endure this stupid-bullshit-nightmare crap?'
The nurse came out of the bishop's room and rolled down the hall. We waited. 'Death is undignified,' Timmy said. 'It's undignified being around it. There's no getting away from it. It's an indignity we all have to experience. In a life full of ridiculous indignities, it's the most ridiculous indignity of all.'
'Are you objecting on religious grounds?' I asked Timmy.
'I thought you knew me better than that, Donald. The church will always have my heart, but I reclaimed my mind decades ago.
No, I'm against it for the entirely practical reason that Mike might get caught and pay a price that's not worth it. If Stu were screaming in pain, maybe-okay, yes. But this is different. There's too much to lose for what it is you'd gain. I can see how awful you feel, Mike, but I'm afraid you'd regret it. Wait. See what happens.
Stu's life is lost, but yours isn't. Don't risk it for something that, as you've already faced up to, is already gone.'
Sciola glared at both of us, turned and fled back into the room.
I looked at Timmy. 'Maybe I can do something,' I said.
'Let's go get something for you to eat,' he said. 'Nobody has to decide anything right now.'
'I'll just say good-bye to Mike.'
'What are you going to say to him?'
'Nothing. Just good-bye.'
'All right. I'm not your mother.'
'Yes, you are.'
I went into the room and Mike looked up and met my gaze. I nodded once. His eyes brightened and he nodded back. Mrs.
Meserole said, 'Thank you for coming, Donald,' and I went out again.
Queequeg's had set up tables out on the sidewalk under a rickety canopy, and this meant it was possible to have a steak teriyaki platter and a beer while risking respiratory failure from the fumes of the New Scotland Avenue traffic or death from a stray bullet fired during a domestic quarrel in the apartment building across the street.
I was nonetheless chowing down happily, and Timmy was enjoying a small aperitif-we agreed not to discuss Mike Sciola's plea for the time being-when a colleague of Timmy's from the legislature came by and recognized us.
'Don, weren't you working for John Rutka? Somebody said he hired you.'
'Briefly, I was. Why?' 'Didn't you hear?' 'Hear what? No.'
'Rutka is dead. It was on the radio just now. He was killed in a fire tonight.'
I stared at the man and couldn't think of a word to say. end user
11
We drove over to Crow Street. Timmy had re-hooked up the answering machine when he arrived home from work, and now there were two messages on it. Both were from Eddie Sandifer. The first, in a tremulous voice, said, 'I think somebody took John. It looks like he was kidnaped. Please, I need your help. Call me at the house as soon as you can. I'm going to call the Handbag police.' The second message, delivered in a monotone, said simply, 'He's dead. John's dead and I don't know what to do.'
I dialed Rutka's number in Handbag.
'Yell-o.'
'Eddie?'
'This is Officer Hughs of the Handbag Police Department. Who do you want?'
'Edward Sandifer.'
'Hold on.'
Half a minute later, an all-but-lifeless voice: 'Yes?'
'This is Strachey. What happened?'
'John's dead. Somebody killed him.'
'That's- I can hardly believe it.'
'I know.'
'He was in a fire?'
'They took him from here and tied him up in an old house and burned it down.'
'Oh, hell.'
'Can you come out?'
'I'm surprised you want me to.'
'I do. Please come out.'
'I'll be there in twenty minutes. Do they have any idea who did it?'
'No. They keep questioning me. I don't know how much to say.'
'How much to say about what?'
'Well, there are some things you should know.'
'Uh-huh. Have the cops asked for the files?'
'They don't seem to know about them. They keep asking for the names of people who threatened John.'
'Don't mention the files. I'll be out.'
'Thank you. Please hurry.'
We were on 787 North in three minutes with the windows down and the hot night air loud in our faces. My headache was back and I was unable to answer Timmy's questions.
'Was Sandifer there when Rutka was dragged away?'
'I don't know.'
'Where was the fire?'
'In an old house. That's all I know.'
'Was he badly burned? How do they know it was Rutka's body?'
'I don't know. I know what you're thinking.'
'I guess they'll be thorough-the medical examiner. Whoever confirms the identification of the body.'
'They tend to be. And in this case they'll be extra thorough.'
A police cruiser turned out of Elmwood Place as we turned in, and as we pulled up in front of the house a second car made a U at the end of the block and came back down and out of the neighborhood.
'Are they gone?' Sandifer said as we came in the front door.
'They're gone. Who was here?'
'John's sister Ann and Bub Bailey and another policeman.' He fell back against the wall, buried his face in his hands, and heaved, up and down.
After a time, I said, 'You'd better sit down, Eddie,' and led him by the arm into the living room, where he collapsed in a chair, snuffling. The charred odor from the morning fire on the back porch filled the house, and it was as if it was the stench of Rutka's remains.
'I'm sorry, Eddie. What can I tell you.'
'Nothing. What can anybody say? Maybe I shouldn't have gone to work tonight and left him alone. But he said I should go ahead. And there wasn't anything he had to worry about. Not really.'
'There wasn't?'
He looked up at me and let loose with something that was half sigh, half shudder. 'Well, you abandoned him, and you didn't even know.'
'Know what?'
'I mean, you didn't know for sure.'
'What? That you threw the firebomb today and shot John in the foot last night?'
He glanced at Timmy. 'He's okay,' I said.
Sandifer looked away. 'It was John's idea,' he said in a tremulous voice, 'not mine. I always told him gay
