Snake Eater (11 page)

I couldn’t recall seeing any of the faces at Daniel’s funeral party. The photos showed six adult white males, all in some stage of middle age. None was particularly distinctive.

I read the addresses. The two on the index cards were in western Massachusetts, as were two on the backs of photos. Two were in Rhode Island, one in New Hampshire, and one in New York.

I sat there at my table, puffing a cigarette and gazing out onto the dark harbor.

On Monday I called Cammie and read the eight names and addresses to her. None of them was familiar to her. None of them was anybody who had been invited to the party. As far as she could recall, Daniel had never mentioned any of them to her.

“Well,” I said, “they were somebody to Daniel. They were in with his insurance papers.”

“Insurance?”

“Which may or may not mean a damn thing.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. Talk to these people, I guess.”

“You think…?”

“That I’ve got a list of possible murderers? One of them did it? Maybe.”

“Wow,” she breathed.

“So I’ll check them out.”

“Maybe Brian or Roscoe or Vinnie might recognize them. They’ve known Daniel a lot longer than me.”

“Sure,” I said. “These could be names from the war. I’ll give those guys a call.”

“Hang on,” she said. “I’ll get their numbers.”

She came back onto the line a minute later. She read Brian Sweeney’s contact telephone number in Vermont to me. Pollard and Colletti shared the same phone in Turner’s Falls, Massachusetts. “Let me know what you find out,” she said.

“You can count on it.”

“You better be careful, Brady.”

“Believe me,” I said, “I know how to be careful. Discreet and careful. That’s me.”

T
HE NUMBER CAMMIE HAD
given me for Brian Sweeney was, I remembered, a general store in East Corinth, Vermont. Most likely
the
general store. Gas pumps out front, spinning rods and aluminum lawn chairs and pyramids of maple syrup cans in the window, a wheel of Vermont cheddar and a cracker barrel next to the wood stove, ammunition and knives under the glass counter, cases of beer and sacks of dried beans and bait tanks out back. On the map, East Corinth appeared to be little more than an intersection on the back road from Bradford to Barre, which weren’t exactly major metropolitan areas themselves.

“General stow-ah,” said the guy who answered the phone when I called Monday morning. “Ed he-ah.”

Ed sounded like one of those disillusioned New Jersey dentists who chuck it all and flee to northern New England to pursue their dream of the simple honest country life and end up finding it complicated by leaky roofs, dried-up wells, mud seasons, blackflies, endless winters, suspicious natives, and hard-hearted bankers. More disillusionment.

Generally after a few years they end up practicing rural dentistry.

“I’m trying to get ahold of Brian Sweeney,” I told Ed.

“Ain’t he-ah just now,” said Ed. “Generally comes by lat-ah in the afternoon. I can give him your name.”

Ed, I decided, had a poor ear for the significant differences between the Down East Maine inflections—which Hollywood television productions never get right anyway—and those of small-town Vermont.

“My name is Brady Coyne,” I said. I spelled it for Ed, and gave him both my office and home numbers. “I’m in Boston. Tell Sweeney to call collect. I’ll be at one place or the other.”

“Brian’ll be by lat-ah,” repeated Ed. “He’ll want to tell me about the hunting. It’s bird season up here now. Pa’tridge, woodcock. Brian’s got himself a pair of nice Springers. Hunts all day, don’t quit till he’s got his limit.” Ed tried out a country-boy chuckle. “Heh-heh. Sometimes he don’t quit even then.”

I managed to disengage myself from Ed only after he told me about how all the male teachers and students played hookey from the regional high school during the first week of the deer season, and how he opened the store at four a.m. that week to sell buckshot and deer urine scent and coffee and sandwiches. I suspected Ed valued the hunters’ company as much as their business.

I tried the Turner’s Falls number for Roscoe Pollard and Vinnie Colletti. No answer.

I spent the rest of the morning telephone sparring with other lawyers on behalf of clients, and it wasn’t until noontime when I found a minute to call Al Coleman in New York. I expected to hear Bonnie’s voice on their office answering machine, and I was prepared to leave a strongly worded message. “Where’s that damn manuscript?” Something to that effect.

Instead Bonnie answered in person. “The Coleman Literary Agency,” she said.

