something the other day, something by Mark Twain, that struck me as very appropriate. (After searching his bookshelves, and finding the volume he wanted, Jake paced the room, reading aloud in a voice unlike his own: a hoarse, angry voice) “Of all the creatures that were made, man is the most detestable . Of the entire brood he is the only one, the solitary one, that possesses malice. That is the basest of all instincts, passions, vices—the most hateful. He is the only creature that inflicts pain for sport, knowing it to be pain. Also in all the list, he is the only creature that has a nasty mind.” (Jake banged the book shut and threw it on the bed) Detestable. Malicious. A nasty mind. Yessir, that describes Mr. Quinn perfectly. Not the whole of him. Mr. Quinn is a man of varied talents.
TC: You never told me his name before.
JAKE: I’ve only known it myself the last six months. But that’s it. Quinn.
(Again and again Jake slammed a hard fist into a cupped hand, like an angry prisoner too long confined, frustrated. Well, he had now been imprisoned by this case for many years; great fury, like great whiskey, requires long fermentation.)
Robert Hawley Quinn, Esquire. A most esteemed gentleman.
TC: But a gentleman who makes mistakes. Otherwise, you wouldn’t know his name. Or rather, you wouldn’t know he was our friend.
JAKE: (Silence; he’s not listening)
TC: Was it the snakes? You said they came from a Texas snake farm. If you know that, then you must know who bought them.
JAKE (anger gone; yawning): What?
TC: Incidentally, why were the snakes injected with amphetamine?
JAKE: Why do you think? To stimulate them. Increase their ferocity. It was like throwing a lighted match into a gasoline tank.
TC: I wonder, though. I wonder how he managed to inject the snakes, and install them in that car, all without getting bitten himself.
JAKE: He was taught how to do it.
TC: By whom?
JAKE: By the woman who sold him the snakes.
TC: A woman ?
JAKE: The snake farm in Nogales, it’s owned by a woman. You think that’s funny? My oldest boy married a girl who works for the Miami police department; she’s a professional deep-sea diver. The best car mechanic I know is a woman—
(The telephone interrupted; Jake glanced at his wristwatch and smiled, and his smile, so real and relaxed, told me not only that he knew who the caller was, but that it was someone whose voice he’d been happily expecting to hear.)
Hello, Addie. Yeah, he’s here. He says it’s spring in New York; I said he should’ve stayed there. Naw, nothin’. Just knocking off some drinks and discussing you-know-what. Is tomorrow Sunday? I thought it was Thursday. Maybe I’m losing my marbles. Sure, we’d love to come to dinner. Addie—don’t worry about it. He’ll like anything you cook. You’re the greatest cook either side of the Rockies, east or west. So don’t make a big deal out of it. Yeah, well, maybe that raisin pie with the apple crust. Lock your doors. Sleep tight. Yes, I do. You know I do. Buenas noches .
(After he’d hung up, his smile remained, broadened. At last he lit the cigar, puffed on it with pleasure. He pointed at the phone, chuckled.)
That was the mistake Mr. Quinn made. Adelaide Mason. She invited us to dinner tomorrow.
TC: And who is Mrs. Mason?
JAKE: Miss Mason. She’s a terrific cook.
TC: But other than that?
JAKE: Addie Mason was what I had been waiting for. My big break.
You know, my wife’s dad was a Methodist minister. She was very serious about the whole family going to church. I used to get out of it as much as I could, and after she died I never went at all. But about six months ago the Bureau was ready to close shop on this case. We’d spent a lot of time and a lot of money. And we had nothing to show for it; no case at all. Eight murders, and not a single clue that would link the victims together to produce some semblance of a motive. Nothing. Except those three little handcarved coffins.
I said to
TC: You never told me his name before.
JAKE: I’ve only known it myself the last six months. But that’s it. Quinn.
(Again and again Jake slammed a hard fist into a cupped hand, like an angry prisoner too long confined, frustrated. Well, he had now been imprisoned by this case for many years; great fury, like great whiskey, requires long fermentation.)
Robert Hawley Quinn, Esquire. A most esteemed gentleman.
TC: But a gentleman who makes mistakes. Otherwise, you wouldn’t know his name. Or rather, you wouldn’t know he was our friend.
JAKE: (Silence; he’s not listening)
TC: Was it the snakes? You said they came from a Texas snake farm. If you know that, then you must know who bought them.
JAKE (anger gone; yawning): What?
TC: Incidentally, why were the snakes injected with amphetamine?
JAKE: Why do you think? To stimulate them. Increase their ferocity. It was like throwing a lighted match into a gasoline tank.
TC: I wonder, though. I wonder how he managed to inject the snakes, and install them in that car, all without getting bitten himself.
JAKE: He was taught how to do it.
TC: By whom?
JAKE: By the woman who sold him the snakes.
TC: A woman ?
JAKE: The snake farm in Nogales, it’s owned by a woman. You think that’s funny? My oldest boy married a girl who works for the Miami police department; she’s a professional deep-sea diver. The best car mechanic I know is a woman—
(The telephone interrupted; Jake glanced at his wristwatch and smiled, and his smile, so real and relaxed, told me not only that he knew who the caller was, but that it was someone whose voice he’d been happily expecting to hear.)
Hello, Addie. Yeah, he’s here. He says it’s spring in New York; I said he should’ve stayed there. Naw, nothin’. Just knocking off some drinks and discussing you-know-what. Is tomorrow Sunday? I thought it was Thursday. Maybe I’m losing my marbles. Sure, we’d love to come to dinner. Addie—don’t worry about it. He’ll like anything you cook. You’re the greatest cook either side of the Rockies, east or west. So don’t make a big deal out of it. Yeah, well, maybe that raisin pie with the apple crust. Lock your doors. Sleep tight. Yes, I do. You know I do. Buenas noches .
(After he’d hung up, his smile remained, broadened. At last he lit the cigar, puffed on it with pleasure. He pointed at the phone, chuckled.)
That was the mistake Mr. Quinn made. Adelaide Mason. She invited us to dinner tomorrow.
TC: And who is Mrs. Mason?
JAKE: Miss Mason. She’s a terrific cook.
TC: But other than that?
JAKE: Addie Mason was what I had been waiting for. My big break.
You know, my wife’s dad was a Methodist minister. She was very serious about the whole family going to church. I used to get out of it as much as I could, and after she died I never went at all. But about six months ago the Bureau was ready to close shop on this case. We’d spent a lot of time and a lot of money. And we had nothing to show for it; no case at all. Eight murders, and not a single clue that would link the victims together to produce some semblance of a motive. Nothing. Except those three little handcarved coffins.
I said to
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