaker had used. Rather than a reaction, you see, to
the underlying implication. And the resulting association that I
still found insulting and threatening. Yeah, sure.

Dale and I polished off the remaining screwdrivers
while exchanging sections of the
Times
.
He tried to camouflage his glances toward the clock, but as they
became more frequent, I had the impression that my presence was
increasing rather than lightening his embarrassment over Larry's
continuing absence. I asked if I could use his phone, and he directed
me to the one in the upstairs hall. I asked him if he had heard from
a J. T. Kivens. He said no, but, with being
out,
literally and figuratively . . .

I went upstairs. I started with the airlines. USAir
had a flight to D.C. that night and two the next morning, but both
the Monday A.M. flights were full. I chose the 7:30 P.M. flight,
which gave me five hours till I had to check in. I remembered
Marriott had a hotel at the Key Bridge, and I used their 800 number
to book a room for that night and Monday.

I had directory assistance scour the listings for
D.C. and every surrounding suburb I could think of, but no "Kivens."
J.T. might be unlisted, or he might live farther out from the
District. I called the Pentagon direct dial number for J .T. No
answer. I tried the Pentagon main number. The duty officer who
answered was about as helpful as a 1963 calendar. He would not
confirm that a Colonel Kivens was still at the Pentagon and certainly
could not divulge any "data" about anyone's home address or
telephone. He suggested that I try again on Monday morning.

Next I used the operator to call the Coopers. The
voice at the other end was familiar, but chilling. "I'm sorry,
but the number you have dialed is not in service. Please-"

It was their new, unlisted number, but it had rung
all right on Friday.

I hung up immediately and called Nancy Meagher's home
number. No answer.

I hung up and tried District C, the police division
in Dorchester. "Boston Police Emergency—Sergeant Jenkins—you
are being tape-recorded. Go ahead, please."

"My name is John Cuddy. I'm a private detective
in Boston, but I'm calling from Pittsburgh. A couple who helped me
catch a guy were threatened by his brother, and I get a 
umber-not-in-service when I try to reach them. Can you send a car to
check it?"

An exasperated grunt. "Look, buddy, this is an
emergency line and—"

"The guy who threatened them is the brother of
the torch who tied up and left an old watchman to die in a warehouse
last—"

"Oh, shit, I'm sorry. Damn, that'll be on the
tape. I'l1 have it checked. What's their name and address?"

"Cooper. Jesse and Emily. Two-thirty Beech
Street."

"Cooper. What was that address again?"

I repeated it for him.

"Got it. I'll—hey, wait a minute. Hold on."

I could hear some clattering, more like clipboards
than computer keys.

"Mr., ah, Curry, was it?" He sounded
subdued.

"Cuddy. My name is Cuddy. Their name is Cooper."

His tone grew quieter. "Mr. Cuddy. I'm sorry.

Here's Detective Mooney."

"Mr. Cuddy?"

"Yes." .

"Detective Dan Mooney. I'm afraid you're too
late. Somebody blew up the Coopers' place. Call came in at
two-oh-four A.M. I just got back. The place cooled down enough to go
in. They were in a back room. In bed together. Both burned to death.
Are you a relative?"

"No," somebody said.

"Can you tell us who might have—"

"Do you know Nancy Meagher?" the somebody
continued.

“
Assistant DA?"

"Yeah." _

"Yeah, I know her."

"Talk to her. The killer's name is Marco. Marco
D'Amico. His parents live on Hanover Street."

"In the North End?"

"Yeah," replied the somebody.

"Mr. Cuddy, can you tell us—"

The somebody on my end hung up the telephone.
 
 

Thirteen
-•-

I WALKED INTO THE GUEST BEDROOM AND SWUNG MY suitcase
up on the bed. I could fly on to Washington or back to Boston. I
snapped the latches and opened it up. If I fly on to Washington, I
could probably see J .T. sooner about A1. I twisted the bars that
held the suit compartment closed and bent back the barrier. If I fly
back to Boston, I could probably see Marco sooner about Jesse and
Emily.