Текст книги "Ice Blues "

Автор книги: Richard Stevenson

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I had just about concluded that the five suitcases were either in Flo Trenky's apartment or in the basement and that I would somehow have to come up with a Plan C, when I spotted the attic entry hatch panel on the ceiling. An old wooden kitchen chair rested nearby-not for sitting on, it appeared. Standing on the chair, I unlatched the hook and eye that held the panel in place and lowered the unhinged side. I reached up, groped, and found them.

I chinned myself up into the black hole, memorized the approximate location of each bag, then-being unable to hand them down to myself dropped them to the floor be low one by one. The sound of the falling bags was lost, I hoped, among the noise of a rapidly gathering crowd outside and the approaching police and fire sirens.

The bags were maroon with black bands around them, the ones I'd seen in Joan Lenihan's dining room. I dashed down the stairs with two of them, flung them into 2-A, Toot's room, then ran up and brought two more, then finally the fifth and last. When I came down the stairs the third time, the door to 2-B was wide open and a man stood staring at me.

The man was somewhere between thirty and seventy, potbellied, and wore a flannel bathrobe over his pajamas. His slippers had bunny faces on the toes. In flattened tones but with great fervor, he said to me, "I am Dover Clover. I know Dover Clover. I know all eternity in hell. Satan is a fool, but I know fate gave me power over parable. I am Doctor Who."

I said, "The back porch fell down. It will be repaired. The appropriate behavior is, please go back in your room."

The man turned away instantly and shut the door in my face. Inside Toot's room, with the door shut and bolted, I used my lobster pick on the lock of the first of the five suitcases. I lifted the lid and gazed down. No newspapers this time, or dirty socks, just US currency. The old bills-twenties, fifties, hundreds-were stacked but not bound. I stuffed a bundle of fifties into my coat pocket, then opened the other four bags. Toot had left Timmy's five canvas bags open on the bed, as instructed, and I dumped the cash into them and zipped them shut. Kyle had also left a bundle of old

Times Unions on the floor nearby. These I placed in the maroon bags, shut and locked them, and carried them in three swift trips up to the attic. I placed the bags where I had found them and closed the hatch.

From down below came the sound of raised voices and other signs of frantic coming and going. I went back to Toot's room, shut the door, and waited inside. Out on Third Avenue a crowd had gathered, as well as a fire engine, red lights turning and flashing and radios barking, and a Troy PD patrol car.

Footsteps thudded up the stairs, and my heart played an interesting short piece by Poulenc. Two sharp raps on the door. "It's me."

I let him in. Toot had on jeans and Timmy's old Georgetown sweatshirt and was dripping like Lear on the moors. I said, "Nice performance. Would you autograph my program?" and held out a stack of fifties.

"You gotta get out of here now! The building inspector's on his way and they'll be coming up here."

"Where are they?"

"Mack and Flo are both out back with two policemen and some firemen.

You gotta move now."

I followed him quickly down the stairs and out the front door. We walked casually past the fire engine and cop car on the corner. "Did you tell her you were moving out?"

"Yeah, I said I was afraid the whole place was unsafe, and she said oh, no, honey, why don't you wait for the building inspector, but I was shaking like crazy-from the cold, mostly-and she thinks I'm really scared. Of course, I am that, too."

"Do they know how it happened?"

"Snow on the roof, they think."

"Good. They might figure out otherwise in daylight, but that's okay. I'll send Mrs. Trenky four or five grand for a new porch if her insurance doesn't cover the damage. See you in a little while."

"I hope so."

Timmy and the T-bird were long gone, so I stood inside the convenience store drinking coffee and chatting with the clerk about the neighborhood excitement for twenty minutes until I saw Toot load the Ford with Timmy's gray bags. He asked the firemen to move their pumper six feet so that he could get his car out, and after some jawing and milling about, they did. Toot pulled onto the avenue, cruised over to the convenience store, then moved over to the passenger seat. I climbed'in and drove directly to the Green Island bridge, then south to Albany, where we rendezvoused in Room 1407 at the Hilton just after one.

"First thing in the morning," Timmy said, "I am going to confession for the first time in eighteen years. And then I am going to work. Right now I am going to sleep. If I scream in the night, rush me over to the Albany Med burn unit."

Toot said, "I'm taking a hot bath before I do anything. I think I've got gangrene of the prostate."

