The Sixth Commandment (5 page)

“Everyone’s cheering for Thorndecker?” I said. “Is that it?”

“Just about everyone,” he said carefully. “The best people. We’re all hoping you give him a good report, and he gets the money. It would mean a lot to Coburn.”

“I don’t make the decision,” I told him. “I just turn in a recommendation, one way or another. There are a lot of other factors involved. My bosses say Yes or No.”

“We understand all that,” he said patiently. “We just want to make sure you know how the people around here feel about Dr. Thorndecker and his work.”

“The best people,” I said.

“That’s right,” he said earnestly. “We’re all for him. Dr. Thorndecker is a great man.”

“Did he tell you that?” I said, finishing my coffee.

Those dark eyes turned slowly to mine. It wasn’t a kindly look he gave me. No amusement at all.

“No,” he said. “He didn’t tell me. I’m saying it. Dr. Thorndecker is a great man doing fine work.”

“Opinion received and noted,” I said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Constable Goodfellow, I’ve got to go mail a letter.”

“The post office is around the corner on River Street.”

“I know.”

“I’ll be happy to show you the way.”

“All right,” I sighed. “Show me the way.”

Goodfellow hadn’t been exaggerating when he claimed to know all of Coburn. He exchanged greetings with everyone we met, usually on a first-name basis. We stopped a half-dozen times while I was introduced to Leading Citizens. After the Constable carefully identified me and explained what I was doing in Coburn, I was immediately assured that Dr. Telford Gordon Thorndecker was a prince, a cross between Jesus Christ and Albert Schweitzer—with maybe a little Abner Doubleday thrown in.

We mailed my letter. I had hopes then of ditching my police escort. It wasn’t that he was
bad
company; he was no company at all. But I had underestimated him.

“Got a few minutes?” he asked. “Something I want to show you.”

“Sure,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “I’m not on any schedule.”

River Street was exactly that. It intersected Main Street, then ran downhill to the Hudson River. We stood at the top, before the street made its snaky descent to the water. The road was potholed, and bordering it were deserted homes and shops; crumbling warehouses, falling-down sheds, and sodden vacant lots littered with rubbish.

The slate sky still pressed down; God had abolished the sun. The air was shivery, wet, and smelled of ash. There was a greasy mist on the river. A current was running, I guess, but all I could see was floating debris, garbage, and patches of glinting oil. Empty crates, grapefruit rinds, dead fish. I don’t think travel agents would push Coburn as “two weeks of fun-filled days and glamorous, romance-laden nights.”

Constable Ronnie Goodfellow stood there, hands on hips, smoky eyes brooding from under the fur cap pulled low on his forehead.

“My folks lived here for two hundred years,” he said. “This was a sweet river once. All the jumping fish you could catch. Salmon, bass, perch. Everything. The river was alive. Boats moving up and down. I mean there was commerce. Busy. Everyone worked hard and made a living. New York people, they wanted to go to Albany, they took the paddlewheel up. This was before trains and buses and airplanes. I mean the river was
important.
We shipped food down to the city by boat and barge. It all moves by truck now, of course. What there is of it. There were big wharves here. You can still see the stubs of the pilings over there. This town was
something.
It’s all gone now. All different. Even the weather. My daddy used to tell me the winters were so hard that the river froze deep, and you could walk across the ice to Harrick. Or skate across. Hell, Harrick doesn’t even
exist
anymore. Lots of small farms around here then. Good apples. Good grapes. Small manufacturing, like furniture, silverware, glassware. Did you know there was a special color called Coburn Blue? Something to do with the sand around here. They put it into vases and plates. Known all over the country, it was. Coburn Blue. That must have been something. The population was about five times what it is now. The young people stayed right here. This was their home. But now … This place …”

His voice got choky. I began to like him.

“I’ll tell you what,” I said, “it’s not only Coburn. It’s New York City. It’s the United States of America. It’s the world. Everything changes. You, me, and the universe. It’s the only thing you can depend on—change.”

“Yes,” he said, “You’re right. And I’m a fool.”

“You’re not a fool,” I told him. “A romantic maybe, but there’s no law against that.”

“A fool,” he insisted, and I didn’t argue.

We walked slowly back to Main Street.

“You’re married?” I said.

He didn’t answer.

“Children?”

“No,” he said. “No kids.”

“Does your wife like Coburn?” I asked him.

