Mom Among the Liars Read online

  This was an argument that Mom and I had gone through many times. It always surfaces at election time, or when some particularly juicy political scandal breaks in the news.

  “There can’t be any good ones,” I said. “Because they have power. That’s what they’re out for, that’s the whole purpose of their lives. And it’s a well-known fact, power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely.”

  Mom just gave one of her gentle, infuriating smiles. “Everything corrupts. It isn’t only power. Look at what happened to my nephew Bernard, your first cousin, when all of a sudden he won the slogan contest for the soap company. A trip to Bermuda was the prize. Such a sweet modest boy until then, but after he got back from Bermuda he’s suddenly wearing sunglasses inside the house and bringing home all types women. His poor mother couldn’t look the neighbors in the face any more.”

  “Okay, I get it. This is your basic philosophical position again. All human beings are the same as all other human beings. But let me tell you, politicians are worse!”

  All this time Roger’s mouth had been working silently—somewhat like the mouth of Mr. Smith when he first discovers corruption in Washington—and now the words burst out of him. “But what are you saying, Dave? It doesn’t really matter who you vote for? It turns out the same either way, so why bother?”

  “There’s a lot of truth to that,” I said. “At your age, you can’t still be naive enough to believe that an election campaign is a reasoned debate over issues. It’s a big expensive advertising war between two competitive products.”

  “But this election is more than that, isn’t it? Mrs. Dryden has ideas, she has compassion, she really stands for something. I don’t see how anybody could possibly vote for—” He broke off, his eyes widening. “You are going to vote, aren’t you?”

  I gave a shrug. “I’m registered. I’ll probably go to the polls on election day. But that’s strictly force of habit. I do it because I’ve always done it.” I turned and faced Mom squarely. “You don’t have any more illusions about politics than I do, Mom. Be honest, admit it. You know too much about human nature, you can’t kid yourself into thinking that your vote is going to change the world.”

  “Changing the world—who ever voted for such a cockamamie reason?” Mom said. “You don’t change this world, you figure out what’s the best way to live in it. This is why I vote, if you want to know. Because, if you’re a human being living in the world, all the time you have to make a choice between things. In the supermarket I choose one artichoke instead of another artichoke. How do I know if I’m right? Maybe they’re both the same. But I can’t sit back already and say who cares, I have to do something. Otherwise I won’t get to eat any artichokes, somebody will come along and force me I should eat squash. And like you know, Davey, I’m not so crazy for squash.”

  I shook my head, in great sadness. “You’re worse off than Roger. He can’t see anything because his eyes are shut. Your eyes are wide open, you blind yourself deliberately. Well, that simply proves what I’ve always believed. We can’t stop having elections, no matter how meaningless they are. People need the illusion that they’ve got a choice. It isn’t freedom that makes people happy, it’s the illusion of it. Which means we’re stuck with politicians whether we like it or not. They’re a necessary evil. The chances are it’s always been that way. Since prehistoric days, the first time one caveman hit another caveman over the head with a club and said, ‘You just voted for me!’”

  Roger looked so stricken I began to feel a little ashamed of myself. Evidently Mom felt sorry for him too. She didn’t try to answer my diatribe. Instead she offered Roger a refill on his coffee, and that was the end of our argument for that morning.

  A little later Mom turned to me. “So you didn’t ask me yet, have I got any ideas about this dinner you went to last night?”

  I gave a sigh at that one. Mom likes to see mysteries everywhere. There didn’t happen to be any murders on my schedule at the moment, but she still had to keep her hand in.

  “What ideas could you have? There was nothing peculiar about that dinner.”

  “You didn’t find it peculiar about McBride’s drinking?”

  “What about it?”

  “He’s such a big drinker, like you’re always telling me. And this dinner is going on how long last night—three hours, three and a half, it isn’t over till eleven. And all this time, McBride isn’t drinking any liquor.”

  “But he was drinking. I told you, every time I looked at him he was guzzling from his glass of wine.”

  “Only in his glass there wasn’t any wine. It was the white type, so nobody could notice he was actually drinking water.”

  “What on earth makes you think that?”

  “Your boss, Ann Swenson—she hates the smell of liquor on people’s breath, she’s allergic to it, it makes her sick. But five minutes after the dinner is over last night, McBride is hugging her, putting his face in hers, breathing on her—and her reaction is, she’s giving a smile of amusement, a philosophical smile, this is what you called it. She’s a polite person, but if she was feeling like she wanted to throw up, wouldn’t she show some sign of it on her face? Wouldn’t she screw up her nose or pull back from him a little? The explanation is, on McBride’s breath was no smell of liquor—even though he was guzzling all night long from his glass of wine.”

  I stared across the table at her, and so did Roger. Neither of us could say a word. She was right, and I should have noticed it myself.

