Even the Wicked

"Good morning," I said. "I wonder if I could get some information on your company. Could you tell me—"

"One moment please," she said, and put me on hold before I could finish my sentence. At least I was spared the canned music. I held for a minute or two, and then a man said, "Hi, this is Gary. What can I do for you?"

"My name's Scudder," I said, "and I'd like to know something about your company."

"Well, Mr. Scudder, what would you like to know?"

"For openers," I said, "I wonder if you could tell me what it is that you do."

There was a short pause, and then he said, "Sir, nothing would make me happier, but if there's one thing I've learned it's not to give interviews over the phone. If you want to come on over here I'll be more than happy to accommodate you. You can bring your notebook and your tape recorder and I'll kick back and tell you more than you maybe want to know." He chuckled. "See, we welcome publicity, but every phone interview we've ever done's turned into an unfortunate experience for us, so we just don't do them anymore."

"I see."

"Would it be hard for you to come on over and see us? You know where we are?"

"A hell of a long ways from where I am," I said.

"And where would that be?"

"New York."

"Is that right. Well, I wouldn't have said you sounded like a Texan, but I know you reporters move around a lot. I talked to a little old gal the other day, she was born in Chicago and worked on a paper in Oregon before she found her way to the Star-Telegram. You with one of the New York papers yourself?"

"No, I'm not."

"Business paper? Not the Wall Street Journal?"

I might have tried fishing if I'd known what I was fishing for. But it seemed to me a more direct approach was called for.

"Gary," I said, "I'm not a reporter. I'm a private detective based here in New York."

The silence stretched out long enough to make me wonder if the connection was still open. I said,

"Hello?"

"I didn't go anywhere. You're the one made the call. What do you want?"

I plunged right in. "A man was killed here some weeks ago," I said. "Shot to death on a park bench while he was reading the morning paper."

"I get the impression that happens a lot up there."

"Probably not as much as you might think," I said. "Of course, there are people in New York who think folks in Texas are out robbing stagecoaches five days a week."

"When we're not busy remembering the Alamo," he said. "Okay, I take your point. Myself, I haven't been in New York City since our senior trip in high school. Lord, I thought I was hip, slick, and cool, and your town made me feel like I just fell off a hay wagon." He chuckled at the memory. "Haven't been back since, and I'm one Texan who doesn't wear a string tie or carry a gun, so I sure didn't shoot that fellow. How's Viaticom come into play?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out. The name of the deceased is Byron Leopold. Approximately four months before his death he deposited a check from you in excess of fifty thousand dollars. That was virtually his only income for the year. My original assumption was that he'd cashed in an insurance policy, but the amount seemed high in relation to the policy. And your check didn't look like an insurance company check."

"Not hardly, no."

"So," I said, "I was hoping you could enlighten me."

Another long pause. The seconds ticked away, and I found myself thinking about my phone bill. You tend to be more aware of expenses when you haven't got a client to pick up the tab. I didn't mind paying to talk to Texas, but I found myself resenting the Pinteresque pauses.

I was at a pay phone, with the charges being billed to a credit card.

I could have placed the call at a lower rate from my apartment, or gone across the street to my hotel room and talked for free; a few years ago the Kongs, my young hacker friends, had worked their magic to give me an unsolicited gift of free long-distance phone calls. (There'd been no graceful way to decline, but I eased my conscience by not going out of my way to take advantage of my curious perk.) At length he said, "Mr.

Scudder, I'm afraid I'm just going to have to cut this short. We've had unfortunate experiences with the press lately and I don't want to stir up more of the same. All we do is provide people with an opportunity to die with dignity and you people make the whole business of viatical transactions sound like a flock of hovering vultures."

"Whole business of what? What was the phrase you just used?"

"I've said all I intend to say."

"But—"

"You have a nice day now," he said, and hung up on me.

* * *

When I met Carl Orcott a couple of years ago he had the habit of fussing with one of a half-dozen pipes in a rack on his desk, now and then bringing it to his nose and inhaling its bouquet. I'd told him he didn't have to refrain from smoking on my account, only to learn that he wasn't a smoker. The pipes were a

legacy from a dead lover, their aroma a trigger for memory.