Ice Blues

EIGHT

I was led to the last available table for four at Queequeg's, a restored artrdeco diner-all streamlined aluminum glitz on the outside, goldenly glowing carved wood paneling on the inside, as in a wagon-lit-that had been turned into a kebab, salad and beer joint for the youngish trendies who lived and worked around Albany Medical Center.

The food at Queequeg's was good and cheap, and the owners had managed to conjure up an illusion of authentic fast-lane city life by packing a large number of eaters and drinkers into an area of severely constricted square footage. The music-jazz, disco, fusion-was sufficiently loud, as were frequently the customers, so that, amidst the atmosphere of boozy congestion, it was possible to converse without being overheard, or even, if your diction was sloppy or you were a little bit shy, heard at all.

Sim Kempelman was the first to arrive at five till seven. I'd never met him, but I watched for a middle-aged lawyer in the throes of mild culture shock, and I spotted him right away and signaled for him to join me.

"Mr. Strachey?"

"Attorney Kempelman, I presume."

"That's me, kiddo. And how are you today? This establishment reminds me of my student days at the University of

Pittsburgh. There was a place just like this one just off Schenley, near Forbes Field, before it went the way of the rest of my youth. Do you know Pittsburgh?"

"I've only passed through. It's somewhere near St. Louis, isn't it?"

He navigated his physical amplitude onto one of the chrome steel chairs.

"It's not quite that far beyond the New Yorker's pale. I take it you're a Manhattanite, Mr. Strachey. You must find Albany to be somewhere near St.

Louis too."

"I'm from New Jersey, so I'm adaptable. It's not quite a real place to most people-like saying you grew up on an offshore barge. But it was real enough for me."

"And how are you enjoying Albany? Is it real enough for you?"

"More than enough."

He had a big amiably droll face whose weight seemed to pull his head forward, and the brownest eyes I had ever seen. "I'm an attorney,"

Kempelman said, bending toward me, "but sometimes I think I would appreciate this city better if I were an anthropologist. In many ways Albany is like a museum display of American urban political folkways during the first half of this century. It's the powerful few snuffling at the public trough with the not-so-powerful many picking up the tab when it comes due each year. It's an outmoded system-like Havana before Castro, or Prague after Dubcek. You don't find patronage-and-payoff politics in the more prosperous, future-oriented cities-Atlanta, San Diego, Denver. It's outmoded, it's unfair, it's too expensive, and it doesn't work."

"How long is it going to take you to change it?"

"Another twenty-five years at the rate we're moving. Two years if my organization can find a way to tap the support we know is out there. Are you familiar with Democrats for Better Government in Albany? Or maybe you're even a dues-paying member, could that be so?"

"I'm not a member, no. But I've read about your group."

"But you are politically progressive, I take it. I received the distinct impression from a number of colleagues that you might be."

I said, "I'm an old-fashioned liberal, Mr. Kempelman. I'd be a socialist if I thought governments could be counted on always to do the right thing. But they can't, so I'm not. I am sort of fond of the social democracies. I like to think of Denmark with all those cheese fields waving in the northern sunlight. Of course, I've never been there, so that makes it easier. In this country I work for the Democrats in national elections, and in Albany I vote Republican, which makes me an anarchist. I'm gay, too, so around here that makes me pretty much of an outlaw if I do much more than leave the house, which I often do. I suppose my brazen behavior in that respect automatically confers on me 'progressive' credentials. But I don't know, you're the president of the club."

He had listened carefully to this, and now he gave me a little half-smile. He said, "You know why I wanted to speak with you, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Jack Lenihan told me that if anything happened to him, I should contact you."

"I guessed that."

"You didn't know?"

"No, but you are merely one of the legions Jack seems to have mentioned my name to."

He frowned. "I think poor Jack died horribly on account of some money he had-a great deal of money. That's my opinion."

"Jack Lenihan was murdered. Have you gone to the police with your opinion?"

"Yes. This afternoon, after much soul-searching, I spoke with Detective Lieutenant Bowman. I had no choice but to report my knowledge to him.

You understand that, don't you?"

"I do. Did my name come up?"

"It had to, naturally. I believe Officer Bowman would like to speak with you, in fact. He is searching for you at this very moment."