"Timmy will sleep, but you can't," I told him. "I'm driving you to JFK, where you'll get on the first flight for LA. Fay is going to draw some conclusions very fast, and if you hang around here you might be recognized. The cops won't be a problem-I don't think Fay will report his loss to the authorities-but it's better if you are three thousand miles away when Fay puts one and one and a half together and comes up with Jim O'Connor the Third, the fan-belt salesman."

Timmy said, "Fay's not dumb. Won't he also realize that you're somehow involved? Hell, we're never going to be able to go home."

"I've been thinking about that too. I also have been starting to miss evenings by the picture of the fire. I think I know how I can work it all out.

There are just a couple of things I have to check on tomorrow."

"It's practically tomorrow already. Kyle, good night and good luck. And, Donald, congratulations on your civic-minded grand larceny. You're Legs Diamond with a heart of gold."

"Thank you," I said, and gazed at the five suitcases full of money. It occurred to me that I could probably spend the two and a half million on the purchase of a small island in the Bahamas. St.

Don's. I reluctantly shoved that thought aside, although suddenly it became brilliantly clear to me that now, finally, I did have real choices to make.

At the airport I asked Toot, "What will you tell people who ask where you disappeared to for thirty-six hours?"

He grinned. "I'll say I was in Troy, New York, helping a private eye and his boyfriend demolish Carole Lombard's back porch in order to steal two and a half million dollars."

"That's a wonderful story. Nobody will believe it."

"That's right."

"You learn fast." I tried to stuff a roll of fifties in Toot's pocket, but he wouldn't have it. "You're a business expense," I said. "Jack Lenihan wrote that I should take what I needed for my expenses. It's legitimate, believe me."

He looked a little hurt. "I'll take twenty for cab fare back to West Hollywood, but otherwise forget it. I'm not supposed to take non-union acting jobs anyway. Not that I could ever include this one on my resume. This performance was for Al Piatek-and for the memory of Al and Jack Lenihan back in the Piateks' attic. Who knows, maybe they're together now."

"It would be nice to believe that."

Having gone without sleep for nearly forty-eight hours, I drove directly to the airport Sheraton, bought a room with six twenties, lay down, and conked out. I wanted to be wide awake and in full possession of my faculties when I got back to Albany, because the tricky part was coming next: disbursing the two and a half million, handing Jack Lenihan's murderer to Ned Bowman, and staying alive while I was at it.

SIXTEEN

I phoned Sim Kempelman from a thruway rest stop and met him at six Monday evening at Queequeg's. He ordered the scampi and a glass of white wine, and I had two bowls of cream of broccoli soup, two spinach salads and a Beck's.

I said, "I've got it."

"Oh, my."

"Two and a half million."

He whistled, impressed.

"It's all in US currency, in a safe place. The cash's arrival was delayed for a variety of reasons, but before he died, Jack prepared to send it to me and now I've got it."

"That's a lot of money, kid. You're rich."

"Not me. You and your slate of candidates are rich. The citizenry of Albany is rich."

He gazed at me solemnly. He asked, "Has a will been located?"

"I don't know. What difference does it make? Lenihan sent me the money before he died, with instructions to-"

"To what?"

"To-to hold it for him. To keep it safe."

"Ahhh."

"But Jack's intentions were clear from the context of his letter. It was plainly his wish that if anything happened to him, I should carry out the project. There is no arguing with that. None."

Kempelman sighed and shook his head. "I don't know about you, kid, but I'm too old to go to jail. I like my cup of tea when I crawl out from under the covers in the morning, and I like a little smootz from Mrs. Freda Kempelman when

I get back underneath the covers at night. No, I think I'll steer clear of jail houses and any of the multitudes of sets of circumstances that might land me in one.

"Now don't get me wrong, Mr. Strachey, I do want that money. But it has to be on the up-and-up, with all the legal niceties attended to-which is in no way an impossibility. In fact, that is the way I earn my living, and nine times out of ten I can find a way to get what my client wants-or what I want-and still meet the requirements of the law. I'm an old hand at that.

"The question is, where do we go from here? How do we get that two and a half million dollars from your bank account into my organization's bank account without my walking out the side door of Judge Feeney's courtroom a year from today with his Honor's dentures locked on my neck? What we need is a will. Kid, I think you should look into that. Find a will. As I see it, that's your next move."

"What about a letter?"

"A letter?"

"Say Jack wrote a letter before he died, turning the money over to me for a specific purpose which he described. Would that do it?"

"Does such a letter exist?"

"It might."

"This is the first time you have talked about such a letter."

