The Accidental Pallbearer (13 page)

“Because it’s true? Because you’re dirty? Because deep down you want me to know? Because you’re guilty?”

“Why would I want you to know? Assuming it’s true? You’re losing me, Prof. I can’t keep up with your prof mind, Prof.”

“The ultimate test of loyalty. What kids say when they’re little. Daddy, if I commit a bad crime, will you protect me from the police? Will you lie for me, Daddy?”

“You said that to Silvio at one time?”

“Shut up.”

“You’re not my daddy. We’re not blood brothers, El.”

“But if I shield you and help you while knowing that you were involved in a conspiracy to commit murder, then my loyalty is the same as a blood relation’s. Greater even, much greater, because we’re not blood related. Because
blood relations have been known to tear out and eat each other’s intestines. Loyalty in the face of criminal knowledge is the truest proof of the deepest, unbreakable bond – beyond blood. Only the unshakably loyal are family, forget about blood.”

“I love what you say, El, but you don’t have to face this loyalty test. I wasn’t a conspirator in murder. Believe me, please.”

“I want to.”

“You’re eating Silvio’s intestines?”

“Drop it.”

“And eating your own intestines over the kids you lost. In Lit for Jocks, Professor Terhune taught us about puns. I got an ‘A’ in the course. That was his big theme. Puns. For example, this Kinter. Who is he? He’s your kin. You see yourself as an accomplice to the murder of your daughters. You abused them by leaving them. Kinter is you, El. Kill him and you commit suicide without having to die. Why are you shivering, man, in this hot house?”

Robinson places his hand on Conte’s forehead.

“I think you have a fever. Got any of those chicken broth bouillon cubes in the cabinet? Good. I’ll make you some hot soup. Aspirin in the bathroom? Good. I’ll get you a couple.”

Before Robinson leaves, Eliot says, “I’ll give you a clue. I’m going to ram the fear of Our Lord et cetera.”

Robinson smiles, says, “Dr. Conte, let me introduce you to your truth, Mr. Eliot.”

He makes two calls after Robinson leaves. The first to Rintrona, who will have the chloral hydrate on Thursday noon at the Q Shack. No problem.

“The smelling salts, Bobby?”

“A cloth dipped in ammonia followed by a pail of cold water will do the job.”

“Bobby, I’ll need your help in Utica on Friday night. I can’t do this alone.”

“Do what, Eliot?”

“I’ll explain when we meet why I need a partner.”

“You got one, Eliot.”

“Not a word of this to Catherine, Bobby.”

“Not a word, Eliot.”

“One other thing, Bobby.”

“What’s that?”

“Buy one of those tight rubber clown masks that covers the skull and gives you a bald head with a few red tufts over the ears. Preferably a happy-face clown.”

The second call is to Catherine Cruz. Dinner Thursday night?

“Yes,” she says, “where?”

“I’m driving down.”

“I’ll cook,” she says.

Tomorrow, no later than 10:00
A.M.
Pacific Coast time, Nancy Norwald will receive his FedEx package.

It’s 7:30 Wednesday morning and Conte awakes aching with a fever of 101.5° and a plan for the day. He manages a cup of coffee, black, and one egg white. About to leave when he decides to avoid fever-induced dehydration by forcing down two twelve-ounce glasses of water. (He’ll regret this.) Then, bundled up for the 32° morning, drives down to 414 Ontario Street and knocks on the front door of Nelson Thomas, the African-American runner and only available witness, according to Synakowski, to the disputed accident fifteen years back. No response. Knocks again as he recalls information from the most recent city directory: Nelson Thomas is the sole occupant of 414 Ontario, a two-family house. Glances at front window. A sign affixed: KISS ME I’M ITALIAN. Extended knocking. No response. Conte needs to pee.

Exhausted, he goes home, relieves himself (weakly: enlarged prostate), then back to bed and sleeps until 11:00. Upon waking, picks his BlackBerry off the bedside table and e-mails Rudy Synakowski:

Synakowski responds immediately:

(“
Whack job.” “I think he wants to communicate with me.” “Why you? About what?”
)

From the refrigerator he takes the seven remaining bottles of the Czech import and empties them into the sink. His house is now an alcohol-free zone. Digging again into his cuticles. Feels nothing. An emptiness within, signifying nothing.

In the car again, Conte eats a chocolate bar for energy, drives to the Hannaford Supermarket where he (not yet free of alcohol desire) takes from the cooler a six-bottle carton of the nonalcoholic beer Excaliber, then heads on to Oneida First National Bank to pay his weekly visit to Donatella (“Tootsie”) Tomasi, bank manager and his godmother Angie’s daughter. In the parking lot, Conte chugs down one of the Excalibers, thinks about doing another, but doesn’t – through the doors of Oneida First National directly he goes to the Men’s Room.

Donatella Tomasi looks up as he enters her office, “Jeez! You don’t look well! What’s wrong, El?”

“Maybe coming down with a little something, Tootsie. No big deal.”

“Maybe?!”

Tootsie Tomasi is a dark-haired and full-bodied beauty, fifty years old and always unlucky in love – because ever since Eliot returned twenty years ago she had nurtured a crush on him so hidden, even from herself, that she barely knew she had one, which is why the many suitors who were attracted never felt she was wholly
there
, especially in the most intimate moments. Oh, she knows, alright, but prefers not to. Daily life is a little easier that way. Conte’s weekly visits and occasional lunch dates make her happy – and unhappy. Conte knows – he’s known for years.

