Too Many Murders(109)

“Take me through it, I need to know.”

“Well, I was supposed to be at a table of friends, but when I got there I found out the rest had canceled—the gastric bug. So they sat me with five dentists and four wives—the odd dentist was a woman who turned her back on me. I didn’t know one of them. They had a great time, I had a lousy time.” Bart sighed. “That’s the trouble with going anywhere on your own. And with being an undertaker. The minute people ask you what you do for a crust, they look at you as if you’re Boris Karloff.”

“I’m sorry,” Carmine said gently.

“When the dessert was cleared, I decided to look for a better place to sit,” Bart went on in his soft, anything but ordinary voice. “My first try was a flop—Dubrowski the lawyer and some lawyer pals from out of town. They all talked about business, whether the clients would tolerate a raise in fees, that kind of thing. I didn’t stay past telling them I was an undertaker and getting the Boris Karloff treatment.”

“Lawyers are the pits,” Carmine said with feeling.

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Bart paused, furrowing an already furrowed brow.

“Where did you go next?”

“To a weird table—really, really weird! Four women and four men, but it was hard to believe that any of them were friends. One guy was a Chubber who looked down his nose at all the others—I remember he called them Philistines. One guy was so fat—I thought it wouldn’t be long before he needed a funeral home. The same for an old lady who had breathing problems and a blue tinge under her nails. A few of them were drunk, I mean really drunk, especially a tall, thin, dark guy who sat with his nose in a glass of strong booze, drinking away. There was a pretty girl who looked out of her depth, and a woman who looked so tired I thought she was going to go to sleep with her head on the table. I don’t think she was drunk, just tired. I knew the fourth woman because everyone knows her—Dee-Dee the whore. What she was doing there, I can’t even imagine.”

Carmine listened enthralled, wondering whether to interrupt Bart’s narrative flow or hold his questions until Bart was done. No, let him continue, Carmine decided.

“The other man was very young, student age. He reminded me of the Chubber except that he was very plain in the face and the Chubber was handsome. I sat down between the fat guy and the Chubber in one of the two vacant chairs. The other one was on the far side of Mister Drunk, between him and the snooty kid. Just after I sat down, this woman came along and sat between the kid and Mister Drunk. She was drunk too, none too steady on her feet, and she looked as if she had a bone to pick with Mister Drunk.”

Time to interrupt. “How come, after five months, Bart, you remember every little detail?” Carmine asked. If he didn’t ask, some hotshot defense attorney sure would. Best to know now what answer Bart would give.

“It’s my job to remember every little detail,” Bart said with dignity, a trifle wounded. “Who’s sitting where, who’s not speaking to whom, what color the Mascetti family hates or what color the Castelanos hate—undertaking is a very delicate job. And I can’t forget everything the next day either. Death picks and chooses, no one can be sure when the same people will be back to bury the next family member.”

“How right you are, Bart! Can you describe the drunken new arrival at the table?” Carmine asked.

“Oh, sure. She was a really beautiful woman, much higher class than the four women sitting down. Blonde, with very short hair. Wonderful clothes, very pale blue. When the fat guy tried to act like a host, she cut him dead. In fact, I don’t think she even noticed the others, she was too intent on Mister Drunk. I guess he was someone important, from the way the fat guy and the Chubber and the young guy treated him—as if they were afraid of him but needed him. No, not the young guy. He was like Netty Marciano—ears flapping to get all the gossip.”

“Did he get any?” Carmine asked.

“Well, the beauty and Mister Drunk were lovers who’d just split up—that was what she was displeased about, if that’s the right word.” Bart smiled apologetically. “It’s not necessary now, but I’ve spent most of my life speaking in euphemisms. But I’ll say to you now, Carmine, she was pissed as well as pissed! Mister Drunk hardly noticed—he was too far gone, I think. She didn’t understand that.”

“Do you remember what they talked about? Was it all to do with the ending of their affair? Did she mention any names?”

Bart frowned. “She did, but I don’t remember any of them. They weren’t the names of people I knew. Except for one that caught my attention because it’s the name of a saint, Philomena, and I’ve never heard of a real woman called it. The people waiting on the table were really attentive, I think due to Mister Drunk’s importance. Their supervisor whispered in their ears, at any rate, and they hopped to refill glasses, keep the table neat, hand out clean ashtrays. So the beauty got drunker, and she started to ramble. Weird stuff! All about Russia and holding Stalin’s hand, kissing Khrushchev’s bald head—there was a lot of it. She started hissing in Mister Drunk’s ear about if only he knew what was going on inside his own company, and how someone was his enemy. She kept it up, a kind of hiss—it sounded real mean, vindictive. He’d all but passed out, so I don’t think he heard any of it. The fat guy was trying to persuade both of them to have some coffee, and all three of the waiters were hovering.”