"There was no need previously to have mentioned it."

A sad shake of the head. "No forgeries," he said. "I believe you have in mind an act of forgery, and that, Mr. Strachey, it strictly no-go."

I saw it all falling away. I said, "Do you want the money, or don't you? Do you want to clean the crooks and phonies out of city hall, or don't you?

Which is it, Sim? Whose side are you on, anyway?"

"Yours," he said. "I think I am. Except, I was told that you are a rational man. One of the few in this town. But now I am beginning to wonder."

"Rational? What is rational? It seems to me rational is people running their own lives without extortionist goons reaching into their wallets twice a year. Rational is-"

He waved a hairy finger. "Whoa-wait a minute. Wait one minute. Let me tell you about rational. Rational is getting what you want without offering your own head on a platter in return for it. Suicide will get you some ugly sympathy, but it is not rational. Martyrdom will get your name in the papers, but it is not rational. Irrationality has its uses in public life, that I concede, but a price must be paid, and I, for one, am not prepared to pay it.

If you think about it, I doubt that you will want to pay the price either. You know, I think you've gone a little cuckoo on me since I saw you last week.

That two and a half million has softened your brain, is that it? Relax a little, and let's think this thing through. Maybe there's a way."

I felt myself redden. I said, "I'll see Creighton Prell. He'll deal."

"No, he won't. Republicans hate going to jail. They think the jails are full of Democrats who'll laugh at them mopping up the lavatories. No, Republicans are proud. They only go to jail at the national level, and Creighton is not that ambitious. You can try Creighton, of course, that's up to you. But it will be a waste of your valuable time, believe me."

I slugged down some Beck's. "Larry Dooley will be interested," I said, and then had to laugh.

Kempelman smiled. "Sure. That's Larry's style. Play now, pay later. He might even get away with it. He has friends in the courts. But I think that is not what you want, kiddo. In fact, that is the very opposite of what you want."

He had me and he knew it, and I wanted to throttle him because I knew that everything he told me was the bare, unadorned, rock-bottom truth. Fucking liberals.

I said, "Has Ned Bowman been in touch? Maybe you'll go to prison anyway, for the murder of Jack Lenihan. Of course, you wouldn't have used a tire iron. You'd have lectured him to death. Or jumped on him from your high moral plain."

"Oh, I'm clean enough, but I hear Larry Dooley's in a bit of a pickle. The word is, Larry spent Tuesday night with the young missus of a certain up-and-coming young council member who was off in Rochester on a business trip. All Larry will tell Bowman is, he was attending to personal business at the time of Jack Lenihan's death, but he says he can't go into detail and then he winks, but Bowman keeps missing the point. Bowman is leaning on Larry real hard and is threatening him with the DA. What Larry and Bowman both don't know is that two-I said two-assistant DAs have been dipping their wicks in the misguided doxy as well– simultaneously, according to one possibly misinformed distant observer. So you see how complicated life can become for those caught in the grip of irrational impulses."

I said, "Maybe in the interest of fairness the Times Union will run a smug, finger-pointing editorial on the health risks of heterosexual promiscuity, but I doubt it. Is Bowman back in town? I heard he was away for a few days."

"I wouldn't know. But I did hear that you were out of town for a couple of days. I was planning on mentioning this earlier, but we got sidetracked."

"Where did you hear that?"

"At Jack Lenihan's funeral yesterday."

"I missed it. I feel bad about that, but it was unavoidable and he would have understood. Who told you I was out of town?"

"Pug Lenihan."

At last, here it came. I didn't need this, didn't want it. I said, "Not old Pug, no. What does he know about all this? About me?"

"Beats me. I was wondering about that myself. On account of the snow and cold weather, they didn't take him out to the cemetery, but they carried him into the funeral home and propped him on a lounge chair for half an hour, and I noticed he was watching me, and after a while he sent Corrine over to relay the message that he would like a few words."

"What were you doing there in the first place? The Lenihans didn't even know you'd had a connection with Jack. Your presence wouldn't have made any sense to them."

Kempelman took a sip of wine and smacked his lips. "This is quite an adequate chablis. Of course, that is the extent of my sophistication as a wine connoisseur. For me, there are two grades of wine, adequate and inadequate. Nearly all of them I find adequate."

"You can tip the sommelier on the way out. Why did you attend Lenihans funeral?"

"I was invited."

"By whom?"

