Howard Engel - Getting Away With Murder

“You know that this one’s non-fiction, don’t you, Benny?”

“What? Sorry, Sue, my mind was unplugged.” Susan Torres who ran the bookstore usually looked out for me. She put me on to Walter Mosley, John Dunning and William Mcllvanney.

“This newest title by McStu isn’t a novel, Benny.”

“You mean Dud Dickens isn’t in it?” My enthusiasm had developed a slow leak.

“It’s about a real case, Benny. I know you’ll like it because it’s a local story.”

“Great!” I said, “Great!” damning McStu under my breath and passing my plastic to Sue. I wouldn’t even let her put the book into a bag for me. I slipped it into a pocket and returned to Duke Street feeling as though McStu had played an expensive joke on me. The Triumph sports car that had been parked in front of Paulette’s front door was gone. I should have given it a kick when I had the chance. I rang the bell a second time.

Paulette looked relieved when she saw me standing on her threshold. “I’ll bet you could use a drink,” she said. “I know I could.” She backed out of my way and we returned to the back room. Paulette poured shots of Scotch without asking my preference or forgetting what I had in my glass when Hart walked in. I sat where I’d been sitting, looking forward to the Scotch.

“I hear that Hart hates his father. Is there anything in that?”

“If there is, you won’t hear it from me. I try to be as loyal as I can. Hart sometimes tests my patience, as you’ve just seen. You mustn’t let that little drama sour you on the boy. I try to be fair to both the kids, both Hart and Julie.”

“Julie? I don’t understand. Isn’t Julie Lily’s problem?”

“Not when Abe gets on the telephone after midnight. God, I’ve been intimate with all of her problems from diaper rash to the present. Abe spares me nothing. In our divorce settlement, Abe got the phone and he plays it like, like a-a-”

“Virtuoso?”

“Yeah, like that,” she said, smiling at me with her eyes over her drink. “God knows, I tried to get Abe to show a little common sense in dealing with them. They always got their own way. Abe saw to that. As a result, they got a pretty distorted picture of what the world was like when Abe wasn’t there to put in some money or some muscle.”

I waited. I didn’t want to fill the pause with another question until I got a good answer to the last one. She went on: “It’s not Abe they hate, you know. It’s what he’s done to them. They couldn’t tell you about it in so many words, but that’s what it is. He’s spoiled them from having ordinary decent lives. Bad enough having a criminal as a father! But having a father who’s as bull-headed as Abe is a combination that’s hard to beat. That’s another thing: Abe hates losing. That goes for bets and for people. That’s why I went to live in Hunter.”

“Where?”

“Hunter. It’s in New York. You know the Catskills?”

“Oh. I think my parents stayed at a hotel in the Catskills. But as you were saying?”

“I’m a sentimental old woman, Mr. Cooperman, and you can discount everything I’ve said, but I know that in spite of everything he has done to hurt them, in spite of everything they’ve done to hurt him, he loves his kids. I know it.”

“But they can’t stand him. I get the picture.” Paulette didn’t respond except by making a face. I thought I’d better move on. “Paulette, I’ve tried to get Lily to talk to me. She won’t play. Do you think you could help me? I know that it’s asking a lot.”

“Not as much as you think, Benny. Lily and I came to an understanding a long time ago. Remember we’ve got a lot in common. Oh, we’ve had a great deal to laugh at over the years about that crazy, crooked bastard we were both married to. I hear what you’re saying and I’ll see what I can do. I can’t be fairer than that, can I?”

I had run out of questions. I knew I could talk to her all day and hear all sorts of interesting stuff about her colourful life, but it wouldn’t get me anywhere except maybe by accident. To finish up, I asked her about Hart’s difficulties about the Triumph that she had mentioned on telephone. She gave me the details and I scribbled a few names on a piece of paper.

Paulette poured another drink for herself and tried to refill my glass, but I covered it with my hand. The last thing I needed on this long day was to be high on top of everything else. I thanked Paulette for her help and paved the way for a return visit when I was deeper into the investigation. She put down her glass long enough to see me out of the house. I could tell that she wasn’t getting all of the company she could accommodate, but it was a busy day. I said goodbye at the front door, and she let me shake her hand, which was the only part of her that looked like it had seen more years than Abe Wise himself had.

In the Diana Sweets, between sips of coffee, I took the book out of my pocket. It looked like a novel, it was the right size for a novel, but it did say “true” on the back and on the front as well, when you really took a second look. Haste to the Gallows was a catchy title. I tried to get some idea of the contents from the back cover. A woman named Mary Tatarski was the subject of McStu’s nonfiction sabbatical. I’d seen the name somewhere recently. Yes, it was the case that Duncan Harvey, a local architect, was perennially trying to get revived. In the centre of the book was a block of black-and-white pictures: a pretty young face in a high-school year-book, a soldier in uniform, a confused-looking middle-aged woman with a kerchief covering her dark hair. There were others, but I was growing curious about the text. I started reading the first chapter and lost myself in it for some time until I felt that I was being observed. It was an uncomfortable feeling. I put the book away. Looking around the restaurant, I saw nothing unusual: lawyers were joking over coffee, storekeepers were unwinding after a bad half-hour with the bank manager. I thought saw a shadow pass across the window. For a moment, had a sense of relief when I saw that it was only Phil, one of Abe Wise’s hoods. Then I had to laugh. How quickly we adapt to any situation.

I drove through the double line of fast-food outlets and service stations to my parents’ town house off Ontario Street. It was the first house in the row and my father’s car was not parked in front. He must have been showing off his gin rummy prowess at the club. I could picture him, still smelling of talcum and a little pink from the sauna. I let myself in and found my mother watching television.

“Manny? Is that you?” Her eyes must have been temporarily blinded from looking at the screen.

“It’s only me,” I said, taking off my coat and hanging it over one of the dining-room chairs. “What’s up?” I asked.

“Up? What should be up at this time of day? I’ve got potatoes to peel, that’s what’s up. It’s a woman’s lot, Benny. But first I’ll watch the end of this program. I hope you’re not thinking of staying to dinner. I only have two steaks, one for your father and one for me. You should let me know when you’re in need of a home-cooked meal.”

“As a matter of fact, Ma, Anna is cooking for me tonight at the apartment.”

“Anna. Good! A girl that young needs all the practice she can get.”

“By the time she gets her second set of teeth, she’ll be able to boil an egg.”

“She’s still living with her father. I hear he has a French cook. Tell me you never eat snails, Benny.”

“Ma, it’s a big house and Anna has her own apartment in the back. And as for the snails, I’ve only seen the dining-room twice. Both times the table was covered with drawings from her father’s collection.”