Acceptable Losses (26 page)

Just then the telephone began to ring on both lines, the one in the bedroom and the one in the living room. Weinstein looked at Damon questioningly. “You going to answer it?”

“Of course. My friend from Ma Bell never calls in the afternoon.”

It was Sheila. “I phoned the motel in Ford’s Junction,” she said, “and they told me you’d checked out. I guessed you’d be home by now. Is Oliver with you?”

“No.”

“You promised me you wouldn’t stay in the flat alone,” she said, rebuking him.

“I’m not alone. I have an old friend with me. You remember Manfred Weinstein, from Ford’s Junction. I told you about him. When we were kids together. It turns out he’s a retired detective and he’s kindly offered to cling to me like a leech, for old times’ sake. And he’s heavily armed.” Damon spoke lightly as though having a house guest who wore a shoulder holster with a snub-nosed .38 caliber pistol in it was an amusing bit of whimsy.

“Are you making this up?” Sheila asked suspiciously. “To keep me from worrying?”

“I’ll let you talk to him. Manfred,” he said, “come and talk to the lady of the house.”

“Ma’am,” Weinstein said into the phone, his voice booming as usual, “please let me thank you for your hospitality.”

If volume was reassuring, Damon thought, Sheila must be reassured. Weinstein sounded like a two-hundred-and-twenty-pound basso.

Weinstein listened for a moment and Damon, who was standing next to him, could hear the anxiety in Sheila’s voice even though he couldn’t make out the words.

“Don’t you worry, Ma’am,” Weinstein said, “he’ll be as safe as a baby in its mother’s arms. I hope I have the pleasure of meeting you real soon.” He handed the phone to Damon. “She wants to talk to you.”

“Roger,” Sheila said, “it’s very nice of Mr. Weinstein to offer to take care of you, but I wish I could come down right now and see for myself. But I can’t. Mother’s still the same. Comatose, the doctors say, whatever that really means. There’s a big specialist coming up from Boston on Tuesday and I’ve just got to stay here at least until he examines her. I called the school and they say they’re getting along fine without me. It’s nice to know you’re not indispensable.” She laughed ironically.

“You’re indispensable to me.”

“What do you think you are to me?” Sheila’s voice had sunk to a whisper. “Mr. Weinstein’s not going to do anything reckless, is he?”

“All I can say is that he was very careful as a boy,” Damon said, trying to joke, “and he’s hardly aged at all. Don’t rush back on my account. I’m all right. As Manfred said, like a baby in its mother’s arms.”

“I wish I could believe that,” Sheila said distractedly. “Anyway, don’t get drunk with your detective friend.”

“He only drinks coffee.”

“Don’t drink too much coffee.” It was a sad little joke.

“And don’t you act like a Jewish mother,” Damon said, an even sadder joke. But Sheila laughed, not very convincingly.

“Stay well, dear,” she said. “And call often. It’s the only ray of light in the darkness here.”

“I hope the specialist from Boston helps.”

“Nobody’s very optimistic. The worst thing would be if she were to just lie here the way she is now. For months, for years …” Sheila’s voice broke. “It’s awful. I dread going into her room. I keep remembering her as a pretty young woman. And it’s raining up here. How is it in New York?”

“Fair. A little smoggy.”

“Have a good time with your friend. I’m glad now you found him. Tell him I like the sound of his voice. Tell him I like a man who speaks out loud and clear. Also tell him I hope he doesn’t have to use that gun.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“I’ve got to say good-bye now. I’m calling from a phone booth at the hospital and there’s a lady standing waiting to get in.” Childishly, she blew a kiss into the mouthpiece.

Damon hung up slowly.

“Things aren’t going so good up in Burlington, are they?” Weinstein said. He had been watching the changing expressions on Damon’s face as he spoke on the phone.

“Old age,” Damon said. Sheila’s mother was only a few years older than he and the two mournful words were as much for himself as for her.

“What do you want to do now? I could help you put away all that stuff in the hall. And I could attach the radio-phonograph. I’m pretty good around the house for things like that, and I remember you were clumsy as hell when you were a boy.”

“I haven’t changed,” Damon said. “Sheila won’t even let me put in a light bulb by myself. But I’m hungry and I’d like some lunch.” He had had an early breakfast and it was past one o’clock. “And I have to drive the car uptown and hand it over to the Hertz people. Then I guess I better put in an appearance at the office. I’ve been goofing off for days and the work must be piled high on my desk.”

