Control, Page 23

  “Why?”

  “Why do you question everything?”

  Eric got up silently, went to the kitchen, took out a Doppelbock, opened it, swigged most of it down. He was about to ask the Captain what he wanted when he decided there was no law that made him be polite to bigots or fools, so he finished the beer, reached inside again blindly, grabbed a Guinness, opened it, returned to the living room.

  Haig was staring out the window again. “Because you push yourself too hard,” he said. “That’s one reason. And because you’ve been through a dreadful accident, that’s another. But most of all, you’re on vacation because I say you’re on vacation and when the day comes I have to explain my orders I turn in my badge.”

  Eric could feel a tension beginning in his stomach now.

  Haig turned. “Clear?”

  The tension was building. “That’s the second time you’ve used the word ‘accident’ You mean ‘incident.’”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Frank was thrown down an elevator shaft. That’s not an accident, that’s murder one.”

  Haig came back to his seat, got comfortable. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a cigar is why I ask.”

  “Smoke for Chrissakes!”

  Haig got out a long cigar, pierced the butt end with his teeth, lit it with a gold lighter. Finally he said, “Did you see?”

  “See what?”

  “You said Frank was thrown down an elevator shaft. I merely ask if you saw the incident?”

  “Of course I didn’t—I was two floors away—”

  “—then it’s all circumstantial, isn’t it—?”

  “—what the fuck are you talking about—?”

  “—you watch your mouth, Mister—”

  “—there’s something I don’t know about—what is it—?”

  “—was Haggerty drinking?’-”

  “—are you serious?—we had beer with dinner and that was earlier—”

  “—he did drink—”

  “—of course he drank, he was Irish, it’s what they do best, but I never saw him drunk and neither did you—”

  “—still…”

  Eric’s stomach was knotted now. He stood and shouted across the room at Haig. “There’s something I don’t know about. Now tell me what it is.”

  “There’ll be no funeral,” Captain Haig said then.

  Eric just gaped.

  “No official funeral I should say. No police participation. His two children have been notified. They’re coming in for it But it will be private. Just family. Their wishes.”

  “I don’t fucking believe it-—” Eric began walking mindlessly around—”You can’t stop policemen from coming—a brother was murdered—murdered in the line of duty—there’ll be thousands there—from up and down the Eastern Seaboard—”

  “Wrong. Everyone’s been notified.”

  Eric stopped dead. “You aren’t that powerful, Haig—where’s it coming from?”

  “I’m not here to answer questions.

  “Who’s ordering this?”

  “Do you always lose control this quickly?”

  “It’s not gonna work—you’ll see—they’re gonna come—I’m telling you—”

  “Highly,” Captain Haig said, standing up, “unlikely.”

  “You never liked Frank, did you?”

  Captain Haig considered that. Then he said: “Nothing to like one way or the other. He was probably an adequate cop when he was younger.” Now he turned on Eric. “And since you asked, I don’t think being with you did him a hell of a lot of good.”

  Eric tried to put the beer bottle down without trembling, but he couldn’t quite. “Captain Haig, please believe me when I tell you this: I’m very strong. And I’m very upset right now. You don’t call a great man ‘adequate’ and then try to fuck up his funeral without my getting upset and so please leave now, please leave very quickly, because if you don’t I will break your body into pieces.”

  Captain Haig left immediately.

  “Fucking thousands will be there!” Eric shouted after…

  It began terribly.

  Eric alone on one side of the grave. Elaine and Frank Jr., whom he did not know, close together, standing across. The coffin began to be lowered.

  There was a bitter wind, the sun had lost its battle for the day. And now, in the distance, February thunder.

  Eric closed his eyes …

  Someone was tapping him on the shoulder. He turned, to be confronted by a wonderful-looking gray-haired man in the blue uniform. “You’re Eric?” the man said, whispered.

  Eric indicated that he was.

  The gray-haired man gestured for them to step a few feet away. Eric followed him. “Fm Tim Donovan,” he whispered then. “It’s a disaster. Our buses got lost, the train was late from Philly.”

  “… Philly… ?”

  “Could they hold up the ceremony till we assemble?” Donovan wanted to know.

  “You were Frank’s cousin, weren’t you?”

  Donovan indicated that he was. “We just need some little time to organize. I hate to interrupt Frank Jr. and Elaine, but we’ve come a long way and it truly wasn’t our fault.”

  “… a long way…” Eric said. Then he said, “Do you want me to ask them, I don’t think they’d mind waiting.”

  “I thought more would come from Newark, Fm sorry about that. But we’ll have to do with what we can.” He glanced up at the sky. “If we wait just a bit, I think we’ve got a good chance for some sun.”

  “That thunder sounded bad, Tim.”

  Donovan smiled. “My old bones are good for one thing, Eric —I can tell the weather. Trust me.” He indicated the Haggerty children. “Ask them, would you mind?”

  Cautiously Eric made his way to the brother and sister. Frank Jr. had turned into a fine-looking man, powerful like his father had been. And Elaine seemed a charmer. “Some people have come to pay respects,” he began. “But they had all kinds of hell getting here. Could we hold off the casket lowering for a while.”

