The Staked Goat Read online

  Carol stopped to take a breath and a slug of screwdriver. She also calmed down a little. “The point of all this is that after the lawyer, I wanted no part of anybody, maybe for all the wrong reasons, but I didn’t. And it seems to me that what you’re saying is that you don’t want, or aren’t ready to want, but it seems to me, for all the right reasons. So”—she picked up my glass and handed it to me—“here’s to friends, O.K.?”

  I could feel the tide rising in my eyes, and saw it reflected in hers. “Here’s to friends.”

  We clinked and drank.

  “So tell me,” Carol said, “you got any relatives, male and unattached and ready, like you in Pittsburgh?”

  We laughed, and the laughter made the few tears seem natural.

  “Carol, before I leave—”

  She was wiping her eyes but interrupted me. “Oh, John, you don’t have to, we—”

  “No, no,” I said, holding up my hand. “I mean, before I leave for Washington tonight. I have to … I need to tell someone here.”

  “O.K.”

  “And I don’t want to upset Martha anymore, and Dale seems a bit shaky right now, and—”

  “John, just what the hell is it?”

  Good for her. “Carol, promise me that you won’t tell anyone anything about what I’m going to say unless I tell you to.”

  She gave me a hard stare and frown. “But why—”

  “Please, promise first.”

  Carol sighed. “I’m a sucker for promises. But I guess you can tell that already.” She inhaled. “O.K., I promise.”

  “Carol, I don’t think Al was killed by some sexual psychopath.”

  “Oh, but the paper said—”

  “I know, I know, and that’s how even the police have it figured. But I roomed with Al and you’ve known him for years.”

  “Yes, but John, at the club, you see guys get drunk, and with all the pressure on Al, he could have …”

  “I know, I know.”

  She looked frustrated.

  “Look, Carol, I’m sorry I keep saying that but I heard you out, now you hear me, O.K.?”

  She nodded. She didn’t like it, but she let me continue.

  “I don’t think Al got drunk and was drawn into anything. I think Al was pretty desperate for money, and he knew Straun was about to fire him. I also know that when Al called me in Boston, there was an edge in his voice. I was half asleep, and I can’t remember every word he said, but there was something in his voice I’d never heard before. Fear. I can’t say it wasn’t fear over money, but the point is that I think Al was killed for something he set up.”

  “Set up?” Carol said. “What do you mean, set up?”

  “Basically, I mean blackmail.”

  She nearly swung, but decided to stand up and stamp around instead. She crossed her arms against her chest. “Blackmail,” Carol snorted. “Why, John, that’s crazy. Ridiculous. Al Sachs was the most honest guy I ever met.”

  “Al was honest, Carol, but he had a funny twist. You ever hear him talk about squaring things?”

  “What?”

  “Squaring things. Like paying off a debt.”

  She closed her eyes for a minute. “Once. Just a comment. Somebody … what the hell was it. Oh, I was at their house, and Kenny and Al were watching a Steelers game and there was some commotion on the field and Kenny asked Al what happened and Al said something like, ‘The Eagle hit the Steeler quarterback late, so the Steelers went after theirs. Squaring things.’ I remember I told Al I would just as soon that he didn’t explain things that way to my son. Al shrugged, and that was it.”

  “Yeah, well, he signed off his telephone conversation with me like that and”—I thought of Al’s broken pinkie and decided conclusions were better than details—“I’m convinced someone killed him, someone Al felt had a debt to repay. So for Al, the set-up wasn’t blackmail, it was like squaring things. Paying the debt.”

  Carol sat down next to me again, arms still crossed. “John, I could be wrong, but I don’t remember Al even mentioning he knew anyone in Boston. Not even you.”

  “That’s why I’m going to Washington. I don’t think Al would have met anybody in the steel business who would have … gone to such lengths to cover a killing. With luck, I may find something in the files from when he and I were in Vietnam.”

  Carol looked dazed. “Al’s death was bad enough. But this … blackmail, murder. Honestly, I just don’t know.”

