Laurel and Hardy Murders (11 page)

“
Hah
?” Betterman rose with the grace of a hippo. “What old guy? Who’s sick?”

“Jackie Black,” said Hal, scratching his Brillo-pad hair. As usual, he provided no information beyond the bare facts.

“Who the hell’s Jack Black? What
is
this stuff about an ambulance?” Betterman demanded, looking from Hal to the detective.

Katz spoke. “Jack Black, the old man. He’s not feeling well.”

O. J. rose, his brow contracting in worry. “Officer, Mr. Black is past ninety. We brought him from a rest home, and he should have been on his way back to bed by now.”

Betterman stared sourly at Katz. “Did you call for an ambulance, or are you waiting for me to burp you?”

“It’s on the way, Lou.”

“Good. Pack the old futz in, then I wanna see Faxon down here.”

Katz started to go, but Hilary hailed him. The inspector, remembering his suggestion, told the detective to let her look at the murder weapon when he was finished.

“I think,” said Hal, rubbing absently at the stubble now adorning his cheeks, “we better call a special board meeting tomorrow, O. J.”

“Why?” O. J. asked.

“I don’t know,” Hal replied with equal innocence. “Just figured we should.”

O. J. shook his head. “The soonest I can convene the committee is Wednesday.”

“How come so late?” I asked.

“The by-laws,” O. J. answered.

I had to think a moment to realize what he meant.

When last-minute emergency committee meetings have to be called to bail the president out of the clink, or for a similar foreseeable likelihood, the president shall use his one phone call to get the vice-president to notify the rest of the committee. Three days notice shall be given...

It was already Sunday morning, so a committee session technically could not be convened until Wednesday night.

It was the first time I’d ever heard O. J. worrying about sticking to the letter of the by-law.

N
OTHING NEW WAS ADDED
by Faxon, or anyone else, including me. I was so sleepy I could hardly keep my eyes open during the questioning and certain points I meant to bring up slipped my mind because of fatigue. As for Faxon, he’d been riveting his attention on the stage during the Poe-Butler collision, so if anyone did leave by way of the kitchen, he missed seeing them.

It was nearly dawn when Hilary said we could leave. She was worn out, too, and despite my trepidation, allowed Frank Butler to pick up his Packard and drive us home. She insisted he sack out in our apartment. It was much too early to unleash him on the roads of New Jersey and Pennsylvania.

He drove fairly carefully, for him, only wobbling once or twice into the wrong lane. At 70th Street, he stopped and double-parked long enough to dash into an all-night Pick & Pay. He emerged a moment later with a bag loaded high with Colt 45 cans and several bags of walnuts.

We must have looked pretty bedraggled to the doorman. He politely averted his eyes as Hilary and I entered and probably wondered what we’d been doing all evening. Whatever he thought, it must have been more fun than what we’d been through. I told him to let Butler in after he parked the car.

As Hilary closed the door and switched on the dimmest office light, I asked her where Butler should be bedded down for the night (or, more accurately, morning).

“Let him sleep in your bed.”

I yawned. “And I get the couch?”

“Don’t be dense,” Hilary smiled. “I don’t take up
that
much room, you know...”

I set the bag of beer and nuts on the desk and walked over to Hilary. She rested her head against my chest and we stood there a moment in weary, but not unpleasant proximity.

“Don’t get any ideas, brightness,” she murmured, “I’m totally exhausted.”

“Me, too.”

There was a pounding at the door. We ignored it for one gentle second, then moved away from one another and I let the Old Man in.

He stumped to the couch, sat down, and sighed deeply. “Been a long night, even for me, boy. Hand me some medicine.”

I fished out a can of Colt 45. He ripped off the tab and took a long swallow. Hilary suggested a glass but he shook his head. “Takes too long, sis. Like Heywood Broun says, ‘Make hay when you’ve got moonshine!’”

Hilary blinked, groggy with the simple logic of Butler’s misappropriated philosophy. She turned to me. “Gene,” she asked, “do you think this clown could possibly have had anything to do with Poe’s death?”

I shook my head. “Not his style. Cake bashing’s more his thing. Right, Old Man?”

He nodded and sipped, a look of pure contentment on his face. “I couldn’t’ve stabbed the bastard, I had both hands full. What a hell of a gesture!” He finished the malt liquor in a single pull and motioned Hilary to toss him another can. “Got a nutcracker, toots?”

