Read Online 361 by Donald E. Westlake - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Donald E. Westlake
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aimed a thick finger at Bill. “Do you look like your father?”
“I guess so,” said Bill. “That’s what people say.”
“One thing triggers another. When you called, I didn’t know a Kelly from a kilowatt. Then I read that damn thing, and I remembered the look of that son of a bitch Silber in court, and then I remembered the lawyer. Wore a blue suit. I can’t remember what color tie. Anyway, I’m sorry about that piece. I was young and idealistic, then. Went with a girl, a Jewish Communist vegetarian from the Bronx. She gave speeches in bed. That was 1931, a Communist then was somebody who didn’t change their shorts every day. I’ve never been any damn good at interviews, I always do all the talking myself.” The finger shot out at me this time, and he said, “What the hell are you so mad about?”
I realized then how tense my face muscles were. I tried to relax them, and it felt awkward, as though I were staring.
He grinned at me. “Okay, you’ve got a problem. It’s a little late to be mad at me for what I said about your father thirty years ago. I take it this is something more current.”
I said, “Two months ago Monday, somebody murdered my father. The cops gave up. It’s something from before 1940. We need names.”
He sat still for a few seconds, looking at me, and then he got to his feet and took one step to his right. “I want to record this. Do you mind?”
“Yes.”
He looked back at me. One hand was on the tape control. “Why?”
“We don’t want anything in the paper. They’re after us, too. The whole family. They killed his wife already, three weeks ago.”
Bill said, “Two weeks and three days.”
“All right, this is off the record. Nothing in the paper unless you say so. Unless and until.” He stepped back, pulled open a green metal locker door, pointed at the shelf. Red and black tape boxes. “I save that crap, too,” he said. “Interviews that go back nine years. Useless. Not a celebrity in the crowd.”
There was a knock at the door. He snarled, and his wife called, “Open up, my hands are full.”
Bill jumped up and opened the door.
She had a round tray that said Ruppert’s Knicker -bocker Beer on it. She set the three cups of coffee around on spaces we cleared. She smiled at everybody, but didn’t say anything, and went right out again, closing the door after her. Beeworthy said, “Will you take my word for it?”
I wanted his cooperation. He was a complicated string-saver. I said, “All right.”
“Fine.” He clicked it on, and the tape reels started slowly turning. He went back to the desk and sat down and pushed papers out of the way, and there was the microphone.
Then he had me tell the story, in detail. I didn’t like spending the time, but I was the one asking the favor.
He was a fake. He knew how to interview. Three or four times he asked questions, and filled in sections I’d blurred. He said, “You’re grabbing for the wrong end of the horse. Find out who’s around now, and then see which of them knew your father when. I could do that probably easier than you. Some of Eddie Kapp’s old cronies, maybe. Let me dig around in the files—not here, at the paper—and I’ll give you a call on Monday. Where you staying?”
“I don’t think there’ll ever be any story in this,” I said. “Not that I’d want you to print.”
He laughed and tugged at his mustache. “Don’t believe the reporters you see in the movies,” he said. “The age of creative journalism is dead. Stories today are things editors point at. I want this for me, strictly for my own distraction and edification.” He got up and switched off the tape recorder. “What I really ought to be doing,” he said, looking at the tape reels, “I ought to be editing some small-town paper somewhere. Up in New England somewhere. I never made the move. I should have made the goddamn move.” He turned back. “I’ll look things up,” he said. “Where can I get in touch
“I guess so,” said Bill. “That’s what people say.”
“One thing triggers another. When you called, I didn’t know a Kelly from a kilowatt. Then I read that damn thing, and I remembered the look of that son of a bitch Silber in court, and then I remembered the lawyer. Wore a blue suit. I can’t remember what color tie. Anyway, I’m sorry about that piece. I was young and idealistic, then. Went with a girl, a Jewish Communist vegetarian from the Bronx. She gave speeches in bed. That was 1931, a Communist then was somebody who didn’t change their shorts every day. I’ve never been any damn good at interviews, I always do all the talking myself.” The finger shot out at me this time, and he said, “What the hell are you so mad about?”
I realized then how tense my face muscles were. I tried to relax them, and it felt awkward, as though I were staring.
He grinned at me. “Okay, you’ve got a problem. It’s a little late to be mad at me for what I said about your father thirty years ago. I take it this is something more current.”
I said, “Two months ago Monday, somebody murdered my father. The cops gave up. It’s something from before 1940. We need names.”
He sat still for a few seconds, looking at me, and then he got to his feet and took one step to his right. “I want to record this. Do you mind?”
“Yes.”
He looked back at me. One hand was on the tape control. “Why?”
“We don’t want anything in the paper. They’re after us, too. The whole family. They killed his wife already, three weeks ago.”
Bill said, “Two weeks and three days.”
“All right, this is off the record. Nothing in the paper unless you say so. Unless and until.” He stepped back, pulled open a green metal locker door, pointed at the shelf. Red and black tape boxes. “I save that crap, too,” he said. “Interviews that go back nine years. Useless. Not a celebrity in the crowd.”
There was a knock at the door. He snarled, and his wife called, “Open up, my hands are full.”
Bill jumped up and opened the door.
She had a round tray that said Ruppert’s Knicker -bocker Beer on it. She set the three cups of coffee around on spaces we cleared. She smiled at everybody, but didn’t say anything, and went right out again, closing the door after her. Beeworthy said, “Will you take my word for it?”
I wanted his cooperation. He was a complicated string-saver. I said, “All right.”
“Fine.” He clicked it on, and the tape reels started slowly turning. He went back to the desk and sat down and pushed papers out of the way, and there was the microphone.
Then he had me tell the story, in detail. I didn’t like spending the time, but I was the one asking the favor.
He was a fake. He knew how to interview. Three or four times he asked questions, and filled in sections I’d blurred. He said, “You’re grabbing for the wrong end of the horse. Find out who’s around now, and then see which of them knew your father when. I could do that probably easier than you. Some of Eddie Kapp’s old cronies, maybe. Let me dig around in the files—not here, at the paper—and I’ll give you a call on Monday. Where you staying?”
“I don’t think there’ll ever be any story in this,” I said. “Not that I’d want you to print.”
He laughed and tugged at his mustache. “Don’t believe the reporters you see in the movies,” he said. “The age of creative journalism is dead. Stories today are things editors point at. I want this for me, strictly for my own distraction and edification.” He got up and switched off the tape recorder. “What I really ought to be doing,” he said, looking at the tape reels, “I ought to be editing some small-town paper somewhere. Up in New England somewhere. I never made the move. I should have made the goddamn move.” He turned back. “I’ll look things up,” he said. “Where can I get in touch
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