The Staked Goat Read online

  Al, Junior finished his last mouthful.

  “Would you like some more?” said Martha at the stove and over her shoulder.

  He shook his head. “Where’s Daddy?”

  Martha’s shoulders went up and down once. Carol said, “Daddy’s on a trip, remember?”

  Al, Junior smiled and said, “Oh, yup.” He looked at me and frowned. “Who’s he?”

  I figured I could handle that one. “I’m a friend of your Daddy’s, from the Army.”

  Kenny said, “From ’Nam?”

  The abbreviation had a hollow ring coming from his young throat. “Yes,” I said.

  “Did you—”

  “Kenny,” said Carol sharply.

  Kenny shut up and went back to his food. We all ate breakfast a little faster after that.

  I excused myself, saying I wanted to go over to Dale and Larry’s to clean up. Carol followed me into the living room.

  I turned to her, and she helped me on with my coat. “You were real good with Martha last night, you know.”

  “It would have been a disaster if you weren’t there.”

  Carol closed her eyes. “It’s still going to be one. She’s got nothing now. No way to go.”

  I gave her a false wink. “I’ll talk to his boss at the wake. Don’t worry.”

  She crossed her arms and followed me to the door, locking it behind me.

  The morning was clear, the air brutally cold, a torrent against the face. I ached everywhere from unnaturally held sitting positions. I tried to walk it off into the wind. A solitary jogger in a ski mask and Gore-Tex suit passed me. I got a block and a half before I had to turn back. With the wind behind me, the walking was almost pleasant, the cold piercing only the pants below my coat’s hem.

  I reached Dale and Larry’s doorway. My watch said 7:15. I keyed the lock quietly and slipped in.

  Their foyer was warm. Larry appeared in a restored wooden archway to the right. He wore lilac, designer sweat pants cinched at his waist, no shirt. His upper body was spare and taut, like a junior high athlete.

  “How’s Martha?”

  “Tough night, but she’s holding up. I thought I’d flop upstairs for a while.”

  He nodded, wary. “Want some breakfast?”

  “Had some already, thanks.”

  He nodded again and disappeared back through the arch.

  I trudged up the stairs.

  I recognized the light tapping.

  “Dale?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said outside the door. “Larry said you looked pretty beat but it’s almost twelve noon and I thought …”

  I sat bolt upright in the guestroom bed. My watch agreed with Dale.

  “... you might like some lunch before … beforehand, that is.”

  “I need a shave and a shower first.”

  “All yours,” he said, a little quickly. “Take your time. Cold lunch. No rush.”

  “See you soon.”

  “Right,” he said.

  As I unpacked my suitcase, I began to appreciate the extent of the restoration in the house. In my bedroom, the furniture was perfect: mahogany four-poster, dry sink, and night table; powder blue wing-chair with matching hassock; one hurricane lamp. Only the window was modern, double-glazed and aluminum. Everything else seemed original equipment. Brass wall sconces, glass doorknobs, wainscoting naturally woodstained (which undoubtedly meant laborious stripping and prestaining). The floors were wide-board hardwood, probably sanded and polyurethaned. I had friends in Boston who had undertaken similar projects on one-bedroom condos. Redoing an entire townhouse would register near the top of the sweat-equity scale.

  The bathroom contained a large tub with raised claw feet and a massage-style showerhead. Brass rings on the wall held dark blue towels, contrasting nicely with the light blue tiles and paint. A home that would be a pleasure to live in.

  I was dressed and downstairs by twelve-thirty. Larry and Dale were sitting at a table in the dining room, which was just through the archway I’d seen on my way into the house. Larry, back from the bookstore, had changed to a continental-style, gray pin-striped suit, and was laconically turning the pages of a magazine. Dale was in the trousers and vest of a solid gray suit, a small bulge of shirt-covered belly visible above the belt buckle. The table was set but no food served.

  “We can offer smoked breast of chicken with lettuce and tomatoes on homemade bread,” said Dale rising and smiling broadly.

  “Sounds terrific,” I said. He moved quickly into the kitchen, ignoring my proffered help.

  I sat down across from Larry. It was silent for an awkward twenty seconds.

  “The house looks super,” I said. “You must have poured a lot of time into it.”

