Rough Trade

of Scotch and rolling it around as if he was trying to wash away the bad taste in his mouth. “Not unless you think he was trying to wake him up by screaming, ‘You asshole! You asshole!’ ” at the top of his lungs.
     
    * * *
     
    I found Jeff in his old bedroom lying curled up on his side on the bottom bunk of his childhood bed. Chrissy knelt on the floor beside him, stroking his hair. The room itself was a time warp of purple and gold. There was shag carpeting on the floor and curling posters of Monarchs players gone by on the walls. I wondered when the last time was that he had crossed the threshold.
    I was obviously less appalled by Jeff’s behavior at the stadium than Coach Bennato was. From my perspective, given the Rendells’ financial straits, it was as understandable as it was regrettable. Unfortunately, neither the paramedics nor the scores of front office personnel who must have witnessed the outburst had any idea of what had been behind it. They were probably on the phone right now peddling their eyewitness accounts to the tabloids.
    However, it did raise another issue, one that hadn’t occurred to me until I spoke to the Monarchs coach, and that was what, if anything, to tell the police about the team’s financial situation. The police conduct a routine investigation of every unattended death, and in the case of someone as prominent as Beau Rendell they would go out of their way to make sure that every i was dotted and every t was crossed. They were sure to have questions about what had prompted Jeff Rendell’s outburst over his father’s body, and they would be expecting answers.
    Even though the door was open, I knocked softly on the doorframe. Jeff did not seem to hear, but Chrissy looked up, her eyes wide with distress.
    “I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said. “But I need to talk to you guys for a minute.”
    “What is it?” asked Chrissy in a whisper.
    “I need to ask Jeff whether he talked to the police at all while he was still down at the stadium.”
    Jeff shook his head.
    “What would the police want with Jeff?” inquiried Chrissy.
    “They’re going to want to talk to everyone who was anywhere near Beau before he died. They have to try am piece together what must have happened by talking to anyone who was at the stadium this morning.”
    “I don’t want to talk to anyone,” said Jeff, practically in a whimper.
    “I don’t think you should,” I replied. “At least, not until we’ve worked out what to tell them about what’s happening with the team and the bank.”
    “Oh, god, I never thought about that,” gasped Chrissy. “If you tell the police about it, you might as well put the whole thing up on billboards. Someone will leak it.”
    “That’s why I agree with Coach Bennato. It’s best if Jeff doesn’t talk to the police right now. Let them find out more about how Beau died. The more they know, the fewer questions they’ll have left. I guess the team doctor prescribed some sleeping pills for Jeff,” I ventured, opening the envelope, taking out two of the pills, and handing the envelope to Chrissy. “I think it’s best if you hold on to these,” I said. It didn’t seem like a particularly good idea to give handfuls of barbiturates to someone in Jeff’s frame: of mind.
    Jeff propped himself up on one elbow. “Why don’t you get me a glass of water so I can take these things?” he asked his wife.
    “Sure thing, sweetheart,” she replied, giving him a quick kiss on the forehead before getting to her feet to fetch it.
    Jeff waited until she was out of the room before he spoke, and then it was in an urgent whisper.
    “Did Bennato tell you how I acted when they told me what happened to my dad?” he asked miserably.
    “You went into shock,” I replied.
    “I went insane.”
    “Don’t say that,” I said. “Besides, there’s nothing you can do about it now.”
    “I need you to do something for me.”
    “Anything,” I replied, meaning it.
    “I need you to keep something,” he said, pulling something from his pocket and thrusting it into my hand. “Don’t tell anyone else you have it,” he whispered quickly, as Chrissy stepped back into the room.
    I silently made a fist around the jagged edges of the object. It was a key.
     

CHAPTER 6
     
     
    I put the key in my pocket and made my way downstairs, not quite sure what to do next. In the kitchen, Harald Feiss had replaced Coach Bennato at the Scotch bottle, but from the look of desolation on