'The Lenihans-the Lenihans of Albany. Pug Lenihan is his grandfather.
You didn't know that?'
'Pug Lenihan, the Boyle brothers' bagman? He's dead, isn't he?'
'He's in his nineties and still lives in the North End somewhere. But I doubt whether Jack has anything to do with him-had. Jack was a notorious druggie for a while, using and dealing, and the Lenihans were as unfond of him as he was of them. Did he mention Pug to you?'
'As I recall, it was just before the Democratic convention and we talked national politics. What was he, a rich kid snorting the family fortune away up his nose?' I set the dirty dishes in steaming water and made a plastic bottle spurt something pink into it.
'No, the Lenihans are bust. Pug lives like a pauper, and his only son Jack's dad-died a drunk twenty years ago. Jack has a sister, I think, but the money's gone. The Boyles must have accumulated plenty, but what they didn't hand out at the polls they gave away to charity and North End down-and-outs. Jack must have seen a lot over the years, or smelled it, and he hated the Boyle machine with a cold passion. God, Jack was the last of the Lenihan men. Talk about a famous family going out with a whimper.' He dumped the ground coffee in a paper filter and poured hot water over it.
Lenihan may have hated the machine,' I said, 'but he did not avoid all contact with political personages. His wallet had three slips of paper in it with a name and phone number on each one. What would Lenihan have had to do with Creighton Prell, Larry Dooley, or Sim Kempelman?'
Timmy looked perplexed. 'That's a pretty weird combination. Politically those three have nothing in common. Prell is the Republican county chairman and the mayor of Handbag. Larry Dooley, as you know all too well, is an Albany city councilman and a real ambitious pain-in-the-neck nitwit. The word is Larry's going to buck his machine pals and run in the mayoral primary as a populist reformer, which is a bizarre joke. And Sim Kempelman is head of Democrats for Better Government in Albany. You know about them, don't you? Sort of a local Common Cause, except with half the balls Common Cause has.'
'That would be about one eighth of one ball. Why would Lenihan be carrying their phone numbers around? Could they be tricks?'
'That's doubtful. They're all straight, so far as I know. Maybe it's something else personal. It's odd.'
'What about Lenihan's lover, what's-his-name? Have I met him?'
'Warren Slonski, sometimes known as the irresistible Warren Slonski. He wasn't at Herb's with Jack, so you might not have met him. Maybe they were on the outs last summer. They've had their ups and downs, I know.
Slonski's very straight, nonsexually speaking. He's a chemical engineer of some kind at Schenectady GE. You'd remember him if you'd met him.'
'Why would I?'
'Because, as I said, he's irresistible. Or so it is told.'
'I wonder if he's been notified of Jack's death. The cops are often sloppy about that sort of thing.'
He poured more water over the coffee, making slow circles around the inside of the filter, washing it down so as not to waste any. 'I suppose you're thinking of driving out to break the news and offering whatever consolation seems appropriate.'
'That's not what I was thinking. Not exactly.'
'Right. These are new times. No more of that.'
'Absolutely. Out where? You said drive out. '
'Colonic They live in some development out on Shaker Road, I think.'
'Jack's last address was on Swan Street. It's on his driver's license.'
'Maybe they moved. Or split up.'
'What did Jack do for a living?'
He served the coffee and proceeded to dump half a cup of skim milk in his.
'The last I knew he was working at an all-night quiche parlor on Lark Street and going to business college in the daytime-computers probably. If the abacus ever returns, twenty thousand Albany twenty-five-year-olds are going to be back dropping buns on the belt at Burger King.'
'Lenihan was a few years beyond twenty-five. You said he dealt drugs. How recently and in how big a way?'
'Big enough. Two or three years ago he was hauled in on a coke bust that involved mid-level wholesalers. Three other guys went to Sing Sing, but Jack was acquitted for lack of evidence. He escaped by the skin of his nasal passage. Jack was really a very smart and decent person, and I think the drug stuff was probably some anti- Lenihan-family acting out. But I didn't know him well enough to know exactly what went on in his head. I suppose you could say that after a certain age you don't call it acting out anymore.'
I drank my coffee and tried not to look at Timmy's, which resembled the water in a creek below a paper mill. 'He must have been dealing again,' I said. 'He must have diddled a supplier, who had him killed. All the earmarks are there. Those people are savages. Awful.'
Timmy screwed up his face. 'I don't know. Jack seemed pretty straight that last time I saw him. But you never know when people are going to revert.'
'P eople do it.'
'Why your car, do you think? Coincidence?'
'Sure. I suppose so, yeah.'
'When was the body put there? Out at Faxon's?'
'No, on the street, it looks like-last night, before the car was towed. Or maybe the road crews were involved. Though that's unlikely, because Bowman is sure to bang their heads around, and big-dope entrepreneurs aren't that dumb. Hell, I should have moved my car when you told me to.'
'You got distracted and forgot.'
'Then fell asleep. In fact, I wouldn't mind sleeping right through until April.
The bears have the right idea. They're the only mammals who know how to live in this dreary, desolate place.' He grimaced. 'Sorry-I backslid. There I go again. Sorry. Really.'
'Maybe if you'd make an effort to enjoy winter, you'd do better. There are alternatives to cabin fever. For example, let's both learn to ski. How about that? It'd be fun and it'd be healthful.'
'That would require my moving about out of doors. My idea of a winter sport is knocking around on a sunfish off Virgin Gorda.'
He sighed very deeply. 'I'm going in and sit by the picture of the fire and read. How much more snow are we suppose to get? Have you heard?'
The 'picture of the fire' was a framed photograph of the San Francisco fire given to us by a friend as a housewarming gift a year earlier when Timmy and I picked up our tiny Federal-style town house on Crow Street for something in the neighborhood of two-point-six billion dollars and discovered that the 'working fireplace' described by the realtor didn't.
I said, 'We're supposed to get another five inches or so. That will bring the season's total to four hundred feet, five inches.'
'You're exaggerating slightly.'
'But not much.'
We cleaned up the kitchen, went in and saw the snow sloshing down the living room windowpane, put on some Thelonius Monk, and spent the evening by the picture of the fire. At eleven-fifteen the bright-eyed man who soft-shoed in front of the Channel 12 weather map said it now looked as if the earlier snow forecasts had been too conservative and 'a lot more of the white stuff' was on the way. Timmy shrugged.
'I hear bells, ringing and ringing.'
'I'd better get it, it's after one. Shift, this way.' I groped for the phone.
'It's never been this way for me before. The electric mattress pad moved.'
'Don't give me quotes from Wings of the Dove at a time like this.' I found it.
'This is Strachey.'
'You got something that doesn't belong to you.'
'Come again?'
'Who is it?'
'Shhh.'