"Corrine McConkey. She phoned me Sunday morning and told me that her grandfather-Dad Lenihan, she called him-wanted me to be present. She said it would mean a lot to him, and I respectfully went along. She did not elaborate."

"This is just terribly, terribly interesting. So you went, and then Pug called you over. Do you two know each other?"

"I had never set eyes on the man. It was all very strange and discombobulating for me. I have to tell you, Mr. Strachey, that I was just a little bit frightened. Pug Lenihan is not a powerful man anymore, but I presume that he remains influential in some circles. Additionally, it entered my mind that somehow he'd gotten wind of my conversations with his late grandson and about Jack's project."

"Right. That could make you jittery. So he called you over."

"He beckoned for me to bend down-no mean feat for a man with a herniated-disk operation behind him-and I painfully obliged. He said-Pug Lenihan said to me– 'You're in on this, aren't you, Kempelman?' I said, 'In on what, Mr. Lenihan?' 'Oh, don't you bullshit me!' this doddering ninety-six-year-old croaked in my ear. 'I know you'd be the one,' he said. 'Now I don't know this Strachey from a peck of potatoes, but you tell him I want to talk to him. You hear what I'm saying to you?' I stood there for a few seconds looking at the hardest, iciest set of blue eyes I'd ever seen in my life, and then do you know what I said?"

"You said, 'Yes, sir.'"

"'Yes, sir.' You got it, kid. I said, 'Mr. Lenihan, yes, sir."'

"So he told you he wants to talk to me. Well, hell. Did he say what about?"

"Nope. He said he heard you were out of town, and when you got back to give Corrine a call and she would take you over to his house. So. I have now carried out my instructions. Sim the message-delivery boy."

"Or Sim the something-else-less-innocent." I glanced around at the other drinkers and diners but saw no familiar faces. "I just hope I'm not being set up for-what?"

"No." He got his hurt Saint Bernard look on again. "Not by me, at any rate.

But I do advise that you take care. Avoid irrational outbursts."

Again I considered bolting with the two and a half million and picking up a pleasant small island somewhere. Then the almost-obvious hit me, and I said to Kempelman, "If Pug Lenihan knows about Jack's project, then maybe the machine knows. Pug surely is in touch from time to time with his political progeny."

Kempelman didn't move, except to elevate grandly two eyebrows the size of field mice.

I said, "Naturally they will not want the project carried out. They will want it stopped."

"Yes, that would be my guess too. Definitely they would."

"Is that why you suddenly have cold feet, Sim? Is that it?"

Wearily shaking his head, he said, "No, I explained plainly the reasons for my 'cold feet,' as you choose to term it. But don't let's get into that again.

Stevenson, Richard

Stevenson, Richard – [Donald Strachey Mystery 03] – Ice Blues

Fisticuffs might be the end result this time, and that could have serious repercussions for my spinal column."

I said, "Oh, hell."

"You're looking a little sickly, kid. It's those rich soups. Stay away from soups that go sour on your intestinal wall."

"Maybe the machine has known all along," I said. "Maybe Larry Dooley tipped them off right at the beginning, as soon as poor naive Jack contacted Dooley with his proposal. Maybe it was some of them who got Jack killed. They figured out that Jack had the doper's boodle, tipped the convicted dealers down at Sing Sing, who arranged for friends on the outside to recover the two and a half million and do away with Jack. That way the machine, using a chain of non-criminal and criminal intermediaries, could eliminate a threat and still hide behind a wall of deniability. They'd get the result they wanted, but they could rest certain that the means to that end would never reach back to them."

Kempelman screwed up his face. After a moment of pained thought, he said, "I don't think so. They would never go that far. They are crude, but they are not evil. No-no, they would never go that far. Listen, kid, they don't have to."

But he sat there awhile longer silently mulling over the possibility, as did I.

SEVENTEEN

I phoned Timmy, holed up at the Hilton, and said, "Did you go to work today?"

"Yeah, I was pretty worn out, but I managed a couple of reasonably productive hours."

"Could you have been followed back to the hotel?" A silence. "What are you saying?"

"Maybe you should make a discreet move. Is the money safe?"

"The bags are in the closet."

"Have you gone out since you got back there from work?"

"No, I just came in a couple of minutes ago. I worked late, then ate at the Larkin with Moe Dietz. Spit it out, Don. What are you trying to tell me? Is Mack Fay on to us?"

