3 Strange Bedfellows (9 page)

I headed into Price Chopper for the pay phone. Would Zzyp be in his office on a Saturday morning? I dialed the number.

"Zzypowski Investigations," a sniffly voice answered.

"Is Mr. Zzypowski there?"

"That's me," he said, and then sneezed. "May I help you?"

"I hope so," I said, and hung up. Then I got in my car and made a beeline for his office.

I was excited about seeing what a real live P.I.'s office looked like. Ever since I fell into this sleuthing thing, I'd had fantasies about going professional and doing the whole Raymond Chandler number to the hilt. Renting a seedy old office somewhere, complete with battered Underwood typewriter, art deco ashtray, plus maybe a spittoon or two. With a fifth of bourbon and a gun in the bottom desk drawer. I'd sit by the window on cold, dreary January afternoons and play the saxophone.

So when I got to Zzypowski Investigations, it was a shock to my system. His office was located in a
mall,
for God's sake. A private dick in a mall? Further proof of the decline of civilization.

And Saratoga Mall was even more depressing than most malls. It was almost empty, since the majority of the mall's business had been preempted by another, newer mall right across the street. The wing of Saratoga Mall where Zzyp kept his
office was especially dead, because Montgomery Ward, the main anchor store there, pulled out last spring and no one had come along to replace it.

I walked past the abandoned Montgomery Ward to the alcove in the far corner where Zzyp kept his office. There were no spittoon
s, ashtrays, or Underwoods, battered or otherwise. Just a Gateway computer bathed in bright fluorescent light. Forget the sax; mall Muzak wandered in through the door with me as I entered Zzyp's office.

Zzyp looked up from his computer screen. "May I help you?" he said. His standard refrain, I guess. He had a red, stuffy nose, rheumy eyes, and thin forgettable hair. From what I could see of him behind the computer, his body wasn't too impressive, either. He could have been anywhere from thirty-five to fifty; he had the kind of dull, characterless face
and physique that make it impossible to tell. Chandler must be turning over in his grave.

Not wanting to spend any more time in this place than I had to, I came straight to the point. "I'm wondering what you can tell me about this photograph," I said, and plopped it on the desk next to his computer.

Zzyp looked down at the photo, then up at me. Then he sneezed. "Where'd you get this?" he asked.

I was distracted by a strand of wet snot hanging from his nose, so I didn't answer right away.

"Where'd you get it?" he repeated.

I didn't want to expla
in about defrauding the post office, so I countered, "Why'd you give this photo to Jack Tamarack?"

He finally wiped his nose. Meanwhile he observed me craftily, and I realized that if it weren't for the head cold clouding his moist eyes, he might come across as a lot sharper than he did right now.

"How much is this little piece of knowledge worth to you?" he asked.

"Not much," I told him.

"Then I'm afraid I can't help you," he said, folding his arms and favoring me with a shiteating grin. Even his teeth looked rheumy.

I clicked into hard-ass mode. "Listen, bud, I know most of it already." I waved the photo at his face and unloaded all my best guesses on him. "You were helping Tamarack blackmail Pierce. This is a picture of Pierce taking a payoff from someone. All I'm asking you is, who's the other guy in the photo? You don't tell me, I'll find out somewhere else."

Zzyp hesitated, then said, "Go right ahead."

"Okay, suit yourself."

I started for the door, hoping I'd read his hesitation right and he'd call me back. Sure enough, he said, "Wait."

I turned. Zzyp sneezed twice, leaving a new, even wider rope of snot hanging down. I tried not to stare at it.

"Five hundred bucks," he said.

"I'll give you what's in my pocket. Hundred ten."

He gave an annoyed grunt, but said, "All right, all right, hand it over."

I handed it over.

"The guy in your photo is Dennis Sarafian." I blinked in confusion. "You know who he is?"

As a matter of fact, I did. I was surprised I hadn't recognized him in the first place. But then again, the photo was pretty fuzzy
. And the one time I'd met Sarafian—or sort of met him—I'd only seen him in profile.

The sort-of meeting
happened two years ago, just before I hit the Hollywood jackpot. I was so discouraged by my impecuniousness, I'd decided to bite the bullet and apply for a full-time job. One of the places I sent my resume was Sarafian Communications, a P.R. firm up in Queensbury, outside Glens Falls.

