The Accidental Pallbearer Read Free Page B

structures. Many old Italians of the third generation remain, but it’s a new East Side of immigrants from Bosnia and Mexico and a sprinkling of deluded adventurers from Utica’s black neighborhoods, who are suffered not. The lights are on. E. CONTE , says the sign on the front door, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR/PRIVATE AFFAIRS .
    He opens the door to find Robinson, who’s had a key for twenty years, sitting at the desk in the front room with a copy of
Moby-Dick
in his lap. Robinson grins and says, “Call me Antonio.” Conte stares, says nothing. The office is lined with books – city telephone books and directories, going back twenty years, a few pertaining to the criminal code, 2,000 pertaining to American literature and scholarly commentaries thereupon. The house, beautifully re-done, was purchased for him, mortgage-free, by his father when hereturned from the West Coast, broke. Top to bottom, in and out, renovated by city workers on weekends at no cost to Eliot or, of course, to his father – the high-end kitchen a gift from local merchants.
    “You look like shit,” Robinson says. “Not to mention nuts.”
    “Thank you. I need a hot shower. Then I need seven drinks. In the meanwhile, run this plate for me.”
    Twenty minutes later, he returns in sweat pants and sweatshirt, hair slicked back, with a big bowl of ice and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black.
    “Where does he live, Robby?”
    “You know where Michael C lives. We’ve been to his parties, how many times? You harbored love for his wife, think I don’t know? Still hot for Denise, Eliot?”
    “The license you ran. Where does he live?”
    “Something happen on the train?”
    Conte says nothing.
    “You’re pretty riled up.”
    “Where does he live?”
    “Close by. Fifteen-minute walk. Next to the florist at Rutger and Culver. His name is Jed Kinter.”
    “Why is the name familiar?”
    “Reports on minor sports. Utica Curling Club. Skeet Shooters of Oneida County. Little League. A glorified gofer at age thirty-five. What’s the story?”
    When Conte is finished telling him, Robinson says, “Yet another Eliot specialty. Some bastard does despicable things who the law has little chance of stopping until it’s too late. So Eliot the Good steps up, a defender of the weak and innocent.Listen: This Michael C thing takes precedence. Concentrate on
that
and forget Kinter. I strongly urge you.”
    Conte dumps his ice, pours four fingers of the Johnnie Walker, chugs it, pours another and chugs half, stares hard at Robinson, then says, “Remember after you cut and slashed through the defense for five touchdowns in the championship game, in the cold rain and mud? What were we? Sixteen years old? Silvio cheered until he was hoarse.”
    After a long pause, Robinson replies, softly, looking away, “I remember the clock ran out and they lifted me up on their shoulders.”
    “They lifted you high, Robby. They really did.”
    “The coach took us out for shakes and burgers.”
    “Silvio took me home. (Long pause.) I say in the car, stupidly, Dad, you never cheer me. How come? He says, You’re not a boy for sports. You’re a boy for the books. What do you want from me, son? Want me to watch you read
Moby-Dick
? At what point do I cheer? We get home, he asks if I want a cup of hot chocolate. I refuse. He makes it anyway as he hums ‘April in Paris.’ Pours it in my favorite cup, still humming, smiling to himself. No doubt thinking of your heroics on the field. He puts the cup on the table. I pick it up and pour it down the toilet. We didn’t talk for days.”
    “Man, you know I –”
    “It’s all in the past.” Conte knocks back his drink.
    “So what’s so urgent about your boorish assistant chief,” Conte says, “that you need to drag me in?”
    Robinson calculates. The time is not yet right. He’ll crouch awhile in the weeds.
    “Let’s knock back some more of this fine Johnnie Walker,El. By the way, that tenor you walked out on got warmed up after