“Fine,” Weinstein said. “I’m hungry myself and I’d like to see what your office is like, have a little chat with your partner.”

“Don’t make too big a deal of it. I’ve made him jittery enough as it is.” Damon thought back with shame about his behavior in the past weeks. “I’ve been a zombie around the office. And he’s a timid, scholarly young man and he’s very fond of me and I’m afraid he thinks I’m going around the bend as it is.”

“Don’t worry,” Weinstein said. “There won’t be any third degree.” Then he added, “Not yet anyway.”

When they got to the office after lunch, Damon introduced Weinstein as a gentleman who was going to do some supplementary reading for them because since the success of
Threnody
, the volume of incoming manuscripts had more than doubled. Mr. Weinstein would do his reading in the office for a while to accustom himself to their routine. Damon knew it sounded peculiar, but it was better than telling his co-workers that they might at any moment expect to be caught in the line of fire of a gunfight.

Then he gave Miss Walton and Oliver their gifts. “I know I’ve been just about impossible to live with for the last few days”, he said, “and this is just a small way of making up for it.”

Miss Walton attempted to hold back tears, with moderate success, as she opened the box and saw the cashmere sweater. Her chin quivered as she shyly kissed Damon, something she had only done so far when he gave her her cash bonus at Christmas. She insisted upon putting the sweater on at once. “What a sensitive way to let me know that this ratty old thing”—disdainfully she held up the bulky hand-knit dull red cardigan that she had worn daily for almost ten years—“was an eyesore.” She stuffed it into the wastebasket, giggled, and said, “Good-bye forever, you miserable rag.”

Oliver tore the wrapping off the Yeats book before glancing at the larger box with the blazer that Damon had given him at the same time. As usual, Damon noted with amusement, books came before anything else with his albino partner. Oliver looked reproachfully at Damon when he saw the title. “Roger,” he said, “don’t you think I have a copy of Yeats at home?”

“I’ll bet you ten dollars that when you look for it, you’ll find that somebody’s nipped it and conveniently forgot to return it.”

Oliver laughed. “Come to think of it,” he said, “I haven’t seen it for a long time.” Then he opened the big box and took out the blazer and put it on and modeled it. It fit him perfectly. He took it off and carefully hung it in the closet. “It’s too splendid for weekdays,” he said. “It’s much too extravagant, Roger, but I’m glad you splurged. It’ll cost me money, though.” He smiled gratefully and Damon was afraid he was on the verge of tears, too. “My wife’ll be wild with envy and I’ll have to get one like this for her.”

“It won’t cost you a penny. I’ll get one for her, too,” Damon said grandly. “The way I’ve been treating you, you must have been a nuisance around the house recently. Tell her it’s a peace offering from the boss. Now let’s all get back to work.”

Then he sorted through the pile of manuscripts and picked out a twelve-hundred-page novel by someone he had never heard of and gave it to Weinstein, who had already ensconced himself on the couch, which faced the door. “Here,” Damon said, “this should keep you busy for the rest of the afternoon.” Then he took off his jacket, hung it up and sat down at his desk. He saw that Weinstein was keeping his jacket on and hoped Oliver wouldn’t speculate on the reason for the man’s formality. When Weinstein left the office for a few minutes to go to the men’s room, Oliver came over to Damon’s desk and said, in a low voice, so that Miss Walton couldn’t hear him, “Where did you pick up that fellow?”

“He’s an old friend of mine,” Damon said. “He majored in English literature. He’s particularly good on crime fiction.”

“He doesn’t look like a literary type.”

“Neither do you. Literary types come in all sizes these days.”

“How much are we paying him?” Every once in a while Oliver tried to sound like a partner.

“Nothing,” Damon said. “We’ll see how he works out. Until we make a final decision, I’ll pay him out of my own pocket.”

Oliver started to protest, but Damon stopped him. “It’s only fair. The reason we’re so overloaded is because I’ve neglected everything for so long. Ssh. Here he comes.”

Just before closing time, the phone rang. It was Schulter. “I’ve got some news for you, Damon. Can you meet me in ten minutes? Same place as last time.”

Damon felt a shiver of apprehension at the tone of the detective’s voice. “I’ll be there. I’ll bring a friend if you have no objections.”

“Can he keep his mouth shut?”

“Guaranteed.”

