"I don't believe it."
"So don't."
"Who is St. James?"
"An acquaintance."
"More than that, I think. He was here first thing yesterday morning. He drove up from Schuylers Landing as soon as he heard on the news that you had been shot. Who is he, Larry?"
Bierly shifted irritably and gave me a get-off-my-back look. "Damn it, he's just a friend. Why are you making such a big fucking deal out of Steven? You're going on and on about unimportant crap like that and you're not doing your job at all, which is to nail that psychotic madman Crockwell. You said you believe me now that Paul didn't kill himself. So does this mean that you are working for me and not that ridiculous old bag Phyllis Haig?"
I said, "I'm pretty much convinced that Paul was murdered, and privately the cops are convinced too-though getting the DA to act may take some doing, inasmuch as the coroner has ruled that Paul died by his own hand, and when an old boy of official Albany is apprised of the incompetence of another old boy of official Albany, he tends not to shout it from the tallest tree. But be assured I'm working on all that. As for working for you- maybe. I do want to avoid taking your money if there's a good chance I can take the money from somebody else who has more than you do and deserves it less."
"Jesus, Strachey, you wouldn't last in business more than a week."
That hurt, though at least T. Callahan was not present for this affirmation of his own harsh view on the subject. I said, "So did
Crockwell shoot you? The cops said you were not able to identify who shot you."
Looking grave, he said, "I don't know exactly. I mean, it must have been Crockwell. Who else could it be? It all happened so fast-it's just blurry. The guy was wearing a ski mask, I think. He just rose up from the other side of the car, and the next thing I remember is, I was in the hospital. Did the cops question Crockwell? Are they going to arrest him? I didn't get a good look, but, God, it must have been him."
"They're talking to him. It's possible he'll be charged. There is some circumstantial evidence-a gun like the one used to shoot you has been found in Crockwell's office dumpster."
Bierly's eyes got big, and he said, "Christ!"
"Even if Crockwell's fingerprints aren't on the gun, Finnerty and his gang will probably pop Crockwell in their microwave and see if his ions start rearranging themselves. They're efficient down there on Arch Street."
Now Bierly looked truly frightened. "Is Crockwell being watched? I know the hospital has a guard outside my door, but Crockwell is ruthless. And if it was him, he could probably talk his way in here and come after me again."
"The cops may or may not have him under surveillance, but I was questioned and frisked before the guard let me in here, and I'd say not to worry. So, what is it that I don't want to know?"
"What?"
"Yesterday, Steven St. James got all spooked when I asked him questions about his connection to you and Paul and Vernon Crockwell. And before he went off in a tizzy, he said to me- when I asked him how you all were mixed up together-'You don't want to know.' Those were his words. 'You don't want to know.' My question to you, Larry, is, Why don't I?"
He stared at me hard, and he blushed. He had a forty-eight-hour growth of heavy black beard, and his color from the trauma and drugs and shock and exhaustion was a kind of baby-shit yellow, and yet through all that it was plain that Bierly was blushing-as he had three days earlier in the pizza parlor when I'd brought up Phyllis Haig's accusation that he had threatened Crockwell with violence and Crockwell had it on tape.
Bierly said, "Look, it really doesn't have anything to do with anything, but Steven is somebody I was mixed up with for a while during the winter, after Paul and I split up. The relationship never went anywhere serious."
"What's Crockwell got to do with it?"
He stared at me. "Nothing."
"Not according to Steven."
"Oh, really? What did he say?"
"That I don't want to know what you and Paul and Steven were involved in together. But I do want to know. In fact, Larry, if I'm going to consider working for you at all, I'll have to insist on knowing. I'm sure you can understand why I need to avoid groping around in the dark."
Bierly shut his eyes tight and said nothing. The silence lengthened and I let it. He was thinking hard about something, and his numbers were dancing around wackily again. When after a minute or two he opened his eyes, he looked at me exhaustedly and he said, "I've changed my mind."
"Uh-huh."
"I mean about hiring you."
"Oh?"
"It's really better if you leave this whole situation alone, Strachey. The cops will find out who shot me-and as for Paul, he's dead, so what difference does anything make? It sounds like the cops are going to drag Crockwell through the slime, he'll be ruined. And that's all I care about. So I think you'd just better skip it. Okay?" His medical condition-or something-seemed to overtake him and his eyes fluttered shut.
I said, "What made you change your mind so suddenly?"
Bierly didn't open his eyes, but his face tightened and he said, "I'm too tired for this."
"You'll regain your strength."
"That's my decision. You better go, Strachey. Please. Just go. Please."
"If you say so."
"Thanks for your help."
I said, "I may sign on with Phyllis, or even Crockwell if I think he's innocent and he's being railroaded. So I may see you soon again, Larry."
"No, please don't. I want you to let me alone."
"For now, sure."
"No, this isn't working. Please don't come back. You have to go now. Right now. Go." His eyes opened and they were full of pain.
"Okay. That's plain enough. So long, Larry."
He turned away.
I went out, nodded to the security guard, made my way down to the main floor and outside onto New Scotland Avenue, where the lilacs, some of which weren't lilac at all but creamy white, swayed heavily in the breeze. Why were creamy white lilacs still called lilacs? Why weren't they called creamy whites? Of course, not all roses were rose. Or grapes grape. Or petunias petunia.
I'd done it again. What had I said?
Back on Crow Street, I phoned my machine, on which two messages had been left. Vernon Crockwell's said, "I will not be needing your services after all. I have retained other professional help. Please do not contact me." Phyllis Haig's said, "I never want to speak to you again. You're fired!"
Timmy came downstairs and said, "What's up? Any news? Have you decided who you're going to work for?"
I said, "I'm thinking of a career change. Can you think of any other work I might be suited for?"
He said no. end user
16
Don't be despondent," Timmy said. "It's ten days till the first of the month. You'll get work And if you don't-so, you'll dip into capital."
"That's not funny." He knew that my "capital" consisted mainly of the six-year-old Mitsubishi I was driving south from Albany down the thruway, Timmy next to me in the tattered front passenger seat. "Anyway, I've got several accounts due. Chances are, somebody will pay me before June first."
"You mean like Alston Appleton?"
"I guess I'd better not count on that one." Appleton was a local venture capitalist whose operations were murky. I'd spent a month successfully tracking down his ex-wife and her coke-addict mother after they'd made off with a safe-deposit box full of Appleton's cash, only to present my bill for $7,100 to Appleton on the morning of the March day the SEC caught up with him and froze his assets. I was informed a month later by an ostentatiously unsympathetic federal official that with luck I might collect three or four cents on the dollar some time in the first quarter of the next century.
"Tell me again," Timmy said, "why Phyllis Haig got mad at you."
"I don't think I know. I thought I was allaying what I perceived to be her guilt over the way she had treated Paul, and over his possible suicide, by connecting his death to his financial problems, which she in no way had caused. Not that she was actually guiltless in Paul's troubles-far from it. But in that one respect, finances, she wasn't guilty, as far as I know. So I was trying to take some of the onus off her."