Irish Coffee (7 page)

SOUTH BEND IS RINGED WITH
motels, with the greatest concentration to the north and east, particularly the east, where the area around the mall is dotted with motels, inns, and hotels. Their number was explained by the influx of fans for home games, hardly a sufficient basis for yearlong profit, but somehow the number of guests through the year made it a paying proposition. There were condominium apartments as well, which waited empty for the return of alumni and benefactors of the university. The cable company for which Naomi McTear worked had several such apartments and it was in one of these that she was staying. Indeed, her presence for Fred's funeral was explained by the fact that she had been assigned to a Lady Irish home game.

“Lady Irish?” Like most successful women she took a dim view of women, and sometimes she thought that it was only former coaches who took women athletes seriously. Heresy, of course, never to be voiced aloud or indicated in tone or manner. Gender equality was a demanding game, most of whose rules were written ad hoc, and it was dangerously easy to overstep some invisible line and be declared a traitor to her sex.

Naomi's interest in sports was entirely theoretical, a matter of knowledge rather than practice. She was an only daughter whose older brother, George, had excelled at every sport he had undertaken. George was now in his forties and paying the belated price for having being banged around on the gridiron in college and the pros. He was wracked with arthritis, had two new knees, moved with great deliberateness using a cane and, finding the pain-control pills inadequate, had sought solace in drink. From time to time he was interviewed and the results now were invariably embarrassing. Her brother Tom was another story entirely, one of the voices of the Chicago Cubs as well as the Bulls. It was Tom on whom she had modeled her life. He was inept at sports but his head was filled with lore that was ever at his fingertips, a great asset in his trade. If George could do it, Tom knew it, and George had always deferred to his young brother in the matter of sports statistics. Knowledge is power. Naomi had vowed to become a female version of Tom.

And she had. She had written sports in college, had devoted more time to absorbing histories of sports, first the major ones, then all the others. By the time she graduated, she was a walking encyclopedia. When she met Fred Neville it was like attracting like. The first time she sat in on one of his postgame performances with the media she recognized a kindred spirit. She asked a question about pre-Rockne football and he rattled off the answer and looked at her with renewed interest. After the news conference she asked him to dinner.

“I have an expense account,” she explained. “Besides I want to know you better.”

Directness is the best direction to take with men, as long as it is done in a matter-of-fact, nonthreatening way. Fred accepted, he suggested the Carriage House and as they drove, she was sure he had lost the way. But suddenly, in the middle of nowhere was this excellent restaurant.

“I don't suppose you drink,” she said.

“Don't you?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you do.”

They started with a scotch and water and had a bottle of cabernet with their meal. And talked. And talked. They were taking the other's measure, and it was like a parlor game. Baseball? They both knew baseball like the back of their hand. Football, of course, and basketball. And so on through the roll of sports and each might have been talking to himself rather than the other. Fred could have been a clone of Tom.

“He's your brother? I should have known.”

“Why?”

“You have the same command of your subject.”

They were among the last diners to rise and go. Outside it was a lovely fall evening and high above them stars were visible in a clear sky. And it was so quiet.

“You all right?” she asked when they got to his car.

“I'm the designated hitter.”

“Then I hope you strike out.”

The words hung there in the silent air, meaning more than she intended. It was the first thing either had said that suggested that he was male and she female. Scoring and striking out took on new meanings.

The moment passed, they got in, and he drove with great care back to South Bend.

“My treat next time,” he said when he dropped her off.

“Wasn't this time a treat?”

“In every sense.”

 

That had been several years ago, during the Bob Davie years. Naomi had angled to get her assignments changed, but it was difficult to get Notre Dame games, since so many others wanted them. But she got more than her share and each time she was in town she and Fred got together. The intervals gave Naomi time to think what it was leading to, if anything. But first Fred had to be introduced to Tom. This was arranged and the three of them got together for a postgame dinner to discuss the incredible loss the Irish had just suffered because they had let the clock run out when they were on the opponent's six-yard line. A field goal would have given them victory. They had a time-out left. But the clock was allowed to run and a confused squad left the field in defeat.

What Naomi had expected to happen did not happen. Tom had not liked Fred. Of course, Tom was drinking, the family weakness, and became surly as the dinner progressed. If the nation is divided into those who love Notre Dame and those who hate her, it became clear that Tom fell among the latter. His criticisms of the school, particularly of the treatment of its teams by the national media, began as humorous asides, and might have been directed against Naomi and her colleagues on national television, but as the meal progressed, the humor receded and bitterness was unmasked. And Fred's defense turned from being lighthearted deflection of criticism he spent much of his professional life hearing to being serious, an artillery barrage of statistics, with a recurrent mention of the percentage of athletes who actually graduated, a most impressive statistic indeed. But not to Tom.

“So you have a cadre of soft professors who take it easy on the jocks.”