"I'll give him a call when I get a chance. I already saw him once today, which was plenty. What did you tell him?"

"That Jack Lenihan had offered my organization two and a half million dollars to finance a campaign to elect a progressive mayor of Albany."

"Oh."

"And that you were involved in his plans in a manner which Jack did not spell out to me."

"You told Bowman all that?"

"I had to."

"Crap."

"You said the word, Mr. Strachey, Jack Lenihan was murdered. Under the circumstances, there is no way I could have withheld information that is clearly relevant to the police investigation. My duty as an officer of the court is both legally and morally clear."

I said, "But you hesitated, didn't you?" I watched him squirm. "You waited half a day before you went to Bowman trying to figure out a way to get hold of Lenihan's cash before you did your moral duty."

"Yes, I did take time out to mull over the ramifications of any action I might take."

"Good for you, Kempelman. I think I'll join your club." He chuckled mildly.

"But first I have to tell you that Jack Lenihan used my name without permission. Before he died, I knew nothing of his money or his plans for it.

That sounds like a line for the cops, and you can take it or leave it, but it's true." He shrugged. I said, "When did Jack first approach you?"

"January third."

"Was he making an offer, or was he just feeling you out?"

"It was a feeler. Jack made it plain that other political organizations might possibly become the recipients of his public-spirited largesse. He said he would be in touch but that he was having unspecified problems with some people whose identities he did not reveal, and if anything happened to him I should get in touch with you."

"Jack Lenihan was a waiter on Lark Street who was not independently wealthy. Where did he say he got the money?"

Kempelman smiled and shook his head. "From his godfather. He inherited two and a half million dollars from his godfather in Los Angeles."

"No."

"That's what he said. He showed me documents-Jack was prepared for a certain skepticism on my part, you see- and he sat in my office and dumped a pile of documents on my desk. A probated will, tax-payment receipts, the whole lot of it, and all entirely on the up and up. I photocopied the papers, made some calls to attorneys of my acquaintance in Los Angeles after Jack left, and was convinced in my mind and heart that the whole business was legit."

"What was the godfather's name?"

"Albert Piatek."

"May I have copies of the documents?"

"Of course. I have already provided Lieutenant Bowman with copies, and there is no reason I shouldn't do the same favor for you. Now I have a question for you, Mr. Strachey." He looked me carefully in the eye and said,

"Where's the money?"

"Good question."

"Jack left the impression that the money would be in your possesssion. For safekeeping, he seemed to be saying. Did you kill him for the money?"

"No."

"I didn't think so. I've asked around about you-discreetly, mind you-and your reputation is that of a pain in the ass but not a murderer."

"Thank you."

"Lieutenant Bowman-a man in love with the obvious if I ever met one Officer Bowman may have other ideas about you. He is not fond of you and this interferes with his objectivity, I think."

"Oh, hell."

"So, where's the money?"

A waitress charged up to our table and rapidly recited the menu, which consisted of four items. Kempelman picked the chicken teriyaki and I ordered the beef teriyaki rare. I asked him if he'd like to split a pitcher of beer, but he said a glass of white wine would suit him better. I went ahead and ordered the pitcher.

When the waitress left, Kempelman said it again. "Where's the money?"

"It's safe," I said. "But I have no instructions as yet concerning its disposal."

"Did Jack leave a will?"

"I don't know. I thought you'd know. You're the lawyer."

"No will has been filed in Albany County. Or Los Angeles County. I've looked into that."

"Did you tell Bowman you were meeting me here tonight?"

"No, I am giving you that much. I think it's what Jack Lenihan would have wanted. So, where's the money?"

"As I said, it's safe."

"What will become of it?"

"I don't know. That's kind of a confused area."

I had been looking over Kempelman's shoulder at a man elbowing his way through the bar crowd, and when I signaled to him, Kempelman turned around. His two bushy eyebrows shot up.

Kempelman said, "Him too?"

"I'm afraid so. He's Creighton Prell, right?"

"That's Creighton, sure enough."

The Republican county chairman was a tall dewlapped man in an alpaca coat with puffy hazel eyes and a wind-burned patrician nose. I guessed he was the man with the fifty-dollar haircut who'd been looking for Jack Lenihan at Annie's Quiche Quorner on Friday. When Prell saw Kempelman with me, he winced, hesitated, then moved toward us with a look of despair.

