The Wizard of Death (10 page)

“I'm doing an article on the club.”

“Bull crap! I'm taking you back to your car and escorting you out of Breeland.”

“I'm not through here, Captain.”

“Stubborn bastard, aren't you?” With his pinkie, Murdock signaled to his car's driver. “Write this guy up.”

“What for, Captain?”

“Violation of the helmet law, driving without a motorcycle operator's permit, lack of registration.”

“Wait a minute, Murdock.”

“Resisting arrest and breach of peace.”

“Hey!”

“Cuff him.”

With the exception of the time that Rocco Herbert's wife had kicked the poker club out of the house and they had adjourned to the Murphysville jail for completion of the game, this was the only time Lyon had been in a jail cell. He didn't like it. Nine feet long and six wide. He paced angrily until reminded of a large leopard incarcerated in a zoo. He smiled.
The Cheetah and the Cell
—it might work. He sat back in the bunk and put his hands behind his head and began to think about the large cat with the streamlined musculature, held imprisoned, all the while yearning.…

The clank of metal on metal awakened him, and he sat up to see Rocco Herbert in the corridor outside the cell. The chief's fingers curled over the bar as he looked at Lyon sardonically.

“Resisting arrest. Jesus Christ, Lyon.”

“Damn it all, Rocco, I didn't do anything.”

“Captain Murdock says you did.”

Murdock appeared behind Rocco to unlock the barred door. “I didn't book him. But get him out of town. He's a troublemaker.”

Lyon and Rocco walked out of the Breeland police station into a bright afternoon sun. Lyon squinted a moment until his eyes adjusted to the light. As they walked to the Murphysville police cruiser, Lyon turned to Rocco.

“I thought Murdock was a little overzealous.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“His insistence that I was meddling.”

“Are you trying to suggest that he's somehow mixed up in this? That's paranoid, Lyon. That's paranoid as hell.”

“Maybe. I'm getting suspicious of everyone at this point. You come up with anything?”

“Nothing. Come on, I'll drive you to your car.”

“Leave me at the clubhouse.”

“Your car.”

“Like I said, the clubhouse.”

In honor of Lyon's bust, Wiff and Fizz called another club for a protest ride-in to the state capitol. The very mention of the helmet law made the bikers shake with anger, and voices and yells crossed the clubhouse parking lot as two dozen motorcycles revved engines in preparation for the start. Lyon had again been loaned the large Harley and given a position of honor immediately behind Wiff Stamen.

The onslaught of the long line of motorcycles had obviously been called ahead by the state police. As they approached the gold-domed state capitol, they saw that barriers had been erected, and a dozen state police were positioned around the circular drive.

The officers, in wide-brimmed hats, directed the cyclists and allowed them to park directly in front of the building. Over the months of helmet protests, a code of unwritten laws had sprung up. The police, on their part, would not issue summonses to the bikers while they were protesting, if the bikers followed directions for parking, stayed off the grass, and were moderately well behaved.

The club members began to chant; signs appeared. As Lyon, with a sore rump, climbed off the Harley, he wished he could ride back in an automobile.

“WENTWORTH, WHAT IN HELL ARE YOU DOING?”

He looked up to see Bea leaning from an upstairs window. “Protesting.”

She shook her head.

State police impassively lined the steps under the glinting dome. After the obligatory circling of the drive combined with a crescendo of revving engines, the bikers formed a phalanx of machines by the steps and began to chant. After a little difficulty, Lyon managed to align himself next to Wiff Stamen. “What now?”

“Not much. We make noise for a while, and then they let one of us go inside to present our demands to a politico.”

“What are our demands?”

“No helmets, stop the harassment, anything we can think of.”

“Sounds fine,” Lyon replied as the sound of engines drowned out his voice.

Captain Norbert of the state police walked slowly down the capitol steps and glared at the impatient riders. He tilted his hat over his eyes, folded his arms across his chest, and walked slowly across the driveway. Bikes swerved out of his path in order to avoid hitting him, and he continued his slow progress as if oblivious of the motorcycles buzzing on either side. When he reached the end of the drive, he held up a hand and the moving bikes formed a semicircle around him.

