“The only body they said anything about wasn’t decomposed,” Tyrell said. “Or at least it wasn’t decomposed all the way. That was on the news this morning, too. That means it was killed fairly recently.”
“Maybe they just blocked it off,” Charles said.
“Maybe,” Tyrell said. “But I doubt it.”
“Maybe he broke in,” Charles said. “Maybe nothing. What’s with you this morning. You’re talking like some guy playing a detective on television.”
“I know,” Tyrell said.
He unlocked the cash register. He had his operating cash in a plastic envelope in the inside pocket of his shirt. He picked it up from the bank every morning and worried himself sick going the six blocks to the store. He got it out now and started pouring dimes and quarters into the respective sections of the drawer.
“He’s missing, did you know that?” he asked Charles. “Bennie Durban, the guy who lives over at Kathleen’s. He’s disappeared.”
“Well, I sure as hell would,” Charles said. “The cops pulled a bunch of bodies out of the cellar at the place I lived, I’d be in Las Vegas by now.”
“Right,” Tyrell said.
He doubted if Charles could find Las Vegas on a map, never mind get there with no money when the cops were looking for him. Come to think of it, he doubted if Bennie Durban could do that either. The kid had to be out on the streets somewhere, wandering around. He had to be scared to death. He might even be dangerous. But that wasn’t the point.
“Watch the front for a minute, will you?” he asked Charles. Then he went into the storeroom and got out his copy of the big Philadelphia phone book. Usually, he used only the little hand-sized one that took in this neighborhood and the ones immediately around it, but now he was going way out of his comfort zone.
This was one thing he could not have anticipated, back when he was sitting in prison thinking it was time for him to get right with himself and right with the Lord.
Real life seemed to require a lot of taking responsibility for things that most people thought were none of their business.
3
Elizabeth Woodville heard the news just after breakfast. She would have heard it earlier, but she was having one of those days when it just seemed easier to give in and let Margaret have what she wanted. To do that, she had to sit at the dining room table while breakfast was brought in by the latest of a series of maids who lasted just long enough to hear what had happened to Conchita and then scurried off—all Henry’s fault, Margaret would say, and none of their own, or the way they treated their help. Margaret sat at the foot of the table, where their mother had once sat, and rang a little bell whenever she wanted anything. She wanted everything, and often. She forgot that in the days when their father and mother had both been alive, breakfast had been laid out as a buffet on the sideboard, and the help had been called only when the coffee was about to run out.
Elizabeth was not in the mood to go through another endless round of what had and had not been done in this house when their mother had been alive. She was less in the mood to listen to Margaret’s repetitive rant about Henry’s mother and all that was wrong with her. For the first time since the night on which Henry had been picked up, she’d gotten a good night’s sleep, and without any jerky little dreams starring the death penalty. She wanted to spend her day drinking tea and reading books and watching television only rarely, with the cable stations on, so that she didn’t see any news. Either that, or going over the papers for the IPO one more time, or going over the books the accountants had left copies of for her because the SEC had to sign off on them. It used to be easier to do deals like this. Elizabeth was sure. If it hadn’t been, American capitalism would never have gotten off the ground.
She finished two pieces of toast and two cups of Earl Grey tea while Margaret was giving a running commentary on the contents of the least riveting sections of the newspaper.
“Oh, look,” Margaret said, “the Zellenhalls are selling that monstrosity they’ve got out in Wayne. I never understood what they wanted with a house in Wayne anyway. Nobody lives there. It’s the German blood, probably, wouldn’t you think? They probably had something to hide during the war.”
Elizabeth wondered if Margaret really believed half the things she said, or if she just said them on the principle that civilized people conversed during meals and stayed off the subjects of religion and politics. It seemed a bit much even for Margaret to equate owning a hideous house in a tacky town with collaboration with the Nazis. Elizabeth took her napkin off her lap and folded it on her plate. There were no napkin rings in the Tyder house. Napkin rings were the mark of people who had inadequate standards of cleanliness. You put your dirty napkin in the ring and used it, still dirty, the next time a meal came around. Elizabeth literally couldn’t remember if their mother had used napkin rings or not. It was not the kind of thing she remembered.