Hazard (11 page)

Richland was half drunk and Whitley was only half recovered. Richland kept saying, “Impressive, very impressive.” And Whitley mumbled on about what a hell of a good sailor he'd always been, claiming something he'd eaten hadn't agreed with him.

They were anxious to leave. Kersh accompanied them out to their car. Handshakes and good-byes.

From behind the steering wheel Richland told Kersh, “Goddamn impressive.” The motor was already running but he turned the ignition key again to cause a painful, grinding screech.

The Chrysler pulled away. Whitley lighted up a Havana and took two puffs before his stomach made him throw it out. “What a day,” he moaned. “You didn't fall for all that crap, did you?”

“Hell no.”

“It was rigged; they had it rigged.”

“Yeah,” Richland said.

“Some kind of hook-up from that guy what's his name.”

“Hubbard.”

“From him to the girl. A radio or something.”

“That's what I figure.”

“Bunch of real phonies.”

A questioning glance from Richland.

Whitley got it. “Don't worry your ass, Fred. As far as I'm concerned, the project's full-ahead. I'd even say it's priority.” Besides, it's only a spit in the bucket, he assured himself.

“You're one decent guy, Whit.”

Whitley nodded. “Reminds me, at the last convention down in Miami I saw this guy in a nightclub. He was blindfolded and could tell you everything you had in your pockets. Now, he was something. He could guess the number on your social security card, driver's license, everything. No shit. Damndest thing I ever saw.”

5

U
SUALLY
K
EVEN
didn't stay angry long.

Hazard thought she'd get over it, surely by bedtime.

But night came and she kept to herself in one of the upper bedrooms of the main house. Her things hadn't been moved back down to the beach house, which Hazard didn't find encouraging. He told himself it didn't matter and read some Camus,
Notebooks 1942–1951.
For a while he forced himself to read word for word, line for line, like everyone else, but he soon reverted to taking it in an entire page at a glance.

Around eleven he got up and went down to the beach, from where he could see Keven's lighted window. He imagined her up there munching on sunflower seeds and dried apricots, probably hating her stubbornness, and trying to think of a face-saving way out of it. He thought about giving in, going up to get her, but decided if he did that this time she'd expect it the next. He returned to Camus and finished him.

A half hour later he heard the radio tell him he'd made his bookie five hundred richer because Gibson had blanked the Mets. Feeling like a loser, Hazard went out to try to shake it off and have another look at Keven's window. The light was out. He doubted she was sleeping but the chance that she might be riled him. He started up the slope to the main house, still ambivalent about giving her the impression he needed her that much. Hell, he didn't need anyone. He continued on up.

When he approached the house he saw her light come on. That could mean she'd had enough of being alone. She'd probably be heading for the beach house any minute now. What if he wasn't there? He imagined her panic, pictured her good, loving relief when, timing it perfectly, he finally showed up.

With that rewarding possibility in mind he entered the main house, went into Kersh's office. He remembered that he hadn't reached Carl. He dialed Carl's number direct and got the busy signal. Maybe he'd misdialed. Another try with more care. Same thing, busy. He dialed Operator to have her try and then was put through to another operator who somehow determined the number was out of service.

Irritated, Hazard asked, “What's that mean, he didn't pay his bill?”

“I didn't say the number is no longer in service. I said it was out of service.” The operator was insolent-polite, typical. “There is a difference,” she said.

“Up your public booth,” Hazard told her before she could click off.

He waited five minutes more before going out. Keven's room was dark again. He went down to the beach house. He'd be quiet, peek in on her waiting for him.

She wasn't there.

Hazard undressed and went to bed. Just before turning off the light he noticed it was only twenty after twelve. He lay there in the dark thinking he shouldn't have drunk that cup of coffee seven hours back. It kept him awake until nearly four.

Next thing he knew it was eight and he was wide awake. No use trying for more. He got up and went bare out to the beach. No one but him up that early. It was an overcast day, which made the water seem colder. He swam some, feeling strong because he was pissed at everything. After the swim he didn't shower, didn't shave, just dried and dressed fast and went up to the Packard, which started on the first try.

