Authors: Jeremiah Healy
I just looked at him.
Ling said, “The rest of us, we’re just like waiting our turn.”
“You ever figure Teagle’d be next?”
“Never can tell.”
“He ever talk with you about anything besides music?”
“Sure. Rush, he never stopped talking, said it was important for his lyrics.”
“His lyrics.”
“Yeah, like he had to keep hearing the words out loud, not just in his head, make sure they sounded good together.”
“What did you talk about?”
“What difference does it make?”
“It might help find who killed him.”
A longer drink. “So what?”
“You don’t care who killed your friend?”
“Man, if it’s not the drugs, it’ll be the air or the water or microwaves or cellular phones. We’re all gonna die from this planet, you know?”
“What if it was connected to the band?”
“It wasn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Rush said …”
Ling bit on his lower lip, a pouting angel now.
I said, “What did Rush say?”
“Aw, man, he just said that the boss guy at his woman’s store got killed that way, so I like don’t see how him getting it is connected with us, all right?”
“ ‘His woman’ meaning Darbra Proft.”
“Yeah. She was old, but thought she wasn’t, you know?”
“Tell me.”
“Aw, she’d come to our gigs, like the one where you saw us?” Ling warmed to his subject. “Only she’d dress up like she thought she should, not real grunge, but kind of … pseudo grunge, you know?”
“Like she thought she was copying you, but didn’t really know how?”
“Yeah. Yeah, like that.” Ling seemed to remember who he was talking to and dropped the warmth. “Only she was just another groupie lay, and kind of old for it.”
“Teagle brag about that?”
“Rush, he liked to brag about a lot of things, man. That was Rush, what you need in a lead.”
“Confidence?”
“Flash and sizzle, dude. The stud on the come. The audience feels that, they’re with you, rocking. They don’t, you might as well be the Beatles.”
Who didn’t fare too badly for themselves. “What else did Rush brag about?”
“Fuck, all kinds of shit. The time he was on tour opening for this group just got a major record deal, the convertible he got with the money from that, the other money he—”
Dead stop. I said, “What money is that?”
More Gatorade. “I don’t know, man.”
“Hack, what money are we talking about now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hack.”
“Look, dude, I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
“How about telling me what you do know?”
“Aw, Rush, he was bragging about what he was gonna do with this money he was getting.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
“How much was it supposed to be?”
“I like just don’t know, man.”
“Well, what was he bragging he’d do with it?”
“Get a new guitar, upgrade some of our rack—the amps, that kind of thing.”
“For the band, you mean.”
“Yeah.”
“So how much would all that cost?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether it’s new or used, what quality. The usual.”
“Give me a ballpark.”
“Couple, three thousand, maybe.”
“You guys have anything planned that would bring in that kind of money?”
“You shitting me or what? The most, like the absolute excellent
most
we ever took down was five hundred, split four ways.”
“So how would Teagle come into a few thousand or more?”
“I don’t know, and he didn’t say.”
“When was this?”
“When was what?”
“Teagle bragging about getting this new money.”
“I don’t know, man. He did it all the time, like I—”
“But when did he start?”
“Start bragging about it?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know, maybe a month ago?”
“A month ago.”
“Yeah.”
I thought about it. Roughly the time Darbra broke off with Roger Houle and started in with Rush Teagle. A week or so before Abraham Rivkind died.
Ling went back to his straw, but it quickly made that tank-empty, sucking sound. “Hey, dude. Okay if I go back in now?”
“Aren’t you afraid of waking your stepfather?”
“Yeah, but I gotta study.”
“Study what?”
“Accounting, man.”
“Accounting?”
Ling threw the empty box over his shoulder onto the black rubber runner. “Yeah. You don’t think I want to live in this shithole forever, do you?”
I
STOOD ACROSS THE
street from value furniture, looking up at the facade and the roof line with its finials and flagpole that reminded Abraham Rivkind of a place I’d have thought anybody would want to forget. Then I went in through the main entrance and received the standard greeting from Karen, wanting to know if she could help me in any way. I asked her about Finian Quill.