  “Carol,” I said softly, “snap back to me, please.”

  She looked at me, blinked a few times, then busied herself with the vodka bottle. “I’m sorry. Another drink?”

  “Yes, a light one.” She fixed one more for each of us. No toasting, no clinking, just a couple of long draws.

  “The reason I told you,” I said, “is that I was wondering if you knew anybody on the local police force?”

  “Police force?” she said. “Well, yeah, a couple of guys. Why?”

  “I’m not trying to start a panic, and I have no reason to think anybody is interested in Martha or—”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ!” Carol burst out. She slammed her drink down on the table. “This isn’t funny, John. I don’t want to hear—”

  I set my own drink down and took both her hands in mine. “I’m sorry to put it on your shoulders, but you’re the most solid person in our small group. Just keep an eye peeled for anyone out of the ordinary. If you see something, like an unfamiliar car on the block for a long time, or guys in doorways, or even workmen in a vaguely painted utility truck, I want you to call your friends on the cops, and I want you to call me, and if you can’t reach me, a lieutenant on the Boston force named Murphy. I’ll write out names and numbers for you. But I need your promise to watch over things. O.K.?”

  Carol slipped her hands from my grip and dropped her head down. Then she wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled herself into my chest, her face nestled in the hollow of my right shoulder.

  “O.K.,” she said softly.

  “You’re one of the good ones, Carol.”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said, not leaving my shoulder. “So how come the good ones like me always find the wrong ones like you.”

  I had no answer for that.

  Carol released me a minute later. We exchanged a familial kiss at her door before I snowshoed down to Martha’s.

  She answered my second series of knocks, and we walked into the living room. She had finally given up on offering me coffee, so we just sat down, her on the couch, me in a chair.

  “Martha, I’ll be leaving tonight.”

  “I really appreciate everything you’ve done.” She ran her hand back through her hair. “John, I don’t know what to say. I …”

  “I’m going to Washington to speak to some people in the Army. I’m expecting there will be some benefits coming to you.”

  “Benefits?”

  “Yes,” I lied, or almost. “As a result of Al’s service.”

  Martha squinted at me. “Al let his GI insurance lapse.” She gave half a laugh. “Al let a lot of things lapse.”

  “Well,” I said, “you never know. He saw some combat, and well, that’s why I’m going to find out.”

  She looked skeptical. “Wouldn’t the local Veterans Administration be able to answer that kind of question?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Then why go to Washington?”

  “Best to start at the top.”

  Martha crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “John, what is it?”

  “What?”

  “What you’re not telling me. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” I said, smiling and raising my hand. “Scout’s honor.”

  “Does it have …” Martha swallowed hard and tears peeked over her bottom eyelids. “Is it because of the way Al died?”

  I swallowed, too. “Partly. I really can’t tell you anymore.”

  “For my own protection?”

  I shook my head.

  “I’ll bet,” she said. �
�For God’s sake, John, are we in danger? Tell me!”

  “Martha, I don’t believe you’re in any danger. If I did, I wouldn’t leave you and Al, Junior alone. But there is something that I can’t identify or describe to you that’s wrong with Al’s death. Also, I just got word that some friends … an older couple I’d come to know in Boston, were killed in a fire this morning.”

  “Oh, John,” Martha said, distracted, as are most decent people, from her own tragedy by news of another’s. “I’m so sorry. Can I help or …?”

  “No, no, it’s all being taken care of. It’s just that—” I broke a weak smile, “It’s just that I’m not my usual Gaelic, happy-go-lucky self.”

  Martha laughed, and the tension was gone for a moment. “John,” she said, “please be careful. Nothing can bring Al back, and if I thought that you—”

  “Not to worry,” I said. “I’m just going to see a couple of bureaucrats, that’s all.”

  Fourteen

  “YOU KNOW, AS LONG as the snow isn’t falling, I think I like Pittsburgh best at this time of year.”

