The others said nothing.
“Me too,” Beevers said. “I didn’t want to feel that, but I felt it. I resented what they got for just being hostages. That vet in Indiana had the same feelings, and they pushed him over the edge. What do you suppose happened to Underhill?”
“Or whoever it was,” Poole said.
Beevers grinned at him.
“Look, I think this whole thing is nuts in the first place,” said Pumo, “but did you ever consider the possibility that Victor Spitalny might be Koko? Nobody’s seen him since he deserted Dengler in Bangkok fifteen years ago. He could still be living over there.”
Conor surprised Poole by saying, “Spitalny’s gotta be dead. He drank that shit, man.”
Poole kept quiet.
“And there was one more Koko incident after Spitalny disappeared in Bangkok,” Beevers said. “Even if the original Koko had a copycat, I think good old Victor is in the clear. No matter where he is.”
“I just wish I could talk to Underhill,” Pumo said, and Poole silently agreed. “I always liked Tim—I liked him a hell of a lot. You know, if I didn’t have to work out that mess in my kitchen, I’d be halfway tempted to get on a plane and see if I could find him. Maybe we could help him out, do something for him.”
“That’s an amazingly interesting idea,” Beevers said.
2
“Request permission to move, sir,” Conor barked. Beevers glared at him. Conor stood up, clapped Michael on the shoulder, and said, “Do you know what time it is when darkness falls, bats fill the air, and wild dogs begin to howl?”
Poole was looking up in friendly amusement, Harry Beevers—pencil frozen halfway to his mouth—with irritation and incredulity.
Conor leaned toward Beevers and winked. “Time for another beer.” He took a dripping bottle from the ice bucket and twisted off the cap. Beevers was still glaring at him. “So the lieutenant thinks we ought to send a little search party after Underhill, check him out, see how crazy he is?”
“Well, Conor, since you ask,” Beevers said very lightly and quietly, “something along those lines might be possible.”
“Actually go there?” Pumo asked.
“You said it first.”
Conor poured nearly half of the beer down his throat in a continuous series of swallows. He smacked his lips. Conor returned to his chair and took another slug of the beer. Things had just gone totally out of control—now he could sit back and relax and wait for everybody else to see it.
If the Lost Boss says that he still considers himself Underhill’s lieutenant, Conor thought, I am gonna puke.
Beevers said, “I don’t know if you want to call this a moral responsibility or not, but I think we should handle this situation ourselves. We knew the man, we were there.”
Conor opened his mouth, swallowed air, and let the pressure build on his diaphragm. After a second or two he emitted a resounding burp.
“I’m not asking you to share my sense of responsibility,” Beevers said, “but it would be nice if you could stop being childish.”
“How can I go to Singapore, for Chrissakes?” Conor yelled. “I don’t have money in the bank to go around the block! I spent all my money on the fare here, man. I’m sleeping on Tina’s couch because I can’t even afford a room at my own reunion, man. Get serious, okay?”
Conor felt immediately embarrassed at blowing up in front of Mike Poole. This was what happened when he went over his limit and got drunk—he got mad too fast. Without making himself sound like an even bigger fool, he wanted to explain things. “I mean—okay, I’m an asshole, I shouldn’t ought to of yelled. But I’m not like the rest of you guys, I’m not a doctor or a lawyer or an Indian chief, I’m broke, man, I used to be part of the old poor and now I’m part of the new poor. I’m down at sore heels.”
“Well, I’m no millionaire,” Beevers said. “In fact, as of several weeks ago I resigned from Caldwell, Moran, Morrissey. There were a lot of complicated factors involved, but the fact is, I’m out of a job.”
“Your wife’s own brother gave you a pink slip?” Conor asked.
“I resigned,” Beevers said. “Pat is my ex-wife. Serious differences of opinion came up between myself and Charles Caldwell. Anyhow, I’m not made of money any more than you are, Conor. But I did negotiate a pretty decent golden handshake for myself, and I’d be more than willing to loan you a couple thousand dollars interest-free, to be repaid at your convenience. That ought to take care of you.”
“I’d help out too,” Poole said. “I’m not agreeing to anything, Harry, but Underhill shouldn’t be hard to find. He must get advances and royalties from his publisher. Maybe they even forward fan mail to him. I bet we could learn Underhill’s address with one phone call.”
“I can’t believe this,” said Pumo. “All three of you guys just lost your minds.”
“You were the first to say you’d go,” Conor reminded him.
“I can’t run out on my life for a month. I have a restaurant to run.”
Pumo hadn’t noticed when everything went out of control. Okay, Conor thought, Singapore, what the hell?
“Tina, we need you.”
“I need me more than you do. Count me out.”
“If you stay behind, you’ll be sorry the rest of your life.”
“Jesus, Harry, in the morning this is going to sound like an Abbott and Costello movie. What the hell do you think you’re going to do if you ever manage to find him?”
Pumo wants to stay around New York and play games with Maggie Lah, Conor thought.
“Well, we’ll see,” Beevers said.
Conor lobbed his empty beer bottle toward the wastebasket. The bottle fell three feet short and slanted off under the dresser. He could not remember switching from vodka to beer. Or had he started on beer, then gone to vodka, and switched back to beer again? Conor inspected the glasses on the table and tried to pick out his old one. The other three were giving him that “cheerleader” look again, and he wished he’d made his net shot into the wastebasket. Conor philosophically poured several inches of vodka into the nearest glass. He scooped a handful of cubes from the bucket and plopped them in. “Give me an S,” he said, raising the glass in a final toast. He drank. “Give an I. Give me an N. Give me a … G. Give me an A.”
Beevers told him to sit down and be quiet, which was fine with Conor. He couldn’t remember what came after A anyhow. Some of the vodka slopped onto his pants as he sat down again beside Mike.
“Now can we go see Jimmy Stewart?” he heard Pumo ask.
3
A little while later someone suggested that he lie down and take a nap on Mike’s bed, but Conor refused, no, no, he was fine, he was with his asshole buddies, all he had to do was get moving, anybody who could still spell Singapore wasn’t too bent out of shape …
Without any transition he found himself out in the corridor. He was having trouble with his feet, and Mikey had a firm grip on his left arm. “What’s my room number?” he asked Mikey.
“You’re staying with Tina.”
“Good old Tina.”
They turned a corner and good old Tina and Harry Beevers were right in front of them, waiting for the elevator. Beevers was combing his hair in front of a big mirror.
The next thing Conor knew, he was sitting on the floor of the elevator, but he managed to get back on his feet before the doors opened.
“You’re cute, Harry,” he said to the back of Beevers’ head.
The elevator door opened and for a long time they moved through long, blank hallways crowded with people. Conor kept bumping into guys who were too impatient to listen to his apologies. He heard people singing “Homeward Bound,” which was the world’s most beautiful song. “Homeward Bound” made him feel like crying.