“We do not. Nor are there any bogus majors in basket weaving or physical education. Check it out.”

The success of the teams? As even the rah-rah tradition acknowledged, it was largely a matter of luck. Nor were the schedules played as demanding as other schools faced. And of course, like the Yankees—Tom hated the Yankees—Notre Dame could buy any coach they wanted and lure to the campus any athlete.

Again and again, realizing what a mistake she had made, Naomi tried to get the conversation on other matters, but it was far too late for that.

“Oh, Tom, for heaven's sake.”

“Oh, Tom, for heaven's sake,” he echoed, mimicking her tone. She could have hit him. He was her favorite brother, the one she was almost desperate should like Fred, and he was behaving like this!

Eventually, as happened when he drank, Tom passed into a further bibulous phase, from argumentative to sentimental. It was not welcome. He decided to tell Fred what a wonderful sister he had.

“It's why I never married. Where could I find someone like her?”

“Oh, Tom.”

He did not mimic her. She almost wished he had. He became moist-eyed, reminding her of their idyllic childhood, about their sainted mother. Throughout all this, Naomi had avoided meeting Fred's eyes. She knew what his reaction must be. The talk about marriage was too much. She went off to the Ladies and stared at her face in the mirror. She saw there a woman in the cruel position of having to choose between her favorite brother—and there was, after all, Tom sober to offset the awfulness of Tom drunk—and Fred Neville. But did she have the choice after this? Fred had been attentive, he obviously liked her, but what would he think of any future that involved a relationship with Tom?

But when she returned to the table, Tom had entered into the final, good-humored endearing stage. He and Fred were in happy conversation. They had agreed on the immortal status of Joe Paterno, which was insufficiently acknowledged by the sportswriting fraternity. “And sorority,” Tom added as she joined them.

If it were only this final effect drink had on Tom, Naomi would have welcomed his drinking. The evening ended on a high note.

“Let's have an Irish coffee,” Tom said.

It seemed a peace offering. They all three had Irish coffee, a drink Naomi liked about as much as she liked eggnog. Outside, they put Tom in a cab and Naomi turned to face Fred.

“That wasn't what I planned,” she said.

“It was fun,” he said, his tone false.

“I'll make it up to you.” Impulsively, she lifted her face and kissed him. Almost to her surprise, he took her in his arms in a crushing embrace and pressed his lips more firmly on hers.

If that dinner with Tom had been the result of a plan, it would have been successful so far as its ultimate outcome. They ended up at her suite where a somewhat woozy Fred, collapsed in a chair, took off his tie and kicked off his shoes.

“I haven't had that much to drink in a long time.”

“Me either. Or is it, neither have I? Or is it, can I get you anything?”

He had put back his head and his eyes were at half-mast.

“Don't fall asleep!”

“I don't even remember driving here.”

Naomi looked down at him in silence. Then she took his hands, heaved him to his feet, and led him down the hall to the bedroom.

 

During the week, she got a call from Tom.

“I hope you're not serious about that guy.”

“I'm surprised you remember him.”

“You better forget him too.”

WHEN PHIL SUGGESTED THAT
the three of them have lunch on campus while they talked, Mary frowned.

“I'd like to get away, if you don't mind.”

Perhaps she did not want those she worked with to see her being interviewed by the police.

Jimmy Stewart said, “I'm surprised you came to work.”

“It was either that or stay home.”

“I talked with your mother this morning.”

“Oh, Lord.” She looked at Phil, as if he would understand the remark. Was she referring to her mother's clumsy efforts to pair herself and Phil?

Jimmy Stewart suggested the Mikado on 31, a splendid restaurant that had not yet been discovered by avid lunch goers. The menu was varied, the service suggestive of geisha deference, the dining room a clean well-lighted place. Phil's serving of chicken-fried rice drew a gasp from Mary.

“You could feed an army with all that.”

She herself settled for tea and soup and salad. Stewart's rivaled Phil's in quantity and consisted of a series of courses. Phil unwrapped his chopsticks and began to wield them with great dexterity.

“Or a navy,” Phil said.

Their meals eaten and a fresh pot of hot tea called for, Stewart began to put to Mary the questions that needed answering.

“You were Fred's girl.”

“His fiancée in all but name.”

“What was the secret?”

“Naomi refused to accept the fact that he was breaking their engagement.”

“She wouldn't give back the diamond ring?” Phil asked.

Mary smiled. “That wasn't the bone of contention.”

“What was?”

“Her refusal to agree that everything between them was over.”

They discussed this for some time. Phil remembered Naomi's flamboyant entrance at the funeral home, her place of prominence in Sacred Heart, occupying the front pew with the Nevilles, the near public quarrel with Mary in the university club that Roger had told him of.

“When did you last see him?”

Mary thought. “Sunday.” The body had been found on Tuesday.

“Where was that?”

