Man Who Loved God

What, indeed, she thought. Left to his own devices, Lou would never figure out all the ramifications. He needed help. And that, she thought, might be the understatement of the day. “This is how the talk is going, Lou ….” She leaned forward to heighten the almost palpable tension. “Some are saying you were involved in Al’s murder. …”

“Me-! But I … but that’s … that’s ridiculous. The police killed the man who shot Al. The police said he was the guy! I mean, that’s over. How could anyone say …” The uncompleted statement hung in the air.

“They call it taking out a contract. Don’t you ever watch TV or go to a movie?”

“A contract! Wha-I wouldn’t have the slightest idea of how to go about a thing like that. That’s as bad as pulling the trigger itself. That’s … that’s monstrous!”

“I’m just telling you there’s been talk.”

“But … but why would I do a thing like that?”

“Well, according to the talk-and mind you, I’m just relaying what I’ve heard-you knew that, one, Al would make a success of his venture. Two, that he would get the reward-a seat as an executive vice president. And the seat he would take would be yours.”

“Why mine?” It was the whine of a querulous child. “Why mine?”

“Because you’re the most vulnerable. Some of the loans you make …! Well, they’re as good as down the drain. How long do you figure you can continue like this? Even Tom Adams’s patience is at an end … or so I’m told.”

“No! It’s not true! Not anymore, anyway. You can ask Jack Fradet. He says I’m doing much better. He’s even suggested some areas that escaped my attention. Maybe I did make some mistakes in the past. But that’s over. You can ask. Not the troublemakers who’re spreading gossip and rumors. Ask people who know.”

“Well, all right, Lou.” Barbara switched to a consoling tone. “Take it easy. Don’t get mad at the messenger. I’m just telling you what’s on the grapevine.

“And you’re right: we shouldn’t pay any attention to the petty people who don’t really know what they’re talking about. Just relax. Take it easy.”

Lou shifted in his chair. Suddenly a silly smile took over. “Whatcha got under the robe?”

Damn! Why hadn’t she gotten fully dressed for Lou Durocher? They’d had relations numerous times. But she felt as if she’d just played a maternal role with her frightened little boy. She didn’t want to add incest to their relationship. She didn’t respond.

“You wearing anything, babe?” he persisted. “It just came to me: we don’t have to be safe anymore. You’re already pregnant. What say we visit the bedroom? Nobody to hide from now. Whaddya say?” He stood. Plainly he was ready.

Not quite so plainly, she was not. “Really, Lou! Don’t you think we ought to wait a decent period of time? I mean, Al’s funeral was just yesterday.”

Later-too late to do anything about it-Durocher would consider Barbara’s reasoning intentionally specious. At this moment, and with his confused mind, somehow it made sense. “Well …” he stammered, “if you think so ….”

“I think so.” She rose to see him out. “One last thing: does Pat know about us?”

“About us?” He pulled on his lower lip. “I don’t think so,” he said finally. “No, I don’t think she had a clue-at least till now.”

“‘Till now’?” Her brow knit. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that since I got your note, I’ve been pretty nervous. I think it showed at home. Pat’s been asking me what’s wrong maybe a million times. I keep putting her off. What I mean is I’m pretty sure Pat knows something is wrong; I don’t think she knows exactly what.”

“Let’s keep it that way. Until we figure out what to do.”

“About what?”

“The baby, Lou. About the baby. We’re going to have to make some arrangements.”

“Huh?”

“Support. Child support. The baby and me. You’re going to have to support us of course.”

Perspiration flooded forth again. “Support? How can I afford that and not involve Pat? And how can I involve Pat without her finding out about us? Oh my God!”

“Something you should have thought about when we began this. affair. Don’t gamble unless you can afford to lose.

“Anyway” — she brightened-” let’s leave that for another day. Enough for now. Go on home-or back to work-wherever you’re supposed to be. Don’t call me. I’ll call you-and you can put your last dollar on that.”

Having experienced only a moment or two of relief during their tete-a-tete, Lou Durocher left as nervous and disturbed as he’d been when he arrived, if not more so.

Barbara closed the door behind him and leaned against it.

She’d never wanted to have relations with Lou. She did it, as she did with all men, only to manipulate those who sought to exploit her.

But today especially she did not want intimate contact with Lou Durocher. Fortunately, he bought the bromide of observing some interval before restoring a happy hour.

In retrospect she had her doubts about what had transpired between her and Lou Durocher.

Almost on the face of it, she was willing to believe Lou had nothing to do with Al’s death. He seemed totally incapable of such a conspiracy. If he had been a party to the deed, it almost certainly would not have been implemented as successfully as it was. Besides, it was against his religion-some of whose tenets he kept.

That would mean-if she gauged correctly-that none of the three execs was involved in Al’s death. Of course Martin and Jack would be much more believable liars than Lou. In the end, though, she had no proof of any kind that one or another had taken out a contract on Al.

Nor on the surface of it did it seem that any of the three had any sort of scam going on at the bank. Like feathering their nests against being dismissed. Lou, the one who had most to fear on that score, seemed genuinely to feel that he had turned a corner and was on-for him-fairly solid ground.

Which led to the final consideration: paternity.

Impossible for Martin and Jack-if their claims bore out.

Entirely possible for Lou.

Unfortunate for Barbara: of her four candidates, the least qualified as Mr. Romantic was Lou Durocher.

One thing was certain: Pat Durocher, should she learn of her husband’s infidelity, might well divorce him, but she certainly wouldn’t need to as far as Barbara was concerned. Under no circumstances was she in the market to marry Lou Durocher. That would be a case of out-of-retirement into the hell of war. At least Al hadn’t had anything physical to do with her. Lou would be all over her.

Just send money.

Yet the bottom line had not been written. All she really knew was that Lou might be the father of her child. He had no reason to reject the possibility.

Still, another county remained to be heard from. Tom Adams was to check in this afternoon. And until Tom spoke his piece, there was still a chance that Lou Durocher-and she herself, for that matter-would be off the hook.

There was more talking and thinking to be done. Until then, she would rest.

Twenty-Two

Barbara sat at her kitchen table. She looked out the window at a parking lot where cars baked under a blazingly hot Dallas sun. A child’s cry broke her despondent mood.

She turned to look into the living room where her baby girl fussed as she awakened from her afternoon nap. Debbie had thrown her toys from her playpen. Barbara walked by the pen, absently tossing the toys back into the enclosure.

She gazed out the living room window. Approximately twelve feet of parched, fissuring clay separated her