Deadlock

I looked at the room with jaundiced eyes. Eight drawers full of papers. Sorting and cleaning have always been my worst skills on aptitude tests.

I sat on the desk and patted Paige’s shoulder. “Look. This is going to be totally boring to sort through. I’m going to have to examine even the stuff you’ve looked at because I have to see anything that might affect the estate. So why don’t you leave me to it? I promise you if I see any personal letters to Boom Boom I won’t read them-I’ll put them in an envelope for you.”

She smiled up at me, but the smile wobbled. “Maybe I’m just being vain, but if he saved a bunch of letters from kids he never met I thought he’d keep what I wrote him.” She looked away.

I gripped her shoulder for a minute. “Don’t worry, Paige. I’m sure they’ll turn up.”

She sniffed a tiny, elegant sniff. “I think I’m just fixating on them because they keep me from thinking, ‘Yes, he’s really… gone.’ ”

“Yeah. That’s why I’m cursing him for being such a damned pack rat. And I can’t even get back at him by making him my executor.”

She laughed a little at that. “I brought a suitcase with me. I might as well pack up the clothes and makeup I left over here and get going.”

She went to the master bedroom to pull out her things. I puttered around aimlessly, trying to take stock of my task. Paige was right: Boom Boom had saved everything. Every inch of wall space was covered with hockey photographs, starting with the peewee team my cousin belonged to in second grade. There were group photos of him with the Black Hawks, locker-room pictures filled with champagne after Stanley Cup triumphs, solo shots of Boom Boom making difficult plays, signed pictures from Esposito, Howe, Hull-even one from Boom-Boom Geoffrion inscribed, “To the little cannon.”

In the middle of the collection, incongruous, was a picture of me in my maroon robes getting my law degree from the University of Chicago. The sun was shining behind me and I was grinning at the camera. My cousin had never gone to college and he set inordinate store by my education. I frowned at this younger, happy V. I. Warshawski and went into the master bedroom to see if Paige needed any help.

The case sat open on the bed, clothes folded neatly. As I came in she was rummaging through a dresser drawer, pulling out a bright red pullover.

“Are you going through all his clothes and everything? I think I’ve got all my stuff, but let me know if you find anything-size sixes are probably mine, not his.” She went into the bathroom where I heard her opening cabinets.

The bedroom was masculine but homey. A king-size bed dominated the middle of the floor, covered with a black and white quilt. Floor-length drapes in a heavy off-white cloth were pulled back, showing the lake. Boom Boom’s hockey stick was mounted over the severe walnut bureau. A purple and red painting provided a splash of color and a couple of rugs picked it up again in the same red. He’d avoided the mirrors that so many bachelors think make the complete singles apartment.

A bedside table held a few magazines. I sat on the bed to see what my cousin had read before going to sleep-Sports Illustrated, Hockey World, and a densely printed paper called Grain News. I looked at this with interest. Published in Kansas City, it was filled with information about grain-the size of various crops, prices on different options exchanges, rates for shipping by rail and boat, contracts awarded to different transporters. It was pretty interesting if grain was important to you.

“Is that something special?”

I’d gotten so absorbed I hadn’t noticed Paige come out of the bathroom to finish her packing. I hesitated, then said, “I’ve been worried about whether Boom Boom went under that propeller-deliberately. This thing”-I waved the paper at her-“tells you everything you’d ever want to know about grains and shipping them. It apparently comes out twice a month, weekly during the harvest. If Boom Boom was involved enough at Eudora Grain to study something like this, it gives me some reassurance.”

Paige looked at me intently. She took Grain News and flipped through it. Looking at the pages, she said, “I know losing hockey upset him-I can imagine how I’d feel if I couldn’t dance, and I’m not nearly as good a ballerina as he was a hockey player. But I think his involvement with me-kept him from being too depressed. I hope that doesn’t offend you.”

“Not at all. If it’s true, I’m pleased.”

Her thin, penciled brows rose. “If it’s true? Do you mind explaining that?”

“Nothing to explain, Paige. I hadn’t seen Boom Boom since January. He was still fighting the blues then. If knowing you helped him out of the depths, I’m glad… There was some talk at the funeral about his being in trouble down at Eudora Grain-I guess there’s a rumor going around that he stole some papers. Did he say anything about that to you?”

The honey-colored eyes widened. “No. Not a word. If people were talking about it, it must not have bothered him enough to mention it; we had dinner the day before he died. I wouldn’t believe it, anyway.”

“Do you know what he wanted to talk to me about?”

She looked startled. “Was he trying to get in touch with you?”

“He left an urgent message for me with my answering service, but he didn’t say what it was about. I wondered: if there was some story going around the docks maybe he wanted my professional help.”

She shook her head, fiddling with the zipper on her purse. “I don’t know. He seemed fine Monday night. Look- I’ve got to get going. I’m sorry if I upset you earlier, but I have to run now.”

I walked back to the front door with her and shut it behind her-I’d forgotten to close it when I came back for my shoes earlier. I also fastened the deadbolt. I was damned if the doorman was going to let in anyone else without telling me-at least not while I was in the apartment.

Before getting down to the dispiriting task of sorting my cousin’s papers I took a quick look around. Unlike me, he was-had been-phenomenally tidy. If I’d been dead a week and someone came into my place, they’d find some nasty surprises in the sink and a good layer of dust, not to mention an array of clothes and papers in the bedroom.

Boom Boom’s kitchen was spotless. The refrigerator was clean inside as well as out. I went through it and got rid of vegetables which were going bad. Two gallons of milk went down the sink-I guess he never got out of the habit of drinking it, even when he wasn’t training any longer. Tidy, tidy. I’d often said the same thing to Boom Boom, teasing him. Remembering those words made my stomach turn over, as if the air had been sucked out from underneath it. It’s like that when someone you love dies. I’d been through it with my parents, too. Little things keep reminding you and it takes a while before the physical pain goes out of the memory.

I went back to the study and made an organized attack on the drawers. Left to right, top to bottom. If it has to be done, do it thoroughly so there’s no need to take extra time backtracking. Fortunately, my cousin was not only a pack rat, he was also organized. The eight drawers all had neatly labeled file folders.

The top left held fan mail. Given the size of the turnout at the funeral, I shouldn’t have been surprised to see how many letters people sent him. He still got three or four a week in labored boyish handwriting.

Dear Boom Boom Warshawski,

I think you’re the greatest hockey player in the universe. Please send me your picture.

Your friend,

Alan Palmerlee

P.S. Here is a picture of me playing wing for the Algonquin Maple Leafs.

Across each letter was a neatly written note indicating the date and the reply-“March 26, sent signed picture” or “Called Myron. Asked him to arrange speaking date.” A lot of high schools wanted him to speak at graduation or at sports banquets.

The next drawer contained material relating to Boom Boom’s endorsement contracts. I’d have to go over these with Fackley and Simonds. My cousin had done some TV spots for the American Dairy Association. Maybe that explained his milk-if you advertise it, you have to drink it. There was also the Warshawski hockey stick, a warm-up jersey, and an ice-skate endorsement.

At five o’clock I rummaged through the spotless kitchen and found a can of coffee and an electric percolator. I made a pot and carried it back into the study with me. At eight-thirty I located Boom Boom’s liquor supply in a carved Chinese chest in the dining room and poured myself a Chivas-not my first choice in scotch but an adequate substitute for Black Label.