I described the meeting with Sim Kempelman. I could hear Timmy swallowing repeatedly as I spoke. I said, "If you still have the rope from the porch-wrecking episode, I suggest you rappel down the side of the Hilton with the five suitcases attached to your belt and meet me in East Timor later in the week." He said nothing. "Timmy?"

"I've got the door locked and I am not leaving this room until you get over here and explain to me how you're going to get both of us out of this endless chamber of horrors. Do you hear what I'm saying to you?"

"I thought all the early Peace Corps groups learned rap-peling at a remote camp in the mountains of western Puerto Rico, and now that you finally have some use for this arcane skill, you're going to crap out. I just hope Sargent Shriver never hears about this. But have it your way. I'll be over there in another hour or two. First I want to drop in on Corrine McConkey.

When I get to the hotel I'll call you from the lobby to let you know it's me coming up. Just hang on, okay?"

"I'd rather you came now."

"I can't."

"You won't."

"Look, it's seven-thirty. Ill be there by nine-thirty."

"Eight-thirty."

"Nine. Nine sharp."

"If you're not here at exactly nine o'clock, I'm taking the bloody two and a half million out of the suitcases, tossing it out into the corridor, and locking the door again. Do you understand that?"

"Before you do, pocket three grand for my fee and expenses, and another three thousand for our trip to Martinique next week. We've gotta come out of this with something."

"One minute you're a messiah and the next minute you're a petty thief. I think you're losing your grip. You used to be so rational. Well, no, not exactly rational. I didn't mean that."

"Thank you."

"Just be here at nine."

"Or close to it."

Dreadful Ed answered the door. "Conine's laying down. I can give her the message."

"No, it's she who has the message for me. I'm sorry to bother her, but this won't take long. Her grandfather Lenihan asked that she arrange a visit for me with him."

McConkey frowned. "You go over to Dad Lenihan's? What's he want with you?"

"That's right. What's he want with me?"

He didn't like the sound of this. "Just a minute." He shut the door in my face. I stood in the cold night air shifting my feet and listening to the porch swing creaking under its load of blown snow. McConkey returned. "You can come in for a minute, but don't get Corrine all upset, you understand?

Her nerves are all shot to hell."

"I suppose they would be."

I left my coat to fry on the hall radiator. Corrine was lying on the brown couch with a pink blanket up to her chin, her head propped on a pillow. She sat up as I entered the room and patted her hair. "I'm a real mess, Mr.

Strachey, I hope you don't mind. How are you this evening?"

"I'm cold, tired and a little curious. I'm sorry I missed the funeral yesterday afternoon, but I want you to know that

I've been thinking about your brother a lot for the past several days. And I saw your mother in Los Angeles."

Her pale eyes brightened. "You went all the way to California and saw Ma?

Well, how did she look? Was she out of bed yet? She sounded so down on the phone. She's taking this pretty hard."

"She was up and around, but she was emotionally a wreck, yes. She seemed determined, though, to get on with her life."

A faint smile. "That's Ma, all right-determined. She has more spunk than any ten people. She told me on the phone-Ma said-Ed! Ed, will you turn that thing down?"

Ed, sulking by the TV set, climbed over his feet, which were propped on a footstool, and reduced the volume by half a decibel.

"When Ma called yesterday, before the funeral," Corrine went on, raising her voice in order to be heard over the helicopter explosions, "do you know what she asked me? She said why don't I come out and see her next month? And you know what? I just might do it."

"That sounds as if it would be good for both of you."

"I'm really thinking about it this time. Mrs. Clert could make Ed's sandwich at noon and he could drive over to McDonald's at suppertime. Ed could drive me out to the airport and help me carry my suitcases in if I took two along. I'd rather take along a lot of clean outfits so Ma wouldn't have to do any laundry. And then I could call Ed long distance from Ma's apartment in California and tell him what time to pick me up when I came back. You know, this time I really think I'm going to do it. I just want to hug Ma so bad.

I've been thinking about that ever since she called."

"You must miss her a lot. When did you last see your mother?"

"When she left, after Pa died. That's been-oh, I don't know how many years. Eighteen? Why, yes, eighteen years ago this month. Isn't that something? Eighteen years after Pa died, Jack died. They both died in the wintertime. Maybe that's why I always feel so low every January. Ma's always asking me to come and see her, even pay my way, but-well, Ed doesn't really like other people's cooking. He says it tastes funny. Ed really appreciates my cooking, even though I don't really think it's that great. But Mrs. Clert could make his sandwich. Or-maybe I could make some sandwiches and just stick them in the freezer. Can you freeze cold meat sandwiches? I don't see why not. Or would the mayonnaise go bad?"

