Lawrence Block - Sins of the Fathers

“No. You will, sir.”

He closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair. I wanted another drink, but I let the flask stay in my pocket. The headache was still there. The aspirin hadn’t even touched it.

“I regard suicide as a sin, Mr. Scudder.”

“So do I.”

“You do?”

“Absolutely. If I didn’t I probably would have killed myself years ago. There are worse sins.”

“Murder.”

“That’s one of them.”

He fixed his eyes on me. “Do you think I am an evil man, Mr. Scudder?”

“I’m not an expert on that. Good and evil. I have a lot of trouble figuring those things out.”

“Answer my question.”

“I think you’ve had good intentions. You were talking about that earlier.”

“And I’ve paved a road to Hell?”

“Well, I don’t know where the road leads, but there are a lot of wrecks along the highway, aren’t there? Your wife committed suicide. Your mistress got slashed to death. Your son went crazy and hanged himself for something he didn’t do. Does that make you good or evil? You’ll have to work that one out for yourself.”

“You intend to go to the police Tuesday morning.”

“If I have to.”

“And otherwise you’ll keep your silence.”

“Yes.”

“Ah, and what about you, Mr. Scudder? Are you a force for good or evil? I’m sure you’ve asked yourself the question.”

“Now and then.”

“How do you answer it?”

“Ambivalently.”

“And now, in this act? Forcing me to kill myself?”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No. I’m allowing you to kill yourself. I think you’re a damned fool if you don’t, but I’m not forcing you to do anything.”

I was awake early Monday morning. I got a Times at the corner and read it over bacon and eggs and coffee. A cabdriver had been murdered in East Harlem. Someone had stuck an icepick into him through one of the air holes in his partition. Now everyone who read the Times would know a new way to score off a cabdriver.

I walked over to the bank when it opened and deposited half of Cale Hanniford’s thousand-dollar check. I took the rest in cash, then walked a few blocks to the post office and bought a money order for a few hundred dollars. I addressed an envelope in my hotel room, put a stamp on it, picked up the phone and called Anita.

I said, “I’m sending you a couple of bucks.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Well, to pick out something for the boys. How have they been?”

“Fine, Matt. They’re in school now, of course. They’ll be sorry they missed your call.”

“It’s never much good over the phone, anyway. I was thinking, I could get tickets for the Mets game Friday night. If you could get them to the Coliseum I could send them home in a cab. If you think they’d like to go.”

“I know they would. I could drive them there with no trouble.”

“Well, I’ll see if I can pick up tickets. They shouldn’t be too hard to come by.”

“Should I tell them, or should I wait until you actually have the tickets? Or do you want to tell them yourself?”

“No, you tell them. In case they have something else lined up.

“They’d cancel anything to see the game with you.”

“Well, not if it’s something important.”

“They could even go back to the city with you. You could rent them a room at your hotel and put them on the train the next day.”

“We’ll see.”

“All right. How have you been, Matt?”

“Fine. You?”

“All right.”

“Things about the same with you and George?”

“Why?”

“Just wondered.”

“We’re still seeing each other if that’s what you mean.”

“He thinking about getting a divorce from Rosalie?”

“We don’t talk about it. Matt, I’ve got to go, they’re honking for me.”

“Sure.”

“And let me know about the tickets.”

“Sure.”

It wasn’t in the early Post, but around two in the afternoon I had the radio on to one of the all-news stations and they had it. The Reverend Martin Vanderpoel, minister of the First Reformed Church of Bay Ridge, had been found dead in his bedroom by his housekeeper. The death had been tentatively attributed, pending autopsy, to the voluntary ingestion of an overdose of barbiturates. Reverend Vanderpoel was identified as the father of Richard Vanderpoel, who had recently hanged himself after having been arrested for the murder of Wendy Hanniford in the apartment the two had shared in Greenwich Village. Reverend Vanderpoel was reported to have been profoundly despondent over his son’s death, and this despondency had evidently led him to take his own life.

I turned off the radio and sat around for half an hour or so. Then I walked around the block to St. Paul’s and put a hundred dollars in the poor box, a tenth of what I’d received as a bonus from Cale Hanniford.

I sat near the back for a while, thinking about a lot of things.

Before I left I lit four candles. One for Wendy, one for Richie, the usual one for Estrellita Rivera.

And one for Martin Vanderpoel, of course.