The Thomas Berryman Number

Ireland’s is an ersatz country roadhouse; a fancy britches watering hole for rich hillbilly singers. There’s a fat piano player named Dave the Rave there who’s a better musician than half the millionaires in the place.

Weesner and Joe Cubbah, both up around 230 pounds themselves, watched Fat Dave like he was a limited engagement concert. Sitting together at the bar they looked like tag-team wrestlers.

Their conversation wove around two subjects: women, and the army.

“I’m in the army, 1953, stationed at Fort Bragg, North Carolina,” Joe Cubbah was saying.

“What’d you make?” Weesner said.

“Didn’t make nothing. I was a boxer. No rank, just boxer. I boxed a guy name of Pepper something who later got his ass kicked by Marciano. I used to box all the top MPs in bars, too.”

“I boxed oranges in the navy,” Weesner grinned.

“Yeah, anyways, that fat pianaman does OK for himself with the local ladies was what I was getting to. I was wondering if your uniform works pretty good for you? Southern girls used to like a uniform, I remember. I used to wear it back to Philadelphia, the girls spit on me.”

Weesner laughed.

They ordered and drank another round, then Weesner slammed down a full glass of Budweiser on the bar.

“I’m getting loaded.” He shook his head. “I’ve got to goddamn work tomorrow, do you know that?”

“Yeah.” Cubbah wiped his mouth. “You got to march around with the mayor.” Cubbah took up a fistful of beer nuts. “Listen,” he said. “You ever eat squid? Hey, you ever heard of scungilli? … I’m in the mood for some squid,” he laughed. “I know, you’re in the mood to go back to your hotel and knock off.”

“I’ve got to,” Martin Weesner said. He stood up at the bar and called for a check.

Joe Cubbah took more nuts in his hand. He shook them around like dice.

They’d parked Weesner’s police car on the side of a grocery called Scamps 400.

As they got into the blue Plymouth, Weesner, bloated, burped. “Jesus Christ!” he said. “Excuse me.”

Cubbah slammed the door on his side.

“Listen,” he said when both doors were closed. “I’m going to have to ask you to take off your uniform.”

Weesner started to laugh, then he saw a three-to-four-inch knife in Cubbah’s left hand.

“Hey Joe,” he said, sober and serious in about ten seconds, “you’re a real funny guy and all …”

Cubbah slid the sharp blade into the folds of Weesner’s stomach.

“I don’t want you to talk anymore. See, I’m nervous now. I could make a bad mistake. You don’t talk unless I ask you a question … Now take your shirt off and throw it over in the back.”

The state trooper had trouble with the buttons on his tight, khaki shirt. Finally, he pulled it off though. He had a surprisingly small chest with almost no hair on it.

“Now the pants,” Cubbah said.

He didn’t sound like he was trying to be funny, so Weesner took off his trousers. He handed them across the seat. Then he sat behind the steering wheel in his underpants, socks and shoes. He was trying to think of a plan but nothing would come.

Joe Cubbah turned on the car radio.

“Now I’m trying not to hurt you,” he held the knife to Martin Weesner’s throat. “Believe me I’m not,” he said as he slid the knife in, straight down, then quickly out again.

Thomas Berryman was finishing a late meal in Le Passy, one of the Middle South’s most expensive and best restaurants. The dining room was extremely quiet, as it was past ten. The old wooden floors creaked softly under the footsteps of a few mincing waiters.

The third of July had been a long, busy day for Berryman; he was having trouble clearing his mind of work details. The Perfectionist in him was working overtime to luck over the Country Gentleman.

The day had begun at 8 A.M. with Berryman following Bert Poole. Poole had walked to Horn campaign headquarters once again; then he’d taken a city bus out to the big Farmer’s Market: Berryman had been certain Poole was carrying the bulky .44 in his jacket. He’d walked around like Napoleon all morning long.

In the early afternoon Poole had gone home (Jimmie Horn had taken a short flight to Memphis), and Berryman had decided to switch rent-a-cars. He changed cars on the off-chance that he and the black Galaxie had been tied together. He later changed hotels for the same reason.

The new car was a blue 1974 Dart. It struck Berryman as a typical salesman’s car.

The new hotel was the Holiday Inn on West End Avenue near Vanderbilt. Berryman had registered under the name Foster Benton, with the Coca-Cola Bottling Co. of Atlanta. He’d registered through July 6th.

Now Berryman savored the first sips of a cup of steaming coffee brewed with chicory.

He was thinking about his powers of concentration. Looking into the swirling coffee, he reminded himself that

because he concentrated so well,

he had a unique advantage over his opponents. He controlled the moment; they didn’t. Yes, he actually did control the moment.