The staked Goat

mean generous. Straun wouldn’t carry a puppy to its mother.”
    ”VAiere can I find Straun?”
    He went back to his buttons. ”In the office on Monday.”
    ”Tomorrow is Saturday,” I said. ”Where do I find him tomorrow?”
    ”Look, buddy, you gotta understand. There are ten guys in this town, maybe twenny guys, who’d kill for my job. If old man...”
    ”He won’t find out you told me.”
    ”But if...”
    ”Where will he be?”
    He buttoned the last button. ”Till the last couple of years, he’d be in the office. Catchin’ up on paperwork. Then he realized he could sit home and have his kid the lawyer bring the paperwork to him. He’ll be at his house.”
    ”Address?”
    ”Aw, come on...”
    ”I don’t know the city. All I know is your name and where you work. Now what’s the address?”
    ”Forrester Drive. One Hundred Forrester. He’s real proud of that, sounds impressive, don’t it. Number One Hundred. It’s like a mansion, big red brick and white columns.”
    ”Thanks,” I said. ”Sorry about the slap.”
    He became the salesman again. ”Hey, no problem. You’re upset. We all are. Hey, tell Martha again I’m sorry I couldn’t stay.” He stole another look at his watch. ”Jeez, Gloria’s gonna kill me.”
    I walked back into the room. Dale suggested dinner, but Martha said she’d rather stay through till nine, so we all did. No one else came to say goodbye.
    We stopped on the way home and picked up a deli spread that Dale had had the foresight to order.
     

Ten
     
     
     
    I T HAD BEEN DECIDED, BECAUSE OF THE DELAY WITH Al’s body in Boston, to have the funeral on Saturday at 1 P.M., after only one day of wake. In view of Friday’s turnout, it looked like a good decision.
    I had a quick and simple breakfast with Dale, Larry having gone off on his own somewhere. Dale had a full morning of lessons, but he insisted I borrow his car and gave me detailed directions to Forrester Drive.
    Number One Hundred was as Norm described it objectively, but not subjectively. It was made of red brick, but the brick looked dyed. The columns were too short, and the grounds more lotlike than estatelike. There was a cast-iron lackey in black-face at the ornate lamppost and two Cadillacs, one silver, the other blue, in the driveway. The overall impression was nouveau tacky.
    I parked on the street and caught a chill walking to the house. I pressed the doorbell and got no immediate response. The cold made me press the button again, a little sooner than was necessary. The door opened. It was a young man with thinning hair and a narrow nose. He wore black, horn-rimmed glasses with small frames, like the kind the army would issue you for free. He asked what I wanted. As he spoke, the glasses slid halfway down his nose.
    ”I need to speak with your father,” I guessed. ”About Al Sachs.”
    The man swallowed and pushed his glasses up with his middle finger. ”I’m sorry, but we’re busy on other matters. Please call my office on Monday—”
    I stepped one foot over the threshold before he thought to close the door. ”I won’t be here on Monday.”
    ”Now look, fella—” he said, glasses slipping again and being righted again.
    An authoritative voice from inside the house yelled, ”Buzz, who the hell is it?”
    Buzz. I immediately felt deeply sorry for anyone who looked like this and was nicknamed ”Buzz.”
    ”It’s a man who wants to talk about Mr. Sachs.”
    ”Get rid of him.”
    Buzz looked down at my foot. His glasses slid again. ”He won’t leave,” said Buzz for me.
    A disgusted guttural sound from inside the house. ”Well, then, bring him in before you let every fuckin’ degree of heat outta here.”
    Buzz showed me in.
    We turned left into a large living room. There was a fire in the hearth. The furniture was expensive but ill-matched. A man in his late fifties sat on the couch, papers spread on a coffee table in front of him. He had a gray crew-cut, stolid features, and would probably have been stocky if he’d stood to greet me. He didn’t bother.
    ”Who are you and what do you want?” he said. Papa Straun wore black horn-rimmed glasses too. They and the last name appeared to be the only things father and son had in common.
    I took one chair and Buzz took another. ”My name is John Cuddy. I want to know what Al Sachs has coming to his family.”
    Straun snorted. Buzz said, ”Are you an attorney, Mr. Cuddy?”
    ”No. Al was a friend from the army.”
    Buzz seemed