“What does the church do about burying its members?” Hennessey asked.
“That all depends,” the preacher said.
“On what?”
“On whether they’ve made arrangements.”
“In other words, on whether they’ve got any money.”
“Money runs the world, Mr. Hennessey.”
“It looks like old Bob’s headed for a potter’s field funeral, unless somebody stands the tab,” Hennessey said.
The preacher cocked his head and tried to look sympathetic.
Riverside loomed a little larger for dear old Bob.
We met at Ruby’s bookstore and went to talk to Jarvis Jackson together. Jackson lived in the south half of a shabby little duplex. He lived alone except for half a dozen cats. The cats, he explained, were what first drew him and Bob together. The place smelled strongly of sour milk and well-used kitty litter. There was a case of books in the front room and I gravitated toward them and let my eye run over the titles while Hennessey and Jackson went through the preliminaries. There wasn’t anything in the bookcase—some condensed books and other assorted junk. The bottom shelf was well stained with cat piss, the books all fused together. I would’ve cried if there’d been a Faulkner first in there.
Jackson and Bobby had met a year ago at the church. They had sat on a bench after the service and talked cats. After that riveting conversation, Jackson had invited Bobby home for some lemonade and lunch. They had soon become friends. Jackson thought of himself as Bobby’s best friend. He was fifteen years older, but age doesn’t matter when the chemistry’s right. They liked the same things, shared the same philosophy. They liked the Lord, books, and the smell of cat poop, in approximately that order. They never ran out of things to talk about. Twice a week they would meet in a cafe on East Seventeenth and eat together. They discussed the Lord and the Lord’s work. Bobby had an idea that the Lord had something in mind for him. It was probably a surprise, I thought, when he found out what it was. Bobby had always wanted to do missionary work, but he’d spent all his life putting out brush-fires. Jackson had heard of Bob’s death only this morning, when he’d read about it in the paper.
“When did you see him last?” I said.
“Wednesday night. He always came by here. We’d eat something, then walk over to church. Neither of us drove. We always walked together.”
“Did you talk about anything?”
“We discussed the Lord’s work over dinner.”
“Anything other than that?”
“Not then, no.”
“Some other time, then?”
“After church we came back here and talked some more. Bob didn’t seem to want to go home. Me, I’m retired…I don’t mind staying up late to talk things over.”
“What did you talk about that night?”
“He said he’d done a big book deal. But it wasn’t working out like he’d thought.”
“When had he done this?”
“The night before. He had been up all night.”
“Did he tell you what the deal was?”
“Not exactly. He did say it involved a lot of money. But it wasn’t working out.”
“What did he mean by that?”
“He didn’t go into any details. Just said things never seemed to work out right for him, somehow it just never went right. He couldn’t understand why the Lord always wanted him to fail. The only thing he could figure out was that the Lord was still angry from the things he’d done as a young man. That’s why he wanted to talk to me—he needed reassurance that the Lord is good, not vengeful, that the Lord doesn’t always work in ways we can understand. He doesn’t do things for our convenience or personal glory. There’s a bigger purpose to His acts. We all need to be reminded of that on occasion.”
“Yes sir.”
“So I listened and we talked. It seemed to help him to talk about it. I think he was trying to make up his mind.”
“About what, sir?”
“What to do about it. He was angry. I think he was even angry at the Lord until we talked about it. I think I got him to focus that anger where it really belonged.”
“Where’s that, Mr. Jackson?”
“At himself. At his failings and weaknesses.”
“Or maybe at someone else?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t tell him to do that. It would never be any advice of mine that one man should hate another.”
“Did he say he hated somebody?”
“He was angry. He felt he’d been lied to and cheated. And I think he was trying to make up his mind what to do about it.”
“But he never mentioned any names?”
He shook his head.
“Maybe a name you’ve half forgotten.”
He looked at me blankly.
“Did he give you any idea where he’d gotten the money for the deal?”
“I assume someone gave it to him. I know he didn’t have any money of his own.”
“Did he say anything that might indicate where the deal was done?”
“No… nothing.”
I looked at Hennessey. He gave a frown and turned his palms up.
“I’m sorry I’m such a dead end,” Jackson said. “I want to help if I can. It’s an awful thing, what happened to Bob. I want to help, but it was his business and I just didn’t pry. All I know is that he worked all night on it. He borrowed a coat and tie from me…he wanted to make a good impression… said it was to be the first day of his new life. He was sorry later that he hadn’t gone in his old clothes. There was too much work for him to be dressed like that. He brought the suit back in pretty bad shape.”
“Could we see that suit?”
“It’s right back here in the closet.”
He went into a back room and returned a moment later with the coat and tie. The pants hung loosely under the coat. It had a vest, as Buckley had said, and it looked worn and limp in the light of day.
“He was sorry he had taken it,” Jackson said again. “It’s pretty well ruined, as you can see. He apologized and said he’d buy me a new one if he ever got enough money together. Bob was like that. He never thought ahead. He wanted to dress up and see what it felt like, and he never gave a thought to the work he had to do.”
“Then there were a lot of books?”
“Oh, yes… that much I do know. It took him all night to move them.”
I went through the coat pockets, then the vest. In the pants I found two receipts from a 7-Eleven store.
“Are these your receipts?” I asked.
Jackson looked at them and shook his head. “Must be something he left in there.”
I showed them to Hennessey. “No telling which store,” Neal said “Must be hundreds of ‘em in Denver.”
Suddenly Jackson said, “It was on Madison Street. I remember it now, he went in that store late that night. He was hungry, he hadn’t had anything to eat in almost two days. He had been working about four hours and was feeling faint. He went out on the upper porch for some air. He saw the sign, 7-Eleven, about half a block away. It was the only place open that time of night. It was unusual that way—usually they don’t put those places in residential areas like that, but there it was… like the Lord had sent it just for him. He had two dollars in his pocket. So he walked up and got a soft drink and a Hostess cake.”
I asked for his phone book. There was only one 7-Eleven on Madison Street. It was in the 1200s, only a few blocks away.
We found the house without much trouble after that. It was half a block north of the 7-Eleven, on the opposite side of the street. It was the only house in the block with an upper porch. The doors were open and there were people inside, pricing stuff for an estate sale. There were signs announcing that the sale would be this coming weekend. Inside were bookshelves. There were bookshelves in every room, all of them empty.