“Oh, hi,” I said. “It’s Brady Coyne. I didn’t expect you to answer.”

“I’m back. Just for the week, I hope. Trying to get everything cleaned out. I’ve gotten all your messages. I would’ve eventually returned your call.”

“Cleaned out?”

There was a long pause before she said, “You don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

I heard her expel a long breath. “About Al.”

“What’s going on?”

“Al died.”

“Oh, shit. What happened?”

She sighed again. I suspected she had been asked that question many times and didn’t enjoy answering it. “It was about a month ago. He… they said he got mugged.”

“Mugged?”

“They found his body in the subway station. He was stabbed. He bled to death. He lay there a long time before somebody figured out that he wasn’t a derelict in an Irish linen sports jacket passed out in a pool of blood.”

“God!” I managed to mumble.

“New York,” said Bonnie Coleman. “I hate this goddam city.”

“Look,” I said. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s okay, Mr. Coyne. His clients have to know. I’m turning everything over to Keating and Keating. They’re very good. A big Park Avenue agency. It’s been a little complicated. See, I’ll continue to get the commissions on Al’s old accounts, but—you don’t need to hear this.”

“No, it’s all right. I’m not really a client. He had a manuscript.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Al had decided not to handle it. He was going to return it—”

“You haven’t got it yet?” she said.

“Well, there’s no hurry, really. But when you can…”

“I don’t think I have it.”

“Has it been sent? Did it get lost in the mail?”

“I don’t know.” She paused for a moment. “I don’t remember sending it. I—it’s been a tough month, Mr. Coyne.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” She didn’t sound as if she believed me. She must have heard a lot of insincere “I’m sorry”s lately. I mean it, I said. I’m very sorry.

“Okay. Thanks.”

“And I’m sorry to be pestering you.”

“I assume Al mailed your manuscript to you.”

“I haven’t got it.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time the postal service screwed up. I’ll check around. There’s still lots of junk here. I’m still finding stuff in the back of the file cabinets. Christ, he kept most of his deals and agreements in his head. I mean, he’d write himself notes, but damned if anybody except him could understand them. You know what I mean? He’d send a proposal to six publishers, and what he’d write down would be the first names of the editors. Then he’d shove the notes under his blotter. I mean,
he
knew what he was doing, but it’s been a bear, trying to straighten it all out without him.”

“I was just hoping to get that manuscript back.”

“What was the title of it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, but…”

“And I don’t know the author’s name, either.”

“How…?”

“He used a pseudonym. I don’t know what that was. I sent it to Al sealed, just the way the writer gave it to me.”

“Well, I’ll look for it. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks,” I said. I hesitated. “Bonnie, about Al…”

“It’s happening all over this city. Which is no consolation. It’s a jungle. The police just throw up their hands. A nice quiet little man gets senselessly, randomly murdered, and we’re supposed to understand that it’s the chance you take, living in this wonderful city. I can’t wait to get out of here.”

“When did you say it happened?”

“A month ago.”

I mentally calculated. It was just about a month earlier when Al Coleman told me that he had decided not to handle Daniel’s book. He said he was going to mail Daniel’s manuscript back to me. When it didn’t arrive, I had tried calling. That’s when I began to get answering machine messages.

Al hadn’t returned my calls because he couldn’t. And Bonnie had other things on her mind.

He died, I figured, before he had the chance to mail back Daniel’s manuscript.

“Bonnie,” I said, “that manuscript is probably lying around somewhere.”

“Probably,” she said. “When I find it, I’ll ship it along.”

“Thanks. Look, if there’s anything I can do…”

“I’ve got a good lawyer, Mr. Coyne.”

“I mean, as a friend.”

“I don’t even know you.”

“Al and I went to school together.”

She laughed softly. “And neither of you remembered each other.”

“True,” I said. “Still…”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I sound rude. I don’t mean to be. I’ve got Al’s old friends coming out of the woodwork at me. Most of them want to console me by screwing me. I’m just kinda fed up with guys offering to help, you know?”

“That’s not what I meant,” I said.

“No, I suppose it’s not.”

“I guess there really isn’t much I could do.”

