"I just figured out why Bugles was cremated," Coughlin said. "Not because he thought a normal burial was a wasteful use of land as his sons over there claim." He waited to be prompted.
"Why, then?"
"Because he wanted his ashes rubbed in everyone's face." Coughlin said impassively.
"You didn't take to him much, did you?"
"Take to him? I suppose it's proper to say it's too bad he's gone, but I must admit, I hated being in a room with him. He contaminated the air around me."
David didn't remove the notepad from his pocket for fear Coughlin would clam up.
"I hear your hospital's referring its transplant cases out-of-state," David said.
"That-is-correct. Wouldn't you?" Coughlin said. His marinated face took on a dark, fierce look.
"I'm glad I don't have to make those decisions." On a roll, David decided not to letup. "How about Hollings you're still sore, right?"
"Sore? I'd say gangrene has set in."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Too bad I have to put it that way, but it's the way I feel. They have no conscience."
"You still giving lectures there?"
"Yes, until they kick me away. I have one tomorrow, in fact. At nine-why not try to make it. I've entitled it, DNA. What Next?"
"That's right up my alley. I'll be there. You game for a few questions afterward."
"I'm always game for questions after I speak."
"About anything?"
Coughlin's nostrils distended. "About anything," he said. He put on his hat and stormed out the door. There had been no handshakes.
David believed he had felt the vibrations from a volcano but chose not to dwell on it. He had not learned anything new except for the Saturday morning lecture and the depth of Coughlin's animus.
He returned to the living room and put his unfinished drink down at the back of a table filled with sardine canapes, salted nuts, assorted cheeses and minced chicken pate. Eying Nora Foster leaving the piano player, he headed her way, chewing on a single nut. First thank her, then her husband, then mosey by the Bugles men. The Way We Were hung in the air.
"Nora, thanks for the invite. I preferred your other parties, but it was nice of you to do this."
"Thank you for stopping by." She held out both hands with a flourish. David shook one. "Horrible, ghastly killings," she said in a cavernous voice. "They've made it so difficult for everyone connected with the hospital, especially for Alton."
He thought the incongruity between Nora Foster's anorexic face and her spherical body had increased since he saw her last. Her black hair was thin, her heavy makeup jagged as if she had applied it in the dark. She wore glasses framed in mottled brown. A brown caftan was sashed at the waist. How did she have enough to make the knot? In their brief encounter, he saw her twice feel for the knot and tighten it. See, even she wonders. They nodded and, as they exchanged picture smiles, he noticed speckles of dandruff on her shoulders.
He small-talked as he picked his way among hospital friends until he found himself standing before the only two guests who were sitting. They were the two black-clad figures he had seen at the funeral. He stared at them and they stood. Neither reached David's stratosphere, although the thinner one appeared to be six-feet tall, the other, a couple of inches shorter and chunky.
"You must be Charlie's son," David said after introducing himself and grasping the outstretched hand of the shorter and younger looking of the two. He realized he had also shaken the sleeve of the man's jacket. He pegged one son's age at thirty, the other's at forty-five or so.
"Yep, I'm Robert. This here's my brother Bernie." Bernie's hand felt like a wilted dandelion.
David thought Robert looked familiar. "Where do I know you from?" he asked.
"Bruno's karate classes. I took them for two years. I saw you there sometimes."
"Of course, now I remember. That was awhile ago. Did you end up with a belt?"
"Mine's brown." Robert sounded disinterested. Intermediate, David thought.
Robert's eyes appeared moist and red. He blew his nose. "I'm glad Mom doesn't know how my Dad died," he said to the floor, shoulders collapsed.
"Oh?" David said, turning to look at Bernie.
"Mother passed away ten years ago," Bernie stated.
David was struck by how much Robert resembled his father: droopy lids, omelet eyes, mottled, dark complexion. And, except for a bold nose, his face was as flat as a painter's canvas. A linear port-wine stain wrapped around the angle of his right jaw. In contrast, one could make a case that Bernie's features were a softened version of his brother's and father's. David couldn't label his bearing. Regal? Mysterious? It was something he did with his eyelids-turning his blue eyes inanimate-like bottle caps. But, his left earring clashed with the bearing. David rubbed his decision scar.
"I give you both my condolences," he said, mustering a measure of sincerity.
"Thank you," they said in unison.
They sat in a circle of three straight chairs and spoke about the "obscenity" of Charlie's murder and about his having been "a self-made man." David, while preoccupied with the better fit of Bernie's tuxedo, suddenly snapped to attention when he saw him check his watch.
"That's about it," Bernie said. He got up and disappeared in the crowd only to return twenty seconds later to add, "Glad to have met you, Doctor. I'll be in touch, Robert."
What's going on with right wrists these days? David tried to act inconspicuous as he got up and looked around the room to determine that as many people held their glasses in their left hands as in their right.
Focusing again on Robert, David said, "He's in quite a hurry, I see."
"Who, Bernie? Oh, yeah, he has a flight to catch. One of them business trips."
"What's his business."
"He went to school to be an engineer but now I think he's … he's a little bit of everything. You know, trading. Yeah, he's into trading." He flashed a tobacco-stained smile.
"What's he trade."
"He tells me he trades everything."
"Where's he flying to?"
"Tokyo. Got some kinda plant there. He's part owner, you know."
David sat again and edged closer to Robert. "And what's your line of work?" he asked.
"Me? I'm in the box factory. Packaging." He rocked in his chair and whined, "They know me as Charlie's son or Bernie's brother."
"Robert," David said, pausing, "look, this may be the wrong time to bring this up, but I'm assisting in the investigation of your dad's death. I understand he lived alone."
"Yep, like my brother said, Mom died. I was in high school."
"Would it be possible for me to visit his place? Just to browse around. It could give me a clue or a lead." David knew a search warrant could be obtained if he needed one. He lowered his eyes and flipped open his notepad hoping it might underline the importance of his request. He could feel Robert's silent once-over.
"My dad said he liked you, Dr. Brooks. And he told me about you being a doctor and a private eye and everything like that."
David stalled as long as he could before looking up. He thought it best to proceed with another question. "He lived at the Highland Estates, right?"
"He was even there when it started. Maybe … I'm gonna say … twenty years now."
"You have a key?"
"Sure. So does Bernie."
"Well?"
"Dr. Brooks, if it'll help in finding the son-of-a-bitchin' butcher what killed him, sure, you can go there."
"I'd feel better if you came with me, Robert. When do you get off from work Monday?"
"Three-thirty. That's when I punch out."
"Good, I'll call you. You live in Hollings?"