Night Game (10 page)

Before the night was over, we had divided up the areas where suspects might lurk. Esther was keen to look at Troy Barwell’s life. She had a criminal lawyer’s traditional distrust of cops, and she thought Barwell was even worse than most. She was our contact with Domingo and also agreed to do the slogging through old court documents we might need to investigate, since, as she pointed out, she speaks and reads lawshit fluently.

Jagger was going to use his connections with Lucy’s family and friends. I was going to look at the possibilities on the team. We agreed to meet in a couple of days, and exchanged phone numbers in case anything dramatic came up.

I saw Jagger the next morning, at Lucy’s funeral. He was sitting towards the front of the characterless modern church, fairly close to the family, with a red-haired woman I recognized from the picture in his office as his wife. They were just across the aisle from Hank Cartwright, who appeared to be sober, but suffering. He was wearing a suit that looked borrowed, and his hair was in one braid down his back. Willie Nelson on a bad day.

Jeff and I sat at the back with a group from the ball club. Gloves and Karin Gardiner sat with Tracy Swain. The David Sloanes also attended, which surprised me. I didn’t expect those two pillars of the Mormon church to have much sympathy for a woman as scarlet as Lucy.

Eddie Carter, Joe Kelsey, and Tiny Washington were in the row behind us, conspicuous in the otherwise white crowd. Hugh Marsh came with his assistant, Millie, from the dining room, and her big, red-faced husband. None of the other Toronto reporters showed up.

I did a quick count of the house, while an elderly organist slogged her way through a lugubrious rendition of “Lucy in the Sky,” etc., peering through bifocals at the sheet music propped up on the little electric organ. There were about seventy-five people there, many of them young. Barwell was there, and thinking of Lucy’s nickname for him took some of the threat out of his glowering. I also recognized the first cop on the scene the night we found her, the one who had looked so upset when he heard who it was. I made a note to ask Cal or Esther to check if there was some history there that we should know about. I looked in vain for any obvious murderers in the crowd.

June, dressed in black, sat stiffly between her second husband and her son in the first pew. On Ringo’s left was an older couple, probably Lucy’s grandparents.

The service was brief and too pat for my taste. The minister, a stern man in his fifties, was apparently Dirk’s pastor, and seemed to have had little acquaintance with Lucy. He talked about God calling her home as if he believed it. My father used to be a minister, so I went to more than my share of funerals growing up, and I’ve never heard a eulogy so lacking in comfort.

I was glad to get out of the stuffy church and into the glorious spring sunshine that seemed to mock the mourners as they came out the doors. I paused just outside, when I saw a police car pull up to the curb in front of the church.

I thought at first that it was there to escort the hearse, until I saw Detective Sargent, Barwell’s partner, get out and scan the crowd. When he spotted his boss, he walked quickly to him and grabbed his arm. They moved off to one side, Barwell glaring as he listened. He looked both surprised and angry as he moved away from Sargent and cut through the group surrounding June Hoving. He shook her hand and spoke to her for a moment, while Sargent moved back to the car, started it up, and idled at the curb. When Barwell had finished paying his respects, he got into the car and the pair drove off with a squeal of the tires.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Huh?” Jeff said. He hadn’t been watching.

“Wait here a second.”

Cal Jagger and I had agreed to pretend that we didn’t know each other, but when I spotted him, it was obvious he was looking for me, too. He hadn’t missed the scene with the police. He made a discreet motion with his head and strolled away from the rest of the congregation, towards the parking lot and around the corner of the church. I went the other way round and met him behind an oak tree. Very cloak and dagger.

“What do you think that was about?” he asked.

“I was hoping you could find out,” I said. ‘There’s something going on. We should check it out.”

“It’s probably easiest for me. I’ll go back to my office and make some calls.”

“No. Stay here and do what you’re doing with the family. Just call me as soon as you find out anything. If it’s another body, at least Dommy is in the clear.”

Jagger looked at me oddly. I guess it was a rather strange remark, but I’ve only been involved in two murder cases, and each of them had more than one victim. Why should this one be any different? It would make my life a lot easier.

“It might not even be connected,” he cautioned.

“I’ll bet it is,” I said.

“I’ll call you later. Will you be at the hotel?”

“Or you can leave a message.”

I waited a few minutes after he went back, then went to join the group still gathered on the lawn. The Titan contingent was just leaving. Gloves stopped when he saw me.

“I thought you’d split,” he said. “How’s it going? Have you found anything out yet?”

“I’ve barely begun.” I said.

“I wonder if the murderer was here at the funeral,” Karin said, with a shiver. ‘That’s what always happens on television, isn’t it? The killer shows up to gloat.”

“This isn’t television, Karin,” Tracy said.

“Where’s Stinger this morning?” I asked. She shrugged.

“He had an early tee-off time. I thought that one of us should do the right thing.”

“I’m sure the family appreciate it,” I said. “How did you know Lucy?”

“She used to babysit some of the kids when she was just a teenager,” Tracy said. “Stinger’s and mine and David and Marie’s twins.”

