The staked Goat by Jeremiah Healy

French easy chair in his room in Saigon, reading or listening to symphonic music on the stereo set he had bought at the PX. I skipped back to him clouting the Virginian in the brawl at the BOQ. I skipped forward to Martha and Al Junior in the rundown townhouse with little food and less heat. Then I thought about 13 Rue Madeleine and Al on the slab, and somebody, the somebody, who was going to pay for all that. Then I said good-bye and returned to my seat.
    The rest of the afternoon took a lot longer to pass than it does to describe. The outside door kept opening and closing, but the hushed voices and occasional sobs gravitated toward another room and someone else’s sorrow. At three o’clock, the older Cribbs came in and, perhaps embarrassed at the turn-out, stayed with us for a bit. Dale bravely tried to start a few conversations, but not even Carol was contributing so he stopped. I excused myself and got Cribbs’ permission to use his office phone.
    I wanted to call my number first, to check my telephone tape machine. I took out my Ma Bell credit card. I tapped my jacket pocket for my remote beeper, but it wasn’t there. I closed my eyes and could picture me putting it on the desk at home, then forgetting to pack it in the suitcase. Terrific. Really professional.
    I tried J.T. at the Pentagon instead. Same receptionist, same response. No one else there could help me. I chanced leaving Al’s name and Dale’s number with her. I spelled the names and repeated the numbers twice.
    I tried Nancy second. Not in, but I left both Dale’s and Martha’s home numbers with her secretary.
    Next I tried my friend at the company that had covered the torched warehouse. He was not in and was not expected back. I asked his secretary to please follow through on the security request for the Coopers. She said she would do her best, but ”it’s three-thirty on a Friday afternoon, after all.”
    Next I called and reached my friend at the telephone company in Boston. He gave me the Coopers’ new, unlisted telephone number. It rang five times before I got Jesse’s tentative hello. Relieved it was me, he said mine was the first call on their new line, and they had neither heard from nor seen Marco. I told him that was certainly good news. Jesse and Emily (who had come on the line) both thanked me profusely. Emily asked about Al’s family, and I told a few lies to make them feel better. As I rang off, they insisted I come over for dinner as soon as I got home. I agreed.
    Lastly, I dialed Lieutenant Murphy. This time I drew Cross. She confirmed Daley’s conversation with me, said she had spoken personally with Al’s two business appointments, neither of whom were going to order anything from him or knew anything more about him. Murphy’s investigatory approach was comprehensive and professional, but I could hear the ”case closed but unsolved” tone creeping determinedly into Cross’ voice. I told her I would check back with her on Monday and hung up.
    I got up, thanked Cribbs’ secretary, and went back downstairs. The crowd had not filled in since I’d left.
    At 4:20, though, Larry joined us. Dale nudged him in the ribs, and Larry went up to the coffin and stood there for fifteen seconds or so, head bowed. When he turned and came back, I was surprised to see he was crying. He sat back down and began sobbing into Dale’s shoulder. Carol clenched her teeth, the tears welling within her but not pouring from her. I blinked a lot and twice went to my eyes with the edge of my index finger. Martha simply sat, stoically staring at the coffin.
    At five o’clock, a young heavyset girl of perhaps nineteen came in. She looked at us and began sniffling. She fumbled in her bag for some Kleenex and got to it just as the tide broke. I got up and guided her to a chair.
    Her name was Trudy Murcher, and she was the secretary for the salesmen at Straun Steel. She saw the newspaper story and was so shocked, and had tried to call Martha at home, and