  Larry gave an ironic smile and held his place with a finger. “Look,” he said, “I’m not being rude, but I just don’t think you and I mix well. The Better-Homes-and-Gardens routine is Dale’s bag, not mine. He’ll really appreciate the compliments, honest. Me, I just don’t feel much like talking, O.K.?”

  “O.K.” I said. He returned to his magazine. Dale appeared a long two minutes later with a tray of sandwiches and a carafe of white wine.

  “I think you’ll like the chicken,” he said. “A farmer friend of ours raises and smokes them himself.” He hefted the wine. “I also think we all could use a brace for this afternoon.”

  “This house is magnificent, Dale,” I said as I reached and took half a sandwich.

  “Oh, thank you,” he said, pouring my wine. “It was a ton of work. We should have time for a little tour after lunch.”

  We ate in one-sided silence, Larry’s only contribution being, “Good wine, Dale.” Dale beamed and continued the I-love-Pittsburgh theme begun on our ride in from the airport. I was mildly interested in the information and deeply grateful for his filling the air.

  Larry insisted on clearing the table so that Dale could show me the house. The living room was tasteful in old rose and powder blue, with a matching-background Oriental rug and a functioning fireplace with Italian cherub tile. Beyond the dining room and alongside the kitchen was a back parlor with a baby grand piano and southeastern exposure. The rear wall was glass, overlooking a twenty-by-twenty back garden. Many plants, all cacti in pots, hung by monofilament inside the glass. Dale explained that the piano couldn’t tolerate a lot of humidity, so the interior flora selections were thus limited.

  We skipped the basement (;a small wine cellar, some herbs and mushrooms under grow lights”) and took in the second story. The master bedroom was a macro-version of the guestroom and occupied the front half of the floor, with a private bath and a huge walk-in closet under an eave. We climbed an attic pull-down ladder in the closet and up through a hatchway. The snow shook down deeper onto a redwood deck.

  “I got the idea from two friends in New York. You don’t see many roof decks in Pittsburgh, but there’s nothing better for really enjoying the sun without all the sand and catcalls—” he broke off.

  “I agree with you,” I said. “Sundecks have it all over the beach.”

  He followed me back down the ladder, securing the hatchway above him.

  I picked up my coat, and we went downstairs. The three of us saddled up and, insufficiently braced by the wine, crossed over to Martha’s house.

  Carol let us in. She and Martha were dressed and ready. Neither could get a sitter until Carol’s regular one came on at four. Larry enthusiastically volunteered to stay behind and watch Al, Junior and wait for Kenny to come home from school. He said he would join us thereafter. The four of us easily fit into Dale’s Pontiac, the two women in the back. It was a quiet ride to J. Cribbs and Son.

  The funeral home was a renovated Victorian on a commercial street three miles away. It was white with black shutters behind a sidewalk and semicircular drive more manicured than shoveled of the dirty snow around it. There was plenty of parking behind the house. We walked in pairs as we had ridden, silently, exhaling frosty breath into the wintry overcast.

 
; Cribbs the Son met us at the front door, dressed in his profession’s uniform and speaking in low, comforting tones. We introduced ourselves and were guided into a parlor with a dark blue decor and cushioned chairs arranged as if to hear a speech. Cribbs the Father was standing respectfully with hands folded, in front of Al’s closed coffin. We said hello again, and he cued his son, who left the room. The father took Martha’s coat and showed her to a front row, center aisle chair. The rest of us shucked overcoats and arranged ourselves around her. We took turns moving haltingly to the coffin and saying our first good-byes to Al.

  When my turn came, I had to fight my dipping reflex, there being no kneelers at the coffin as in Catholic establishments. I pictured Al as I knew him in the service, sitting in an old French easy chair in his room in Saigon, reading or listening to symphonic music on the stereo set he had bought at the PX. I skipped back to him clouting the Virginian in the brawl at the BOQ. I skipped forward to Martha and Al, Junior in the rundown town-house with little food and less heat. Then I thought about 13 Rue Madeleine and Al on the slab, and somebody, the somebody, who was going to pay for all that. Then I said good-bye and returned to my seat.

