Yesterday's News

Monday night?”
    “Monday night. That’s when the reporter OD’d, right?”
    “Maybe with some help.”
    Duckie said, “Then you got problems.”
    “I’ve got problems?”
    “Yeah. If the same guy did Charlie and the girl, the guy can’t be me.”
    “Why not?”
    “Monday, Bunny had a bad spell. The heart shit, you know?”
    “Go ahead.”
    “Well, on Monday night, Sherry and me was sitting with him for maybe four or five hours in the hospital over to Fall River there.”
    “You were.”
    “That’s right. With maybe a dozen docs and nurses and gofers mobbing the boss and us.”
    “What time was this?”
    “Time? I dunno. No, wait. The spell come over him during the second feature, so maybe seven-thirty, eight o’clock. The hospital there, it’d have when we rolled in. We was there till after midnight, Sher and me. And even after the boss was okay, they said he’d still have to stay the night. Sher was feeling sad and all, so I took her back to my place and consoled the fuckin shit out of her.”
    I watched him. Sherry wasn’t exactly a solid alibi, but the rest was a stupid story to trot out if it wasn’t true. He finished the whiskey and rose, not bothering to leave any money on the table.
    “Ask Sher, you want to. She’ll remember. They always remember how the Duck makes them happy.”

The elder Schonstein violated the first rule of being a cop. He listed himself in the telephone directory.
    I arrived at the address just after five. It was a modest Cape , two dormers on the second floor and a breezeway connecting a one-car garage. The breezeway had a concrete ramp sloping gently up to the side door of the house itself. In the driveway was a five-year-old predecessor of Hogueira’s Olds staff car, highly polished. The stoop to the front door looked newly poured or little used. I rang the bell.
    When the door opened, I had to look down for the voice that said, “Who are you?”
    The man was in a wheelchair, a stadium blanket across his lap, legs, and right hand. His left index finger hovered over buttons on the arm of the chair. Bald, his eyes hid under a craggy brow and above a still-jutting jaw.
    “Mr. Schonstein?”
    He said, “Yeah, but Schonsy suits me better. You gonna answer my question?”
    “My name’s Cuddy, John Cuddy. I’m—”
    “I know who you are. With everybody talking about you, I wondered how long it’d be before you got around to me.”
    “I was surprised to find you in the phone book.”
    “Wouldn’t do much good not to be. Everybody knows where I live.”
    “I’d like to ask you some things.”
    “I expect you do. Well, come on in before I get a crick in my neck looking up at you.”
    Schonstein pressed a button on the armrest, the chair emitting a low whine and turning him into the house. I entered and closed the door behind me. Following him into the living room, I saw an old-fashioned plush sofa with pine coffee and end tables. A big oxblood Barcalounger was centered six feet from a large-screen television. Next to the lounger, newspapers were heaped, with the folds zigzagged, like bricks in a tower built to go as high as possible without tumbling over.
    “ ‘Scuse the mess, but being in the chair and all, it’s just easier to leave the damn papers like that. My son comes by once a week or so and cleans ‘em out for the scouts.”
    “The scouts?”
    “Boy scouts. Used to be a troop leader myself. The scouts collect the papers, and somebody helps out with hauling them to a recycling plant somewhere.” He tipped his head toward the couch. “Sofa’s probably the best seat in the house for you. Don’t use it much myself, so watch you don’t choke on the dust.”
    I sat down, the cushions enveloping me. I could imagine why he didn’t use it. Once in, he’d have a hell of a time levering himself up and out again.
    “Comfy?”
    “I would be if you let go of what you’ve got under the blanket.”
    Schonstein grinned, teeth a mile too perfect for the rest of the face. Bringing his hand into view, he looked down, rolling the Browning automatic first left, then right, as though it were being featured in an advertising video. With thirteen in the magazine and one in the chamber, it would be a while before he’d have to reload.
    “Mark said you were a pretty sharp fella.”
    “Doesn’t take a genius to figure an ex-cop’s gonna answer the door with some backup.”
    “ ‘Specially some old fuck in a wheelchair,