They sit on the small couch. Conte tells her that his visit is regrettably, this time, not social and that he thinks she might be able to assist him in an important investigation. She replies that she’s happy to help “unless, well, are you talking to me now in my official capacity here with access to sensitive information? In which case, El, you know, as much as I’d – I’m sure you understand, I’m sorry, only the police can get that from us.”

“I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Toots.”

“Uncomfortable? You? Listen, no harm can come from telling me the story. We’re talking. It’s just talk.”

“It concerns a famous Utica event. Fifteen years ago.”

“Don’t tell me!”

“That’s what I’m telling you.”

“Don’t tell me you have a lead!”

“I’m telling you that.”

She gets up. Calls her secretary and asks him to hold all calls and clients. Closes the door.

“Strictest confidence, Toots. If my godmother were still with us, I’d say, Okay, tell her, but no one else. Can’t tell you how much I miss Angie. She stepped in when my mother died and never stepped away.”

“Remember those calzones, El! She hated cooking, unless it was for you and me.”

He takes her hand. He knows what he’s doing, though he’d rather not know.

“Just between us, Toots.”

“I promise.”

“Raymond DePellaccio.”

“Who’s he?”

“Died not long after those murders.”

“Okay.”

“Hypothetically, Toots. Let’s say a bank official from another bank calls about an account you might be carrying. Do you tend to honor that?”

“That’s a gray area, El.”

“In other words?”

“An extremely gray area.”

“So if DePellaccio were not one of yours?”

“Was he the killer?”

“No. He was part of a conspiracy along with someone else you definitely have heard of.”

“Who?”

He lets go of her hand. “Can’t say at this time.”

“Okay.”

Takes her hand again.

“Hypothetically, Toots, if a customer brings in a large amount of cold cash for deposit, what do you do?”

“We take it.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. Naturally, we run a counterfeit test. We take it, El, because that’s what we are.”

“What you
do
, Toots?”

“I didn’t misspeak, Professor. What we are. Moneytakers.”

He excuses himself and goes to the men’s room. When he returns, she’s working at her computer. He sits on the couch. She stays at her desk. She thinks he’s deteriorating by the minute. She goes to the couch and takes his hand:

“I’ve been wanting to call you all week, El. I won’t beat around the bush. You were married a long time ago out there in California to a Nancy, who divorced you and then quickly remarried a Nor something, right? And changed your kids’ names to Nor something with your consent. Your father mentioned this to me and Angie many years ago while the three of us were playing pinochle at our house. Silvio couldn’t understand why you let her change their names. When he told us, he cried. El, I saw that terrible story on CNN concerning Nancy Norwald, who they think murdered her children. I’m worried that’s the reason you look sick. Was that your ex, God forbid?”

“No need to worry, Toots. The Nancy I married – she married a guy named Norwalk.”

“Thank God her name isn’t Norwald.”

“Thank God, Toots.”

“You say thank God, but you don’t believe, do you? Tell the truth, El.”

“I don’t know.”

“You want coffee or something?”

“No thanks.”

“You don’t know if you believe or not? That’s one I haven’t heard before. Your father believes.”

“In what?”

“God. Who else? You know, he calls me here every Friday afternoon without fail.”

“How nice of him.”

“Gosh, El, you should cut him some slack. He’s very sweet. Always tells me I’m the daughter he never had. I say Eliot is the son Angie never had. At the end of every call it’s always about you. Because he knows I see you once a week and figures if he calls on Friday, you know what I’m saying. How’s my son, Toots? You see him more than I do. Maybe I should take a job in the bank as your assistant. Joking around like that but I know –”

“Toots, how many times have we been over this?”

“A lot, El. I feel sorry for him. And you. The three of us have so much in common.”

“That’s one I haven’t heard before.”

“It’s obvious, Professor. Silvio lived his whole life in Utica. Like me. And except for going off to California for college – you came back here, El, didn’t you? Because this is where we take you in when you’re in a situation. You made the decision to return when you were in trouble out there. The old neighborhood – where you were raised – where you’re known
and you know you are known. If you only stayed put you wouldn’t have had the heartbreak. I know, I know – Utica is no bed of roses, but it’s your place. You came back to stay, but you never wrapped your arms around your decision. Am I offending you, El, because if I am –”

“You’re right about everything, Toots. Anyway, thanks for the chat. I think I’ll go home and rest. Maybe lunch next week?”

“After that pain-in-the-you-know-where speech I made, you still want to go to lunch?”

“Of course. We’re family. Like brother and sister.” His response wounds her to the core.

He goes to the door.

“Wait. It helps for congestion.” She gives him two tablets of a decongestant, which she’s wrapped in tissue.

“Stay in touch, Toots.”

Before exiting the bank, another trip to the men’s room, to stand at the urinal, staring down hunched over the pathetic stream. Tosses decongestants in the waste basket. In the car, a swig of Excaliber. Decongestants, he knows, are not indicated for men with enlarged prostates. Eliot Conte, he knows, is not indicated for Tootsie Tomasi.

At home, two aspirin and a double dosage of a medication which eases the urine for men with his problem, and then to bed.