Hardly any traffic. He made it to Carl's apartment building in an hour. He parked in the yellow, got Carl's attaché case out of the trunk and went in. He and Carl would have breakfast somewhere and talk. A big unhealthy ham and eggs, lots of toast and plenty of coffee breakfast. To hell with Granola.

The doorman told him.

The police had been there earlier.

Hurrying wasn't going to help, but Hazard floored the Packard and went through lights all the way down to 30th Street and First Avenue.

Into the place.

Out of reality.

Down a municipal green corridor to where he had to prove who he was to a desk cop. The desk cop told him not to ask because he couldn't answer.

Told to wait.

A cop in white like a doctor. A badge numbered 918 pinned on him. “Hazard?”

“Yes.”

“This way.”

A stairway down and around. Long-lasting metal on the edge of every step. A smell like the air was sprayed with bug killer. Cop 918 put on blue rubber gloves and unlocked a thick solid door that had “
DO NOT ENTER
” on it. Into a long room, cool, concrete floor painted white and slightly slanted, punctuated with a drain.

Everything clean.

A wall of stainless steel, three-by-two hinged compartments.

Second from the bottom, sixth from the left. Opened by Cop 918 and pulled out, sliding easy like an official file. But seven feet of it.

Cop 918 lifted the sheet and folded it down part way for Hazard to see another Hazard.

It's not you. It doesn't look enough like you.

“Being in the water does that,” Cop 918 said.

A long look at the face of Carl, seeing all the times not taken, all the care not shown, things unsaid. Oh brother, never now.

Everything too late.

Cop 918 asked, “Do you identify him?”

“Yes.”

Cop 918 started to cover with the sheet but was stopped by Hazard. “I want to see all of him.”

The sheet off then to reveal the entire position of death. Carl's hands, with swollen fingers flexed unevenly, as though to grab anything. A tag tied onto the right big toe.

“Okay?” Cop 918 asked.

“No,” Hazard said, and walked out.

All Hazard could learn from a sergeant cop was that Carl had been gaffed out of the river just after dawn that morning. Near the 96th Street yacht basin. A pretty good guess based on the condition of the body was that death had occurred sometime Friday night. The medical examiner would take a look tomorrow, not on Sunday. The sergeant's own opinion, and he'd seen a lot of them, was suicide. Before leaving, Hazard signed a city form confirming positive identification and assuming responsibility for the body. I'm responsible for you now, Carl.

Outside, he got a lot of change and found a pay phone. After the clanging of quarters came his father's voice. Hazard told him straight out and shared the silence that followed.

His father said, “Send him home.”

“I'll bring him.”

Hazard had thought there were others he should call but now he realized there was no one else but Catherine. Keven and Kersh; he'd call them later. Catherine was only thirty blocks away.

He seemed out of place at the Pierre. His unshaved face was skeptically noted by the desk clerk when he asked for Mrs. Catherine Hazard.

No one was registered by that name.

“How about Miss Leigh-Minter?”

She
was there. Under her socially advantageous hyphenated maiden name.

Hazard resented that. All the way up in the elevator to the thirty-fifth floor.

35-A was a two bedroom suite overlooking the park for two hundred a day. A
DO NOT DISTURB
card was hung on the knob. Hazard knocked before noticing a bell button inset in the door frame. He rang and the door was opened by a young man.

“Yes?” the young man said. He had straight dark hair to his shoulders, was short and bony thin—an adolescent impression contradicted only by eyes on their way to being old too soon. Obviously he valued his boyish build, emphasized it by wearing a black ciré shirt and matching flared trousers cut like a shiny second skin. A tiny platinum spoon hung from a chain around his neck.

Hazard brushed past him and into the living room of the suite.

“I'm Peter,” the young man said as though that should mean something. Then stretching his British accent he added, “Miss Leigh-Minter's personal secretary.”

Personal, thought Hazard, noticing Peter's platform, stacked-heeled, black-and-beige suede shoes.

