Текст книги " Red White and Black and Blue "
Автор книги: Richard Stevenson
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Chapter Fifteen
Louderbush didn't show. I sat waiting, my Smith & Wesson under a pillow—precautions wouldn't do any harm—and kept on waiting for over half an hour. At ten forty I dialed Louderbush's number and got his voicemail.
I said, "I understand this is no picnic for you. But your impulse in calling me was a decent one. You said you wanted to explain. I'm ready to listen. So please call again, and we'll do what we need to do to get this sorted out. I hope to speak with you soon."
What was Louderbush up to? He seemed to be presenting himself as the aggrieved party here, the fellow who was being misunderstood. But how could he possibly come up with a story that cast himself in any kind of positive light? I didn't get it, but I was immensely curious.
I took the Don sign down from my door and locked myself in. Through the motel's thin walls, I could hear a TV going in the next room, one of those hair-raising real housewives shows that leaves you convinced civilization is basically over and a kind of human devolution is well underway.
I phoned Janie Insinger and asked if she was safe and doing all right. She said she was, but she sounded tipsy and she asked if she could speak to me some other time because at that moment she and Kevin and Anthony were "like, having a party."
When I called Virgil Jackman, he said he was just getting off work, and he hadn't been bothered by any Serbians either.
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He said he was going out with Kimberly and he would talk to me Monday if that was okay. I said sure.
It was Friday night, so maybe even the Serbians were out doing the club scene.
I reached Timmy at home, and all was well there. I told him where I was and what had happened with Kenyon Louderbush.
"Wow."
"You bet."
"Maybe he knows you're on his trail, and he's going to drop out of the race."
"I doubt it. He wouldn't do it through me. He'd just announce he had a brain tumor, or he wanted to spend more time with his family, or a voice had spoken to him in the night and told him to move to Salt Lake City."
"You're right. These guys never just spit it out."
"No, Louderbush seems to think of me as somebody who can somehow defuse the accusation. I want to hear his story, and I'm irked that he didn't show up at the motel. But this thing was plainly eating at him, and I'm guessing he'll call again."
"So, are you spending the night up there?"
"Yeah, and I think I've finally shaken the Serbians loose. I checked out of the Crowne Plaza. Maybe I'll be back home tomorrow night. It's possible Louderbush has called off the dogs while he tries to negotiate something. Not that there's anything to negotiate, really, if he admits to having had a physically abusive affair with Greg Stiver."
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"Maybe Louderbush was the second person somebody saw on the roof with Stiver, and he shoved the kid off in a rage, and now he wants to confess."
"That's disgusting and tidy and not altogether implausible, but the confession part seems unlikely. What he said to me was that I didn't understand, and he wanted to explain what happened. That doesn't sound like a confession in the offing.
It sounds like a defense."
"Let's hope he calls back soon."
"Not tonight necessarily. I'm beat. And I still hurt all over.
I guess I should change the dressing on my ear again. Maybe even have it checked. It feels as if something is gnawing at the side of my head. Rats or ferrets."
"This is becoming too graphic for me. I may have to go watch the Oprah channel. Should I come up there? I could be in Troy in fifteen minutes. I hate it when you don't feel good.
It's so unlike you. Maybe I could cheer you up in some familiar way."
"Thanks, lover, but Tylenol will have to do. What I really need is to go right to sleep."
"Tomorrow then."
"It's a plan."
Except, when I turned the lights out, I couldn't sleep. The whole ugly mess kept sloshing around in my aching head. I could hear the housewives sniping and puling in the next room. Didn't anybody who stayed in motels ever watch the Hallmark Channel? I turned on the TV in my room while the eleven o'clock news was on but didn't see or hear a thing. I was aware enough to know there was no local political news 139
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on, just car wrecks, fires, cats with cancer stories, weather—
rain was on the way—and baseball. I shut off the TV when Jay Leno came on but still couldn't sleep.
At a quarter to twelve, I got up, fired up my laptop and went over my notes. They were blurry and indistinct. Had I developed an ear infection that had spread to my brain? I wasn't feverish but I still felt ill and impaired. I gave up on the notes, turned off the bedside light and opened the college wrestler download, Humpy Mat Humpers. That was good for about ten minutes, leaving me even more exhausted and still wide awake.
A cell phone whose ring tone was Queen's We Are the Champions went off in the room on the other side of me—the housewives on my right had called it a night—and a woman's voice cried out with delight, "Junior!" Then Junior got an earful. Mom had gotten her hair tinted and Midge had had her baby, and I got an earful, too.