"Mr. Strachey?"

"I am he."

"And Sim-Sim, what a delightful surprise."

"You look more surprised than delighted, Creighton."

Prell eased himself onto his little seat. "I had no idea you were involved in this business, Sim. Or are you?"

"Involved in what business, Creighton?"

"May I speak frankly?" The question was for me.

I said, "I'm all for it."

Instead of speaking frankly, Prell went gray as his eye caught the eye of another man making his way into the dining area.

I said, "That must be Larry Dooley. Hey, over here, Lar!"

Dooley, a low heavily ballasted primate in a shiny blue suit and wet cigar in his paw, pummeled his way toward us and scowled down. "What is this crap? You Strachey?"

"Yeah, I Strachey. This Creighton, this Sim."

"I know these two buggers. What are they doing here?"

"Sit down, Larry," Kempelman said. "Come on, kid, take a load off your feet."

"You might as well join us," Prell said. "May I inquire, Mr. Strachey, if you have invited still other guests to this little fete? It's already awfully crowded in here, if I may offer an opinion."

I said, "This is it, gents. Otherwise I would have hired the Hilton ballroom."

Dooley banged the remaining chair around, then sat on it. I looked around the table and said, "Which one of you killed Jack Lenihan for the money?"

Dooley and Prell went ashen, but Kempelman just shook his head sadly.

"Not funny, Mr. Strachey. Under the circumstances, I will not permit myself to laugh."

"It was no joke, Sim. I figure Lenihan approached all three of you to find out which of you would provide a mayoral candidate who, if elected, would run Albany in a manner closest to Jack's liking. One of you picked up the impression you were about to lose out to another group, and you killed Jack so that you could grab the money or, failing that, at least keep it out of the other organizations' hands. Ned Bowman is not so dumb that this scenario won't occur to him, so you should all consider yourself police suspects in Jack's murder. Or is it possible that two of you haven't yet been in to see Ned and own up, voluntarily or involuntarily?"

Prell went neon-red. He said, "Lieutenant Bowman came to visit me, in point of fact. My name and telephone number were found by the police in Jack Lenihan's wallet."

"Mine too," Kempelman said placidly, and glanced at me. "But I didn't wait for Mr. Bowman to call on me. I went to him."

Dooley, who had sat stewing through all of this, aimed his cigar at me and said, "Bowman is after your ass, fella, you know that?"

"Did you tell him you were meeting me here tonight?"

He said, "Nah."

"You want the money. You think I have it."

Two plates of teriyaki were deftly slung in front of Kempelman and me.

"Would you gentlemen like to order now?"

"Scotch and soda," Prell said.

Dooley waved the waitress away. He then leaned up to my face and snarled, "Now you see here, Strachey. I thought I was dealing with a man of integrity in a confidential tone of voice and now I come down here and I find this fucking fireman's ball going on with half the politicians in the county waiting around for some broad to jump out of a birthday cake or some goddamn thing. Now you tell me, what is this, wise guy? Ya know, this is Albany, New York, not San Fran-pansy-town, USA, so you talk to me and you talk plain. I know all about you, Strachey, and you better not fuck with me or I'll make plenty of trouble for you and I can do it. Now, what is this shit?"

I leaned close to him and said very quietly, "Of all the foul turds floating in the cesspool of Albany political life, you, Larry, are by far the most repulsive I have met so far."

"Why, you-!"

"If you want a chance at the money, Larry, then shut your fat mouth."

He shut up and sat back big-eyed. This was fun. I was buying an Albany pol, my second-or first if I didn't count the dime I'd slipped Bowman that afternoon. Kempelman and Prell looked docile enough too.

I said, "Now here is what took place over the past two weeks. Please correct me, any of you, if I veer off the track at any point. Jack Lenihan felt each of you out on how you would spend the two and a half million he was dangling. He wanted to know what he would get in return, a time-honored tradition in Albany, though with a switch this time. It wasn't city contracts Lenihan wanted, or insurance deals, or the toilet-paper concession for city hall. He was not interested in court-clerk positions, or commissionerships, or a contract for police uniforms. Uh-uh. That wasn't Jack. He didn't go for all that business as usual. In fact, he loathed it-for his own very personal reasons. That's what this whole deal was about."