“Yes. You’re not going to start with them
now
?”

His eyebrows shot up. “I’m hungry.”

“Look,” I told her, “go to bed, I’ll fix him a sandwich or something and bed him down in the ‘guest room.’”

“I don’t need no sandwich, just a nutcracker.”

“I’m getting it, I’m getting it,” Hilary replied, resigned. She knew we must have one somewhere, but which drawer was anyone’s guess.

While she was out of the room, Butler talked about the upcoming Philadelphia/New York convention. I was too bushed to stem the tide, but finally I pointed out that the whole thing might have to be canceled because of the fiasco of the past evening.

“Why? What’s one got to do with another?”

“I don’t know, but O. J. is calling an emergency meeting of the executive committee to discuss it.”

“When? I better be there.”

“Wednesday night, probably. O. J. hasn’t said.”

“Wednesday?” Hilary repeated, entering with the nutcracker, which she handed to him. “Maybe I should come along, I might be able to help. I’ve got a few—”

“Sons committee meetings,” I said quickly, “are closed to nonmembers, Hilary.”

“No problem.” She walked to her desk. “I’ll write a check for membership dues. How much—and to whom do I give it?”

I was stuck. I didn’t know whether to blurt out the truth or let the folly proceed unchecked. Butler decided it for me.

Cracking open a walnut and picking at the meat with his stubby fingers, he informed her that she could not join the Sons of the Desert.

Her back stiffened.

“Why not?”

“You can join the Philly tent, toots, but not the parent chapter in this burg.” He cracked another walnut.

“Why not?” she repeated, not loud. She was standing poker-stiff, staring at me, daring me to avert my eyes.

“You can’t,” said Butler, “because you’re a broad.”

A long silence.

“Is he telling the truth?” she asked me.

My mouth was so dry I had to swallow twice before I could manage to speak.

“It
is
stag,” I admitted.

Hilary stared at me with a positively indescribable expression. It made me feel terrible without knowing exactly why. If she’d only sworn or uttered something sarcastic or demanded a reason why I hadn’t told her sooner, I could have coped. But she just looked at me, and I had to turn away.

After a long moment, she left the room.

Hilary closed her bedroom door behind her. Very gently.

But I slept on the couch.

B
UTLER WAS GONE BY
the time I woke, and so was Hilary. No note. I had nothing to do because it was Sunday, so after a while I left the apartment and strolled along Broadway, stopping for lunch at the Maravilla, an inexpensive Chinese-Cuban restaurant between 84th and 85th.

I put away some soup, a banana omelette, and a glass of house wine, then returned to West End Avenue, but still no Hilary. I moped around for a while, did the
Times
acrostic, went out again and browsed for half an hour at the Barqu, purchasing a couple of secondhand paperbacks, then headed home again.

Four-thirty. The place still was empty. It was too nice a day to spend indoors, especially in an apartment cloaked by the hush of a New York summer Sunday. More strolling. Riverside Drive. Children tossing Frisbees. Optimists at water’s edge beneath the trestle trying to fish the Hudson. Daylight lasted late, and there was still an angry crimson streaking to the clouds hanging over New Jersey as I headed back to Broadway along 93rd. I toyed with the notion of catching a double feature James Bond at the Symphony, changed my mind and took a light supper, ginger trout and cider, at the Sou-En.

It was nearly nine o’clock when I opened the door, sure Hilary would be home in time to catch the latest goings-on at 165 Eaton Place. But I was wrong. I watched Mrs. Bridges fix dinner for the king by myself, distracted partially by Jean Marsh’s offbeat, chilly sensuality, but mostly preoccupied with unanswered questions as to Hilary’s whereabouts.

She didn’t reappear in the apartment till Monday morning. I was opening the mail when she walked in, asked if there were any messages, then went back to change for a press luncheon at the Sign of the Dove.

She refused to answer any questions I had unless they had to do with business. For all the mind she paid me, I might still have been alone.

The deep-freeze lasted until Wednesday evening, the night O. J. called the emergency session of the Sons board.

W
EDNESDAY. 7:30 P.M.

I was going out the door when I saw Hilary pulling on her coat.

“I’m going with you, Gene.”

“You can’t!”

Her blue eyes fixed me icily. “Are you going to stop me?”