That explained the Sloanes’ presence.

“Ours, too,” Karin said.

“I didn’t know that. I only met her later, when she started working for the magazine,” I said.

“I didn’t see much of her anymore,” Tracy said. “But we both think it’s a great tragedy. The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

I agreed and moved on, stopping to speak briefly to Tiny, Joe, and Eddie, who were starting to leave. We exchanged some small talk, awkwardly. Funerals are not an easy place to talk to people with whom you normally laugh a lot.

“I’d like to get together later,” I said. “After practice, I guess.”

“He’ll probably keep us late because we took time off to come here,” Eddie said.

“I can talk to you any time,” Tiny said. “I don’t have to listen to Massah no more.”

“Aren’t you filing a report today?” I asked.

“I’ll be done that by lunchtime,” he said.

“Well, well, aren’t you sounding like the old pro now,” I said. “I’ll catch up with you at the media room, then. I want to talk to a few more people here.”

“You just keep on with your investigating,” he said, with a smile. “Maybe you should get yourself one of them trench coats.”

“Yeah, but my magnifying glass is in for repairs.”

“Catch you later, then.”

I nodded and touched his arm. I had just spotted Hank Cartwright, by himself, heading slowly across the lawn to the parking lot.

I caught up with him as he was getting into his car, a broken-down Ford with a decided tilt to one side, and introduced myself.

“I’m doing a story for the Toronto
Planet
on Lucy, and I’d like to talk to you about her, if you have a few minutes.”

He turned and looked at me, then smiled. Or leered, perhaps.

“Far out,” he said. “The
Planet.
And you’re Lois Lane.”

“The newspaper was named before Superman was invented. As far as I know, none of our reporters does anything peculiar in phone booths.”

“Too bad,” he said, flirting grotesquely.

“Maybe this isn’t a good time,” I said.

“I have an important appointment.”

“What time would be good?”

“The appointment is with an old friend,” he continued. “I don’t think he’d mind if you came along.”

“If you’re sure,” I said, dubious.

He held the door and gestured me into the car.

“The passenger door is stuck.”

“It’s all right. I have a car. Maybe it would be better if I followed you.”

“To the ends of the earth and back again?”

“To your appointment,” I said, firmly. “My car’s just over there.”

“I await your return with wildly beating heart,” he said, bowing.

I hurried back to Jeff, who was talking with Hugh Marsh, and told him to make his own way to the ballpark. As I went back towards the parking lot, awkward on the grass in my high heels, I saw June Hoving pause beside the funeral car to look at me. I hoped I wasn’t going to queer the interview I had set up with her by going off with her former husband.

As soon as I pulled my car up behind his, Hank Cartwright took off, in the opposite direction from the one the cortège was pointed. We went a few blocks, then pulled into the parking lot of a grungy bar called the Starlite. The placement of the building in the corner lot suggested a former life as a filling station. There were a couple of pickup trucks and a big motorcycle clustered around the door of the dirty grey cinderblock building. The small windows were high up and covered by semi-functioning neon beer signs. Put it this way. It wasn’t a bar I would normally rush to frequent. I checked my watch. It was 10:30 in the morning. Not my idea of happy hour.

Cartwright got out of his car and went in without waiting for me. I followed a moment later. After my eyes had adjusted to the gloom, I saw him at the bar, a shot glass already to his mouth, supported by both hands. He downed it in one gulp. When he noticed me, he raised the empty glass.

“Meet Jack Daniels,” he said, smiling crookedly. “My oldest and dearest friend.”

He turned to the bartender, a hulking guy who looked about sixty. He was balding and grey-haired, with deformed ears and a nose that had been broken more than once. An old photograph of a handsome young boxer with his gloves up, hanging over the bar mirror, showed him in better days. He looked at us with a steady, distrustful gaze, his huge, rough hands resting flat on the bar.

“Another, please, Cecil,” Hank said. “And whatever the lady wants. She’s buying.”

Luckily, I had plenty of cash, because Cecil didn’t look like he would take Visa. I’d be lucky if he gave receipts. What would I call this on my expense account?

“Beer for me,” I said. “Light beer, if you have it.”

“No light,” Cecil said. “Bud or Coors.”

“Bud’s fine,” I said, then turned to Hank. “Maybe we should sit at a table.”

“Don’t worry about old Cecil,” he said. “He minds his own business.”

“As long as you have the money to pay for his drinks,” the bartender said, sliding my beer over and pouring Hank another shot. I put a twenty on the bar. He nodded, moved down the bar, and turned his attention to the television set, feigning fascination with Oprah Winfrey and her guests, who were discussing lesbian parenthood. He was still within earshot.

“Did you ever see your daughter?” I began.

“Every week,” Cartwright said, picking up his glass with a newly steady hand. He sipped carefully, then smiled. “Every single week. June didn’t know. Lucy never told her. But she came by, or found me somewhere, and she never missed a week. She gave me some money, sometimes. I didn’t feel too good about that.”