"It might. But perhaps Ed could lift the top slice of bread and apply his own mayonnaise."

She glanced Ed's way apprehensively but he was caught up in other matters.

I said, "I think you might enjoy getting away from Albany for a while. Is this the house you grew up in?"

"From when I was one and a half. Then, when I married Ed, we moved in with his mom, but then she got hit by the number 6 bus on Pearl Street, and we moved back over here with Ma and Pa. Then soon after that, Pa died and Ma gave us the house and we've been here ever since."

I thought maybe she meant literally, but then remembered that she worked as a salesclerk. "Your mother strikes me as a generous woman who has looked after her children in the best way she's been able to. I got the impression that you and Jack were the only people she cared about back in Albany, though. She seemed otherwise to dislike the city and its people intensely, passionately even."

She looked away. "I know. Ma's life with Pa was hard on her-on account of his ailment. But after he was gone she seemed to not like Albany even more than before. Really, though, it's always seemed like a pretty nice town to me. People around here are friendly, and they're always there to lend a hand when tragedy strikes. But Ma's stubborn that way. She gets something in her head and there it sticks. Oh, well. Ma has her ways. Like Jack did. Like we all do." She shrugged philosophically.

I said, "Did Jack leave a will?"

"I wouldn't think so. Why would he? Jack was like the rest of the Lenihans.

We scrape by, and that's about it. Ma's done well for herself. Went out west without a dime to her name, went to college, and got a good job that pays. I guess Ma's the only one of us that has stick-to-it-ive-ness. She applied herself and she was rewarded for it. And you hit the nail on the head when you said she's not stingy with her money. Ma helps Ed and I out when we need it, and she even helps Dad with his bills. Having a nurse all the time costs an arm and a leg, and Medicare hardly pays to empty the bedpan unless you go to the hospital. Many a time we've invited Dad to sell the house and move over here, but he likes his independence and you can't blame him for that. But we all get by and we help each other out when times get tough, and that's the important thing."

"Did your mother mention to you that I stopped in to see her?"

"Gosh-no, I guess she forgot to say. Just because she's distraught, I'm sure."

"I understand your grandfather wants to speak with me."

"Oh, did the Jewish gentleman tell you that? You know, I've had so many things on my mind that that one just went right out the window."

"Do you know why he wants to see me? I've never met your grandfather before. I only know him by reputation."

"Gee, he didn't really say. But I suppose he heard you were a friend of Jack's and wants to talk about Jack. He was real broken up by Jack's passing. I felt so sorry for the poor old fella. His only male grandson gone."

"I don't know, but I doubt that Jack would have mentioned my name to his grandfather. Who might have?"

She blushed. "Do you mean because you're-that way? Like Jack? Dad's old-fashioned and never had the time of day for-perverts, he called them.

He always thought Jack being like that was just Jack trying to get back at him."

"Back at him for what?"

"Oh, for being a big-shot Democrat. Jack always said the Albany Democrats were just a bunch of crooks, and that got Dad's dandruff up every time. Dad says the party got jobs for people so they could have a roof over their head and they could put food on the table, and the party helped people when they were down and out. But Jack always said the party stole more than it gave away. Jack criticized the Democrats right in front of Dad, and sometimes Jack could get obnoxious-have these tantrums and say really mean things. And then Dad would start in on the perverts and Jack would stomp out and slam the door. But I will say that Jack always came back, and I think in his heart Dad was always glad to see him. Like last fall, until they had another falling out. Blood is thicker than water, as the saying goes."

"When could I visit your grandfather? Is tonight a possibility?"

"Oh no, not this late. Dad Lenihan goes to bed after his programs. He watches the news report and then Wheel of Fortune and Hundred

Thousand Dollar Name That Tune, and he's all tucked in by eight-thirty.

Dad's an early riser, so maybe in the morning would be a good idea."

"What time?"

"Ed drives me out to the store at twenty of nine, but I could call Dad first and see if it was okay for you to drop in. Mrs. Clert could get Dad ready and then Ed could take you over after he got back. Maybe about ten-thirty in the morning would be a good time. Would that suit you?"

"It would. I'll phone you at eight-thirty to confirm the time."

She smiled. "Just don't talk politics if you don't want to get an earful. And don't"-she blushed again-"maybe you shouldn't let on you're one of Jack's gay friends. I mean, if you are."