Sarafian's secretary call
ed and asked me in for an interview, so I studied up on the company. Sarafian Communications handled a hodgepodge of corporate accounts, some as far away as Pennsylvania. But their
numero uno
client by far was Global Electronics, which is the biggest employer (after the government) in the Albany area. Global El, as it's nicknamed locally, manufactures everything from computer parts to microwave ovens to those tiny plastic outlet covers you put on when you're baby-proofing your house.

Another thing Global El manufactures is pollution, big time. Four years ago
, some government agency discovered that the sludge at the bottom of the Hudson River down below Albany is absolutely loaded with PCBs. It turned out most of the PCBs came from Global El.

So now the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency and the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation were trying to decide what to do about all of that evil gook. Should several highly contaminated miles of the river be dredged to get rid of the PCBs, as the region's environmentalists were demanding? Or should the PCBs be left alone in the sludge, as Global El was pushing for, on the theory that stirring them up could do even more damage to the river?

The issue was highly controversial and getting more so every year, with outraged newspaper editorials and TV sound bytes galore. Global El was making not-so-veiled threats that if they were forced to pay for dredging, they would move their operations—and their jobs—out of upstate New York. Given our tenuous local economy, these threats were not taken lightly.

Actually, it wasn't Global El making the threats; it was their spokesman, Dennis Sarafian. The Global El honchos had farmed out th
eir entire P.R. operation in upstate New York to Sarafian's company, putting him in charge of saving their collective corporate derrieres.

When I realized how married Sarafian was to Global El, I thought about skipping that job interview. Did I really want to be a corporate, pro-pollution lackey?

But Sarafian Communications had
good
clients too, like hospitals and colleges. So I bit the bullet and tried for the job after all. I put on my one suit, drove the half hour to Queensbury, and waited in the reception area for Sarafian to get off the phone and interview me.

I could see Sarafian's profile through the gauzy curtain that separated me from his office. I could hear his voice, too. He was explaining to some newspaper reporter that PCBs really aren't so bad, and a lot of them didn't even come from Global El in the first place, and they don't cause all that much cancer anyway, just a little. The real problem was that a bu
nch of radical environmental extremists are out to destroy our American way of life.

After listening to ten minutes of this, I couldn't take it anymore. Without even waiting for him to get off the phone, I left the building. I got back in my rusty old car and drove home, feel
ing more despairing about my career and my life and the world in general than I'd ever felt before. Then, that night, I got a phone call from my agent. Someone had just offered me a million dollars for my movie script.

And that was the las
t I'd thought about Dennis Sarafian until this very moment.

"So why was Sarafian giving Pierce a payoff?" I asked Zzyp.

"You want an awful lot of knowledge for a measly hundred ten bucks."

I took a stab at it. "Was Sarafian doing Global El's
dirty work? Bribing Pierce to take a stand against dredging?"

"Like I say, you want a hell of a lot."

I came at him from another angle. "How'd you find out about this payoff, anyhow?"

He gave a self-deprecating wave of his hand. "In my business, you hear things."

"Uh huh. So you called the Hack and told him what you heard. You even offered to get him proof—for a price."

"Hey, it's called opposition research. Totally legal," Zzyp said. "All the politicians do it these days. I even put it on my business cards." He handed me one. "Big money in it."

I examined the card. In addition to "opposition research," Zzyp specialized in "bankruptcy investigations," "personal injuries," and "divorce work." Definitely not a Sam Spade type of guy—especially not with that snot still hanging from his nostril.

Nevertheless I said, "Very impressive," figuring the more I flattered him, the more information I'd get. "By the way," I added in a casual tone, "you ever do any other research for the Hack?"

He paused just long enough so I doubted he was telling the truth, then said, "No."

"Zzypowski, don't blow smoke up my ass. The Hack had dirt on Ducky Medwick, and a hundred to one he got it from you."

"I wish he did. Would've meant big bucks for sure. Look, I got a client coming in any minute, so if you don't mind . . ."

"I'll give you that five hundred bucks you wanted. If you tell me what the Hack had on Ducky."