“Gee, I’m sorry but I don’t think Finian’s here right now. Can someone else help you?”
I said I’d see Mr. Bernstein instead and already knew the way.
The grand ballroom staircase to the second floor was empty as I climbed it. Only a smattering of customers browsed among the dining room sets on the second floor and the bedrooms on the third. As I moved through the padded swinging doors on the fourth, Joel Bernstein was just coming out of the men’s room, hitching his suit pants a little against the suspenders. He stopped hitching as soon as he saw me.
“You’re back?”
“Afraid so.”
Bernstein ran a hand through the black clots on his head. “Look, I’m sorry I got kind of hot at you there.”
“It happens. Forget it.”
“No, really. I know you’re not trying to rip off Pearl or anything, it’s just that the pressure around here, me trying to do it all. …” He made the harsh, blubbering sound.
I said, “Can you give me a couple of minutes?”
“Why not. Take my mind off all the other things I can’t change.”
I followed him toward the partners’ office, the door just before it open. A Latino woman was sitting behind Darbra’s desk, briskly sorting through papers.
I spoke to Bernstein’s back. “Replacement?”
“What?”
“The woman in Darbra’s office.”
“Oh, her.” He sagged into his desk chair, waving me toward one of the captain’s chairs. “Temp. Beverly got her last Friday. Seems to be working out.”
“Meaning you might take her on full-time?”
“Yeah, there’s a need for it.” Bernstein tilted his head, the neck so thick there was little or no difference in width between it and his jowls. “You had any luck finding Amelia Earhart?”
“You think Darbra flew away on her vacation?”
“Couldn’t drive. At least, she said she couldn’t, one time I asked her to use my car, pick something up for me. Way she said it at first, I thought it was like one of those coffee things, you know?”
“Sorry?”
“Like in the old days, you could ask a secretary to get your coffee? Now, it’s like sexual harassment you even suggest they could do something for their salary besides type and file.”
“But Darbra said she couldn’t use your car because she didn’t know how to drive.”
“Never learned, she said. Mentioned it a couple times, often enough so you believed her. At least, I did.” Bernstein tilted his head the other way. “So, you didn’t answer my question.”
“No, I haven’t had much luck finding her.”
“Goofy broad. Wait a minute, can’t say ‘broad’ nowadays, either.”
“Mr. Bernstein, when we went through Darbra’s desk, I didn’t see any keys.”
“Wouldn’t expect you to.”
“She kept the key to her office in her handbag?”
“Yeah. Where else would it be?”
“I was wondering if she kept any spares here in the store.”
“Spares. You mean like to her house?”
“Apartment.”
“Whatever.”
“Yes. A key to her building and front door, maybe.”
Bernstein thought about it. “Beats me. Why?”
“Somebody searched her apartment, really tore it apart.”
“Maybe a burglar. They read the …”
“Read what, Mr. Bernstein?”
He pursed his lips. “I was going to say they read the death notices, you know? Break in when they think there’s nobody home.”
“Except we don’t know Darbra’s dead, do we?”
“No. We don’t.”
“And there hasn’t been anything in the papers about her disappearance.”
“Right.”
“And whoever it was didn’t break in. They used a key.”
Bernstein looked at me, through me. “I told you, I don’t know anything about her keys.”
“You read about the guy killed in her building?”
“Enough people get killed in this city, you don’t keep track of them.”
“This is kind of a special guy. He’s the one Darbra went to New Jersey with.”
“New Jersey.”
“On her vacation.”
“She never said anything to me about it.”
“Not even about the boyfriend?”
“Especially about him, whoever he is.”
“Or was.”
Bernstein just looked at me this time.
“A Detective Sergeant Cross didn’t get in touch with you?”
He chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Yeah. She got in touch.”
“So you knew about Rush Teagle being killed.”
“I heard from this Cross that a guy Darbra knew got killed. That’s it.”
“Cross ask you about where you were?”
“Yeah, she did.”
“What’d you tell her?”
Bernstein flushed, his voice with an edge on it. “Ask this Cross, you know her so well.”