“One guy and one guy alone can make a presentation to Senator Mackay.”

“The hell with him. We want the governor.”

“The governor's not here today. Mackay is all you get.”

“Who's going in?”

“Send the writer in; he can speak good.”

Hands pulled at Lyon and pushed him in front of Captain Norbert. The state police captain glared at him. “What in hell are you doing here, Wentworth?”

“Afternoon, Captain. I have been chosen to represent the Angels and the Krauts in order to make a formal protest to the State of Connecticut.”

“Follow me.” Lyon followed Norbert back across the drive, up the capitol steps, and down a marble hall. “You know, Wentworth, I always knew my brother-in-law had crazy buddies, but you win hands down.”

“Doing my thing, Captain.”

They stopped at the senate majority leader's office. Captain Norbert stepped aside as Lyon entered the office and walked toward Ted Mackay's desk.

Surprised, Mackay looked up and extended a hand. “Hello, Lyon. If you're here about the altercation, I'm sure we can work something out.”

“I am here on behalf of the Krauts and the Angels.”

“Sit down.”

“Consider that I have formally protested the state's helmet law.”

“You have done so.”

“Is that right, Senator Mackay?”

The clubhouse floor had begun to tilt. In some dim recess of the frame building someone retched. The Breeland supermarket had been pleased to accept Lyon's check for several additional cases of beer—and almost the full complement of the club had aided in the task of finishing every can. Lyon felt bloated and knew he was half-smashed on the infinite number of beers he had consumed.

“You did fine, Wentworth,” Wiff said from his prone position on the floor. Turning, he tilted the dregs of a can into his mouth and gave Lyon a wide, sloppy grin. “Just fine. We might even make you official.”

“Mackay didn't say much.”

“Didn't hardly say a word to Junior.”

Something had just passed—a lead, and he strained to grasp it. He put both feet firmly on the floor, and the room began to steady. “Junior Haney? The one who was killed?”

“Yeah, he went in last time. He saw Mackay but didn't get nowhere. Junior never got nowhere except dead.”

“They say Rainbow killed him.”

“That's what the cops kept asking when they pulled us in. You're all right, Wentworth. You know that?—you're all right.”

“You wouldn't tell them about Rainbow?”

“I don't know nothing to tell.”

Lyon tried to think about that. He wanted to close his eyes and sleep under the pool table—but he couldn't do that, because Fizz Nichols was already curled up under the pool table. He fought for control and sobriety. It wasn't only the beer—a couple of members had brought bottles of rye, and the drinking had really become serious at ten when Wiff insisted that everyone drink boilermakers … a shot and a beer … a shot and a beer … it seemed to go on endlessly.

What time was it? It was late, and most of the club had either left or were asleep in various parts of the building. Only Wiff, curled near Lyon's feet, had any semblance of consciousness.

Lyon kicked Wiff in the side until he turned over.

“What?”

“He was wearing his colors when he was killed.” That wasn't quite true, but it would do.

“What you talking about?”

“Junior Haney had his colors on when he was killed, and you guys don't give a damn. Let the cops bumble along, you just don't care that a Kraut was killed with his colors on.”

“Like hell!” Wiff lumbered to his feet, lost his balance and caught the edge of the pool table. “We take care of our own.”

“Not Junior.”

“This Rainbow knocked him off?”

“That's what Junior said.”

“We'll take care of the bastard. Can't kill a Kraut, especially when he's wearing colors.”

“Someone knows about Rainbow?”

“That's what the cops kept asking.”

“No club member would talk to a cop,” Lyon said.

“Right.” Wiff looked at Lyon with a dim recognition of what that meant. “I'm half-drunk.”

“I think we all are.”

“Okay, let's start.”

Wiff led Lyon to a galvanized stall shower behind the barroom. The hot water didn't work, but the cold water was quite cold. Turning the nozzle on as far as it would go, Wiff stepped into the shower fully dressed and let the cold water run over his body. After five minutes he stepped out, bowed, and pointed to Lyon.