“Miss Leigh-Minter is sleeping,” said Peter. He minced even when no part of him was moving.

“Get her up.”

“I'll do no such thing.”

“Get her.”

Peter retreated behind the closed double doors of one of the bedrooms.

Waiting, Hazard noticed remnants of the night before. Two bottles of Dom Perignon, both half full but gone flat in warm ice buckets. Among the stubs of cigarettes in ashtrays were several marijuana roaches. An elaborate gold-wire roach holder was on a side table along with a plastic vial containing yellow-and-blue capsules, a prescription:
TAKE AS NEEDED
. There were smudged hotel glasses around. One was placed carelessly on a fifty-dollar bill that had someone named Felicia's telephone number written on it just below “In God We Trust.” The windows were open wide but it would take more than that to refresh the air.

Five minutes passed.

Hazard was tempted to leave but sat and got up again.

Catherine came out. “Haz! I thought it was Carl.” The way she said it she wasn't disappointed. She was wearing a full-length robe by Valentino, baby blue, ample silk that swished as she came over to give Hazard cheek kisses, left and right. She had, Hazard noticed, a subtle, attractive fragrance about her, cleaner somehow than dabbed perfume and more effective.

Catherine lit a Turkish oval and inhaled as though she needed it all the way down. “We're going over to the Bethesda Foundain this afternoon to see the local freaks,” she said.

Hazard hadn't said a word yet, was putting it off until he thought she was ready for it. She sat on the sofa. The blue silk parted to expose her excellent legs nearly all the way up. She disregarded it. That was like her. She was a very beautiful twenty-seven. She knew it and she let you know it. English beauty, fine, well-bred features, healthy blonde hair. She snapped her head to make her hair comfortable, and she was smiling when Hazard told her: “Carl is dead.”

Her smile stayed on, only because she'd forgotten it. Her eyes held disbelief as she listened to Hazard's words that ended with, “They think it's suicide.”

She didn't speak, got up abruptly and went into the bedroom.

A quarter hour later she returned, dressed now in white silk sharkskin trousers and a pale yellow, sheer blouse. Barefoot, her hair gathered back. Hazard didn't think her eyes looked as though they'd cried any. She sat where she'd sat before, but with her legs drawn up under her. She looked at Hazard and then past him, a covered gaze, not really seeing anything outside herself. Then she closed her eyes and said, “The fuck of it all is I was the one who wanted to die.”

By late the next day, Monday, the medical examiner's office filed its report. It referred to Carl as a victim, saying he'd suffered fractures of vertebrae, ribs, and there were multiple internal injuries. However, the cause of death was drowning.

He had either jumped or fallen into the river from a high place. Time death occured was approximately 4:00
A
.
M
., Saturday, April 20th. Summary opinion: perhaps accidental death but more likely suicide. Autopsy not recommended.

Accordingly, the police investigation was swift and routine. It disclosed that Carl was under severe strain from his work and also having marital difficulties. Conclusion: suicide. No further investigation necessary.

On Wednesday afternoon in the small New England town of Winsted, Carl was buried beside his mother and his name was newly chiseled beneath hers on the large granite family marker.

After all the ritual and standard Episcopal implorations to God on behalf of Carl's soul, Hazard remained at the grave site. Stood alone above the mound of funeral flowers. He had never felt so helpless. Futile now to say the unsaid: I love you, brother. No way to show it. How insignificant now the embarrassment of being so direct, saying love, showing love, compared to suffering this total inability.

I would kiss you now, my brother, and hold you and to hell with all ridiculous conventions. I would show you I love you by giving you my time.

A truck came up the cemetery road and stopped a respectful distance away. It was the cemetery groundkeepers come with their shovels, impatient to get their work done. They stayed in the cab of the truck, waiting for Hazard's departure.

Their presence brought Hazard the full impact of finality; his grief increased to such an extent that it was no longer grief. All the energy of his sorrow was suddenly transformed into anger. A fury so deep and intense and unlimited that he didn't believe he could possibly hold it.