I didn’t want to lose him just yet. “I stopped by Mrs. Rivkind’s house a few hours ago.”
He seemed to defuse. “She back yet?”
“No. Do you know where she went?”
He waited a moment. “Pearl and Larry, they went away for a couple days, clear the head about Abe.”
“Any idea why she waited this long?”
“This long?”
“Given that her husband died over three weeks ago?”
“I don’t like your attitude. Pearl’s got the right to grieve the way she wants to. We all do.”
I remembered how Bernstein had used anger the last time to deflect me from asking him about Abraham Rivkind and Darbra Proft.
“One last question.”
“Good.”
“You think there was anything between your partner and Darbra.”
He lurched forward in his chair. “Get out.”
“This isn’t just a missing-person case, Mr. Bernstein. It never has been. If you know something that could help the police with who killed Abraham Rivkind or Rush Teagle, you’d best tell somebody soon.”
He started to rise, struggling with both his weight and his attitude. “Get the hell out of my store!”
My store.
“Mr. Cuddy?”
I turned in the corridor. Joel Bernstein had trailed me to his office door, then slammed it behind me. Beverly Swindell was wearing a rust-colored skirt and a maize blouse that day. She had a sheaf of green and white computer printouts in her hand and a worried look on her face, darkening it to a less milky shade of brown.
I said, “Don’t worry. I’m leaving quietly.”
Swindell cradled the printouts under an arm. “Why are you here at all?”
“Some things have happened.”
She seemed to gird herself. “Now what?”
I looked back at Bernstein’s door. “Your boss told me to get out of his store.”
“Joel’s still very upset. We all are.” Swindell stopped. “Is there something you need from me?”
“It might help.”
The bookkeeper shifted the printouts. “These can wait.”
“Your office?”
She shook her head.
Grgo Radja said, “This table okay for you, Mrs. Swindell?”
“It’s fine, thank you.”
“And the gentleman?”
Radja had seated us while giving Swindell the impression he’d never met me before.
I played along. “Fine, thanks.”
The restaurateur took her order for coffee and mine for iced tea. He bowed very slightly, the lapels on his double-breasted suit, blue this time, spiraling a little as he did.
Swindell said, “It feels comfortable being here, even though the place is empty this time of day.”
“Mrs. Rivkind told me her husband used to eat here a lot.”
“Yes.” Swindell put her elbows on the table, letting her palms lay on top of them. “Abe used to take all of us out to dinner here, sometimes in a group, sometimes just individually, find out how we were doing, did we have any suggestions for running the store better that we might not want to put into writing or say in front of somebody else. Even when times were bad—businesswise, I mean—Abe would always say he remembered a time when things were a lot worse—not businesswise—and reach for the check.”
The waiter in the black Eisenhower jacket came by with our drinks, serving them with a flourish and apparently knowing how Swindell took hers because he brought it with cream and maybe sugar already mixed into the cup. After we assured him we didn’t need anything else, he went back into the kitchen.
I said, “Mrs. Swindell, did Mr. Rivkind ever talk to you about the time he was in the concentration camp?”
Her brows went up. “The camp?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Mr. Bernstein told me the front of the store looks like a picture of the entrance to Buchenwald.”
Swindell hunched a little on the elbows, not drinking her coffee. “Joel also tell you that was why I got hired on originally?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the Liberators, that was why Abe gave me the chance, but not why he kept me on.”
“Why did he give Darbra the chance?”
Swindell’s face darkened again, deeper now than her untouched coffee. “Her brother said something to Pearl, and Abe got it into his head that the girl was an orphan.”
“Because of her mother being killed?”
Again the eyebrows went up. “Killed? I heard she fell from a building.”
“There’s some question about the ‘fell’ part.”
“Oh.” Swindell pushed her coffee away. “Oh, my.”
“What’s the matter?”
She looked up at me. “I just thought.”
“What?”
“That there was something about that girl from the first time I saw her.”
“Something?”
“Something … evil might be too strong a word for it. More like … a twist.”