then come back in the morning to get him."
I
pointed down
onto the page. "See . . . B-CAR, seven forty-five p.m. 16,432." I
turned the page. "CAR Official seven fifty-five a.m. 16,449."
"What's
B-CAR?"
"It
means Bermuda had the car for the night." "Which he
did every night."
"Mostly,"
I hedged. "That's the only inconsistency I can see. Other than that
these
guys were like clockwork." "What's that?"
I
checked the
notepad at my elbow. "There may be more, but so far, between the middle
of
May nineteen sixty-nine and the end of June of the same year, just
prior to
when Peerless Price disappeared, there are two occasions when my father
took
the city car home for the night."
"So?"
"Those
are
the only times, during the whole year, when that happened. Twice during
that
six-week period." "So?"
"He
had a
car at home." "Maybe it was in the shop." "For six
weeks?"
I
thumbed ahead
in the book. CAR-ME Per. "And look, both times he takes the car, he
gives Bermuda fifty bucks in personal money. Probably for cab
fare home and then back in the morning." B-$50 per.
"So?"
"It's
just
odd, that's all. Picture it. They're downtown somewhere." I nipped the
page and pointed at the next day's mileage. Only a five-mile
difference.
Wherever my father had gone, it was somewhere downtown. I flipped back.
11:15
p.m. "It's the end of the day. He hands Bermuda,
who, by the way, walks with two canes, fifty bucks and tells him to
take a cab
home. I mean . . . why would he do that?"
She
thought it
over. "Sounds like he had something to do that he didn't want Mr.
Schwartz
to know about."
"That's
exactly what got my attention. I mean what could he possibly be doing
that he
didn't want Bermuda to know about? They'd been
together for years. Bermuda knew where all the
bodies were buried." I stopped myself. "Figuratively speaking, of
course."
"Why
don't
you ask Mr. Schwartz?"
"I
don't
even know if he's still alive," I said.
"How
old
would he be?"
"I'm
not
sure. Maybe seventy-five, eighty or so."
I
rolled the
chair backward toward the counter and pulled the phone book out of the
bread
drawer. She watched with a wry grin.
"The
amazing tricks you gumshoes know."
I
ignored the
jibe. Ninety-eight out of every hundred people are listed in the phone
book.
Way back when, I'd once looked for a guy for a day and a half before a
brainstorm sent me to the white pages.
No
Edward
Albert Schwartz. No E Schwartz of any kind. I lobbed the book back into
the
drawer and rolled it closed with my foot.
"It's
like
Sherlock said. First you eliminate the obvious; then you get weird from
there."
"Those
were his exact words?"
"More
or
less."
"Did
Mr.
Schwartz have a family? A wife? Kiddies?" "I don't know," I
said.
She
started for
the door. "Well, Sherlock, I'll be upstairs whenever you get through
sleuthing." I closed my eyes, listening to the sound of her footsteps
on
the stairs and wondering how I could recall so little about the life of
a man
who knew so much about mine. Other than tooling around in the city car
with my
father, Bermuda's main task had been toting me
around. I mean, my mother didn't drive—hell, for the most part, she
didn't even
go out—and it wasn't like either of them was going to sit through
Little League
baseball games or anything. Fat chance. But I always knew that before
the game
was over, Bermuda would show up to get me, in
that long black car. Rain or shine, he'd always try to make as much of
the game
as he could No matter where I was on the field, I'd hear him clanking
up into
the stands with those aluminium canes of his, wearing that same black
suit with
the jacket buttoned. Always in the front row, sitting like a rock,
right next
to the over-involved, maniac parents, because that was as high as he
could
climb. I remembered how he never had a word or an opinion about
anything unless
you asked him directly, and then he had words and opinions about
everything,
because he cover-to-covered three newspapers a day, and did all
I
pointed down
onto the page. "See . . . B-CAR, seven forty-five p.m. 16,432." I
turned the page. "CAR Official seven fifty-five a.m. 16,449."
"What's
B-CAR?"
"It
means Bermuda had the car for the night." "Which he
did every night."
"Mostly,"
I hedged. "That's the only inconsistency I can see. Other than that
these
guys were like clockwork." "What's that?"
I
checked the
notepad at my elbow. "There may be more, but so far, between the middle
of
May nineteen sixty-nine and the end of June of the same year, just
prior to
when Peerless Price disappeared, there are two occasions when my father
took
the city car home for the night."
"So?"
"Those
are
the only times, during the whole year, when that happened. Twice during
that
six-week period." "So?"
"He
had a
car at home." "Maybe it was in the shop." "For six
weeks?"
I
thumbed ahead
in the book. CAR-ME Per. "And look, both times he takes the car, he
gives Bermuda fifty bucks in personal money. Probably for cab
fare home and then back in the morning." B-$50 per.
"So?"
"It's
just
odd, that's all. Picture it. They're downtown somewhere." I nipped the
page and pointed at the next day's mileage. Only a five-mile
difference.
Wherever my father had gone, it was somewhere downtown. I flipped back.
11:15
p.m. "It's the end of the day. He hands Bermuda,
who, by the way, walks with two canes, fifty bucks and tells him to
take a cab
home. I mean . . . why would he do that?"
She
thought it
over. "Sounds like he had something to do that he didn't want Mr.
Schwartz
to know about."
"That's
exactly what got my attention. I mean what could he possibly be doing
that he
didn't want Bermuda to know about? They'd been
together for years. Bermuda knew where all the
bodies were buried." I stopped myself. "Figuratively speaking, of
course."
"Why
don't
you ask Mr. Schwartz?"
"I
don't
even know if he's still alive," I said.
"How
old
would he be?"
"I'm
not
sure. Maybe seventy-five, eighty or so."
I
rolled the
chair backward toward the counter and pulled the phone book out of the
bread
drawer. She watched with a wry grin.
"The
amazing tricks you gumshoes know."
I
ignored the
jibe. Ninety-eight out of every hundred people are listed in the phone
book.
Way back when, I'd once looked for a guy for a day and a half before a
brainstorm sent me to the white pages.
No
Edward
Albert Schwartz. No E Schwartz of any kind. I lobbed the book back into
the
drawer and rolled it closed with my foot.
"It's
like
Sherlock said. First you eliminate the obvious; then you get weird from
there."
"Those
were his exact words?"
"More
or
less."
"Did
Mr.
Schwartz have a family? A wife? Kiddies?" "I don't know," I
said.
She
started for
the door. "Well, Sherlock, I'll be upstairs whenever you get through
sleuthing." I closed my eyes, listening to the sound of her footsteps
on
the stairs and wondering how I could recall so little about the life of
a man
who knew so much about mine. Other than tooling around in the city car
with my
father, Bermuda's main task had been toting me
around. I mean, my mother didn't drive—hell, for the most part, she
didn't even
go out—and it wasn't like either of them was going to sit through
Little League
baseball games or anything. Fat chance. But I always knew that before
the game
was over, Bermuda would show up to get me, in
that long black car. Rain or shine, he'd always try to make as much of
the game
as he could No matter where I was on the field, I'd hear him clanking
up into
the stands with those aluminium canes of his, wearing that same black
suit with
the jacket buttoned. Always in the front row, sitting like a rock,
right next
to the over-involved, maniac parents, because that was as high as he
could
climb. I remembered how he never had a word or an opinion about
anything unless
you asked him directly, and then he had words and opinions about
everything,
because he cover-to-covered three newspapers a day, and did all
Similar Books
