The Staked Goat - Jeremiah Healy (17 page)

She slipped her hands from my grip and dropped her
head down. 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."

She squinted at me. "Al let his GI insurance
lapse." She gave half a laugh. "Al let lots 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."

She 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 . . ." She 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 any more."

"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."

She 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 to 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- or 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 0ff-balance. "No. She died."

"Oh, John, I'm sorry . . ."

"Some time ago."

"It's just that you're so young, I never--"

"Da1e," 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."

We broke. 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
through 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 of the
window was postcard quality, but not an evening's worth.

I was tired but 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 anyplace
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 Déja 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 coasters, 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 for me. I walked down the
flight of stairs in front of me 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.

A slim, light-skinned black woman on my right started
a conversation with me. Not pick-up, just pleasant. Unfortunately for
her, I wanted to be just a spectator and, fortunately for me, she got
asked to dance. I found myself thinking how much this place reminded
me of other singles bars in New York and Boston. There were nice
people, and noise and dancing, but the smiles were like the ones you
flashed for a wedding photographer and the laughs like the ones you
trotted out at job interviews. I downed my screwdriver and left.

It took me about twenty-five minutes to reach Deja
Vu. It looked like a greenhouse someone had tacked onto the Sheraton
Hotel it abutted. A clone of the bouncer at the Library welcomed me
in, asked if I wished food, drinks, or drinks and dancing, and gave
me directions accordingly. I walked through an interior garden,
overhung with huge plants of both the flowering and merely
multicolored leaf varieties. I could hear swing music coming from
around the corner. Benny Goodman plays the Amazonian rain forest.