Lyon gasped as the water ran down the collar of his jacket and over his back. He bent his head back and let the cold spray play across his face. Finally, he felt Wiff tugging on his sleeve impatiently.

Wiff's interrogation of his fellow club members was direct, incisive and brutal. The preliminaries began with a bucket of cold water across the face, and a little face-slapping to catch their attention. A slam against the wall emphasized the immediate necessity for answers.

“You hear of Rainbow? Junior say anything to you?”

They proceeded to question all of the Krauts in the clubhouse. Fizz Nichols, placidly sleeping under the pool table, was the last. Lyon and Wiff each grabbed a foot and pulled him out onto the open floor, where Wiff applied water and slaps until he bent Fizz back over the pool table.

“Rainbow mean anything to you?”

“Leave me alone, mother fucker.”

More slaps. “Rainbow?”

“Yeah, yeah. Now leave me alone, I'm tired.”

“Who is he?”

Lyon found a small jar of instant coffee and a propane burner in a back room. He boiled water and made black coffee. When he returned to the barroom, Fizz was sitting on a straight chair with his head in his hands. He drank the coffee more out of fear than desire.

“Okay, buddy boy,” Wiff said. “Junior was knocked off wearing colors. Wentworth here thinks some joker named Rainbow did it. Take it slow and easy, and tell us what you know.”

“Quit leaning on me, man.”

“Just tell us.”

“Okay, okay. Some guy calling himself Rainbow telephoned Junior and asked if he wanted to make a few bucks. You know Junior; he was all for it. This guy wants Junior to meet him at a bar in Hartford for details … no names, nothing like that. Gave Junior a time, place, and booth in the bar. Junior asked me to go along, stay out of sight, follow the guy and act as backup, case things got rough.”

“So, what happened?”

“I don't know. Nothing. Junior went to the place like he was told. I sat at the bar so I could have a look at the booth where he was to meet this guy. I carried a sock full o' bird shot, case Junior gave the high sign. This guy came in, sat with Junior twenty minutes, maybe half an hour.”

“What did he look like?” Lyon asked.

“An ordinary working guy. Tan pants, wind-breaker.”

“Height, weight, color of hair?”

“Built like most guys, you know. Maybe thirty-five, brown hair—just a guy.”

“Then what happened?”

“When he left, I tailed him, like Junior asked. He went to a fleabag hotel about six, seven blocks away and went up to a second-floor room in the front. I saw him in the window when he turned the light on. I go back to the bar where Junior is swattin' down brandy, like he was loaded, which he was. He slips me fifty and says he made his deal and to forget everything I saw.”

“And you did?”

“Hell, yes. Like Junior was a fellow Kraut, right?”

“Yes, he was,” Lyon said softly.

7

The early-morning sun was beginning to burn off the tendrils of fog rising from the river. The sun's rays rose over the hills and pierced the windshield of the small car. Lyon pulled down the sun visor and pinched the bridge of his nose to exorcise the massive headache. There is nothing worse than a beer hangover, he thought as he turned up the drive to Nutmeg Hill.

A young patrolman was leaning against a pine tree playing mumblety-peg in a patch of dirt. Lyon slowed the car to a halt. The officer looked up and smiled.

“Hi, Mr. Wentworth.”

“Hello, Jamie. Everything quiet?”

“Yes, sir.” Oh, Lord. The family homestead protected by an adolescent with six weeks' experience.

“Want some coffee?”

“Mrs. Wentworth gave me some a few minutes ago. She's in the back working in the garden.”

Bea Wentworth, wearing shorts and a floppy shirt, was kneeling in the garden below the back patio. She carefully placed a plant in a small hole, watered it, pushed dirt around delicate stems and began to trim back leaves.

The sun, midway above the horizon, slanted through the oak tree to the side and speckled light across the side of her face, giving her a diffused, gentle appearance. Lyon felt that his wife was a woman of many seasons, a multifaceted person whose appearance and personality could change in the various life guises she chose. Now, kneeling on the warm earth and holding a small plant made her look as if she had been nurtured and had bloomed in the warming early day. At other times, like that day on the green when she introduced Llewyn, her outward appearance was forceful and charismatic.