Small Town

And then Creighton was giving credit to Jim Galvin, mentioning him by name, saying he’d worked the case on his own time.

He watched the show through to the end, then found Galvin’s number and called. It was busy, but he got through five minutes later when he tried again.

“I know two things about you now,” Galvin said, before he could say more than hello. “You’ve got cable and you skipped church this morning.”

“Everybody’s got cable,” he said, “and I’ve skipped church every morning for the past twenty years. Longer than that, if you don’t count weddings and christenings. That was some nice pat on the back he just gave you, and some nice piece of work you did.”

“Phone’s been ringing off the hook,” Galvin said. “Of course I never saw it myself. I was watching female bodybuilders on ESPN Two.”

“If I’d known about that,” he said, “I wouldn’t have wasted my time on Matt Lauer. Seriously, congratulations. It’s gonna bring you some business. Plus some offers to be on some shows yourself, which’ll bring in more business.”

“Yeah, but don’t worry. I’ll fuck up a few cases and be right back where I am now. But thanks, Fran. I got lucky, but it’s luck I made for myself, so I don’t mind taking a bow for it. And I got the guy out from under, and that’s something.”

“You think he really didn’t do it?”

“No, the DA gave him a walk because he’s got such a nice smile.”

“He was using it a lot this morning,” Buckram said. “That’s one happy fella. Seriously, what’s your best guess?”

“The man paid me,” he said, “which he legally didn’t have to do, although in another sense he did have to. But he also gave me a nice bonus, which he definitely didn’t have to do, plus he sent over a case of booze.”

“Your brand?”

“Better. I drink Jameson, and that’s what he sent, but he made it the twelve-year-old.”

“Only an innocent man could do a thing like that.”

“My reasoning exactly,” Galvin said.

He walked up to Seventy-ninth Street, took a bus, got off at West End Avenue, and walked the rest of the way to the Boat Basin. The Nancy Dee was right where it had been when he’d been warned off it by the very guy who always used to beat the shit out of Popeye until he downed the can of spinach. That’s who he looked like, the surly son of a bitch.

No point in moving in for a closer look. No point in coming here at all today. He had a damn good explanation for Helen Mazarin, although he wasn’t going to bother delivering it. Shevlin had taken a trip somewhere, and yes, his boat left its slip occasionally, and not because some friend of Shevlin’s had been given permission to take it for a spin. That tub of shit with the beard had borrowed it without permission, he or one of the other lovelies who lived there. Knew the owner was out of town, and their own waterlogged wrecks weren’t going anywhere, so why not sail away on the Nancy Dee? He couldn’t imagine anybody who knew boats would have a hard time gaining entry or starting the engine, and if they brought it back Shevlin would never know it had been gone.

Obvious, once you thought of it.

He just missed his bus back across town. Typical, he thought. A wasted trip gets a little longer. And this was Sunday, so God knew when there’d be another.

He caught a cab and went home.

He was going through his notebook, tearing out pages with obsolete and often meaningless notes on them, and came to a phone number. WW, and ten numbers starting with 202.

It took him a minute, but then he cracked the code. W. Weingartner, and the W would be Walter or Winifred or Wilma, or maybe Why Bother.

He picked up the phone, dialed the number, and a woman answered. He asked for Wallace Weingartner, and she said, “Yes.”

When she left it at that, he said, “Uh, is Mr. Weingartner at home?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I never respond to telephone solicitation. In fact this number is on a national Don’t Call list, and you’re in violation of a federal regulation. I suggest you act accordingly.”

And she hung up.

The day, he thought, was just getting better and better. He hung up himself, and went into the kitchen to see if there was a cup of coffee left in the pot. He was pouring it when he realized the voice had sounded familiar, though he couldn’t place it. Maybe all irritated women sounded alike. God knows there were enough of them around.

He picked up the phone, pressed Redial. When she answered he said, “I’m not a telemarketer. I’m trying to reach the Wallace Weingartner who’s a department head at Fitzmaurice & Liebold.”

“That would be me.”

“Yeah, that was you on your office voice mail. I knew I’d heard it somewhere. I’m sorry, because of the name I assumed—”

“Of course you did,” she said. “Everybody does. It’s W-a-l-l-i-s, my mother was absolutely starry-eyed nuts about the Duchess of Windsor, and I’ve spent my whole life trying to figure out why. I don’t think I got your name.”

“Francis Buckram,” he said. “That’s Francis with an i.”

She had a good laugh, rich and generous. “I thought it might be,” she said. “How can I help you?”