  Frank Jr. looked at the sky. “It could get bad soon.”

  “The weatherman says the sun’s going to break through,” Eric answered.

  “Oh I’d love some sun,” Elaine said. “Let’s wait by all means.”

  “Thank you,” Eric said. “I know it was your wish that it just be family, but since they made the trip—”

  “—where did you get that idea, ‘just the family’?” Elaine asked.

  “It’s what I was told.” He looked back to Donovan, excused himself, hurried to the old cop. “No problem,” Eric said; 4they were a little worried about getting caught in a storm but I assured them about the sunshine.’’

  “My bones never lie,” Donovan nodded. “They ache a good deal, but they’re honest to the core.” He left Eric then, hurried up the small cemetery hill, was gone. The gravesite was surrounded by hills. There was the open space with the coffin resting above it and Helen’s stone beside that. Eric went back to Frank’s children.

  He was about to say something when Elaine beat him to it: “I know this isn’t the proper time, but who told you ‘just the family’? Please tell me. It’s important that I know.”

  “Captain Haig.”

  Frank Jr. said, “He told us father was drinking and it was best to play down the whole thing. So no one would be embarrassed.”

  “I’ll find out,” Eric promised. “When this is done, I swear to you I’ll find out what’s going on. Something is, and when I know, I’ll—”

  He stopped dead then.

  In the distance came a sound:

  …may…

  …uh…

  …may…

  …ah…

  …maze…

  …ah…

  “Are those bagpipes tuning up?” Elaine said, and Eric thought, Omigod, they came, they did come, the Pipers, the Boston Pipers are here.

  And now, over the crest of a near hill, they came, resple
ndent, the sound rising high in the brightening day:

  Amazing Grace

  How sweet is the sound

  That saves the wretched like me.

  I once was lost

  But now I’ve been found,

  I was blind

  But now I see.

  And from another hill adjacent Eric saw Donovan, Donovan and God only knew how many others, all dressed in their blues, all marching in unison, moving straight and solemn down toward the gravesite.

  And then over another hill came another blue phalanx; who, Eric wondered, then decided they must be the men from Philadelphia. But it didn’t matter where they were from—and it didn’t matter where the next group that appeared over another hill came from—Washington, Newark, Baltimore, New York City—what mattered was that they came, they were here, all of them, all of them.

  The Pipers massed by the gravesite and for a moment they were silent. The sun was out now—Donovan’s bones score again—and a gentle wind was blowing. And Eric wondered how many were bunched around Frank Haggerty’s grave. More than he’d hoped. Many, many more. And then the Pipers began again, it was their signature song, and as he listened Eric felt sure they might have once or twice played it as well, but never, not ever better.

  The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone

  In the ranks of death you will find him.

  His father’s sword he has girded on

  And his wild harp slung behind him.

  “Land of song” said the warrior lad,

  “Tho all the world betrays thee

  One sword at hast thy rights shall guard,

  One faithful harp shall praise thee.”

  The Minstrel fell…

  Eric forgot about the words now, just let the music take him where it wanted, and he floated for a while, floated in the sun-splashed day, the music, the sun, the gentle winds, all of them perfect—

  —then something made it more perfect. Alone on a far hill now, a single figure appeared, a police officer standing, scowling, a look of total frustration on his face. It was Haig. Captain Haig, staring beaten down at his failure.

  Eric could not stop smiling.

  “Mr. Lorber?—Mr. Lorber?—”

  It ended worse than terribly. Eric alone on the one side of the grave, the two children together on the other; the body lowered all the way now, the movement done, Frank Haggerty in the ground. “Mr. Lorber?” Frank Jr. said again.

  Eric opened his eyes, blinked, looked across at the son. The February thunder was above them now. Sleet was starting. “Yes?” Eric said.

  Frank Jr. went on talking. “We’d like to be with father for a moment please.”

  Eric was about to say, “Of course, go right ahead,” when he realized that Frank Jr. had left out a word but it was strongly implied, “alone”—”we’d like to be alone with father for a moment please.”

  The sleet was growing harder.

  “I’m sorry,” Eric managed before spinning away, embarrassed that his presence should cause them embarrassment. He walked quickly up the nearest hill. At the very top he turned back briefly, surveyed the miserable scene. Then he said it out loud: “I’ll get the fucker, Frank.” Then he ran.

  When he got back to his apartment he was soaked so he changed into dry clothes, pulled out a New Zealand Leopard, had the bottle almost to his lips before he realized not only did he not want a beer, he didn’t want to be in his apartment, so he grabbed his wet raincoat and elevatored down, then outside where the sleet was really slicing. Once he got to the sidewalk he turned around like a clown, not knowing which way to head, except that Winslow liked the Bloomingdale’s area and this was a good mugging time what with the streets empty, those out not looking where they were going or what might be coming up to blindside them; Eric spotted a cab with an off-duty sign on which he always figured was how cab drivers got back at all the grief they took from their passengers—when the weather really got shitty they all drove around with their off-duty signs on. Eric stepped in front of the cab, worked his way around to the driver’s side and when the driver pointed to the sign Eric simply flashed his detective’s badge and got in—that was one of the privileges of the law—you could beat the cabbies at their own game, and he settled back after giving Bloomingdale’s as his destination, listening to the driver mutter dark oaths, and after a couple of blocks he realized he was a fool on a fool’s errand, because Winslow was long gone now, a killer in a limousine, so Eric told the driver to pull over, got out, walked back where he came from and sat alone in the Lincoln Center plaza, sat on the fountain and stared at the Chagalls until the chill in his bones made him realize that enough was enough so he stood, walked home through the gathering storm.