He raised the shot glass again, and took another careful little sip, delicately almost, savouring the fire. He closed his eyes and sighed. I waited for him to continue.

“She said it made her happy to help me out. It made me happy to see her, that’s for sure.”

He raised bloodshot eyes to mine.

“I wasn’t much of a father when she was little. I know that. I was too fucked up. Hell, I’m still fucked up. But she forgave me for that. She forgave me for everything. She just wanted to know me, she said.”

He fell silent, staring into the middle distance.

“When did you begin to get close?” I asked. He looked startled, as if he had forgotten I was there.

“About four years ago. Four years ago November, my birthday. My fortieth. She came to my trailer with a present.”

He quickly drained what was left in his glass and wiped his eyes. Cecil looked a question at me. I nodded, and he brought the bottle. I offered Hank a cigarette, which he took. I lit it for him, then took one myself.

“She was scared,” Cartwright said. “Real shy. Like a little animal. She gave me a book she’d made of some of my old poems she had found in the house somewhere, and some poems she had written. God, it was moving. She stayed for five or six hours. I was pretty wasted that day. It was like she was glowing, an apparition, a visitation, an angel who cupped my heart gently in her hands. She’s been my special girl ever since.”

“How long had it been?”

He sighed.

“If I’m honest, I’ll tell you I never knew her before. At first, she was just a baby. I don’t dig babies. Then me and June split up, and I couldn’t get it together to see her for a while. Then June turned her against me.

“Not that I blame her,” he said, and stopped, lost in his memories. After a few moments, he straightened and smiled at me.

“You know what I used to do? I used to go by her school during recess and just watch her from where she couldn’t see me, my pretty little girl. I wondered how my daughter could be so pretty and nice. I told her that once. She cried. Like I told her, I never stopped loving her. I just didn’t know how to do it without screwing her up. I guess I probably did anyway, deserting her, but it would have been worse if I’d been around. I really believe that. Or I used to. Now I don’t know, and I never will.”

More bourbon, more tears blotted on his sleeve. He took a cocktail napkin and blew his nose, then loosened his tie.

“She had talent,” he said, calm again. “Damn, but she had talent. Did you know that?”

“I never really read her stuff. Sorry.”

“Too bad. She could write. She had the magic inside her, and I did everything I could to bring it out. I lent her books, turned her on to writers she had never heard of. I opened up her mind. I gave her the wings to fly with. I just wanted to make sure she didn’t piss it all away the way I did. I did something right for a change. Man, it felt good, too.”

He looked at me.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “She wasn’t the only one who got something out of it. She straightened me out pretty good. To tell the truth, I was pretty close to losing it when she came into my life. ‘Half in love with easeful death’ when she came, like a nightingale, to bring me back.”

I rummaged through the cobwebs in my memory of English 101.

“‘To cease upon the midnight with no pain,’” I said.

He raised his glass.

“Here’s to Johnny Keats,” he said. “He could fly, too.”

I let another silence slide by before changing the subject.

“Did Lucy confide in you about many things?” I asked.

He looked at me slyly.

“Like what? What are you getting at?”

“Nothing. I just wondered what you talked about.”

“You want to know if I knew about her sex life? Sure I did. She told me everything. She believed in an active, healthy sex life. Took after her father in that, too.”

I let it lie between us on the bar. He took another cigarette from my pack, tore the filter off, and lit it.

“These Canadian cigarettes are crap,” he said.

“The price is right,” I said. He ignored me.

“Lucy approached sex like a man,” he said, approvingly. “When she saw what she wanted, she took it. No guilt. No remorse. No questions asked. I admired that.”

He laughed.

“So, she played with guys, used them. She had a great body and she knew how to get her way. So what? Haven’t men been doing that with women since the beginning of time? A woman like you, you must be a feminist, you should approve of Lucy. Except you’re probably uptight about sex.”

I let that one lie right next to his previous remark. The bar was littered with innuendo.

“Lucy was free in her mind and her body. The Bible-thumpers and scum-suckers in this fucking town just kept trying to drag her back to their level. But she was too strong for them.”

He smiled, then anger clouded his eyes.

“And then some jumped-up Brillo-head from the Islands, who wasn’t worthy of her attention, did her. Shit, isn’t that ironic? She was just trying to be nice to the poor lost little fucker.”

He slammed his shot glass down on the bar, got off the stool, took his head in his hands, and let out a grating, wounded howl. Then he shook his head and walked purposefully past the pool table to the men’s room. No one in the bar even looked up.

“Everything all right, miss?” asked Cecil.

“He’s had a tough day,” I said. “His daughter’s funeral.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I heard about it. But, a word to the wise. Most days are tough days for Hank. Don’t let him fool you. And that twenty is just about used up.”

I opened my wallet and pulled out a matching bill.

“Thanks for the advice,” I said.

“I don’t want to see any trouble.”

“Neither do I.”

“Good.”

“Right.”

He went back to Oprah. I went back to my confusion.