“Hates it,” he said in that hollow voice of his. “Can’t wait to get out.”

“Well …?”

“No,” he said. “We’ll stay.”

We didn’t talk anymore until we were standing outside the Coburn Inn.

“Maybe you met my wife,” he said, looking over my head. “Works right here in the hotel. Behind the cigar counter. Name’s Millie.”

I nodded goodby, and marched into the Inn. I considered calling Dr. Thorndecker, but I figured Constable Goodfellow would let him know I was in town. To tell you the truth, I was miffed at the doctor. Not only had he made his Bingham Foundation grant application a matter of public knowledge—something that just isn’t done—but he had sent an emissary to greet me. Ordinarily I wouldn’t have objected to that, but this agent carried a .38 Police Special. I had a feeling I was being leaned on. I didn’t like it.

At this hour in the morning, getting on to eleven o’clock, there was only one customer in the hotel bar. He was a gaffer wearing a checked hunting cap, stained canvas jacket, and old-fashioned leather boots laced to the knees. We used to call them “hightops” where I came from. You bought a pair at Sears after your feet stopped growing, and they lasted for the rest of your life, with occasional half-soling and a liberal application of saddle soap or goose grease before you put them away in the spring. The codger was hunched over a draft beer. He didn’t look up when I came in.

The bartender was another baldy, just like the desk clerks. A lot of bald men in one small town. Maybe it was something in the water. I ordered a vodka gimlet on the rocks. He knew what it was, and mixed a fine one, shaking it the way it should be made, not stirred. Most bartenders follow the recipe on the bottle, and make a gimlet tart enough to pucker your asshole. But this one was mostly vodka, with just a flavoring of the lime juice. Drink gimlets and you’ll never get scurvy—right? That’s my excuse.

The bartender was wearing a lapel badge that read: “Call me Jimmy.”

“Good drink, Jimmy,” I said.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. “I usually have some fresh lime to put in, but that crowd last night cleaned me out. Maybe I’ll have some more by tomorrow, if you’re still here.”

“I’ll be here,” I said.

“Oh?” he said. “Staying in Coburn?”

“For awhile,” I said.

The old character swung around on his barstool and almost fell off.

“What the hell for?” he demanded in a cracked, screaky voice. “Why would anyone in his right mind want to stay in this piss-ass town?”

“Now, Mr. Coburn,” the bartender soothed.

“Don’t you ‘Now, Mr. Coburn’ me,” the ancient grumbled. “I knowed you when you was sloppin’ hogs, and here you are still in the same line of work.”

I turned to look at him.

“Mr.
Coburn?”
I said. “Original settlers?”

“From the poor side of the family,” he said with a harsh laugh. “The others had the money and sense to get out.”

“Now, Mr. Coburn,” Jimmy said, again, nervously.

I saw the beer glass was almost empty.

“Buy you a drink, Mr. Coburn?” I asked respectfully.

“Why the hell not?” he said, and shoved the glass across the bar. “And this time go easy on the head,” he told the bartender. “When I want a glass of froth, I’ll tell you.”

Jimmy sighed, and drew the brew.

“Mind if I join you, Mr. Coburn?” I asked.

“Come ahead,” he said, motioning to the stool next to him.

When I moved over, I noticed he had a long gun case, an old, leather-trimmed canvas bag, propped against the bar on his far side.

“Hunting?” I said, nodding toward the case.

“Was,” he said, “but it’s too damned wet after that storm. Ain’t a damned thing left worth shooting around here anyways. Except a few two-legged creatures I could mention but won’t. What you doing in town, sonny?”

There was no point in trying to keep it a secret, not after that tour of the village with Constable Goodfellow.

“I’m here to see Dr. Thorndecker,” I said. “Of Crittenden Hall.”

He didn’t say anything, but something happened to that seamed face. Caterpillar brows came down. Bloodless lips pressed. Seared cheeks fell in. The elbow-chin jutted, and I thought I saw a sudden flare in those washed-blue eyes.

Then he lifted his glass of beer and drained it off, just drank it down in steady gulps, the wrinkled Adam’s apple pumping away. He slammed the empty glass back down on the bar.

“Do me again, Jimmy,” he gasped.

I nodded at the bartender, and motioned toward my own empty glass. We sat in silence. When our drinks were served, I glanced around. The bar was still empty. There were small tables for two set back in the gloom, and a few high-sided booths that could seat four.