"I told you already, I got no clue what you're talking about."

I took out my wallet. "Yeah, well, if you suddenly happen to
remember,
here's my card."

"Don't need it. You're Jacob Burns."

"How'd you know that?"

"Saw you on the tube last night. Actually, I knew
about you from before, when you solved those murders. Though the way I hear it, you solved them both
wrong
and just got lucky."

"Something like that."

"Word of advice." Zzyp leaned back in his chair. "You're not cut out for this game. Better get out before you get hurt."

"Thanks for the tip," I said. "But it's hard to take advice seriously from a guy with a three-inch booger hanging from his nose."

Childish, I know, but I was getting sick of every Tom, Dick and Harry reminding me of my shortcomings as a private dick. If I didn't watch it, I'd get a complex. I picked up the photograph and walked out.

I mean, hey, at least I wasn't doing divorce work.

9

"Opposition research."

I got the concept. But here's what I didn't get: what did the Hack actually
do
with his opposition research?

Maybe he showed Pierce the incriminating photograph and told him,
Don't you dare run against me for Congress, or I'll spread the word about your bribe.

But wait a minute. Thi
s scenario couldn't be true, because Pierce did run against the Hack for Congress. He fought him for the party's endorsement. So what was going on here?

Another possibility: the Hack showed the bribery photo to Ducky and the county chairmen, and warned them that if they gave Pierce the nomination, the shit would hit the fan.

Puzzling. I drove back to Broadway, then went to my office to mull things over. By "office," I mean Madeline's Espresso Bar, which I've found is the best place on earth for deep ruminating. Also, they have free newspapers there.

Today's
Saratogian
featured a big front-page story by Judy Demarest about last night's shooting excitement. I'd given Judy the broad strokes of my investigation, leaving out such minor details as who was sleeping with whom, who was beating whom, and who was blackmailing whom. I wasn't ready to go public with all that yet— though if the cops kept sitting on their hands and my investigation got nowhere, I might be forced to.

The
Saratogian
, along with the
Albany Times Union, Schenectady Gazette,
and every other regional paper, printed lengthy excerpts of the Shmuck-man's stirring speech in favor of truth, justice, and his own campaign. They had photos of him too, looking tall, dark, and if not handsome, then at least impassioned. It was awesome publicity. Again I got that prickly feeling climbing up my spine, that maybe my old buddy actually had a shot to win.

From the
Times Union,
I learned that Pierce had two campaign rallies scheduled for midday down in Dutchess County, an hour and a quarter south of Saratoga. Much as I wanted to interrogate the guy, I decided to do it later when he was in a less public place, and easier to get to.

Also, there was another fellow I wanted to question first: Dennis Sarafian. If I got him to open up, I could pile more pressure on Pierce.

So I walked up Broadway toward my Camry, got in, and started off toward Sarafian's office. I made it about five feet before I stopped short. The car was making a loud
thumpa-thumpa
sound. And was it my imagination or was the car listing to the left?

I got out and looked at my front left tire. No, it wasn't my imagination. The thing was flatter than a Steve Forbes tax plan.

Both our cars getting flats in the same week—talk about bad luck.

Wait a minute
—
luck?
I stooped down, ignoring a twinge of pain in my forty-one-year-old back, and examined the tire. It took a while, but I found it.

Someone had come up with a cute little way to slow down my investigation
—with a jagged, three-inch-long tire slash.

I straightened back up and looked quickly around me. But I didn't see any
bad guys running away. The sidewalks were full of pleasant-looking people going about their weekend shopping.

Yes, everything was perfectly normal, except that some creep had just slashed my tire in the middle of downtown on a beautiful September day.

Was it the same creep who had killed the Hack? And almost killed me? How many creeps were running loose in this town, anyway? Even though it was seventy degrees out, I shivered.

I took a deep breath, leaned against the downward-sloping car hood, and tried to sort things out. Apparently someone had decided last night's warning wasn't enough, and I needed another one. Maybe Zzyp had followed me back to town from his office and done the dirty deed . . . but at whose behest?

I thought back to the murder weapon, with its filed-off serial numbers. It made the murder seem almost professional. Was the killer a hired gun? Could it even be Zzyp?