  The Pontiac bounced over a freeze-thaw pothole, and Dale had to wrestle the car back into our lane. A limo with windows tinted black honked an arrogant, unnecessary warning as it blew by us on the left.

  “Bastard,” said Dale, with gusto. He turned to me. “It did no good, but it had to be said.”

  “Yeah.” I was running low on small talk. I had already thanked him for driving me to the airport, told him a little about Jesse and Emily, and avoided the subject of the still-AWOL Larry.

  “I like it—winter, I mean—best because it’s the cleanest and the purest season. Pittsburgh used to have a terrible pollution problem. Air pollution, I mean. Fifteen years ago, you couldn’t wear something white outdoors unless you wanted the air to embroider a soot pattern on it. Then the town fathers with, I’m sure, some prodding from Washington, began cleaning things up. In the summer, of course, it’s hot and uncomfortable anywhere. But in the winter, with so little pollution and the cold, clear snap of the arctic and sunshine like we had today, well,” he said, winding down, “it’s just my favorite time.”

  He made me think back.

  “My wife and I used to go the beach in the winter.”

  “Caribbean?”

  “Oh, yeah, sometimes. But I meant the beach in Massachusetts. North of Boston maybe forty miles is a town called Newburyport. East of the town is an island, a peninsula really, called Plum Island Reserve. The Feds run it as a bird sanctuary, and it’s still pretty wild, in the picturesque sense. She’d pack a light lunch and a flask of brandy. We’d bundle up against the cold and walk like Eskimos along the shoreline. You don’t get much surf in New England generally, but in the winter, on a windy day, you’ll see three to four-foot rollers slamming in on the rocks, scattering sea gulls and jerks like us who’d crept too close looking for tide treasures.”

  “Sounds delightful,” said Dale sincerely, then, uncertainly. “Have you been divorced long?”

  He caught me off-balance. “No. She died.”

  “Oh, John, I’m sorry.”

  “Some time ago.”

  “It’s just that you’re so young, I never—”

  “Dale,” I said, “skip it. No offense meant, no offense taken. It was a natural enough question. I just didn’t … see it coming.”

  Dale bobbed his head. “Here’s our exit.” No gusto left.

  Dale insisted on coming in with me because he was sure he knew the USAir customer service rep who would be on duty. He did, and got me the best seat on the plane, aisle for leg room, just forward of the wings for ride comfort and ease of exit.

  The service rep swung my bag onto the belt behind him while I crushed my ticket folder into my inside breast pocket. Dale and I walked toward the gate.

  I stopped and spoke. “You know, there’s no sense in your waiting with me for the boarding call.”

  “I know,” he said, then with a quick Groucho imitation, “more’s the pity.”

  I laughed and so did he. I gave him a quick bear hug, and he returned it, slapping my back at a shoulder blade with the flat of his hand.

  “Take care of Martha,” I said.

  “We will.”

  A break of the hug. He sort of waved. I waved back, turned, and walked away.

  The airport was virtually empty. At a newsstand, I found a Time magazine behind some “Steel Curtain” and “Love Ya, Steelers” T-shirts. I skimmed it absently at the gate until the flight attendant called us for boarding.

  The plane was proportionately as empty as the airport had been. We arrived later than expected at Washington’s National Airport. I picked up my Samsonite, grabbed a cab, and got to the Marriott Key Bridge by 9 p.m.

  I checked in and was shown by the elevator operator to my room. I bounced on the bed, then picked up the telephone. I called Nancy’s number in Boston.

  “Hello?”

  “Nancy, it’s John Cuddy.”

  “Oh, John, I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “No, please. I asked Drew Lynch to call his friend at District C and the friend went by the Coopers’ house every two hours. He’s the one who called in the fire. There’ll be a thorough investigation.”

  “Thanks, Ms. DA.”

  A little moan on her end. “You’re right. You told me in my apartment that they didn’t have any family?”

  “Not that they mentioned. Jesse was in the Marines, Second World War. Emily taught at some private school. There must be records somewhere.” I gave her George’s name for the funeral arrangements.