Her hair, tied in a severe backknot, was a sure sign I was in disfavor.

We shared a taxi in silence.

7:50
P.M.

Seated at the big round table in The Lambs were O. J., Hal, Natie, Phil, and Toby. They were all busy stuffing folded papers into envelopes bearing the Sons of the Desert escutcheon.

At the end of the table, Frank Butler sat idly puffing on a twisted cigar like a fat, malignant dragon.

O. J. greeted Hilary pleasantly and suggested she wait in the adjacent restaurant. “The meeting won’t be too long, I’ll try to get Gene back to—”

“I’m staying,” she said, plopping her purse on the table.

Natie paused with an envelope flap against his tongue tip. Silence. Five sets of eyebrows arched as if controlled by a single muscle. Only the Old Man did not look surprised.

“I want to speak to the committee,” said Hilary.

“Go ahead,” said Hal, “we haven’t started the meeting yet.”

“No.” She shook her head and sat down next to Natie. “I’m not in the mood just yet.”

Five pairs of eyes swung in my direction. Their attitudes ranged from simple disbelief to downright hostility. Butler looked at me with a mixture of amusement and pity.

“Didn’t you explain?” Natie asked me.

“I did. You see the result.”

“Look, lady,” Phil argued, “this is members only here.”

Hilary nodded, fishing in her purse. She took out her checkbook and poised her pen to write. “Who here is the treasurer?”

“I am,” Natie said, “but I can’t take your money.”

“There are rules governing choice of members,” O. J. tried to explain soothingly, but Hilary cut him off.

“Don’t be mealy-mouthed. You mean, it’s ‘men only.’ Right?”

O. J. smiled wanly but said nothing. It was no secret that he wanted to open the club to women members, but was afraid of the opposition.

“Look, lady,” Phil said angrily, “this is a private organization meeting in a private club. We can get The Lambs to throw you out.”

“I’d like to see anyone try,” she replied, smiling frostily.

“Well, goddamnit, I’ll toss you out on your ass myself!”

“Phil, sit down!” I ordered him. “She’s got a black belt in karate.”

He sat.

Frank Butler chuckled. “Well, boys,” he said, “this situation is no skin off my tongue—we’re integrated at the Two Tars—but let me tell you, this broad is tougher than a crocogator. Take my advice and don’t hassle her.”

There was a lot more grumbling, and no one was too pleased with me, but Hilary stayed.

8:05
P.M.

We all stood, including Hilary, while O. J. said a few words of tribute to Jack Black, who’d died in the hospital shortly after the banquet.

As we sat, Hal murmured glumly that he didn’t know how to break the news to his uncle.

“Billy doesn’t know?” O. J. asked.

Hal shook his head. “I’ve been putting it off. Second death in less than a month, and the first one brought on the stroke. I’m scared to give the old guy another jolt.”

O. J. patted Hal on the shoulder. “If it’s not too late, maybe we can call him after the meeting—sort of ease him into it. Then we can take a run up there Saturday and break it to him.”

Phil laughed. “Gonna tell ’im his partner’s on the roof, huh? Y’know that joke?”

We all knew it, and none of us laughed.

8:07
P.M.

“Gimme one-a them,” a loud voice demanded. I turned and saw Dutchy, late as usual, trying to hold himself steadily. His eyes were out of focus and he swayed a little.

O. J. helped him sit down. Dutchy flapped absently at one protruding ear and squinted at the flyer in an unsuccessful attempt to bring it into sync with his fogged vision.

Suddenly he looked up. “Who the hell’s that?” He meant Hilary.

O. J. did his best to explain; having no explanation, it wasn’t easy. Dutchy frowned, then promptly forgot about her. He waved the flyer. “What the hell’s this?”

“Emergency flyers,” Natie called across the table. “Apologizing for the mess at the banquet.”

“And it’s also got the pertinent poop about our double blast,” Butler said.

“Speaking of which,” said Natie gleefully, “a lot of checks have already come in. We’re gonna have a crowd of Sons going to Philly.”

“Which brings up the question,” Hal observed, “of whether or not we are going to charter a bus.”

Natie groaned.

Eventually it got put to a vote, though technically I don’t think we had a quorum. But it was only because there were so few people present that we could so easily dispose of the bus issue—by the simple expedient of dumping the whole responsibility in O. J.’s lap.