I looked up Broadway and my eyes locked on Susan Tamarack's campaign headquarters, less than a block away. Maybe Oxymoron had vandalized my car, out of general hatred for me and revenge for his split lip. With its half-rusted-out driver
's side door, my Toyota was easily recognizable. If Oxymoron spotted it, he could have decided to have some spontaneous thrills. He seemed like the type that would enjoy that.

I considered going to the HQ to confront him, but since he'd almost rearranged my face the last time, I had trouble mustering up the enthusiasm. Instead I pulled out my AAA card and used it the way it was actually intended for a change, getting them to tow my car to a garage. To my eternal shame, I'm one of those guys who never learned how to fix a flat tire. In my defense, for most of my twenties and some of my thirties, I was too poor to afford a car.

Since I wasn't poor anymore, and I was in a hurry, I slipped the garage guys an extra twenty to take care of my car first. After they worked their magic, I got back in the Camry and chugged up the Northway to Sarafian's office in Queensbury, hoping to catch him before lunch. I kept looking behind me to see if someone was following, but I didn't spot anyone—although this is yet another private eye skill I haven't really mastered.

For a company with such an i
mpressive client list, Sarafian Communications had a surprisingly humble headquarters. It was just a regular clapboard house in a middle-class neighborhood, with Sarafian and his people working on the bottom floor and Sarafian living upstairs.

I walked into his office and sat down in the reception area to wait. It hit me that I was sitting in the exact same spot where I'd sat when I applied for that job. And I was watching Sarafian's profile through the exact same gauzy curtains.

And I was overhearing the exact same kind of conversation. "My friend," Sarafian was saying into the phone, "we're putting out a press release in the next couple of weeks that'll blow the EPA, the DEC, and all the rest of these radical environmental types right out of the water. So if I were you, I'd just sit tight and not run any editorials for a while."

I felt like I'd entered a time warp. Two years ago, I just turned tail and slinked home. But today I said the heck with it. I got up, opened Sarafian's door, and strode inside. The receptionist,
a willowy brunette with translucent skin, called out to me to stop, but I ignored her.

Sarafian, still in mid-harangue, gave me an irritated look. But then I took The Photograph out of my jacket pocket and held it up. Sarafian stared at it, then at me, and said into the phone, "Uh, listen, something just came up, I gotta run," and hung up.

"What do you want?" he snarled, skipping the small talk.

"Information," I replied.

"Then call the phone company."

I sized him up. He was in his late thirties and wore what looked like a thousand-dollar suit and a hundred-dollar haircut. They did nothing to disguise his thin face, thin nose, thin hair, and sloping forehead, all of which combined to make him look like a ferret. On the positive side, he did have a strong jutting chin and aggressive eyes. If he had gone into show biz, he would have been an agent or producer, something slimy like that.

Interesting that Sarafian didn't ask who I was. Did he see me on TV last night, too?

"No, I'll skip the phone company," I said gruffly, shooting him my toughest Jesse Ventura glare. "I'll call
the newspapers instead. Tell them I have a photo of you bribing a state assemblyman."

"Bullshit, that was a legitimate campaign contribution."

"Don't insult my intelligence."

He pointed at the photo. "You wanna know what's in that envelope? A thousand bucks. I reported it and everything."

"There's a lot more in there than just one grand."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. You were loading Pierce up with Global El cash. What was the payback—he was gonna fight against dredging?"

"Hey, it's
your
theory. You tell me."

I spread my palms and tried to put a conciliatory tone into my voice. "I got no desire to bust your chops. I'm investigating a murder, not a bribery. You make it easy for me, I'll do everything I can to make it easy for you."

"I know how to make it easy for both of us."

"How's that?"

"Just get the fuck out of my office—and stay out."

So much for sounding conciliatory. I went back to my Ventura routine, but that didn't work any better. Either the man really had nothing to fear or he was too afraid to open his mouth. I couldn't tell which.

Finally I stood up, growled, "I'll be back," and stalked out. Not a great exit line, I know, but it was the best I could think of. My morning coffee was wearing off, and I had the disheartening feeling that a
real
private eye would have brought this no-goodnik Sarafian to his knees begging for mercy in no time.