“No, probably not,” she said. “I appreciate the thought, though. I’ll look for that book.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

After I hung up from Bonnie Coleman, I swiveled around to stare out my office window down onto Copley Square. The noontime crowds were beginning to swarm over the concrete plaza that separates the public library from Trinity Church. The fountains were turned off, and without them the plaza is pretty stark. But during good weather, secretaries and accountants and sales clerks and stockbrokers mingle there at lunchtime, eating sandwiches from waxed paper on the benches. The men loosen their ties and the women hitch their skirts up over their knees and tilt their faces up to the sun.

On this October Monday they had a crispy autumn day for it. There wouldn’t be many more of them.

Somebody murdered Daniel McCloud.

Somebody murdered Al Coleman, too.

Daniel’s manuscript was missing.

It seemed to me unlikely that those were unrelated events.

The phone rang just as Julie was pulling the dust cover over her computer terminal for the day. She moved to answer it, but I waved her away. “Go,” I said. “I got it.”

She hesitated, her hand poised over the console, then smiled and took it back. I reached over and picked up the phone.

“Brady Coyne,” I said.

“I have a collect call from Brian Sweeney. Will you accept it?”

“Sure.”

“Go ahead,” said the operator.

“Brady?” came Sweeney’s voice.

“Hey, thanks for calling.” Julie kissed my cheek and wiggled her fingers at me. I wiggled mine at her. She left. “Cammie gave me this number,” I said to Sweeney.

“I ain’t got a phone in my place. I like it that way.”

“Sorry to bother you.”

“No problem. What’s up?”

“Hang on a second. I want to read something to you.” I fumbled in my jacket pocket and took out the piece of paper on which I had written the eight names and addresses from Daniel’s “insurance” file. “Okay. Got it. Some names. I was wondering if any of them rang any bells with you.”

“Names?”

“From Daniel’s files. Six of them have photographs that go with them. Cammie didn’t recognize any of them. We thought maybe you would. Figured they were friends, acquaintances of Daniel.”

“Or enemies, huh?” said Sweeney.

“Yes. Or enemies.”

“Okay. Go ahead.”

I read them to Sweeney over the phone. When I finished, he said, “Read them again, willya?”

I read the eight names again.

“Nope,” he said after a minute.

“You don’t know any of these people?”

“Never heard of them.”

“Well, okay.”

“Sorry.”

“Thanks, anyway.”

“I didn’t know many of Daniel’s friends. Just guys from the army.”

“And these aren’t army names?”

“No. At least, not from when Daniel and I were together. Which was most of it.”

“Damn,” I said.

“Wish I could help you out.”

“Oh, well.” I stuffed the paper back into my jacket pocket. “How was the hunting?”

“Daniel wouldn’t have approved.”

“Why not?”

“I used a shotgun.”

“Got some, though, huh?”

“Sure. I always do.”

After I hung up with Sweeney I tried the Turner’s Falls number again. Roscoe answered. “Yo,” he said.

“It’s Brady Coyne.”

“Who?”

“Daniel McCloud’s lawyer.”

“Oh, sure. Sorry. What’s up?”

“I’ve got some names. Wondering if they ring any bells with you.”

“What kind of names?”

“I found them in Daniel’s insurance papers.”

“Insurance?”

“Eight names. Six of them have photographs with them.”

“So?”

“I don’t know. Can I read them to you?”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

I did.

“Nope,” said Roscoe.

“You don’t recognize any of them?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?” I’m sure, man.

“Brian didn’t, either.”

“If he didn’t know them,” said Roscoe, “it’s not likely I would. Sweeney and Daniel were tight.”

“Is Vinnie there?”

“No.”

“Well, would you mind asking him for me?”

“Asking him what?”

“If he recognizes any of the names?”

“Why not? You better read ’em again. If I don’t write ’em down, I’ll forget.”

I read them again, spelling the names.

“Okay,” said Roscoe.

“Have him call me.” I gave him my phone numbers, office and home.

“If anybody’d know, it’d be Sweeney,” said Roscoe.

“He was Daniel’s closest friend, huh?”

“As close as the Snake Eater’d let anybody get.”

I called Cammie from my apartment that evening. She answered with a cheerful “Hello.” I heard music in the background. I recognized a Tom Petty song.