The Staked Goat - Jeremiah Healy (32 page)

"About eight, nine years."

"And you couldn't ID a car better than big, old,
Pontiac?"

"Big, old, dark Pontiac."

"Big, old dark Pontiac?"

"That's right."

"And after all the shit you've been through in
this case, after somebody bombing your place and all, you followed
somebody into an alley—"

"Well, more like a business-—"

"I been there!" snapped Murphy. "It
looks like an alley."

"Okay, an alley."

"So you followed somebody into an alley all by
yourself?"

"With a shotgun."

"That you got through a guy whose license to
sell firearms is hanging by a thread."

"I try to support marginal but vital—"

"Oh, cut the shit, man! You blew a guy up last
night."

"I did."

"With a shotgun."

"That's right."

"Where'd his gun go?"

Nice shift of gears. I hoped Parras and Wasser were
learning something.

"I don't know. He threw a shot at me from the
passenger's side, then I pumped two shots at him as his partner hit
me. I was close, maybe six feet. I let fly another shell, but I think
the guy was already on his way. I got up and got only close enough to
the guy I shot to know I'd finished him. I never saw a gun."

"How do you know he had one?" snapped Kyle.

"Because he shot at me, Chief."

"Ah, how do you know it wasn't his partner?"
ventured a hesitant Parras.

"Two different reports."

"Whose reports?"

"Not written reports, Parras," I said.
Though he had the same rank as Murphy, he didn't belong on the same
level in my mind, so I accorded him no title.

"Report as in sound of the shots. Two different
weapons."

"What kinds?" said Kyle.

"Sorry, but I'm not that expert, Chief. I could
just tell there was a difference in the noises."

I stole a look at Murphy. He was not pleased at the
useless tangents being pressed by the locals, but politely played
invited guest. He waited till it was quiet, then resumed.

"So you didn't take any gun from him?"

"No."

"Or anything else?"

I shook my head.

"Cuddy, the man had nothing on him. No keys, no
wallet, not a label in his clothes."

"I can't explain that."

Parras broke in. "You see anybody in the area
who could have stripped him?"

"Shut up, Parras," said Kyle.

Murphy didn't bother to let me answer.

"And you figure that the dead man is the guy who
killed your friend?"

"That's what I figure. Matthew Crowley. The dead
man is about the right size. I spotted him in the files I reviewed in
Washington. You can call a Colonel Kivens at—"

Murphy closed his eyes and held up his hand. I
stopped. "If you volunteer it, it'll check out."

"It should just be a matter of checking his
fingerprints," I said.

"Chief?" said Murphy.

Kyle shook his head, then stood and slouched toward
the door. Murphy got up, too, and Kyle followed him out. Parras
muttered something to Wasser, who nodded. Parras followed the first
string out of the room.

I looked over at Wasser,

"Deli-Master, huh," he said.

I drooped a little onto my pillow. "I'm sorry
about that. I was a little pissed off."

"Forget it," said Wasser, digging around in
his parka pocket. "You were in 'Nam, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Me, too."

I looked at Wasser. "Outfit?"

“
First Cav."

The First Cavalry, Airmobile. The helicopter unit
that was caricatured in the "Death from Above" sequence in
Apocalypse Now. A unit that in real life caught a lot of tough
fights.

"You?" he said, trying another pocket.

He squinted at me, as though trying to judge
something. "Tet?"

"Yeah." .

"Your friend, too? The guy the stiff killed?"

"Yes."

Wasser came up with a candy bar. He gestured with it
toward me the way soldiers probably have since the Caesars. The
gesture that said "you-want-half?"

"Thanks, no."

He shrugged, unwrapped it, took a bite, chewed
thoughtfully. "You know," he said, "one thing I don't
figure."

"What's that?"

"I seen a lotta dead guys."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Mostly in 'Nam, I admit. But a lot."
He took another bite of his bar. "Never saw anybody hit as bad
as that stiff leave so little blood."

I thought about the volume of blood Crowley must have
left in the Pontiac. "It was pretty cold out there. Retards the
bleeding."

"Probably." Just kept chewing. "Only
thing is"—he swallowed—"that round the partner threw at
you, shoulda been in your left arm, not your right."

I thought about it, felt a little flush around my
ears.

"I must have turned or something." I
sounded hollow. '

He finished the bar, sucked on his finger. "Maybe,"
he said, "but you weren't dressed warm enough for this time of
year and I don't see the partner stripping the stiff, especially not
cuttin' the labels and all. I also don't see the missing gun. And to
top it, I sure don't see you being close enough to ID the stiff but
not the car before you took his face off."

"So?" I said, not liking the turn our talk
was taking. He didn't reply immediately. He examined his lingers for
any missed traces of chocolate, then focused on me. "So, I
figure you set the guy up somehow."

"No way. "

"The black guy, Murphy, he figures it that way,
too."

I shook my head.

Wasser didn't continue.

"So, what are you going to do about it?" I
asked.

"Me?" he said, then giggled. A faraway
giggle.

"The stiff, he aced your buddy, right?"

"Right."

Wasser yawned, dug around again but fruitlessly in
his pockets. He moved to the door. "Fuck it," he said and
walked out.
 

