Lawrence Sanders - Tenth Commandment

'It was about '58,' he said, not bothering to tell me which century. 'On Sherman Street that was. Am I right?

Sherman Street?'

'You're exactly right, sir,' I said. 'That's the address I have. One-thirteen Sherman Street.'

'If nominated, I will not run,' he recited. 'If elected, I will not serve.'

'That's wonderful,' I marvelled. 'That you remember.'

'I still got all my nuts,' he said, nodding with satisfaction. He suddenly grinned. No teeth. No dentures.

Just pink gums.

'This was in 1958?'

'Nineteen and fifty-eight,' he said. 'Maybe long before.

I tell you something funny about that family, suh. They was all G's. Everybody in that family had a name with a G.'

'Goldie Knurr,' I said. 'Godfrey Knurr.'

'Zactly,' he said. 'The father, George Knurr. The mother, Gertrude Knurr. Three other tads. Two sons: 372

Gaylord Knurr and Gordon Knurr. Another daughter: Grace Knurr.'

'You've got an incredible memory, sir.'

'I sure do,' he said. 'Ain't nothing wrong with my nuts.'

'What happened to them'?' I asked. ' T h e Knurr family?'

' O h. . ' he said, 'the old folks, George and Gertrude, they died, as might be expected. The kids, they all went away, also as might be expected. Goldie, I hear tell, is the only one around still.'

It was not good news. If this old man's memory was accurate, Goldie Knurr was indeed the sister of my target.

'Mr Jones,' I said, 'how is it you know so much about the Knurr family?'

'Oh,' he said slowly, 'I used to do this and that around their house. Little jobs, you know. And my third wife, Emily that was — no, Wanda; yes, the third was Wanda — she was like a mother to the kids.'

'You don't recall anything about Godfrey Knurr, do you, Mr Jones?' I asked. 'One of the sons?'

'Godfrey Knurr?' he repeated, his eyes clouding. 'That would be the middle boy. Became a preacher man, he did.

Left town. Can't blame him for that.'

'No indeed.' I said fervently, 'I really can't. You don't remember anything else about Godfrey? Anything special?'

'Smart young one,' he said. 'Big and strong. Liked the girls. Played football. Something…'

He stopped suddenly.

'Something?' I prompted.

'I don't rightly recall.'

'Something good or something bad?'

He stared at me with eyes suddenly clear and piercing and steady.

'I don't rightly recall,' he repeated.

I opened my eyes Friday morning, bewildered for an instant before I recalled where I was. I rose, did a few halfhearted stretching exercises. I looked in vain for soap, washcloth, towel. I made do by sponging myself with a handkerchief dipped in water from my corner sink. As promised, it was running water. Cold. But invigorating.

I then dressed. My suit, of course, was badly wrinkled, but that seemed a minor consideration.

The owner-clerk was still in his wire mesh cage, drinking coffee from a cardboard container and reading a copy of Architectural Digest.

'When is checkout time, please?' I asked.

'Every hour on the hour,' he said, 'Oh, it's you.

Checkout time for you will be around eight or nine tonight.'

I stepped outside to find the rain had ceased, but the sun was hidden behind an oysterish sky. It put a dull tarnish on the world. I walked a few blocks. It took all my optimism to keep my spirits from drooping: block after block of mean row houses, a few scrubby trees.

I finally found a luncheonette that seemed to be doing a thriving business, went in, and had a reasonably edible breakfast. When I paid my bill, I got directions to Sherman Street.

Sherman Street was absolutely no different from any other in Athens: a solid culvert of row houses, jammed together, all of the same uninspired design, all three storeys high, either clapboard or covered with counterfeit brick siding.

I found 113 Sherman Street. I climbed the three steps to 374

the stoop, pushed the bell, heard it ring inside the house, and waited.

The door opened a cautious crack.

'Miss Goldie Knurr?' I asked, taking off my hat.

'I'm not buying anything,' she said sharply.

'I don't blame you, ma'am,' I said, smiling so widely that my face ached. 'Prices being the way they are. But I'm not selling anything. It's about your brother, Godfrey Knurr.'

The door was flung open.

'He's dead!' the woman wailed.

'Oh no,' I said hastily. 'No, no, no. Nothing like that. I saw him, uh, yesterday, and he's healthy and, uh, in fine shape.'

'Law,' she said, pressing a fist into her soft bosom, 'you gave me such a start. Come in, sir.'

She let me into a hallway, paused to lock, chain, and bolt the door, then turned to face me.

'You saw Godfrey yesterday?' she said in a voice of marvel: Robert Browning asking, 'Ah, did you once see Shelley p l a i n. .? '

'I did indeed, ma'am.'

'And he's all right?'

'As far as I could tell, he's in excellent health. He has a beard now. Did you know?'

'A beard?' she cried. 'Think of that! Did he give you a message for me?'

'Ah. . no,' I said softly. 'But only because I didn't tell him I was coming to see you. May I tell you about it?'

'Of course you may!' she said loudly, recalling her duties as a hostess with a guest in the house. 'Here, let me take your coat and hat, and you come into the parlour and we'll have a nice chat. A cup of tea? Would you like a nice cup of tea?'

'Thank you, ma'am, but no. I just finished my breakfast.'

I waited while she hung up my hat and coat on brass hooks projecting from an oak Victorian rack with a long, silvered mirror, lidded bench, and places for umbrellas with shallow pans to catch the dripping. Then I proffered my business card.

'Leopold Tabatchnick, ma'am,' I said, 'of New York.

Attorney-at-law.'

'He's not in any trouble, is he?' she asked anxiously, scarcely glancing at the card.

'None whatsoever,' I assured her, reclaiming my card.

'Please let me tell you what this is all about.'

'Oh, law,' she said, pressing a fist into her bosom again,

'I'm just so discombobulated. It's been so long since I've heard from Godfrey. Do come in and sit down, Mr — what was that name?'

'Tabatchnick. Leopold Tabatchnick.'

'Well, you just come right in and sit down, Mr Leopold,' she said, 'and tell me what brings you to Gary.'

She led me the way into the parlour. There were the bright colours missing from outdoor Gary. Red, green, blue, yellow, purple, pink, orange, violet: all in chintz run wild. The sofa, chairs, pillows, even the tablecloths were flowers and birds, butterflies and sunrises. Parrots on the rug and peonies in the wallpaper. Everything blazing and crashing. Overstuffed and overwhelming. The room stunned the eye, shocked the senses: a funhouse of snapping hues in prints, stripes, checks, plaids. It was hard to breathe.

Goldie Knurr was just as overstuffed and overwhelming.

Not fat, but a big, solid-soft woman, as tall as Godfrey and just as husky. She was dressed for a garden party in a flowing gown of pleats and flounces, all in a print of cherry clumps that made her seem twice as large and twice as imposing.

Sixty-five at least, I guessed, with that rosy, downy complexion some matrons are blessed with: the glow that 376

never disappears until the lid is nailed down. I saw the family resemblance; she had Godfrey's full, tender lips, his steady, no-nonsense brown eyes, even the masculine cragginess of his features.

Her figure was almost as broad-shouldered as her brother's, but softened, plumpish. Her hands were chubby. The hair, which might have been a wig — although I suspected she might call it a 'transformation' — was bluish-white, elaborately set, and covered with a scarcely discernible net.

She sat me down in an armchair so soft that I felt swallowed. When she came close, I smelled lavender sachet, sweetly cloying. I hoped she wouldn't take a chair too near, but she did. She sat upright, spine straight, ankles crossed, hands clasped in her lap.