Luckily I had other fish to fry. One of my major fish, Susan Tamarack, had a 12:30 rally scheduled at the Knights of Columbus hall in Schuylerville, ten miles east of Saratoga. I grabbed a chocolate bar and coffee at Stewart's, upstate New York's version of 7-Eleven. Then I hit the road for beautif
ul downtown Schuylerville, driving past trailer parks, decrepit houses, and half-rotted pickups adorning front yards.

Schuylerville may b
e only ten miles away from Saratoga Springs geographically, but in other respects it's ten worlds away. For a small town, Saratoga has heaps of "culchah." We've got three classical music quartets, two ballet companies, and one folk music coffee shop. We even have Jews.

Schuylerville has none of these things. What it does have is an economy that's even worse than Troy's and a cultural insularity that's truly frightening.

When I entered the Knights of Columbus, which was filled with about a hundred of Susan Tamarack's supporters, my eyes were immediately struck by a huge surrealistic painting of the Crucifixion on the front wall. Warriors in red loincloths and evil-looking, yellow-faced guys in yarmulkes lurked all over the painting. Jesus was front and center, covered with blood.

The painting looked disturbingly familiar, and I quickly placed it: this was the same painting that was all over the local newspapers eight or nine years ago. At that time, the painting
hung prominently in the auditorium of the Schuylerville public high school.

Now, when I said that Schuylerville has no Jews, I exaggerated. Actually, Schuylerville has about six Jews. Two of them, parents of high schoolers, went to the school board and complained that the painting violated the separation of church and state.

But the school board refused to take down the painting, so the New York Civil Liberties Union brought a lawsuit on the Jewish family's behalf. Then the fun really started. The family was ostracized, the kids were beaten up by their classmates, and the father's auction business was boycotted. On Yom Kippur, the Ku Klux Klan came to town to march on the Jewish family's house and burn some crosses.

We Saratoga Jews tried to reassure ourselves that Schuylerville was a whole different world, and It Couldn't Happen Here. But we were relieved when the courts finally ruled for the Jewish family, the painting was removed, and the furor died down.

But now here the painting was again, bringing back all those bad memories. It suddenly came to me that I was just deluding myself when I imagined that Will
Shmuckler
had any hope of getting elected. The 22nd District was full of backwater towns like Schuylerville that would never dream of supporting a Jewish candidate. Half the folks in this room probably believed in some kind of worldwide Jewish conspiracy. I wouldn't be shocked if a few of them even believed that Jews have horns.

I looked up at the painting. Sure enough, I saw a pair of dark red horns peeping out from underneath an evil guy's yarmulke.

I tried to erase all these thoughts from my mind and focus on the campaign rally. Phil Rogers, the whiny chairman of the Saratoga County GOP, was delivering his colorless opening remarks. I gazed around at the assembled throng—the men with their careworn faces and checked flannel shirts, the women with their faded sweatshirts. I sat next to a middle-aged couple that was quietly holding hands. The woman smiled hello.

It was disconcerting. These were good people
—good parents, good workers, good husbands and wives. And yet, they just stood by silently when the KKK came to town.

Up at the podium Rogers stepped down and the widow stepped up, dressed all in black and looking sexy as hell. Something about her thin frame and big, fawnlike eyes made you want to hold her tight and take care of her. The crowd applauded, and she launched into her speech.

Or rather,
plodded
. The only half-decent part was where she talked about how much she loved her husband and wanted to carry on his work, fighting for the issues he believed in. But she never said what those issues actually were.

Not that the crowd seemed to mind. They clapped for her lustily. Who needs issues, anyway?

Even with Susan's sexy widow appeal, I was still surprised that so many people were attending her small-town rally. On a gorgeous day like today, why wasn't everyone out apple picking and leaf raking? But when she finished her speech and everyone immediately crowded around the three long tables at the far wall, I figured out what was going on. The tables were loaded with goodies, and not just the cheap salami and American cheese you find at an upstate Democratic rally. We were talking fried chicken, real mashed potatoes, and seven different kinds of soda. In impoverished Schuylerville, this was more than enough incentive to sit through an hour-long rally. Actually, it was just thirty minutes—I had to give Susan credit for that. Maybe she had nothing to say, but at least she said it quickly.