  When he was back inside and again dry he wondered if he wouldn’t have been better off by the fountain, risking pneumonia, because the phone began attacking him. First it was a woman wondering did he want The New York Times delivered on Sunday and he said no, he got it already, and hung up. The next call was a woman wondering did he want The New York Times delivered on Sunday and he said, you just called and asked me that and she said that that wasn’t possible, and rather than pursue the argument Eric hung up on her. He hung up on the next caller too, a man who was “genuinely proud” to be representing the “X-L” come-to-your-home rug cleaning service, and as Eric stood drained by the receiver he realized that his punishment was not to be later but rather here on earth because it was clear that the phone company had put his name on some crazy list of theirs, some insane private list reserved for sinners, and he tripped off for a moment, thinking of the charities that would besiege him, the real estate companies asking did he want to get rid of his apartment, the breathers that would wake him in the night, the—

  —it rang again. Eric lifted the receiver, heard the words “Duh —duh—Doctor Einbecker spuh—spuh—speaking,” before hanging up again.

  A stuttering doctor. There was no limit to their cruelty at the phone company. What could a stuttering doctor be selling over the phone except insanity?

  Another ring.

  This time the doctor explained that he was calling on behalf of Miss Wanamaker and—

  “—I don’t know any Miss Wanamaker, you’ve got the wrong number, please get it straight.” Eric hung up, but even as he did, he knew his torment was going to continue.

  Ring. Ring.

  I’ll outlast him, Eric decided.

  Ring. Ring.

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  Ring.

  “Thuh—this is Duh—Doctor Einbuh—Einbecker speaking again.”

  “I thought so.”

  “And I have the right number, this is Duh-Detective Lorber.”

  “Yes, but I don’t know any Wanamakers—”

  “—not a Tillie Wanamaker?”

  “No, I’m sorry but I—” Eric said. And then he said, “Does she live in Port Authority?” and when the stammered “yes” came Eric explained that he had known her for many years, known many things about her, but never her last name, no one knew that

  “Miss Wuh-Wanamaker had a struh-struh-stroke and has hub-been critical for days. Then today she impuh-improved enough to tuh—tuh—tell me what I’m calling about.”

  Eric held the phone very tight.

  The message made little sense to the doctor, he said. But as clear as he could make out, Miss Wanamaker had seen the face of a giant, had seen this face going in and coming out of a fortune-telling establishment located behind Port Authority, that this establishment was run by a duchess, a blind duchess who had a dog that could kill.

  It took a long long time for the stuttering medic to get all that out, but Eric didn’t mind the wait at all…

  3

  The Treasure

  Kilgore was perplexed.

  He reached his Georgetown home a little after seven—another brutal day, no good news except for Trude, from anywhere, experiments blowing all across the land—to be told by his nine-year-old that Beulah called.

  But Kilgore knew
no Beulah. He walked inside and headed for the bar, going through the names of all the maids he and his wife had had over the years, all the live-ins, the cleaners, the sitters, the laundresses—but he could remember no black lady named Beulah.

  He made himself a not remotely dry martini—half and half, the way God intended-—and carried it out to the glassed-in porch and sat down. It was pure masochism that made him select that spot, since his wife had been after him for years to buy the lot just behind theirs before someone else did. He assured her the plot was too small and not to worry. The people who bought it did not find it small in any way, and they were building a garish modern monster that destroyed any privacy Kilgore had once enjoyed. Not only were these savages putting up a turd of a place, they were doing it slowly. The noise of construction reduced his wife to tears quite easily now, but in truth, Kilgore had been doing that to her himself quite easily also, so he couldn’t blame it all on the construction.

  He was physically a small man, Brian Kilgore, but in perfect trim. Handsome, if you thought Thomas Dewey was handsome, quick and precise of speech. He was not scientifically brilliant, but he was sound enough to deal with scientists who were, and he was organized enough to run New Projects remarkably smoothly; he had the gift of seeming interested only in you when you were telling him your troubles’ something research scientists excelled at. None of his prima donnas were jealous of any of the others, and if you had asked Kilgore his greatest achievement he would have said that.

  He was on toward finishing his first martini when he realized that Beulah was not a name at all, but a code word. He closed his eyes now. Which of the goddam projects was called “BEULAH”? Kilgore hated the weirdo acronyms, and the “operation this’s” the military was always coming up with. But BEULAH?

  Didn’t ring a bell.

  He got up, walked through the house to where the twelve-year-old was beating the nine-year-old at Space Invaders. “Mom’s at A. A.,” the twelve-year-old said as Kilgore entered. “She said just stick in the casserole for twenty minutes if you get hungry.”