  “Well, tomorrow I’ll also call a friend who’s a public administrator for Suffolk County. Do you know what—”

  “A lawyer who administers estates of people without relatives?”

  “Yes, basically. He’ll do everything necessary, assuming there’s no will around.”

  “Probably no will.” I punched out a breath.

  “You sound really beat.”

  “Battered, but unbowed.”

  “Is there anything else I can do?”

  One frame of a happy, future home-movie flickered across my head. “No, thanks. If you can just follow through on the Coopers personally, maybe postpone the funeral, I’ll be back tomorrow night or Tuesday. Oh, and keep the cops on Marco’s trail.”

  “Please call me when you get back.”

  “I will.”

  “Bye, John.”

  “Good-bye, Nancy.”

  I hung up, looked at the comatose TV and the predictable, bland wall-hangings. The view of the Potomac out the window was postcard quality, but not an evening’s worth.

  I was tired, though not sleepy. I hadn’t brought any running or exercise clothes, but their health club and pool would be closed by now anyway. Instead, I changed shirts, got a cab, and headed into Georgetown for some life. Or at least some noise.

  I left the cab at M and Wisconsin. I found a saloon that I think said “Clyde’s” on it and had a hamburger plate with a couple of Beck’s drafts. Most of the life was coming from the Sunday Night Movie over one end of the bar. Unfortunately, most of the noise was coming from three assholes from Akron who asked the bartender every five minutes where the action was.

  I gritted my teeth and asked for one more Beck’s draft and the check. The bartender took the time to lift away my dinner plate and swab down the bar in front of me. He even replaced my cardboard coaster with a new one to accompany the next Beck’s in a fresh glass.

  The Akron contingent downed their drinks, one sucking on his ice and then spitting it back into the glass. They clumsily got on their coats and stumbled out, reinforcing each other’s clamoring for action.

  I put a twenty down on my check. The bartender took it, cashed me in, and returned my change.

  “I’ll bet you just love the tourist trade in here,” I said.

  He smiled. “Some more than others.” He was about twenty-three, maybe a high school pulling guard who had lowered his sights
over the last five years.

  “Look,” I said, “is there any place around here where there’ll be some activity? I’m not”—inclining my head toward the departed trio’s end of the bar—“looking to join those three. I just attended the funeral of a good friend, and I’d like to go to a place where there are people talking, dancing, and maybe laughing.”

  He dropped the smile and looked at me hard. Satisfied that I wasn’t just a variation of the Akron syndrome, he spoke. “Two places. One’s diagonally across the street. Called the Library. Disco atmosphere, rock and soul music. Young professionals and a lotta foreign nationals, like students and fringe diplos, you know. The other place is called Déjà Vu. It’s about fifteen blocks up M, take the left fork at the end of the business district.” He glanced at his watch. “Probably okay to walk there now, but get a cab to go home. Older crowd, sixties music and swing. Lotta couples.”

  I thanked him, left thirty percent of the tab as a tip and got up.

  “Hey, man,” he said, the smile back, “the information’s free. I’m a tourist bureau, you know.”

  I winked at him. “The extra’s for the fresh glasses, new coaster, workin’ the wipe cloth, you know.”

  “Have a good evening.”

  “You, too.”

  Since it was closer, I first walked across the street to the Library. A bouncer who had about thirty pounds on my bartender greeted me with a smile and opened the door. I walked down the flight of stairs and turned right into the place. It had an elliptical bar on my level and a postage-stamp dance floor a few steps beyond and below the far end of the bar. The ceiling was low. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and, to the casual eye, real books. A rock song came on the stereo system, and twenty or so people got up to dance.

  All the men in the place wore jackets. A lot of males were black, wearing continental three-piece suits. Many others were Asian, pencil-thin in dark two-piece gray or brown suits. The women were mainly American, black and white, in their twenties and secretarial in their clothes. I sat at the bar and ordered a screwdriver.