“We had dinner.”

“Your mother says she knew nothing about you and Fred.”

“She didn't. How I regret now that I didn't tell her. I think she imagines I dreamt the whole thing up.”

“You last saw him on Sunday?”

“Yes.”

“You didn't visit him at his apartment after that?”

“Certainly not.”

“You never went to his apartment?”

Mary looked thoughtful. “He was very old-fashioned in many ways. It was one of the things that attracted me to him. He was careful to avoid anything that might affect my reputation.”

Phil said, “That sounds like Fred. You know, he said nothing about you to Roger or me.”

“Of course not. We were agreed that my mother would be told first when it could be made public.”

“After Naomi capitulated?”

Mary nodded. “You can imagine what I thought of her, hanging on when there was no point, putting me in such an equivocal position. Oh, there were other reasons for not making a formal announcement.” She looked at Phil. “You know how my mother was. She persisted in thinking of me as an old maid and was constantly trying to throw me at some man of her choice.”

Stewart sipped his tea and said, “The manager of Fred's building said you visited Fred in his apartment between Sunday and the day his body was discovered.”

Mary just shook her head. “No. I last saw him on Sunday.”

“You're sure of that?”

“Of course I'm sure.”

But she was not annoyed by the question. And so they had arrived at a dilemma. On the one hand, the building manager said Mary had been there during the days of Fred's absence without leave, on the other she said she had last seen Fred on the Sunday.

“He must be mistaken,” Phil said. “The building manager.”

“I don't know him and I don't see how he could have known me. He said I had been there?”

“Yes.”

“That's odd.”

And that was all. She did not protest at all, let alone too much. Phil could see that Stewart did not intend to press the matter. First he would want to talk again to the building manager.

 

They took Mary back to campus and then Stewart said, “I have to get a recent photograph of her. Asking her mother for one could be sticky.”

Phil said, “No need to do that. We can stop at the apartment and pick up the university staff mug book. Mary should be in that.”

And she was. Such photographs suggested driving license or passport photos, but were sufficient to serve their purposes.

“Where's Roger?” Jimmy Stewart asked.

Phil looked at his watch. “In class. This is his big day. Two classes.”

“Wow.”

Phil let it go. There was no need to explain the apparent easiness of the academic life. The scant time spent in classrooms would have been surprising if one did not know that professors are, in a sense, at it twenty-four hours a day. Actual teaching is the periodic dissemination of thoughts and materials that accumulate over the long haul, incubating, achieving organization. No doubt it was possible for a professor to prepare a few canned courses and grind them out year after year, leaving his time free for whatever else he chose to do. But that seemed to be rare to the point of nonexistence, at least at Notre Dame.

 

Santander took some time to answer his door, but then the sound of the television made the door vibrate. Stewart pounded on it again and suddenly there was silence inside. Another minute and then the door opened and Santander looked out at them over a chain.

“IRS,” Stewart said.

Santander gave a wary smile. “Come on.”

“We need to talk.”

“We already talked.”

Stewart began to search the inner pocket of his suit jacket. “Well, if you insist on seeing the search warrant…”

“Just a minute.”

The door closed, a chain rattled, Stewart avoided Phil's eyes, and soon they were inside.

“What were you watching?” Phil asked.

“Watching.” Santander looked puzzled, then understood. “The box? I just keep it on for company.”

Phil began to slap his knee with the staff mug book and Santander became curious.

“What's that?”

Stewart said, “You told me that Fred Neville's girl visited him during the days he was missing.”

“Missing? He was right there in his apartment all along.”

“And you saw a girl visit him.”

“Twice.”

“Had you seen her before?”

“How else would I have recognized her?”

“Good point.” Stewart asked Phil for the mug book. He opened it randomly and handed it to Santander. “You see her there?”

Santander brought the book to within inches of his nose and his head moved as typewriter carriages once had, from left to right, then return, another row, down one page and then the facing page. He looked over the book and shook his head. “No.”

Stewart took the book from Santander and made as if to rise. Then, as if struck by a thought, opened the book, paged toward the back, and handed it again to Santander. Phil knew that Stewart had displayed the page on which Mary Shuster's photograph was prominent in the middle of a bottom row. They waited for Santander to reach the bottom of the page. He hesitated, then went on to the facing page. A slow reading of the rows of photographs there. He looked over the book, then closed it and handed it back to Stewart.

“Can't find her?”

“She's not there.”

Stewart opened the book, stood beside Santander and pointed. “Is that her?”

Santander hardly glanced. “No. I told you she's not there.”

“Okay.” He looked at Phil. “No need to search the apartment, is there?”

Santander said, “I thought you already had.”

“I meant yours.”

A sputtering Santander accompanied them to the door. He stood in it until they were in Stewart's car and then closed it, audibly putting the chain back in place. In a moment they heard the roar of the television begin.