They watched me, not moving, their pulses visible at a variety of pressure points.

"Jack's plan was he wanted the opposite of business as usual. Let me guess-open bidding on all city contracts? Professionals instead of party hacks running the departments? Property tax rate equalization? More blacks on the city payroll? A police civilian review board? Maybe even a gay rights ordinance. Hey, I'll bet that's it. That's where you began to hem and haw, Larry, am I right? Jack naively wanted all this in writing, and his agenda was a bit on the socially enlightened side for your tastes. So you hesitated over gay rights, and Mr. Prell, you couldn't stomach the police civilian review board or any sort of quotas on minority hiring, and it was very likely the forward-looking Mr. Kempelman here who just about had it sewed up in the end.

"Except none of you knew where you stood. Each of you knew that Jack was bargaining with other factions, and one of you suddenly felt panicky, and you killed him to keep him from financing one of the other groups, and with the hope that you could then snatch the big money or pry it out of me.

The one of you who did it then arranged for me to be threatened into turning over the money to some thugs you hired, a matter that I am giving serious consideration to, on account of my wanting to keep my skull intact.

On the other hand, I might not. I'm thinking it over."

Kempelman had sat sighing and shaking his head through all this. Prell's alpaca was molting, his haircut down to $7.50. Dooley had barely contained his fury, and now he let loose. "Listen, you faggoty-maggoty sack of shit, I don't have to put up with this type of insulting treatment! In fact, I've had about as much of your lip as I'm going to take! Screw the money, and I'm not through with you either!"

I said, "Larry, your demeanor here tonight represents a breach of protocol that is beyond my capacity to endure. Some of your dandruff dropped into my beer just now, and therefore there is no chance that you will ever receive the money."

Dooley's eyes went wild. He stood up and made for the exit, flinging voters aside hither and thither as he went. I called after him, "Have a nice evening, Councilman Dooley!"

"That man is a disgrace," Prell muttered. "How he continues to be reelected is beyond my comprehension."

Kempelman waved a forkful of chicken and green pepper. "Oh, come on, kid. You know exactly how he does it, and so do I. They got the dough, they got the jobs, they got the contracts. Larry's on the outs with the machine boys this month, but after the primary he'll be back in, for the simple reason that for a man like Larry there is no place else to go. It's all he knows and all he wants to know. It was foolish of Jack Lenihan to approach Dooley, who is as much of a reform politician as I am a rock and roll singer."

"Yes, Sim, you're such an expert on firmly gripping the reins of government in Albany," Prell said. "Is it true you're planning on running a Unitarian minister for mayor this year on a nuclear-freeze platform?"

"That issue will come up," Kempelman said mildly, mouthing a chunk of chicken. "What issue could possibly be more important than the survival of the human species?"

I listened for several minutes while they went at each other in their cordially disrespectful way, each of them a martyr keeping his martyrdom beautiful through distance from the other martyrs. Then I nailed them down on precisely when and where each had last spoken with Jack Lenihan, and exactly what was said by whom. I asked Kempelman when I could pick up the documents showing the legality of Lenihan's "inheritance," and he pulled a thick envelope out of his breast pocket.

"Use them in good health."

Prell produced an identical set and handed it over. "Are you, by chance, the executor of Lenihan's will?" he asked.

"No will has turned up yet. Informally, though, it looks as if I'm it."

Prell's Scotch arrived and he went at it with a shaky hand. He said, "Mr.

Strachey, you don't really believe that Sim, Larry, or I killed Jack Lenihan, do you? That's a horrible thing to suggest, you know."

"Horrible questions often suggest horrible answers. Don't be offended, Mr.

Prell. It looks as if I'm in this even deeper than you are."

"Don't forget to give Officer Bowman a call," Kempelman said, wiping his mouth. "I promised him that if I ran into you I'd put you two sleuths in touch with each other."

"Sure."

"And don't lose track of that two and a half million, will you? Is it in a good safe place, I hope?"

"None safer," I said, and figured it was time to drop by the Hilton and find out how reliable the bellhops were.