Sara Paretsky - Deadlock

Before getting down to the dispiriting task of sorting my cousin’s papers I took a quick look around. Unlike me, he was-had been-phenomenally tidy. If I’d been dead a week and someone came into my place, they’d find some nasty surprises in the sink and a good layer of dust, not to mention an array of clothes and papers in the bedroom.

Boom Boom’s kitchen was spotless. The refrigerator was clean inside as well as out. I went through it and got rid of vegetables which were going bad. Two gallons of milk went down the sink-I guess he never got out of the habit of drinking it, even when he wasn’t training any longer. Tidy, tidy. I’d often said the same thing to Boom Boom, teasing him. Remembering those words made my stomach turn over, as if the air had been sucked out from underneath it. It’s like that when someone you love dies. I’d been through it with my parents, too. Little things keep reminding you and it takes a while before the physical pain goes out of the memory.

I went back to the study and made an organized attack on the drawers. Left to right, top to bottom. If it has to be done, do it thoroughly so there’s no need to take extra time backtracking. Fortunately, my cousin was not only a pack rat, he was also organized. The eight drawers all had neatly labeled file folders.

The top left held fan mail. Given the size of the turnout at the funeral, I shouldn’t have been surprised to see how many letters people sent him. He still got three or four a week in labored boyish handwriting.

Dear Boom Boom Warshawski,

I think you’re the greatest hockey player in the universe. Please send me your picture.

Your friend,

Alan Palmerlee

P.S. Here is a picture of me playing wing for the Algonquin Maple Leafs.

Across each letter was a neatly written note indicating the date and the reply-“March 26, sent signed picture” or “Called Myron. Asked him to arrange speaking date.” A lot of high schools wanted him to speak at graduation or at sports banquets.

The next drawer contained material relating to Boom Boom’s endorsement contracts. I’d have to go over these with Fackley and Simonds. My cousin had done some TV spots for the American Dairy Association. Maybe that explained his milk-if you advertise it, you have to drink it. There was also the Warshawski hockey stick, a warm-up jersey, and an ice-skate endorsement.

At five o’clock I rummaged through the spotless kitchen and found a can of coffee and an electric percolator. I made a pot and carried it back into the study with me. At eight-thirty I located Boom Boom’s liquor supply in a carved Chinese chest in the dining room and poured myself a Chivas-not my first choice in scotch but an adequate substitute for Black Label.

By ten o’clock I was surrounded by stacks of papers-a pile for Fackley, the agent. One for the attorney, Simonds. Quite a few for the garbage. A few things of sentimental value to me. One or two that might interest Paige. Some memorabilia for the Hockey Hall of Fame in Eveleth, Minnesota, and some other items for the Black Hawks.

I was tired. My olive silk blouse had a smear of greasy dust across the front. My nylons were full of runs. I was hungry. I hadn’t found Paige’s letters. Maybe I’d feel better after some food. At any rate, I’d been through all the drawers, including the ones in the desk. What had I really expected to find?

Abruptly I stood and skirted the mounds of paper to get to the telephone. I dialed a number I knew by heart and was relieved to hear it answered on the third ring.

“This is Dr. Herschel.”

“Lotty: it’s Vic. I’ve been sorting through my cousin’s papers and gotten myself thoroughly depressed. Have you eaten?”

She had had dinner several hours ago but agreed to meet me at the Chesterton Hotel for coffee while I got something to eat.

I washed up in the master bedroom, looking enviously at the sunken tub with its whirlpool attachment. Relief for my cousin’s shattered ankle. I wondered if he’d bought the condo for the whirlpool. It would be like Boom Boom, tidy in details but not very practical.

On my way out I stopped to talk to the doorman, Hinckley. He was long gone for the day. The man on duty now was more of a security guard. He sat behind a desk with TV consoles on it-he could see the street or the garage or look at any of the thirty floors. A tired old black man with tiny wrinkles that showed only when I got close to him, he looked at me impassively as I explained who I was. I showed him my power of attorney from Simonds and told him I would be coming around until my cousin’s affairs were straightened out and the unit was sold.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t blink or move his head, just looked at me through expressionless brown eyes whose irises were stained yellow with age.

I could feel my voice rising and checked it. “The man on duty this afternoon let someone into the apartment. Can you please see that no one goes in unless I accompany him or her?”

He continued to stare at me with unblinking eyes. I felt anger flush my face. I turned and left him sitting under the mustard-colored weaving.

“What were you looking for?” Lotty sat drinking coffee, her sharp black eyes probing me, but with affection.

I took a bite of my sandwich. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve been a detective too long-I keep expecting to find secrets in people’s desks.”

We were sitting in the Dortmunder Restaurant in the basement of the Chesterton Hotel. I had picked a half bottle of Pomerol from the wine bins that lined the walls and was drinking it with a sandwich-Emmenthaler on thin, homemade rye bread. Service is slow at Dortmunder’s-they’re used to the old ladies who live in the hotel whiling away an afternoon over a cup of coffee and a single pastry.

“My dear, I don’t want to press you if you don’t want to think about it. But you never sort papers. Even for your cousin you would give them to the attorney unless you were looking for something. So what you were looking for was very important to you, right?”

Lotty is Austrian. She learned English in London where she spent her adolescence, and a trace of a Viennese accent underlies the English inflection of her sharp, crisp words. We’ve been friends for a long time.

I finished my sandwich and drank some more wine, then held the glass, turning it to catch the light. I stared into the ruby glow and thought. Finally I put the glass down.

“Boom Boom left an urgent message with my answering service. I don’t know if he was just terribly depressed or in some trouble at Eudora Grain, but he never left that kind of message for me before.” I stared again at the wine. “Lotty, I was looking for a letter that said, ‘Dear Vic, I’ve been accused of stealing some papers. Between that and losing my ankle I’m so blue I can’t take it anymore.’ Or ‘Dear Vic-I’m in love with Paige Carrington and life is great.’ She says he was and maybe so-but she’s so-so, oh, sophisticated, maybe. Or perfect-it’s hard for me to picture him in love with her. He liked women who were more human.”

Lotty set down her coffee cup and put her square, strong fingers over mine. “Could you be jealous?”

“Oh, a little. But not so much that it would distort my judgment. Maybe it’s egocentrism, though. I hadn’t called him for two months. I keep going over it in my head-we’d often let months go by without being in touch. But I can’t help feeling I let him down.”

The hold on my fingers tightened. “Boom Boom knew he could count on you, Vic. You have too many times to remember when that was so. He called you. And he knew you’d come through, even if he had to wait a few days.”