Like Love

8

Tommy Barlow had been a strapping, well-muscled fellow, six feet and one inch tall, weighing a hundred and seventy-five pounds, with a high forehead and a square jaw and an over-all look of understated power. The understated power had been completely muted by death-there is nothing so powerless as a corpse-but even in death, Tommy Barlow bore very little resemblance to his younger brother.

The brother opened the door for Carella and Meyer four days after the burial of Barlow. Both men were wearing trench coats, but not because they wanted to feel like detectives. They wore them only because a light April drizzle was falling.

“Amos Barlow?” Meyer said.

“Yes?”

Meyer flashed the tin. “Detectives Carella and Meyer. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Can I see that again, please?” Barlow said.

Meyer, who was the most patient cop in the precinct, if not the entire city, held up his shield again. His patience was an acquired trait, the legacy of his father Max, who’d been something of a practical joker in his day. When Meyer’s mother went to Max and told him she was pregnant again, old Max simply couldn’t believe it. He thought it was past the time when such miracles of God could happen to his wife, who had already experienced change of life. Unappreciative of the turntable subtleties of a fate that had played a supreme practical joke on the supreme practical joker, he plotted his own gleeful revenge. When the baby was born, he named him Meyer. Meyer was a perfectly good name, and would have fit the child beautifully if his surname happened to be Schwartz or Goldblatt or even Lipschitz. Unfortunately, his surname was Meyer, and in combination with his given name, the infant emerged like a stutter: Meyer Meyer. Even so, the name wouldn’t have been so bad if the family hadn’t been Orthodox Jews living in a predominatingly Gentile neighborhood. Whenever any of the kids needed an excuse for beating up a Jew-and they didn’t often need excuses-it was always easiest to find the one with the double-barreled monicker. Meyer Meyer learned patience: patience toward the father who had inflicted upon him the redundant name, patience toward the kids who regularly sent him home in tatters. Patiently, he waited for the day when he could name his father Max Max. It never came. Patiently, he waited for the day when he could catch one of the goyim alone and beat hell out of him in a fair fight without overwhelming odds. That day came rarely. But Meyer’s patience became a way of life, and eventually he adjusted to his father’s little gag, and the name he would carry to the end of his days. He adjusted beautifully. Unless one chose to mention the tired old saw about repression leaving its scars. Maybe something does have to give, who knows? Meyer Meyer, though he was only thirty-seven years old, was completely bald.

Patiently, he held up the shield. “Do you have an identification card?” Meyer dug into his wallet patiently and held up his lucite-encased I.D. card.

“That isn’t a very good picture,” Barlow said.

“No,” Meyer admitted.

“But I guess it’s you. What did you want to ask me?”

“May we come in?” Meyer said. They were standing outside on the front stoop of the two-story frame house in Riverhead, and whereas the rain wasn’t heavy, it was sharp and penetrating. Barlow studied them for a moment, and then said, “Of course,” and opened the door wide. They followed him into the house.

He was a short, slight man, no more than five feet eight inches tall, weighing about a hundred and thirty-five pounds. Carella estimated that he was no older than twenty-two or twenty-three, and yet he was beginning to lose the hair at the back of his head. He walked at a slightly crooked angle and with a decided limp. He carried a cane in his right hand, and he used it as though he’d been familiar with it for a long long time. The cane was black, Carella noticed, a heavy cane with curving head ornately decorated with silver or pewter, it was difficult to tell which.

“Are you the detectives working on my brother’s murder?” Barlow said over his shoulder as he led them toward the living room.

“Why do you call it that, Mr. Barlow?” Meyer said.

“Because that’s what it was,” Barlow answered.

He had entered the living room, walked to the exact center of it, and then turned to face the detectives squarely. The room was tastefully, if inexpensively furnished. He shifted his weight to his good leg, raised his cane, and with it gestured toward a couch. Carella and Meyer sat. Meyer took out a small black pad and a pencil.

“What makes you think it was murder?” he said.

“I know it was.”

“How do you know?”

“My brother wouldn’t commit suicide,” Barlow said. He nodded at the detectives calmly, his pale blue eyes studying them. “Not my brother.” He leaned on his cane heavily, and then suddenly seemed tired of standing. Limping, he walked to an easy chair opposite them, sat, looked at them calmly once again, and once again said, “Not my brother.”

“Why do you say that?” Carella asked.

“Not Tommy.” Barlow shook his head.

“He was too happy. He knew how to enjoy life. You can’t tell me Tommy turned on the gas. No. I’ll believe a lot of other things, but not that.”

“Maybe the girl talked him into it,” Carella suggested.

“I doubt it,” Barlow said. “A cheap pickup? Why would my brother let her… ?”

