Koko

“A lot of people are talking about you, you know.” Debbie inserted the tiny straw in her mouth and looked up at them as she sipped. “A lot of people think you people are from the government. And some aren’t sure which government.”

“We’re private citizens,” Poole said.

“Well, maybe Vic is doing something bad now, and you’re trying to catch him, like he’s a spy. I think George and Margaret are afraid Vic is gonna come back, and the news is gonna be just terrible, and George will lose his job before he gets his retirement—if Vic turns out to be a spy or anything.”

“He’s not a spy,” Poole said. “And George’s job would be safe anyway.”

“That’s what you think. My husband, Nick, he—well, that’s not important. But you don’t know what they do.”

The waitress eventually set their food down before them, and Poole was immediately sorry that he had not ordered a sandwich.

“I know Salisbury Steak’s no big deal,” Debbie said, “but it’s better than it looks. And anyhow, you don’t know what a treat it is to eat someone else’s cooking. So even if you’re all secret agents or whatever—thanks!”

The steak did taste slightly better than it looked.

“You didn’t know that Vic and Manny Dengler were in the same class at Rufus King?”

“It was a surprise,” Poole said. “There’s a Dengler listed in the phone book on Muffin Street. Is that his parents?”

“I think his mom’s still there. His mom was a real quiet lady, I think. She’ll never go anywhere.” A bite of steak, a swallow of the Seabreeze. “Never did. She didn’t even go out when the old man was doing his preaching.”

“Dengler’s father was a preacher?” Underhill asked. “With a congregation and a church?”

“ ‘Course not,” she said, with a glance toward Maggie—as if Maggie already knew all about it. “Dengler’s dad was a butcher.” Another glance at Maggie. “Was that sandwich any good?”

“Yum,” Maggie said. “Mr. Dengler was a butcher-preacher?”

“He was one of those crazy preachers. He had little services in the butcher shop next to his house sometimes, but lots of times he’d just get out on the street and start yellin’ away. Manny had to go out with him. Could be as cold as this, and they’d be out on the corner with the old man yellin’ about sin and the devil and Manny singin’ and passin’ the hat.”

“What was his church called?” Maggie asked.

“The Church of the Messiah.” She smiled. “Didn’t you ever hear Manny sing? He used to sing that— The Messiah. Well, not the whole thing, but his dad used to make him sing things from it.”

“ ‘All we like sheep,’ ” Maggie said.

“Yep. See? Everybody thought he was goofy as batshit.” Her eyes flew open. “Excuse me!”

“I heard him quote The Messiah once,” Poole said. “Victor was there too, and Vic sort of mocked him as soon as he spoke.”

“That sounds like Vic.”

“ ‘A man of sorrow and acquainted with grief,’ ” Underhill said. “Then Spitalny said it twice, and said “‘A man of sorrow and acquainted with dickheads.’ ”

Debbie Tusa silently raised her glass.

“And Dengler said, ‘Whatever it was, it was a long time ago.’ ”

“But what was it?,” Poole asked. “A man of sorrow and acquainted with grief?”

“Well, they had a lot of trouble,” Debbie said. “The Denglers had a lot of trouble.” She looked down at her plate. “I guess I’m done. You ever notice how you never feel like shopping for dinner after you eat a big lunch?”

“I never feel like shopping for dinner,” Maggie said.

“Where do you suppose Vic is now? You guys don’t think he’s dead, do you?”

“Well, we were hoping to find out where he is from you,” Poole said.

Debbie laughed. “I wish my ex-husband could see me right now. Screw you, Nicky, wherever you are. You deserved what you got when they sent your terrible old man to Waupun. Any of you guys want to change your mind about a drink?”

None of them did.

“You want to hear the worst? The worst thing? I said his butcher shop was next to the house on Muffin Street? You want to guess what the name of the butcher shop was?”

“The Blood of the Lamb Butcher Shop,” Maggie said.

“Wow,” Debbie said. “So close. Any other tries?”

“Lamb of God,” Poole said. “The Lamb of God Butcher Shop.”

“Dengler’s Lamb of God Butcher Shop,” Debbie said. “How did you know?”

“The Messiah,” Poole said. “ ‘Behold the lamb of God, that taketh away the sins of the world.’ ”

“ ‘All we like sheep have gone astray,’ ” Maggie said.

“My husband sure did.” She gave Poole a grim little smile. “I guess old Vic probably did too, didn’t he?”

Poole asked for the check. Debbie Tusa took a compact out of her bag and inspected herself in its mirror.

“Did you ever hear Vic or anybody else sing something like rip-a-rip-a-rip-a-lo or pompo, pompo, polo, polo …?”

Debbie was staring at him over the top of her compact. “Is that the song of the pink elephants? Honestly. I gotta get back home. You guys feel like coming over to my place?”

Poole said that they had other appointments. Debbie struggled into her coat, hugged each of them, and told Maggie that she was so cute, it was no wonder she was lucky too. She waved good-bye from the door of the restaurant.

“If there’s nothing to do now, I could go back to the hotel and work on some notes,” Underhill said.

Maggie suggested that they try to call Dengler’s mother.

3

“I said we just wanted to talk to her,” Poole said, turning into Muffin Street. It was two shabby blocks long, the Old Log Cabin Tavern at one end, the Up ‘N’ Under at the other. Half of the buildings were small businesses; in half of these the windows had been boarded up and the signs had faded into blurs. A peeling frame building with a small front porch, like the Spitalny house, but listing to one side and so grimy it seemed almost to have been draped in cobwebs, number 53 leaned against a square smaller building with a sheet of plywood where it had once had a window. The Reverend Dengler had located the Lamb of God Butcher Shop two blocks away from the nearest shopping street, and like the TV repair shop two blocks away and Irma’s Dress Shop it had quietly gone out of business.

“Nice,” Maggie said as she got out of the car. “Very romantic.”

They had to pick their way through the snow. Muffin Street had been plowed, but few of the sidewalks had been shoveled clean. The steps sagged and complained as they went up onto the porch. The front door opened before Poole could push the bell.

“Hello, Mrs. Dengler,” Tim said.

A pale white-haired woman in a blue wool dress was looking out through the crack in the door, squinting because of the cold and the brightness of the fresh snow. Her hair was in tight tiny curls that had been dusted with powder.

“Mrs. Dengler?” Poole asked.

She nodded. Her face was square and private, white as a paper cup. The only color was in the almost transparent pale blue of her wide-set eyes, as odd in a human face as the eyes of a dog. They appeared slightly magnified behind a pair of round old-fashioned glasses. “I’m Helga Dengler,” she said in a voice that struggled to be welcoming. For a second, Poole thought her voice was his wife’s. “You’d better get in out of the cold.” She moved