He fought back, in his way, and I didn't mind. Hudson Valley winters were not a total loss.
THREE
The schools were closed, the Capitol and state offices shut down. Eighteen inches of new snow had fallen overnight on top of the foot that had dropped the night before. WGY described a front that had stalled unexpectedly. I called them up and said it certainly hadn't surprised me, and they thanked me for my interest. While Timmy fixed his Wheatena I ran my three eggs through the blender with a pint of orange juice. Each of us found the other's early morning culinary habits nauseating, so we stayed on separate sides of the kitchen.
I phoned Ned Bowman at Division 2 headquarters, where he'd just come in.
"What have you come up with on Jack Lenihan's death?"
"No, no, Strachey, I'm the police officer, you're the material witness. I want you in my office at one P.M. promptly. I want to run over this thing with you one more time at least. Lenihan was one of yours, you know, which gets me to thinking. Oh yes, he was definitely one of yours."
"I'm childless, so far as I know. Briget, my ex, liked to confide in me, in spite of everything, and she would have mentioned that."
"You know what I mean, damn well you do. You met Lenihan at some swish tea party last summer at Mr. Herbert Brinkman's house in Niskayuna. You knew the body was Lenihan's last night, but you didn't mention it to me, and I demand to know why. One o'clock, on the dot."
"You're wrong about my recognizing Lenihan, but otherwise, Ned, you've been quick and you've been thorough. This is unprecedented and I'm impressed. Is there anything from the medical examiner yet?"
"No, except that Lenihan is certifiably dead. Fucking geniuses look at a six-foot icicle and say, 'That man will never bowl again.' I'll get a report later today that might have a little more in it to go on."
"Has Warren Slonski been notified? He's Lenihan's lover, or was as of last summer-which, incidentally, was the first and last time I ever saw Lenihan."
"You mean has Slonski been questioned, and the answer is yes. I caught him early before he left for work this morning. Of course, he'd already heard about it on the media, he says. Sort of a stuck-up prick, this Slonski-Mr. Pretty Boy. He claims he hasn't seen Lenihan since Christmas, but I'll be checking that out. He was not what I would call entirely cooperative."
Bowman's idea of "entirely cooperative" was a man who brought along a certified stenographer to take down his own confession. I thought, I should have gotten there first. To break the news in a decent way, to find out what I could before Slonski got turned off by the clubfoot crew, and of course to cast eyes on "Mr. Pretty Boy."
I said, "I received a phone call that might be connected to Lenihan's death.
I'll tell you about it when I see you at one."
"You'll tell me now."
"No, it can wait. Are the roads passable? I might need to do some moving around today. When can I get my car back? If the city of Albany wants to lease it for five bills a week that's one thing, but-"
"What do you mean, you got a phone call? This is a criminal-"
"One o'clock." I hung up. The phone rang fifteen seconds later. "It's Bowman, but don't answer it. I don't want to talk to him again until I've checked on a couple of things."
Timmy shrugged and went back to meditating over his Wheatena.
"May I use your car? You're not going to work today. Nobody on the public payroll is." He nodded. "Don't answer the phone at all, if you don't mind. I'll call my service and they can pick up there. You deserve a day of peace and quiet. Or are you going out to play with your sled and enjoy winter?"
"I might go for a walk in the park. It'll be really lovely. Want to join me later?"
"Sure, if you'll pull my Flexie-Flyer."
"Yeah, I'll pull your Flexie-Flyer. Isn't that all we're supposed to do these days?"
"And look-if Hankie-mouth should show up at the house, tell him to leave a message with my service and I'll make myself available later today."
Despite the Wheatena clogging his veins, his eyes grew alert. "He might come here? You think so?"
"It's possible, yes."
"Maybe I'll just walk down to the office and spend the day clearing up a few things. It'll be as quiet there as it is here."
"Good idea."
"I'll shovel the walk first."
"Lift with your arms and not with your back. That's what the radio said.
You're past forty now and might have a heart attack."
"Nah, I'm twenty-seven. I'll always be twenty-seven."
I kissed him on the little bald spot on the back of his head and left him to his bowl of mush.
The blizzard had moved off into northern New England, leaving a churning gray sky that still spit occasional teasing showers of snow. Cold sunlight broke through in a few places and I brought my shades along for when the sky cleared and the city turned into a million-watt icecap. Instead of digging out Timmy's car, a white lump, I hiked over toward Central Avenue, crunch-crunch, crunch-crunch.
Most of the cars out were blue Volvos with skis on racks heading toward the interstates and on to the Adirondacks and Berkshires-people who paid for their good times with numbed extremities and cracked lips, who finished off a day of fun by having to coat Vaseline on the wrong orifice. I'd always enjoyed the sweet variety of the human race in its pursuit of pleasure, however, and if a face full of ice was what turned on these LL
Bean Vikings, who was I to care what they did in the privacy of their own mountains?
I walked up the middle of Crow Street on the hard-packed snow. The city plows had been out early, maybe due to the fact that it was a mayoral election year, when the Democratic machine tends to become visible, providing the odd useful service. At Crow and Lancaster a disabled city snow-removal truck had been abandoned in the center of the intersection forcing the Volvos and delivery vans to detour carefully around it. One end of its steel plow rested on the street where it had gouged out a section of tarmac. The driver's side door hung open, as if the driver had been driven off by attackers, maybe Republican terrorists, the Governor Thomas E. Dewey Brigades. Election years in Albany can be turbulent.
I headed up Lark, where some of the boutiques and spinach-salad joints were opening up, their owners apparently hoping the state workers would occupy their sudden leisure with some recreational spending. The street was cleaner than I had ever seen it and the few people walking along it looked happy to be out and taking part in a harmless emergency.
On Central Avenue I glanced through the frosted window of the Watering Hole, where a few of the regulars had already shown up for an early light brunch. I could hear the jukebox playing something pleasantly sordid, but it seemed a bit early in the day for that-or late in the decade-and I didn't stop in.
My office was locked up and unmolested. I turned the key and shoved the door open and nothing blew up. There was no evidence of forced or unforced entry, and I could see no sign of the "thing" that didn't belong to me having been left there by Jack Lenihan or anyone else. I half wanted it to be there. If a man hadn't been killed, I would have welcomed any distraction from my sour hibernation. As would Timmy, whose tolerance for lighthearted dishiness was high but for bitchiness low. I guess he'd learned from the Jesuits how to make distinctions like that.
I slid the pie tin out from under the leaky radiator valve and dumped the rusty bilge that had accumulated into the plastic bucket resting nearby for that purpose. I spilled about a third of a cup on my boots and wiped them off with the old T-shirt that lay along the windowsill as a puny obstacle against the winter wind.
Wednesday's mail was still on the floor where it had been shoved through the door slot the previous afternoon, which I'd spent tracking down my car.