TWENTY-TWO
A few minutes later I’d been stuffed into the back seat of a green four-door sedan between the heavy with the ski-jacket and the one with the black cap. The driver was the acne-scarred figure who followed me to the hotel. There was no room in the back seat to manoeuvre. I thought that if I had to send my regrets to Bill Ward, the fastest way to leave the scene would be past the gorilla in the ski-jacket. I thought I might clear the path by stepping heavily on his recently cut foot.
Nobody spoke. The driver headed south, towards the green eye of the water tower, through the best of Mortgage Hill, along the country road that climbed the escarpment, skirted the university and continued to Mal-ham. Black cap produced a small, dark flask. He removed the top and took a long drink. The sign that followed told me it tickled all the way down. He wiped the rim of the flask and passed it to me. I shook my head, and got a jab in the ribs for my candour. I took a gulp. Rye whiskey. Straight. I wiped the rim and passed it along to the mug in the ski-jacket. He drank carelessly, letting some of the booze trickle down his chin. He too wiped the rim and passed it back to me. I tried to hand it back to the owner, but he nodded to me in a manner that strongly suggested that I’d better have another swig. I did so. Only then could I pass along the flask. Black cap had another, then it was my turn again. It didn’t seem to be in the cards that I should get to exchange seats with one of them. By the time I’d had five turns at the flask, black cap had had three and the ski-jacket only two. For an alcoholic I was in a wonderful spot. Unfortunately, I’m not.
By the time the flask was empty (I’d had seven to four and three respectively) I was ready to start singing “There’s a Long, Long Trail A-winding,” but my comparatively sober mentors simply exchanged a glance and I shut up. It was perfectly timed. The driver pulled off the main road into a long lane. I recognized the pillars on either side of the entrance. Funny. I hadn’t seen those pillars since they pulled down my old art teacher’s home to make way for the Physicians’ and Surgeons’ Building. I’d heard that they’d been taken out here, to mark the lane to the Otterpool Golf Club, because Sam Zimmerman, the junk dealer, had tried to get them to mark the entrance to his junk yard. In the 1940s it was junk. Somewhere in the 1950s it became steel. And the golf course was still a golf course.
There were a few lights on in the front of the club house, but I was taken in the back. The sulphur in the air was purer up here, and off in the distance I could hear the pounding of a drop-forge. I was half carried, half shoved, into a deserted snack-bar with a white linoleum floor. I took some courage from familiar things on the tables: ketchup bottles, salt and pepper shakers, napkin holders. I couldn’t come to a bad end among such ordinary surroundings. I was pushed into a red-bottomed chair with metal legs beside a dark window. I think I may have closed my eyes. I remember feeling wonderfully refreshed when I let my cheek lean against the cool win-dow-glass. After a few years sitting like this, I became aware that there was someone standing in my light. It was Bill Ward. I think I said, “Hi,” and went back to my serious work which was trying to catch the little motes that kept swimming up inside my eyelids. There were red ones and purple ones. Mostly they were magenta.
“Cooperman, you’re in a lot of trouble.” He sounded like a television quizmaster telling a guest he had only ten thousands points and was about to be taken out of the final round.
“I’ll shape up, you’ll see.”
“You’ve got to lay off, Cooperman. I told you once, and I’m telling you again. That’s more than fair.”
“No coaching from the studio audience. Do you know why Chester was killed?”
“Don’t start that again. Chester killed himself. He wanted to get clear of his worries, his depression. Look, I’ve told the police to go easy on you. Sergeant Harrow is all for demanding your licence after the funny games you’ve been playing. I tried to calm him down.
“Okay, okay. But give me a minute on Chester. If he was going to kill himself, would he have bought himself a ten-speed bike a couple of hours before shooting himself? You were his pal, you answer me. Is it likely?”
“That’s unsubstantiated idiocy. There are a dozen explanations, and each of them makes more sense than what you are saying.”
“Everybody says he was depressed. What was he depressed about?”
“Business pressure. He’d been expanding too quickly. Growth wasn’t keeping up. Money was getting scarce. He was two years ahead of the game, and he didn’t have the capital to wait two years.” It sounded fine, but I didn’t believe a word of it.
“Is this the first tight corner he’s been in?”
“Of course not. But this was different.”
“Tell me. Tell me when the game gets so tough that you put your brains on the rug.”
“It’s no use talking to you. I’ll speak to Harrow.”
“You do that. But since it’s settled, how about answering some of my questions?”
“I’m a reasonable man, Cooperman. I’ve never met anyone so persistent. What do you want to know? These groundless assertions of yours are a waste of valuable time.”
“I suppose you’ve never heard of Phoebe Campbell?”
“That’s right.”
“Would you be surprised to learn that she paid me two hundred dollars to plant a gun in your house on Bellevue Terrace?”
“Be serious, Cooperman.”
“I’m telling you. Phoebe Campbell paid me to enter your house on Bellevue Terrace. She gave me a package to leave in a dresser drawer. The package contained a.32 calibre hand gun. The police have it now. Maybe Sergeant Harrow forgot to mention that. Why would someone want to plant a gun at your house? Somebody doesn’t like you, Mr. Ward.”
“Let me get this straight. You actually went into that house? How did you know it was mine?”
“The police told me.”
“What do they know of this?”
“Only that there was an attempted break-in. Your office probably has a report about it.”
“What did she look like, this Phoebe Campbell.”
“Tall, good-looking, brunette, long legs, clear skin, well-spoken.”
“This is insane. I never met this woman. It’s a mistake.”
“If you didn’t tell Phoebe Campbell about this hideaway of yours, whom did you tell?”
“Nobody knew about that place. I picked it up when a business associate went under. It was business. I accepted the house and let certain charges and debts ride. I hardly ever went there. I meant to dispose of it before long.”
“Did Pauline know about it?”
“I don’t want to hear my wife’s name in your mouth, do I make myself clear? Of course, she knew nothing of it. She knows nothing of my business affairs.”
“What about your affair affairs?”
“What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re too modest, Mr. Ward. It is well known that you break a lot of hearts in a year.”
“Stand up! Stand up and repeat that!” He looked like he was going to pop his cork. I didn’t think these fellows socked people who weren’t wearing the old school tie, so I got up, and he glared at me. I hoped he wouldn’t hit me; I was still dizzy from the car ride. I remembered seeing a fight at a party over a girclass="underline" two men in their thirties exchanged glancing blows and then both got down on their hands and knees looking for dislodged partial dentures, glasses and a contact lens. Ward still looked angry when I got him into focus, but he didn’t look like he was going to knock me down any more.
“Mr. Ward, could I have a glass of ginger ale. I don’t feel so good.”
“What …?”
“I need something to clear my head. I don’t want to get sick.” He dropped his fighting stance, threw me a contemptuous look with nothing personal in it, and went to the bar. I drifted off, after finding my chair again, to where people drift off to. In far too short a time, I saw that the bubbles tickling my nose came from a tall glass under it. Ward sat down across the table from me.