TWENTY-FIVE
-•-

I SLEPT FOR REAL A FEW HOURS AFTER WASSER left. A
nurse awakened me so that a doctor could speak with me. Fortunately,
he happened to be both my "admitting" and "treating"
physician. After a brief exchange of information about hospital room
rates, the effect of shock and blood loss, and my absence of medical
insurance coverage, we agreed I could be discharged that afternoon.
He also told me there were several reporters interested in an
interview with me. I declined, but said I would love to see a
newspaper. He said he would ask the nurse and departed.

I spent the next thirty minutes or so wondering if I
should call Nancy, since I had already decided that I would wait to
confirm Eddie Shuba's compaction of the Pontiac. I resolved against
using any nonpublic telephone for a while.

I was about halfway through the mental accounting of
where the "J.T. Davis" money would go when the nurse popped
in with an "early stocks" edition of the Globe. Crowley and
I had made the small box on the right lower corner of page one. Few
details, and those given were misleading. They got the hospital's
name right, however.

A different nurse looked in on me an hour later and
changed my dressing. She gave me a printed list of instructions for
further "outpatient care," interlineating a few suggestions
of her own. I promised her I would come back in two days so the
doctor could check my progress. She helped me on with my clothes, the
local constabulary not having impounded them. She said an orderly
would be by somewhere between ten minutes and two hours later to
wheel me down. I thanked her and waited patiently (no pun intended).

A Bahamian man, in white togs and about thirty, came
by for me half an hour later. I settled in the chair, and we left the
room. No police outside my door, no reporters. His name was Bragdon
Bailey, and he was as sunny as a Caribbean morn.

"Somebody here to fetch you, my friend?" he
asked.

"No. I thought I'd take a cab."

"My cousin, he have a taxi. I can call him, no
problem."

We pulled up to the elevator. "Thanks. I'd
appreciate it."

"Hey, my pleasure. The gentlemen of the press,
they real interested in you. We can go out the back way. Avoid them."

"That would be a blessing."

The elevator doors opened. Bailey pushed me in and
hit a button.

"The chap you shot?"

"Yes?"

“
Must have been a bad fella!"

"He was."

"The police letting you go?"

"I haven't heard otherwise."

He chuckled. The elevator lurched to a stop and the
doors opened. He wheeled me down a corridor into a small office.

"You don't have no insurance, you settle up
here. I'll call my cousin."

I thanked him. I gave the cashier's clerk Nancy's
address and telephone number. The clerk was a lot more courteous and
understanding about the situation of a homeless, ID less man than I
expected, and I told her so.

She smiled and tapped the news account folded open on
her desk. “You're a celebrity. They're always better treated."

I returned her smile.

"Where are you headed?" she said.

"To see my wife," I said softly.

"That's good. Kids?"

“
No."

"Too bad. My Sam and me got three. Whats your
wife's name?"

"Na—" I stopped, blinked. "Beth,"
I said, a little thickly.

She reached over, patted my hand lightly. "Don't
worry, you've been through a lot. She'll understand? She always has,
I thought, but just nodded. Bailey stuck his head around the corner.

"Ready, Mr. Cuddy?" `

The woman and I both said yes at the same time. We
all three laughed.
 

Bailey wheeled me through a rear corridor, making
small talk. We hit the back door and cold, bright sunlight.

We went down a ramp toward an orange and white taxi.

"Mornin', Mr. Bai1ey," beamed a heavy-set
man who got out of the driver's side and came around to help me.

"Fine mornin', Mr. Delton," replied
Bragdou.

"This gentlemen is Mr. John Cuddy. He had a
tough time of it last night, and I want you to be good to him."
Delton held the door as I got up from the wheelchair and entered the
back seat.

"My pleasure," said the driver. "Where
are you headed, Mr. Cuddy?"

"East Fourth Street, South Boston."

Delton and Bailey stopped talking and exchanged
questioning looks.

My mind was turning to mush. After the school busing
controversy, South Boston was a part of the city where a black was
not safe, daylight or dark, even in a car. "I'm sorry," I
said, "it never crossed my mind . . ."

Bailey held up his hand. "No problem. My cousin
can take you there. No worries."

Delton stayed silent, coming around to the driver's
side. I started to protest, Bailey shushed me and closed the door. I
rolled down the window jerkily with my left hand and stuck the hand
through the opening.

"Good meeting you, Mr. Bailey," I said.

He took my hand, shook it sideways. "Good luck
to you, Mr. Cuddy."

"If I still had a card, I'd give you one.
Private investigator. Call me if you ever need—"

Delton had started the car. Bailey mock saluted, and
we pulled off.

At the first traffic light, I rapped two knuckles on
the Plexiglas shield between the driver and the passenger
compartments.

Delton turned his head.

"Mr. Delton," I said loudly, "make
that police headquarters instead. Berkeley and Stuart streets,
downtown. There's someone I want to see first."

The light changed. Delton strained his neck to watch
the road.

"Look, my friend, I stand by what my cousin
promised."

"I appreciate that, honest. But I still have to
stop there first."

Delton smiled, bobbed his head, and turned on the
radio. The station was playing some Reggae music, and both of us were
able to enjoy the ride.

Cross told me to wait. As she walked away, I thought
about asking her whether she had heard back about her "probationary
check-up," then decided that the way my mind was working, I
would reserve the question. She beckoned to me from Murphy's door.

"He'll see you."

She moved back toward her desk. I entered Murphy's
office, closed the door, and sat down. Murphy was behind his desk,
running the index finger of his right hand rapidly down the lines of
some report while he sipped tentatively at probably too hot coffee in
a cracked mug.