Ice Blues - Stevenson Richard (читать книги бесплатно полностью без регистрации TXT) 📗

EIGHT

I was led to the last available table for four at Queequeg's, a restored artrdeco diner-all streamlined aluminum glitz on the outside, goldenly glowing carved wood paneling on the inside, as in a wagon-lit-that had been turned into a kebab, salad and beer joint for the youngish trendies who lived and worked around Albany Medical Center.

The food at Queequeg's was good and cheap, and the owners had managed to conjure up an illusion of authentic fast-lane city life by packing a large number of eaters and drinkers into an area of severely constricted square footage. The music-jazz, disco, fusion-was sufficiently loud, as were frequently the customers, so that, amidst the atmosphere of boozy congestion, it was possible to converse without being overheard, or even, if your diction was sloppy or you were a little bit shy, heard at all.

Sim Kempelman was the first to arrive at five till seven. I'd never met him, but I watched for a middle-aged lawyer in the throes of mild culture shock, and I spotted him right away and signaled for him to join me.

"Mr. Strachey?"

"Attorney Kempelman, I presume."

"That's me, kiddo. And how are you today? This establishment reminds me of my student days at the University of

Pittsburgh. There was a place just like this one just off Schenley, near Forbes Field, before it went the way of the rest of my youth. Do you know Pittsburgh?"

"I've only passed through. It's somewhere near St. Louis, isn't it?"

He navigated his physical amplitude onto one of the chrome steel chairs.

"It's not quite that far beyond the New Yorker's pale. I take it you're a Manhattanite, Mr. Strachey. You must find Albany to be somewhere near St.

Louis too."

"I'm from New Jersey, so I'm adaptable. It's not quite a real place to most people-like saying you grew up on an offshore barge. But it was real enough for me."

"And how are you enjoying Albany? Is it real enough for you?"

"More than enough."

He had a big amiably droll face whose weight seemed to pull his head forward, and the brownest eyes I had ever seen. "I'm an attorney,"

Kempelman said, bending toward me, "but sometimes I think I would appreciate this city better if I were an anthropologist. In many ways Albany is like a museum display of American urban political folkways during the first half of this century. It's the powerful few snuffling at the public trough with the not-so-powerful many picking up the tab when it comes due each year. It's an outmoded system-like Havana before Castro, or Prague after Dubcek. You don't find patronage-and-payoff politics in the more prosperous, future-oriented cities-Atlanta, San Diego, Denver. It's outmoded, it's unfair, it's too expensive, and it doesn't work."

"How long is it going to take you to change it?"

"Another twenty-five years at the rate we're moving. Two years if my organization can find a way to tap the support we know is out there. Are you familiar with Democrats for Better Government in Albany? Or maybe you're even a dues-paying member, could that be so?"

"I'm not a member, no. But I've read about your group."

"But you are politically progressive, I take it. I received the distinct impression from a number of colleagues that you might be."

I said, "I'm an old-fashioned liberal, Mr. Kempelman. I'd be a socialist if I thought governments could be counted on always to do the right thing. But they can't, so I'm not. I am sort of fond of the social democracies. I like to think of Denmark with all those cheese fields waving in the northern sunlight. Of course, I've never been there, so that makes it easier. In this country I work for the Democrats in national elections, and in Albany I vote Republican, which makes me an anarchist. I'm gay, too, so around here that makes me pretty much of an outlaw if I do much more than leave the house, which I often do. I suppose my brazen behavior in that respect automatically confers on me 'progressive' credentials. But I don't know, you're the president of the club."

He had listened carefully to this, and now he gave me a little half-smile. He said, "You know why I wanted to speak with you, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Jack Lenihan told me that if anything happened to him, I should contact you."

"I guessed that."

"You didn't know?"

"No, but you are merely one of the legions Jack seems to have mentioned my name to."

He frowned. "I think poor Jack died horribly on account of some money he had-a great deal of money. That's my opinion."

"Jack Lenihan was murdered. Have you gone to the police with your opinion?"

"Yes. This afternoon, after much soul-searching, I spoke with Detective Lieutenant Bowman. I had no choice but to report my knowledge to him.

You understand that, don't you?"

"I do. Did my name come up?"

"It had to, naturally. I believe Officer Bowman would like to speak with you, in fact. He is searching for you at this very moment."

"I'll give him a call when I get a chance. I already saw him once today, which was plenty. What did you tell him?"

"That Jack Lenihan had offered my organization two and a half million dollars to finance a campaign to elect a progressive mayor of Albany."

"Oh."

"And that you were involved in his plans in a manner which Jack did not spell out to me."

"You told Bowman all that?"

"I had to."

"Crap."

"You said the word, Mr. Strachey, Jack Lenihan was murdered. Under the circumstances, there is no way I could have withheld information that is clearly relevant to the police investigation. My duty as an officer of the court is both legally and morally clear."

I said, "But you hesitated, didn't you?" I watched him squirm. "You waited half a day before you went to Bowman trying to figure out a way to get hold of Lenihan's cash before you did your moral duty."

"Yes, I did take time out to mull over the ramifications of any action I might take."

"Good for you, Kempelman. I think I'll join your club." He chuckled mildly.

"But first I have to tell you that Jack Lenihan used my name without permission. Before he died, I knew nothing of his money or his plans for it.

That sounds like a line for the cops, and you can take it or leave it, but it's true." He shrugged. I said, "When did Jack first approach you?"

"January third."

"Was he making an offer, or was he just feeling you out?"

"It was a feeler. Jack made it plain that other political organizations might possibly become the recipients of his public-spirited largesse. He said he would be in touch but that he was having unspecified problems with some people whose identities he did not reveal, and if anything happened to him I should get in touch with you."

"Jack Lenihan was a waiter on Lark Street who was not independently wealthy. Where did he say he got the money?"

Kempelman smiled and shook his head. "From his godfather. He inherited two and a half million dollars from his godfather in Los Angeles."

"No."

"That's what he said. He showed me documents-Jack was prepared for a certain skepticism on my part, you see- and he sat in my office and dumped a pile of documents on my desk. A probated will, tax-payment receipts, the whole lot of it, and all entirely on the up and up. I photocopied the papers, made some calls to attorneys of my acquaintance in Los Angeles after Jack left, and was convinced in my mind and heart that the whole business was legit."