I turned on Leno, switched to Letterman, then to TCM.
Casablanca was on, and I recited the lines along with the actors. I had read recently that Bogart and Ingrid Bergman hadn't liked each other. She considered him boorish, he found her haughty—and this sad thought left me even more anxious and depressed.
When the movie ended, I started channel surfing and was clicking by a couple of religious channels when a phrase snagged my attention and I stopped. A wizened preacher with tanning-booth skin and a gray pompadour was telling a blond lady with a painted smile about something he called the Eddie Fund. As I listened, it became clear that this was a ministry 140
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whose purpose was to turn gay people straight through counseling and prayer. When the phone number viewers could call in order to make a donation was shown, I made a note of it. Just twenty-five dollars would make Jesus smile, viewers were told. Old JC and his famous lopsided grin.
Soon the preacher changed the subject, and I turned off the set. As I drifted into a restless sleep, I wondered why, when out-and-proud Log Cabin Republican Greg Stiver had died, mourners were asked to donate to a religious crackpot cure-a-gay organization. This made no sense, unless of course the person in charge of funeral arrangements had been Anson Stiver, the evil stepfather. Him, I had to meet.
* * * *
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Chapter Sixteen
Rain pounded down in drops the size of boccie balls. I cupped a hand over my injured ear and made it out to the car with my laptop and overnight bag. I got in and slammed the door.
Then I saw the note on the windshield. I climbed back out, grabbed the piece of sopping paper, and got back inside. The ink had run, but the handwritten two-word message was still legible. I'm sorry.
So Louderbush had shown up sometime during the night and left this apology? Presumably the note was his. Only two people knew where I was staying: Louderbush and Timmy. It seemed as if Louderbush had called off the Serbians, and he was trying to somehow deal with the repulsive mess he'd made, but he kept losing his nerve. I tried to work up some sympathy for him, but it was hard to find any.
I made a quick Dunkin' Donuts stop in Troy and headed back down the river to Albany, eating and drinking in the car, and trying to find any political news on the radio. WAMC had on a few local headlines; none mentioned Kenyon Louderbush or the gubernatorial campaign.
I thought about driving out to Hall Creek Community College, where Paul Podolski said Stiver had had a teaching job lined up, but I decided to wait until Monday. It seemed unlikely I'd find anybody out there willing and able to talk to me on a Saturday morning in June.
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Instead, I headed toward Schenectady. I had an address for Anson and Margery Stiver. I pulled into the breakdown lane and keyed the address into my GPS. Normally I would have done this while in motion—another distracted-driving asshole—but I still felt so crummy that I feared that any greater than usual distraction might end in calamity.
The Anson Stiver home in Schenectady was in one of the nicer neighborhoods in this sad-ass abandoned-by-GE old rust-belt town. Ridgemont Drive was probably where company managers and professional people had made their comfortable lives from the nineteen-teens up until the seventies, when the company moved south and way, way east. The Stivers' ample manse was fieldstone below, powder blue wood frame above, with white decorative shutters and a big white front door with a bronze knocker. The front lawn wasn't as well tended as others in the neighborhood, and the azaleas needed pruning.
A blue Chevy Suburban was parked in the driveway in front of the Stivers' unopened garage doors. I pulled in next to it and made a dash through the rain for the front door.
There wasn't much of an overhang, and after making a couple of noisy bangs with the knocker I stood as close to the door as I could without risking ending up nose-to-nose with whoever might suddenly appear. Nothing happened for the next two minutes, and my back and shoulders were getting wet. This was quite the passive-aggressive residential portal.
I knocked again and tried the doorbell, too. The mailbox next to the door appeared to be empty, but I didn't go poking around in it.
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The door swung open, and a woman who looked unprepared for guests stood peering out at me. She looked more rained on than I did. Her pale gray eyes were soft, but the face around them was an Okefenokee of channels and rivulets, the uneasily-lived-in middle-aged face of a woman who was beyond vanity out of choice or otherwise. She had on a pink terrycloth bathrobe, with another pink towel wrapped around her head. A few strands of wet gray hair stuck out from under the wrap.
"I thought this might be the cable people, or I wouldn't have answered it. You're not with Time Warner?"
"I'm sorry, no. I'm here about your son. I take it you're Margery Stiver?"
"About Hugh?" She looked frightened. "What about Hugh?
Is he all right?"
"Actually, Hugh is doing okay. I saw him yesterday. It's your late son, Gregory, I'd like to talk to you about if you have a few minutes. I apologize for barging in like this, Mrs.
Stiver."