“Why don’t we make ourselves comfortable?” I suggested. “Stretch out and take it easy.”

“Suits me,” he grunted.

He picked up his beer and gun case, and led the way. I noticed his limp, a dragging of the right leg. He seemed active enough, but slow. He picked a booth for four, and slid onto one of the worn benches. I sat opposite him. I held out my hand.

“Samuel Todd,” I said.

“Al Coburn,” he said. His handshake was dry, and not too firm. “No relation to the Todds around here, are you?”

“Don’t think so, sir,” I said. “I’m from Ohio.”

“Never been there,” he said. “Never been out of New York State, to tell the truth. Went down to the City once.”

“Like it?” I asked.

“No,” he said. He glanced toward the bar where Jimmy was studiously polishing glasses, not looking in our direction. “What the hell you want with Thorndecker?”

I told him what I was doing in Coburn. He nodded.

“Read about it in the paper,” he said. It was almost a Bostonian accent: “pay-puh.” “Think he’ll get the money?”

“Not for me to say,” I said, shrugging. “You know him?”

“Oh, I know him,” he said bitterly. “He’s living on my land.”

“Your
land?”

“Coburn land,” he said. “Originally. Was still in the family when my daddy died. He left me the farm and my sister the hill.” Something happened to his eyes again: that flare of fury. “I thought I got the best of the deal. It was a working farm, and all she got was uncleared woods and a stretch of swamp.”

“And then?” I prompted him.

“She married a dude from Albany. Some kind of a foreigner. His name ended in ‘i’ or ‘o’. I forget.”

I looked at him. He hadn’t forgotten. Would never forget.

“He talked her into selling her parcels off. To a developer. I mean, she sold the
land.
Land that daddy left her.”

I watched him raise his beer to his thin lips with a shaking hand. It means that much to some of the old-timers—land. It’s not the money value they cherish. It’s a piece of the world.

“Then what happened?” I asked him.

“The developer drained the swamp and cleared out most of the trees. Built houses. Sold the hill to a fellow named Crittenden who built the sick place.”

“Crittenden Hall,” I said.

“This was in the Twenties,” he said. “Before the Great Depression. Before your time, sonny. Land was selling good then. My sister did all right. Then she and her foreigner upped and moved away.”

“Where are they now?”

“Who the hell knows?” he rasped. “Or cares?”

“And what happened to your farm?”

“Ahh, hell,” he said heavily. “My sons didn’t take to farming. They moved away. Florida, California. Then I busted up my leg and couldn’t get around so good. The old woman died of the cancer. I got tenants on the land now. I get by. But that Thorndecker, he’s living on Coburn land. I ain’t saying it’s not perfectly legal and aboveboard. I’m just saying it’s Coburn land.”

I nodded, and signaled Jimmy for another round. But a waitress brought our drinks. There were three customers at the bar now, and from outside, in the restaurant, I could hear the sounds of the crank-up for the luncheon rush.

“You know Dr. Thorndecker, Mr. Coburn?” I asked him. “Personally?”

“I’ve met him,” he said shortly.

“What do you think of him?”

His flaky eyelids rose slowly. He stared at me. But he didn’t answer.

“Constable Goodfellow tells me all the best people in town are behind him one hundred percent,” I said, pressing him. “That’s Goodfellow’s phrase: ‘the best people’.”

“Well, I ain’t one of the best people,” he said, “and I wouldn’t trust that quack to cut my toenails.”

He was silent a moment, then said sharply, “Goodfellow? How did you meet the Indian? My great-grandpa shot Indians hereabouts.”

“He says Thorndecker sent him around. To see if I was settled in, if there was anything I needed, if I wanted to meet anyone in town.”

Al Coburn stared down at what was left in his glass of beer. He was quiet a long time. Then he drained his glass, climbed laboriously to his feet, picked up his gun case. I stayed where I was. He stood alongside the table, looking down at me.

“You watch your step, Sam Todd,” he said in that hard, creaking, old man’s voice.

“Always do,” I said.

He nodded and limped away a few steps. Then he stopped, turned, came back.

“Besides,” he said, “I’m guessing it wasn’t Thorndecker who sent Constable Goodfellow to see you. Thorndecker may be a fraud, but he ain’t stupid.”

“If not Thorndecker,” I asked him, “then who?”