She was a swollen, bloated woman in her middle forties.
She looked like the kind of girl who could never be surprised, shocked, or hurt; she had seen it all — twice at least.
The bartender brought her drink: a whisky with a small beer chaser.
Sal looked me up and down.
'You work in the steel mills, sonny?'
'That Sal,' the bartender said to me, 'she's a card.'
'Oh no,' I said to her. 'I'm not from around here. I'm from New York.'
'You could have fooled me,' she said. 'I would have sworn you were a puddler.'
'Come on, Sal,' the bartender said.
'That's all right,' I told him. 'I know the lady is pulling my leg. I don't mind.'
She smacked me on the back, almost knocking me off the stool.
'You're okay, sonny,' she said in a growly voice. 'I like you.'
'Thank you,' I said.
'What the hell you doing in Gary?'
'Gary?' I said, fear soaring. 'I thought this was Athens.
Isn't this Athens, Indiana?'
'Athens?' she said. She laughed uproariously, rocking back and forth on her barstool so violently that I put out an arm to assist her in case she should topple backwards.
'Jesus Christ, sonny,' she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, 'this place hasn't been called Athens in years. It was absorbed by Gary a long time ago.'
'But it was Athens?' I insisted.
'Oh sure. It was Athens when I was a kid, more years ago than I want to remember. What the hell you doing in Athens?'
'I work for a law firm in New York,' I said. 'It's a matter of a will. I'm trying to locate a beneficiary whose last address was given as Athens, Indiana.'
'No shit?' she said, interested. 'An inheritance?'
'Oh yes.'
'A lot of money?'
'It depends on what you mean by a lot of money,' I said cautiously.
'To me,' she said, 'anything over twenty bucks is a lot of money.'
'It's more than twenty bucks.'
'What's the name?'
'Knurr,' I said. 'K-n-u-r-r. A woman. Goldie Knurr.'
'Goldie Knurr?' she repeated. 'No,' she said, shaking her head, 'never heard of her. Lou!' she screamed. When the bartender came over, she asked, 'Ever hear of a woman named Goldie Knurr?'
He pondered a moment, frowning.
'Can't say as I have,' he said.
'Buy me a double,' Sal said to me, 'and I'll ask around for you.'
When she returned she slid on to the barstool again, spanked her empty glass on the bar.
'What the hell's your name?' she demanded.
'Josh.'
'My name's Sal.'
'I know. May I buy you a drink, Sal?'
She pretended to consider the offer.
'Well. . all right, if you insist.' She signalled the bartender, holding up two fingers. 'Bingo,' she said. 'I found a guy who knows Goldie Knurr. Or says he does.
See that old swart in the back room? The grey-hair, frizzy-haired guy sitting by himself?'
I turned, 'I see him,' I said.
'That's Ulysses Tecumseh Jones,' she said. 'Esquire.
One year younger than God. He's been around here since there was a here. He says he knew the Knurr family.'
'You think he'll talk to me?' I asked.
'Why not?' she said. 'He's drinking beer.'
'Mr Jones?' I said, standing alongside his table with my drink in one hand, a stein of beer in the other.
He looked up at me slowly. Sal had been right: he had to be ninety, at least. A mummy without wrappings. Skin of wrinkled tar paper, rheumy eyes, hands that looked like something tossed up by the sea and dried on hot sands.
'Suh?' he said dimly.
'Mr Jones,' I said, 'my name is Joshua Bigg and I — '
'Joshua,' he said. 'Fit the battle of Jericho.'
'Yes, sir,' I said, 'and I would appreciate it if we could share a drink and I might speak to you for a few moments.'
I proffered the stein of beer.
'I take that kindly,' he said, reaching. 'Set. Sal says you asking about the Knurrs?'
'Yes, sir,' I said, sliding on to the banquette next to him.
The ancient sipped his beer. He told me a story about his old army sergeant. He cackled.
'What war was that, sir?' I asked.
' O h. . ' he said vaguely. 'This or that.'
'About the Knurrs?' I prompted him.
'It was about '58,' he said, not bothering to tell me which century. 'On Sherman Street that was. Am I right?
Sherman Street?'
'You're exactly right, sir,' I said. 'That's the address I have. One-thirteen Sherman Street.'
'If nominated, I will not run,' he recited. 'If elected, I will not serve.'
'That's wonderful,' I marvelled. 'That you remember.'
'I still got all my nuts,' he said, nodding with satisfaction. He suddenly grinned. No teeth. No dentures.
Just pink gums.
'This was in 1958?'
'Nineteen and fifty-eight,' he said. 'Maybe long before.
I tell you something funny about that family, suh. They was all G's. Everybody in that family had a name with a G.'
'Goldie Knurr,' I said. 'Godfrey Knurr.'
'Zactly,' he said. 'The father, George Knurr. The mother, Gertrude Knurr. Three other tads. Two sons: 372
Gaylord Knurr and Gordon Knurr. Another daughter: Grace Knurr.'
'You've got an incredible memory, sir.'
'I sure do,' he said. 'Ain't nothing wrong with my nuts.'
'What happened to them'?' I asked. ' T h e Knurr family?'
' O h. . ' he said, 'the old folks, George and Gertrude, they died, as might be expected. The kids, they all went away, also as might be expected. Goldie, I hear tell, is the only one around still.'
It was not good news. If this old man's memory was accurate, Goldie Knurr was indeed the sister of my target.
'Mr Jones,' I said, 'how is it you know so much about the Knurr family?'
'Oh,' he said slowly, 'I used to do this and that around their house. Little jobs, you know. And my third wife, Emily that was — no, Wanda; yes, the third was Wanda — she was like a mother to the kids.'
'You don't recall anything about Godfrey Knurr, do you, Mr Jones?' I asked. 'One of the sons?'
'Godfrey Knurr?' he repeated, his eyes clouding. 'That would be the middle boy. Became a preacher man, he did.
Left town. Can't blame him for that.'
'No indeed.' I said fervently, 'I really can't. You don't remember anything else about Godfrey? Anything special?'
'Smart young one,' he said. 'Big and strong. Liked the girls. Played football. Something…'
He stopped suddenly.
'Something?' I prompted.
'I don't rightly recall.'
'Something good or something bad?'
He stared at me with eyes suddenly clear and piercing and steady.
'I don't rightly recall,' he repeated.
6
I opened my eyes Friday morning, bewildered for an instant before I recalled where I was. I rose, did a few halfhearted stretching exercises. I looked in vain for soap, washcloth, towel. I made do by sponging myself with a handkerchief dipped in water from my corner sink. As promised, it was running water. Cold. But invigorating.
I then dressed. My suit, of course, was badly wrinkled, but that seemed a minor consideration.
The owner-clerk was still in his wire mesh cage, drinking coffee from a cardboard container and reading a copy of Architectural Digest.
'When is checkout time, please?' I asked.
'Every hour on the hour,' he said, 'Oh, it's you.
Checkout time for you will be around eight or nine tonight.'
I stepped outside to find the rain had ceased, but the sun was hidden behind an oysterish sky. It put a dull tarnish on the world. I walked a few blocks. It took all my optimism to keep my spirits from drooping: block after block of mean row houses, a few scrubby trees.