She relaxed a little. "Where did you see Hugh? Did he say for you to come here?"
"No, he didn't. I didn't tell him I would be talking to you. I was asking him some things about Greg. May I come in for just a few minutes? I know you're expecting Time Warner." I showed her my ID.
"Oh. A private investigator?"
"Licensed by the state of New York."
"You saw Hugh. Yes, okay, you can come in. My husband is in the other room. He's busy."
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She led me through a foyer past a carpeted staircase and into what used to be called a den and maybe still was west of Crow Street. A flat-screen TV the size of a Caddie Escalade occupied one wall, and the bookshelves lining another held what appeared to be collectible plates with an early American motif on wooden stands and a couple of shelves of mystery novels that included the complete works of Margaret Truman.
"I'm so glad you saw Hugh. I have to say I'm envious,"
Mrs. Stiver added with a nervous laugh. "I haven't seen Hugh for going on fourteen years." She perched on the edge of a long low couch while I seated myself tentatively on a well-worn recliner I assumed was that of her husband, the child beater. The only printed matter on the coffee table was the Sunday Times Union TV listings. "I suppose Hugh told you that he's estranged from his family—from Anson and myself."
"Yes, he did. That must be very difficult, especially for you." She didn't pick up on this.
"How is he? What is he doing? Is he a mechanic? Hugh was the handy one with machines and engines."
"He's an auto mechanic."
"In Massachusetts?"
"Yes."
"A friend of mine, Cindy Visnicki, saw him there three or four years ago. I wrote to an address a friend of Cindy's got hold of, but Hugh never wrote back. He hates us." She didn't sob or tear up. She just looked at me, waiting, it seemed, to find out how much I knew.
I said, "Hugh's childhood was pretty bad, is my impression.
Apparently he prefers to leave it far behind."
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"I know. I understand. I don't blame him."
"No."
"I suppose I could blame myself."
"Oh?"
"But what's the point?"
"It's hard to know."
"You can do what you can do, but you can only do what you can do."
"Mm."
"Doctor Phil says self-reproach can eat you alive if you let it. Move on and get it right the next time. That's what I've tried to do."
There seemed to be no point asking her if she planned on having three more children and raising them in a home without a sadist in it. "Does your husband also have regrets about the way the boys were treated?"
She sniffed. "I really wouldn't know what Anson thinks about my children. Or about anything else."
"He's the uncommunicative type?"
"Uncommunicative? With the boys, Anson communicated with his fists. With Jennifer and me—Jennifer is my daughter—he didn't have much to say, no. What Anson was, was a good provider. I never had that as a child, and my husband Jim was also a disappointment in that way. He died at age thirty-one when he spent a good part of his paycheck one Friday night on beer and on losing at poker and then driving a company pickup truck into a bridge abutment.
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three days Jim worked. They thought I should also reimburse them for the truck. Can you believe it?"
"You were in a fix."
"Anson was just coming out of a divorce, and we were both feeling incredibly lost and needy, and he had his engineering job at GE. And of course he never told me why his first wife had left him and moved to California along with their two little boys. I only heard about that later on."
"I see."
"Hugh knew you were from Albany, I guess?"
"Yes, I told him I was."
"Did he ask you anything about me?"
"No, I'm sorry to say he didn't. He seems to have moved on, too."
"I see Jenny once in a while. She's strong like Gregory was. Hugh was the cutie, but Jenny would never take any guff from anybody. And Greg—that boy always knew exactly what he wanted. He seemed to end up with Anson's brains and determination even though Anson was not his biological father. I really thought Gregory would go far. When he died, I was so, so torn up. It wasn't just that he was gone, but I really didn't believe he was someone who would take his own life. It made not one shred of sense to me. It just wasn't who Greg was. I kept saying, no, they must have him mixed up with somebody else who would commit suicide. I mean, somebody who survived Anson Stiver would then just give up? It drove me crazy trying to figure it all out. And I never did. I never ever understood why Greg died the way he did."
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"Some of his friends say he had been depressed in the weeks leading up to his death. This was possibly related to his not landing a teaching job. Though someone else has told me he did eventually find a position at a community college near Rochester. Did you know about any of this?"
Her voice wobbled. "No. By that time, Greg wasn't in touch with us a whole lot. Jenny was, but Anson and I weren't in touch with him at all, really. Jenny was on Greg's life insurance policy, as you know. So is Shenango finally going to pay Jenny what they owe her? She has all those student loans, and Anson says we can't help out because we only just get by. The one good thing about Greg not being here now is he doesn't have to see what Obama has done to the economy."