“Ten minutes,” Schulter said, and hung up.

He was sitting in the bar, wearing the same coat, buttoned up, and the ridiculous tiny hat, looking ominous and threatening, when Damon and Weinstein came in. He didn’t stand up to greet them or put out his hand when Damon introduced Weinstein, but merely grunted and sipped at his coffee. The waitress came right over and Weinstein ordered a coffee. Damon asked for a beer. Whenever he talked to Schulter, he realized, his throat went dry.

“Mr. Weinstein knows who you are,” Damon said. “On a professional basis.”

“What do you mean by that?” Schulter asked suspiciously. “Professional?”

“He was a detective on the New Haven police force. Now he’s retired. I’ve known him since we were boys. He’s come to live with me—well, act as a kind of bodyguard—until our little problem is solved.”

Schulter looked with new interest at Weinstein, who was staring around the room, his eyes alert; taking everything in, the other customers, the movements of the waitresses and the bartender.

“You armed?” Schulter asked.

“I’m armed,” Weinstein said, now looking at Schulter and smiling thinly.

“You better be.”

“Courtesy of the New Haven police department.”

“You mind if I check on you in New Haven?”

“I don’t mind,” Weinstein said. “The first name is Manfred.”

“I never heard of a detective with the name of Manfred,” Schulter said.

“There’s a first time for everything.” Weinstein smiled more widely.

“Now,” Damon said, “what’s
your
news, Lieutenant?”

Schulter waited while the waitress put down Weinstein’s coffee and Damon’s beer. When she had gone, Schulter said, “It’s about the Larches. Mrs. Larch was committed to an insane asylum two days ago.”

“Oh, Christ,” Damon said. The feeling of apprehension he had had when talking on the phone to Schulter had been justified. Since Zalovsky’s first call, disaster had spread around him like ever-widening ripples from a stone thrown into a pond. And he was the stone.

“They found her walking around naked in the street,” Schulter said. “It turns out she was going to a psychiatrist for nearly a year. The psychiatrist says she’s schizophrenic. I thought you ought to know.”

“Thanks,” Damon said dully.

“By the way,” Schulter said, “her psychiatrist says she never told her husband about who was the kid’s father. She made it all up. Mr. Larch is still crazy about the kid according to all the neighbors.”

“Thanks again.”

Weinstein looked puzzled. “Who’s Mrs. Larch, Roger? And what has she got to do with you and the lieutenant?”

“I’ll explain later,” Damon said.

“Anything new with you, Damon?” Schulter asked. “Any more calls?”

Damon shook his head. “Nothing new. No calls.”

“I advise you to keep your wife out of the way for a while.” It was not advice, but a ukase.

“She’s out of town for the moment.”

“Try to keep her there. Well”—Schulter stood up, pushed the absurd hat down heavily on his head—“I’ll be moving off. Detective,” he said to Weinstein, a touch of malice in his voice, “don’t shoot yourself in the leg when you pull out your popgun.”

“I’ll try not to,” Weinstein said affably. “I haven’t made any mistakes so far.”

Schulter looked down bleakly. “I hope you get lucky. Finish your drinks and call me if anything turns up.”

Damon and Weinstein watched the broad bullying back go through the door out into the street. “Friendly little fellow, isn’t he?” Weinstein said. “Not a devoted admirer of the New Haven police department. Now tell me about Mrs. Larch.”

Damon told him, Weinstein listening in silence. As he spoke, Damon could see the growing disapproval on his friend’s face.

When Damon finished, Weinstein said, “You sure acted like a damn fool for a grown man. Letting your cock do the thinking for the family. You’re lucky she only told her psychiatrist. If she hadn’t, I wouldn’t blame the husband if he came gunning for you.”

“Don’t be a goddamn rabbi,” Damon said, irritated. “You never have sneaked off for an afternoon with a girl? If you say no, I won’t believe you.”

“At least I was careful. I don’t have any illegitimate kids with another man’s name running around.”

“Bully for you,” Damon said. “Pray for the salvation for my soul the next time you happen to visit a synagogue.”

“Calm down, pal,” Weinstein said. “What’s done is done. What we have to do now is figure out what to do about it.”

“All right,” Damon said, slightly mollified.

“You think this might be the last straw for the husband?” Weinstein asked. “His wife in the nut house and you getting your picture in the papers and stories saying what a great man you are and how much dough you’re making.”