  The rest of the afternoon took a lot longer to pass than it does to describe. The outside door kept opening and closing, but the hushed voices and occasional sobs gravitated toward another room and someone else’s sorrow. At three o’clock, the older Cribbs came in and, perhaps embarrassed at the turn-out, stayed with us for a bit. Dale bravely tried to start a few conversations, but not even Carol was contributing so he stopped. I excused myself and got Cribbs’ permission to use his office phone.

  I wanted to call my number first, to check my telephone tape machine. I took out my Ma Bell credit card. I tapped my jacket pocket for my remote beeper, but it wasn’t there. I closed my eyes and could picture me putting it on the desk at home, then forgetting to pack it in the suitcase.

  Terrific. Really professional.

  I tried J.T. Kivens at the Pentagon instead. Same receptionist, same response. No one else there could help me. I chanced leaving Al’s name and Dale’s number with her. I spelled the names and repeated the numbers twice.

  I tried Nancy Meagher second. Not in, but I left both Dale’s and Martha’s home numbers with her secretary.

  Next I tried my friend at the company that had covered the torched warehouse. He was not in and was not expected back. I asked his secretary to please follow through on the security request for the Coopers. She said she would do her best, but “it’s three-thirty on a Friday afternoon, after all.”

  Next I called and reached my friend at the telephone company in Boston. He gave me the Coopers new, unlisted telephone number. It rang five times before I got Jesse’s tentative hello. Relieved it was me, he said mine was the first call on their new line, and they had neither heard from nor seen Marco. I told him that was certainly good news. Jesse and Emily (who had come on an extension) both thanked me profusely. Emily asked about Al’s family, and I told a few lies to make them feel better. As I rang off, they insisted I come over for dinner as soon as I got home. I agreed.

  Lastly, I dialed Lieutenant Detective Murphy in the Homicide Unit. This time I drew Cross. She confirmed Daley’s conversation with me, said she had spoken personally with Al’s two business appointments, neither of whom were going to order anything from him or knew anything more about him. Murphy’s investigatory approach was comprehensive and professional, but I could hear the “case closed but unsolved” tone creeping determinedly into Cross’ voice. I told her I would check back with her on Monday and hung up.

  I got up, thanked Cribbs’ secretary, and went back downstairs. The crowd hadn’t filled in since I’d left.

  At 4:20, though, Larry joined us. Dale nudged him in the ribs, and Larry went up to the coffin and stood there for fifteen seconds or so, head bowed. When he turned and came back, I was surprised to see he was crying. He sat back down and began sobbing into Dale’s shoulder. Carol clenched her teeth, the tears welling within her but not pouring from her. I blinked a lot and twice went to my eyes with the edge of my index finger. Martha simply sat, stoically staring at the coffin.

  At five o’clock, a young heavyset girl of perhaps nineteen came in. She looked at us and began sniffling. She fumbled in her bag for some Kleenex and got to it just as the tide broke. I got up and guided her to a chair.

  Her name was Trudy Murcher, and she was the secretary for the salesmen at Straun Steel. She saw the newspaper story and was so shocked, and had tried to call Martha at home, and got Larry, and felt she had to …

  She lasted seven minutes and then had to leave.

  At 5:40, a dumpy guy with a blue polyester sports jacket and polyester houndstooth pants came in. He introduced himself as Norm Denver and had been a salesman with Al. Norm apologized for coming so late and having to leave so soon, but he’d just come from an all-day meeting and had to get home. He had Scotch on his breath and a stain on his tie. The stain dated from the late seventies.

  He wished Martha luck, stood uneasily in front of the coffin for a couple of seconds, and then turned to go. I caught him in the foyer as he was buttoning up and an after-work rush was heading into another wake.

  “Mr. Denver,” I said, “can I speak with you for a moment?”

  “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.”

  Denver 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.”

  Denver 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,” Denver 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,” Denver 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—old 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?”

  “Yeah, 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 he 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. Al couldn’t do it, you c
ouldn’t do it. Nobody could do it.”

  “All of which adds up to what?”

  Denver stole a look at his watch and grimaced. “All of which adds up to, he wasn’t making his draw, follow? Al 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?”

  Denver 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, who’d kill for my job. If old man—”

  “He won’t find out you told me.”

  “But if …”

  “Where will he be?”

  He buttoned the last button. “’Til 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 columns.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Sorry about the slap.”

  Norm Denver 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 ’til nine, so we all did.