"I'm not involved with Shenango Life, Mrs. Stiver. But my client is very sympathetic to Greg and wants some kind of justice done regarding his death."
"Oh, I assumed you were an insurance investigator. You're not?"
"No. Anyway, once a death has officially been ruled a suicide, insurance companies are generally off the hook.
Otherwise, people planning on killing themselves could just take out big life insurance policies before dying and all but bankrupt the industry."
She rolled her eyes. "The insurance companies won't get any sympathy from me. They're all just greedy. And now they're going to make out like bandits with Obamacare."
I said, "I know you knew that Greg was gay."
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"Oh yes. How could we not know it? The whole world knew it. Greg saw to that. I was accepting, of course. I believe that some people are born that way. My first husband Jim had a brother we all wondered about. Anson was not accepting, though. He thought Greg became gay just to get even with him, but that's just foolishness. For an engineer, Anson has a few strange unscientific opinions."
"Was it your husband who requested that donations in Greg's memory be made to something called the Eddie Fund?
That was listed in the newspaper obituaries."
She turned as pink as the towel on her head. "I did not know at the time what kind of organization that was. Anson knew I would not have approved. He said it was something about orphans. Then Jenny found out what it really was, and she had a fit."
"Were you aware of any of Greg's gay relationships? Who he dated?"
"Just in high school. An effeminate boy named Bootsy was always coming over and spending time in Greg's room with him. But then Anson caught them doing something, and that was the end of that. In college, Greg was off on his own. I thought maybe he had a boyfriend who would show up at the funeral and I would get to meet him. But that didn't happen as far as I know. I was disappointed. I always hoped that unlike myself, Greg would find real love with another adult person."
Mrs. Stiver showed no emotion when she said this. It was just a fact of her life, one of a number she had accepted before mentally moving on.
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I pondered telling her that Greg had in fact found a kind of intimacy with another man. And although this intimacy was mixed with love, it was also twisted and masochistic and almost certainly directly related to the abuse Stiver had suffered for years at the hands of his stepfather. I decided not to drop this on her for the time being. My dredging up all the ugliness she preferred not to think about was enough for one day. If the Louderbush-Stiver relationship soon became public knowledge, Mrs. Stiver would learn about it, and it would hit her hard. She was resilient, though—if you could call semi-denial and TV-shrink bromides resiliency.
I said, "Most of the information I have is that Greg was struggling to make a life for himself that eventually you would have been happy to know about. But that struggle was hard and complicated, and he had a ways to go. And you should know that others who knew him share your view that Greg didn't seem like someone who would take his own life. Other people have also told me about his strength of character and strength of purpose."
"So is it possible," she asked, leaning toward me, "that Greg's death was not suicide? That it was an accident somehow? Or even—I gives me the heebie-jeebies just to think about it—that Greg was murdered? Pushed off that SUNY building or something?"
I said, "An accidental fall from a SUNY roof seems unlikely.
Homicide is unlikely too, but of course not out of the question. All of that is what my client has me looking into."
Now I bit the bullet. "In my attempt to gather as much information as I can on Greg and his life, I'm trying to talk to 150
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everyone who knew him. Would it be possible for me to ask your husband a few questions? I'll definitely try to avoid provoking him."
She slumped a bit. Then she looked at me closely. "What happened to your ear?"
"It's a rugby injury."
"Oh, that's too bad."
"You said your husband was busy, but I wouldn't take up very much of his time. I promise I'll be out of your family's hair in no time at all."
Was this really necessary? I knew it wasn't. I already had as clear an idea of Anson Stiver as I was likely to get short of psychoanalyzing the terrible man. Had he been beaten as a child, too? Probably. But all I really wanted was to form a firsthand impression of the beast who had set so much of this sad dysfunction—and worse—in motion, and here was my chance.
Mrs. Stiver said, "Anson is in the living room—it's his bedroom now—working on his transformers. He designs and builds miniature power transformers. But since his stroke last fall his speech is difficult to understand, and you might have a hard time getting what he's trying to say. Anyway, I wouldn't mention Greg to him if I were you. That would just set him off. And since his stroke, he's been forced to give up smoking.
So Anson has been a bit hard to live with. I look after him as well as I can, and we have Filipino girls who come in three days a week. That's when I get to go out and do something I love to do."
"What's that, Mrs. Stiver?"
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"I work in a daycare center. Lively Tots, in Amsterdam.
I've always loved children, and people say I'm good with the kids, and they love me back."
She looked at me to gauge my reaction to this information, and I obliged by saying that that all sounded like a fine idea.
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