A Long Line of Dead Men

27

"Jim," I said. "I'm glad you called. I was hoping I'd hear from you."

"Well, I've been busy, Matt."

"Hey, I know what it's like," I said. "I've been running around a lot myself. I tried to reach you a couple of times but I guess you were out."

"I guess I was."

"I thought I might run into you at a meeting, but I'm on the other side of town."

"Whole different world."

"That's right. How's it going?"

There was a pause. Then he said, "I know you know, Matt."

"Oh?"

"Funny thing is I thought you knew from the jump. I thought, shit, they finally figured out what's going on and hired themselves a detective. But you didn't know a thing, did you?"

"No."

"Getting me to come to an AA meeting. I thought it was a ruse at first. Get me off my guard, take me by surprise. But you weren't suspicious at all, were you? You figured I needed help and you wanted to help me."

"Something like that."

"You know," he said, "that was very decent of you, Matt. Seriously."

"If you say so."

"And the meetings were interesting. I can see how a person with a drinking problem would find a whole new life in the rooms. And I get the feeling some people who aren't alcoholics go for the companionship and the sense that they're getting their lives in order."

"I don't think you'll find many like that," I said.

"No? Well, you'd be a better judge of that than I am, Matt. See, I, uh, gave you a false impression. I'm not an alcoholic."

"Whatever you say."

He laughed. "Denial, right? I bet you get to hear it all the time. No, see, I just wanted a neat exit from Queensboro-Corona, and Marty Banszak's a bear when it comes to booze. Son of a bitch eats Valium all day long, he's tranked out like the night of the living dead, but if he smells alcohol on your breath you're history."

"But he gave you a second chance."

"Yeah, isn't that a gas? Second time around I figured let's leave nothing to chance."

"What did you do, call in the complaint yourself?"

"How'd you know? Hey, you're a detective, right? It's your job to figure things out."

"It is," I said, "and I don't seem to be doing too well at it."

"Hey, I think you're doing fine, Matt."

"There are things I can't figure, Jim."

"Like what?"

"Like why you're doing it."

"Ha. Can't work that out, can you?"

"I thought maybe you'd help me."

"You mean like give you a hint?"

"Something like that."

"Nah, I can't do that. Hey, I'll tell you, it hardly matters how I got started on this project. Man starts collecting stamps, pasting 'em in a book, lives in an attic on peanut-butter sandwiches, puts every dime he can into his stamp collection, are you gonna ask him what got him started collecting in the first place? He's a stamp collector. It's what he does."

"Are you a collector, Jim?"

"Am I collecting the members, is that what you mean? Scooping 'em up in a butterfly net? Can't let up for a minute until the set's complete?" He laughed. "It's a nice idea, but no, that's not it. Here, I'll tell you this much. I got my reasons."

"But you won't say what they are."

"Nope."

"So I guess they're not rational," I said. "Otherwise you wouldn't have a problem putting them on the table."

"Hey, that's a nice one," he said appreciatively. "Make the man prove he's sane. Trouble is, I'd have to be crazy to fall for it."

"Well, that's one of the things I'm a little worried about, Jim."

"That I'm crazy?"

"That you're losing control."

"How do you figure that?"

"The cabdriver."

"The cabdriver? Oh, the Arab."

"Bengali, wasn't he?"

"Who gives a fuck? Ali something or other. What about him?"

"Why kill him? He wasn't in the club."

"He got in the way."

"You rammed his cab."

"So? They lie their way through Customs at JFK and ten minutes later they're on the street with a temporary hack license. Can't find Penn Station but they're out there taking a job away from a real American."

"And that made you angry?"

"Are you kidding? What do I give a fuck? Ali's number was up and he was in the way. Sayonara, baby. All she wrote."

"See, that's my point. You sound out of control."

"You're completely wrong about that," he said. "I'm a hundred percent in control."

"You used to limit yourself to members of the club."

"What about Diana Shipton? She wasn't in the club. I had plenty of chances to take Boyd out when he was alone."

"Why didn't you?"

"Sometimes you want to make a splash. And that wasn't the only time. What about- no, forget it."

"What?"

"Never mind. I'm telling you too much."

"Why'd you go after Helen Watson?"

"Oh, you know about that, huh?"

"Why?"

"You were going to get in touch with her. She might have remembered."

"What could she remember?"

"Christ, I was fucking her, wasn't I? Think she might remember that?"

"I guess she would."

"You didn't know about that, did you?"

"No."

"And now you don't know if you should believe me."

"I don't even know if you killed her," I said. "Maybe she drank too much and drowned."

"The scotch in the bathroom. I thought you'd like that touch. That was me tipping you a wink, Matt. Saying hello."

"Like the meeting book under the pillow."

"Something like that. I appreciated the meeting book, you know. I appreciated your kindness. I'm not used to people going out of their way to do me a good turn."

"Have people been hard on you, Jim?"

"What's this, Psych 101? 'Oh, yes, nurse, people have been hardhearted and cruel.' "

"Just trying to understand, that's all."

"Trying to crack the code."

"I suppose so."

"What's the point? Your buddies can kick back and relax. I'm going into voluntary retirement."

"Oh?"

"Tell you the truth, I was getting a little tired of Jim Shorter. Tired of that little room on Ninety-fourth Street. You know what I might do? I might leave town."

"Where would you go?"

"Hey, it's a big world out there. If I'm ever gonna see some of it, I better get my ass in gear. You know how old I am?"

"Forty-eight."

A pause. "Yeah, right. Well, I'm not getting any younger."

"Not too many people are."

"And some of 'em ain't getting any older, either." His laughter was harsh, nasty, and it broke off abruptly, as if he'd realized how it must sound. "Point is," he said, "there won't be any more deaths for a while."

"How long is a while?"

"Why do you want to pin a guy down all the time? No more deaths until the next dinner."

"And when would that be?"

"What are you, checking me out? First Thursday in May, remember? Until then I'm on the shelf."

"And I've got your word on that?"

"Absolutely," he said. "My word as a gentleman. What do you figure it's worth?"

"I don't know. How did you even learn about the club, Jim?"

"Good question."

"Why do you hate the members?"

"Who says I hate 'em?"

"I wish you'd explain it so I can understand."

"I wish you'd quit trying."

"No you don't."

"I don't?"

"No, or you wouldn't have called."

"I called because you were nice to me. I want to be nice back."

"You called because you want to keep the game going."

"You think it's a game?"

"You think it's a game."

"Ha! I should hang up right now."

"Unless you're enjoying this."

"I am, but why stay too long at the fair? Enough's enough. But you want a hint, don't you?"

"Sure."

"No, not a hint. You're a detective. What you want is a clue, right?"

"I don't know. I'm not too good at working with clues."

"Oh, sure you are. Sherlock Holmes."

"Is that the clue?"

"No, that's what you are. Sherlock fucking Holmes. Rumpelstiltskin. That's the clue."

"Rumpelstiltskin?"

"There's hope for you yet," he said. "Bye."