The staked Goat

One
     
     
     
    I SWATTED THE SNOOZE BUTTON ON MY CLOCK RADIO twice. The ringing noise didn’t stop, so I picked up the telephone.
    ”Yeah?” I said.
    ”Shouldn’t you be answering ‘John Francis Cuddy, private detective’?” A gruff, hearty male voice.
    I blinked at the time. ”Not at 7:05 a.m. Who is this?”
    ”Or, at least, ‘John Francis Cuddy, Captain, United States Army, retired’?”
    ”In a minute you’ll be talking to yourself, my friend. Who is this?”
    ”Christ, John,” said the voice through a deep laugh, ”you always were a pleasure to wake up in the morning.”
    My head began to clear. ”Al? Al Sachs?”
    ”The one and only.”
    ”Al, it’s been...”
    ”Actually, that’s not true, not anymore. You know Martha and me got married four years ago. Well, I’m no longer the one and only, being the proud father of Alan G. Sachs, Junior, age two-point-eight years.”
    ”Al,” I said, getting upright and rubbing the sleep from my eyes, ”you’re Jewish. You’re not supposed to be naming your children after somebody still living. It’s bad luck.”
    ”Yeah, I know,” said Al, ”but Martha, she’s Lutheran and my folks are all gone and I’ll bet you’ve been to temple more than I have. Hey, remember that time in ‘Nam, when you were going to some feast-day Mass to get out of being duty officer? I went to tag along and when the old man tried to stop me, you told him I was your technical advisor on the Old Testament readings.” Al laughed for me. Kind of nervously, I thought.
    ”So what are you doing in Boston?”
    ”Making my fortune, John, making my fortune. I had a lotta luck with the Bs last night.”
    I had watched the game on television. ”Al, you’re crazy to bet on hockey in this town, even in favor of the Bruins.”
    Another nervous laugh. ”Yeah, yeah, you’re right. Listen, John-boy, I’m a manufacturer’s rep now for Straun Steel. They’re a Pittsburgh outfit that fabricates little steel gizmos for building construction, and I gotta go, I got an eight-fifteen appointment at a job site. Listen, whatsay we roll for drinks and dinner tonight, maybe eight-thirty, nine o’clock?”
    ”Where are you staying?”
    ”A place called the Midtown Motor Inn. On Hunterton Avenue.”
    ”That’s Huntington Avenue, Al. Also, it’s a Tuesday, and Boston tends to close down early during the week. Want to make it seven?”
    A quick cough and again that nervous edge in his voice. ”No, no, can’t. Got another appointment. Can you swing by my motel at eight-thirty?”
    ”Sure, Al, I’ll see you then.”
    ”Oh, and John?”
    ”Yeah?”
    ”Remember 13 Rue Madeleine.” He hung up.
    13 Rue Madeleine. As I put down the receiver, memories of Al bubbled back to me. The best, if also the oddest, guy I knew from the service. We went through military police training together. Not an altogether easy time. The Jew from CCNY and the Harp from Holy Cross. Tossed in with fifty or so Ivy Leaguers, West Pointers, and Old South military school graduates. At first, Al and I were more ignored than actively hated. Then we started to win a couple of friends by sheer force of personality, in which many of our classmates were sorely lacking. Our newfound acceptance wore thin on some hardliners who picked a fight with me one day in the TV lounge of the bachelor officers’ quarters. I had decked a Yalie when a Virginia lad, who I later found out had prepped with the Yalie, swung a chair ungentlemanly close to the back of my head. The Virginian missed because Al had clouted him on the upper arm with the edge of his hand, thereby breaking a bone above the swinger’s elbow. The battle was joined, as they say, with a West Pointer named J. T. Kivens siding with us. The real MPs eventually arrived, and the official box score went Yale/Virginia. Al, J.T., and I eventually found ourselves as street MP officers in Saigon. I heard that Yale and Virginia ended up guarding VIPs in some appropriately front-page battle sectors and conferences.
    Al and J.T. had preceded me to Saigon by about eight weeks. Al was billeted in a former hotel converted into a bachelor officers’ quarters. The connecting bedroom shared his bath and was available, so I moved in.
    Beth and I weren’t married then, and Al and I did our best to keep each other alive and sane. When we got back from the service, he was terrific about staying in touch. When we didn’t reciprocate his happy-holiday card the year Beth died, he