A Handy Death

“Here’s a print from the newspaper shot that was in the Daily News showing the actual signing. It’s dated—” he turned the five by seven print over, “—July twentieth. Mr. Quirt is in it, too, standing back of Dupaul while he’s signing the contract.”

Steve handed the photograph over. Ross laid it aside without studying it.

“Steve, if Dupaul signed his contract on the twentieth, why did he wait nearly a week until the twenty-fifth to celebrate the event?”

Steve frowned. It was a point he had not considered.

“Maybe he wanted to wait until the check cleared. Until he actually had the cash?”

“No,” Ross said definitely. “To begin with, if you’re known you can draw against a check the minute it’s deposited, and against a check signed by Charley Quirt of the Mets — in front of a roomful of newspapermen — you can draw the full amount and the bank will even give you an armed guard to see you don’t get rolled on the way home. And secondly, how much money do you need to go out on a drunk? You certainly don’t need any more than most men carry in their pockets when they aren’t going out on a drunk.”

He nodded to Sharon to note the discrepancy and turned back to Steve.

“Was anything said or brought out during the trial as to Billy Dupaul’s reason for going out and getting drunk that night? By that I mean that particular night?”

“No,” Steve said, “only that he did. Is it important?”

“It’s too early to say what may be important and what may not be. Still, anything unexplained is always potentially important. Maybe Billy Dupaul wasn’t celebrating; maybe he was commiserating with himself for one reason or another. Feeling sorry for yourself is a far more common reason for getting drunk, especially among youngsters, and especially among youngsters who are athletes and don’t drink as a general rule.”

He looked at Sharon. She read the footage of the tape, marked it down, made a note in her book, and bobbed her head. Ross turned back.

“All right, Steve, let’s go on.”

“Yes, sir. Of course,” Steve said, “as far as Dupaul’s reasons for getting drunk that particular night, we can always ask him when we get around to interviewing him at the Tombs.”

“Except I like to have independent evidence whenever possible. Clients, even clients facing a life sentence, often lie. They think they know better than their defense counsel what can help them and what can hurt them. As witness Billy Dupaul changing counsel in midstream, going from Louie Gorman to Al Hogan. I don’t love Gorman, but compared to Al Hogan he has to look like Clarence Darrow.”

“Yes, sir,” Steve said. He returned to his sheet of paper. “Well, speaking of this drunk he went on, he started in his room. He had a bottle there and he testified to having a few drinks before going downstairs. Then, downstairs in the hotel bar, he ordered another drink—”

Ross raised his hand, interrupting.

“I know it’s legal at eighteen in New York, but did anybody in the bar ask him for any identification?” He smiled and tilted his head toward Sharon. “When Sharon first came to work here she was — well, past eighteen — but whenever we went out to eat, the waiter wanted to bring her a Shirley Temple or Coca-Cola with her meal.”

Sharon laughed. “I had some time!” She wrinkled her nose. “Unfortunately, they never ask any more...”

“Nobody asked him for identification. If you’d seen him, you’d know why. I never actually saw him myself, but I’ve got his statistics here, and they’re impressive. He was a big kid, and I imagine he’s a big man now,” Steve said.

“Okay,” Ross said, and looked at his watch. “Let’s get on.”

“Right. In any event, Dupaul had a drink at the hotel bar and then went out on the town. He stopped at a place called Marco’s on Lexington near Eighty-fifth and had a couple of drinks there. The bartender says he was talking to some character and then wandered out. The bartender also said it was a good thing he did, because in his state he wouldn’t have served him any more. Then, about twenty minutes to a half hour later, according to the timetable established, he was in a spot called the Mountain Top — it’s actually in a basement — on Fifty-fourth between Seventh and Eighth.”

“Quite a distance,” Ross commented, and frowned. “Odd.”

“Plenty of time to get there, especially in a cab.”

“I don’t mean that. Usually, when a person goes out on a binge, or even a simple, everyday pub crawl, he sticks to bars that are fairly close to one another. He doesn’t jump around. He doesn’t take cabs. There are certainly enough bars around Eighty-sixth and Lexington to satisfy the most demanding thirst.” He frowned and looked up from the pencil he had been twiddling. “Did Billy Dupaul claim to have any particular reason for going over to this Mountain Top Bar?”

“There’s nothing about it in the transcript.”

“Sharon, make a note of that. All right, Steve, what happened next?”

Steve Sadler shuffled some papers together, straightened his glasses, and shook his head.