“Just a second, Mr. Barlow,” Meyer said. “This wasn’t a casual pick-up, not from the way we understand it.”

“No?”

“No. Your brother and this girl were planning to get married.”

“Who says so?”

“The girl’s mother says so, and the girl’s lawyer says so.”

“But Tommy didn’t say so.”

“He never mentioned that he was planning to get married?” Carella asked.

“Never. In fact, he never even mentioned this girl, this Irene Thayer. That’s how I know it’s all a bunch of lies, the note, everything. My brother probably picked the girl up that very afternoon. Marry her! Kill himself! Who are they trying to kid?”

“Who do you mean by ‘they,’ Mr. Barlow?”

“What?”

“You said. ‘Who are they trying to…”

“Oh, that’s just an expression I meant, somebody… or maybe a couple of people…” He shook his head, as if trying to untangle his tongue. “What I mean is Tommy did not plan to marry any girl, and Tommy did not kill himself. So somebody must have typed up that note and then turned on the gas and left my brother there to die. To die. That’s what I mean.”

“I see,” Meyer said. “Do you have any idea who this somebody might be?”

“No. But I don’t think you’ll have to look very far.”

“Oh?”

“I’m sure a girl like that had a lot of men after her.”

“And you think one of these men might have been responsible for what happened, is that it?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you know Irene Thayer was married, Mr. Barlow?”

“I read it in the papers.”

“But it’s your impression that she was seeing other men besides your brother, is that right?”

“She wasn’t seeing my brother, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. He probably just picked her up.”

“Mr. Barlow, we have reason to believe he was seeing her regularly.”

“What reason?”

“What?”

“What reason? What reason to believe…”

“We told you, Mr. Barlow. The girl’s mother and the girl’s…”

“Sure, the girl, the girl. But if Tommy had been seeing her, wouldn’t he have told me? His own brother?”

“Were you very close, Mr. Barlow?”

“We certainly were.” Barlow paused. “Our parents died when we were both very young. In a car crash. They were coming home from a wedding in Bethtown. That was years ego. Tommy was twelve, and I was ten. We went to live with one of my aunts for a while. Then, when we got old enough, we moved out.”

“To this house?”

“No, we only bought this last year. We both worked, you know, from the minute we could get working papers. We’ve been saving for a long time. We used to live in an apartment about ten blocks from here. But last year, we bought this house. It’s nice, don’t you think?”

“Very nice,” Carella said.

“We still owe a fortune on it. It’s more the bank’s than it is ours. But it’s a nice little house. Just right for the two of us, not too big, not too small.”

“Will you keep the house now that your brother’s dead?” Meyer asked. “I don’t know. I haven’t given it much thought. It’s a little difficult to get used to, you know, the idea that he’s dead. Ever since he died, I’ve been going around the house looking for traces of him. Old letters, snapshots, anything that was Tommy. We’ve been together ever since we were kids, you know. Tommy took care of me as if he was my father, I mean it. I wasn’t a strong kid, you know. I had polio when I was a kid.”

“I see.”

“Yeah, I had polio. It’s funny, isn’t it, how polio’s almost a thing of the past, isn’t it? Kids hardly get polio any more, because of the vaccine. But I had it. I was lucky, I guess. I got off easy. I just limp a little, that’s all. Did you notice that I limp a little?”

“Just a little,” Carella said gently.

“Yeah, it’s not too noticeable,” Barlow said. He shrugged. “It doesn’t stop me from working or anything. I’ve been working since the time I was sixteen. Tommy, too. From the minute he was old enough to get working papers. Tommy cried when I got polio. I had this fever, you know, I was only seven years old, and Tommy came into the bedroom, bawling his eyes out. He was quite a guy, my brother. It’s gonna be funny around here without him”

“Mr. Barlow, are you sure he never mentioned Irene Thayer to you?”

“Yes, I’m certain.”

“Is it possible he was withholding the information from you?”

“Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Barlow. Perhaps he might have thought you wouldn’t approve of his seeing a married woman.”

“He wasn’t seeing her, I’ve already told you that. Besides, since when did Tommy need my approval for anything?” Barlow laughed a short mirthless laugh. “Tommy went his own way, and I went mine. We never even double-dated.”

“Then it’s possible he was seeing this woman, and you just didn’t…”

“No.”

“… realize it. Maybe the opportunity to discuss it never came up.”

“No.”

“Mr. Barlow, we have to believe…”

“I’m telling you they’re lying. They’re trying to cover up for what happened in that room. They’re saying my brother was involved with that girl, but it isn’t the truth. My brother was too smart for something like…” Barlow’s eyes suddenly flashed. “That’s right, that’s another thing! That’s right!”

“What?” Carella asked.

“My brother was no dope, you know. Oh, no. He quit high school to go to work, that’s true, but he went to night school afterwards, and he got his diploma. So he was no dope.”

“What are you driving at, Mr. Barlow?”

“Well, you saw that phony suicide note, didn’t you?”

“We saw it.”

“Did you see how they spelled ‘ourselves’?”

“How did they spell it, Mr. Barlow?”

“O-U-R-S-E-L-F-S.” Barlow shook his head. “Not my brother. My brother knew how to spell.”

“Maybe the girl typed the note,” Meyer suggested.

“My brother wouldn’t have let her type it wrong. Look, my brother wouldn’t have let her type a note at all. My brother just did not commit suicide. That’s that. I wish you’d get that into your heads.”

“Someone killed him, is that what you think?” Carella asked.

“Damn right, that’s what I think!” Barlow paused, and then studied the detectives slyly. “Isn’t that what you think, too?”

“We’re not sure, Mr. Barlow.”

“No? Then why are you here? If you really thought was a suicide, why are you going around asking questions? Why don’t you just file the case away?”

“We told you, Mr. Barlow. We’re not sure yet.”

“So there must be something about it that seems a little funny to you, right? Otherwise, you’d forget the whole thing, right? You must get a lot of suicides.”

“Yes, we do, Mr. Barlow.”

“Sure. But you know as well as I do that this particular suicide isn’t a suicide at all. That’s why you’re still investigating.”

“We investigate all suicides,” Meyer said.

“This is a murder,” Barlow said flatly. “Who are we kidding? This is a murder, plain and simple. Somebody killed my brother, and you know damn well that’s the case.” He had picked up his cane and stabbed it at the air for emphasis, poking a hole into the air each time he said the word “murder” and again when he said the word killed.” He put the cane down now and nodded, and waited for either Carella or Meyer to confirm or deny his accusation. Neither of the men spoke.

“Isn’t it? Isn’t it murder?” Barlow said at last.

“Maybe,” Carella said.

“No maybes about it. You didn’t know my brother. I knew him all my life. There wasn’t a man alive who enjoyed living more than he did. Nobody with that much… that much… spirit, yeah, spirit, is going to kill himself. Uh-uh.” He shook his head.

“Well, murder has to be proved.” Meyer said.

“Then prove it. Find something to prove it.”

“Like what, Mr. Barlow?”

“I don’t know. There must be something in that apartment. There must be a clue there someplace.”

“Well,” Meyer said noncommittally, “we’re working on it.”

“If I can help in any way…”

“We’ll leave a card,” Carella said. “If you happen to think of anything your brother mentioned, anything that might give us a lead, we’d appreciate it.”

“A lead to what?” Barlow said quickly. “You do think it was murder, don’t you?”

“Let’s say we’re making a routine check, shall we?” Carella said, smiling. “Where can we reach you if we need you, Mr. Barlow?”

“I’m right here every night,” Barlow said, “from six o’clock on. During the day, you can reach me at the office.”

“Where’s that?” Meyer asked.

“Anderson and Loeb. That’s downtown, in Isola. 891 Mayfair. In the Dock Street section.”

“What sort of a firm is that, Mr. Barlow?”

“Optics,” Barlow said.

“And what do you do there?”

“I’m in the mailing room.”

“Okay,” Carella said, “thanks a lot for your time. We’ll keep you posted on any developments.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Barlow said. He rose and began limping toward the door with them. On the front step, he said, “Find him, will you?” and then closed the door.

They waited until they were in the sedan before they began talking. They were silent as they went down the front walk washed with April rain, silent as they entered the car, silent as Carella started it, turned on the wipers, and pulled the car away from the curb.

Then Meyer said, “What do you think, Steve?”

“What do you think?”

Meyer scratched his bald pate. “Well, nobody thinks it was suicide,” he said cautiously. “That’s for sure”

“Mmmm.”

“Be funny, wouldn’t it?”

“What would?”

“If this thing that everybody’s convinced is murder actually turns out to be suicide. That’d be real funny, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah, hilarious.”

“You’ve got no sense of humor,” Meyer said. “That’s your trouble. I don’t mean to bring up personality defects, Steve, but you are essentially a humorless man.”

“That’s true.”

“I wouldn’t have mentioned it if it weren’t true,” Meyer said, his blue eyes twinkling. “What do you suppose make you such a serious man?”

“The people I work with, I guess.”

“Do you find them depressing?” Meyer asked, seemingly concerned.

“I find them obnoxious,” Carella confessed.

“Tell me more,” Meyer said gently. “Did you really hate your father when you were a small boy?”

“Couldn’t stand him. Still can’t,” Carella said. “You know why?”

“Why?” Meyer asked.

“Because he’s essentially a humorless man,” Carella said, and Meyer burst out laughing.

* * * *