  “All right, I guess he wasn’t drinking,” I finally said. “But so what? I don’t see why it matters.”

  A small gasp of exasperation, which wasn’t actually a Yiddish word but sounded as if it might be, came out of Mom. “You got any idea what an effort it had to be for such a man, such a heavy drinker, to sit through this whole dinner without putting a drop of liquor into himself? Such willpower, that’s amazing. In the past McBride seemed to you to be a man with willpower?”

  “Of course not. But there is one pretty obvious explanation, isn’t there? McBride’s beginning to think he could lose this election. The Republican American’s poll has got him worried. So it was important to him to make a good impression on the people at that dinner last night. Ed Brock probably told him he better lay off the booze.”

  “Maybe so. But the people that gave the dinner, this League from Women Voters, they don’t have anything against liquor. They were happy their guests should drink, they served wine and beer at the tables. In this group of people McBride could drink as much as he wanted to, and nobody would be upset at him. And in fact, they thought he was drinking, didn’t they? He pretended he was drinking so he wouldn’t hurt their feelings. He even got the waiter to pour water into his wineglass.”

  “Maybe he was afraid that if he drank too much he’d lose control of himself and act badly in some way or other.”

  “Why should he be afraid of this? This is another thing you told me about him plenty times. In the morning, with his hangover, he don’t operate so good. But the hangover goes away by lunchtime, and he starts drinking again, and he don’t show any signs of it on the outside, he looks like he’s absolutely under control. This is true about a lot of experienced drunks, isn’t it? My cousin Sidney the brain surgeon, for instance. In liquor they can practically drown themselves, and who would know it? For the whole day and night they could be drinking, and their hands wouldn’t even shake. Only the next morning, when they wake up sober.”

  It was certainly true that McBride was adept at putting up a sober front while he sloshed the sauce down as if there was no tomorrow. I had seen him do it plenty of times at other public occasions.

  “Maybe he’s gone on the wagon,” I said. “Maybe he went to a doctor who told him he had to stop drinking.”

  “It’s possible,” Mom said. “Only, if he’s been sick enough to take such a big step, how come nobody’s noticed any signs of it up to now? This election campaign, hasn’t he carried it on with as much energy like always? I
didn’t read anywhere that he collapsed at a meeting or had to call off a speech on account of illness. All right, all right, there isn’t enough information to clear up the mystery. It’s very sad. The chances are we’ll never know—”

  She was interrupted by the ringing of the phone.

  I answered it and heard the voice of my boss, Ann Swenson. “I’m glad I caught you, Dave.”

  She knew about my Sunday morning breakfasts with Mom, but this was the first time she had ever interrupted one. That circumstance alone, even if I hadn’t heard the urgency in her voice, would have told me that something big was up.

  “I know it’s a pain in the ass,” she said. “If there was any other way—You and Roger will have to meet me down here right away. I’m not at my office. I’m at the jail.”

  THREE

  Ann was waiting for Roger and me on the front steps of the city jail.

  This is an outstandingly ugly three-story building, brown and grimy, located next door to the new courthouse. It was put up in the 1930s, so naturally it’s overcrowded, dirty, and badly lit, but we’re not likely to get a new one in the foreseeable future. The city shot its budgetary load on the new courthouse a few years back, and the economy is in no shape for any further loads of comparable size. In our conservative mountain fortress, we’re willing, though not enthusiastically, to spend money so that lawyers, judges, and other servants of the justice system can work in comfort—but does it make sense to throw money away on enemies of society? If they couldn’t stand a little squalor, why did they break the law in the first place?

  In the dim reception room of the jail, Ann and Roger and I were met by Leland Grantley. It was a little after ten in the morning, but he was dressed as neatly and somberly as he had been at last night’s dinner.

  “You’ve got a new client, I think,” he said. “Sorry to bother you on a Sunday, but he refuses to talk to us any more until he talks to his attorney. Well, we’ve got all the information we need anyway—still, we thought we’d better not wait till tomorrow before we called you.”

  “That was good of you, Leland,” Ann said. “Especially since you’d be violating the defendant’s rights if you kept him from seeing an attorney for twenty-four hours. And that could compromise any case you might make against him.”

  “That’s true,” Grantley said, nodding solemnly. Sarcasm had to get pretty heavy before it would penetrate Grantley’s invisible shield of humorlessness. “And it was very much on my mind, I assure you. As you know, I’m a firm believer in respecting every one of a defendant’s rights. What else is a democratic system all about?”

  “So who is this defendant? What’s he charged with?” Ann asked.

  “His name is Harry Stubbins. The charge is first-degree murder.”

  I’ve heard it a thousand times, of course, but it always sends a little shiver down my spine.

  “Who got murdered?” said Ann.

  “The woman’s name was Edna Pulaski. She was a— She operated a— Well, not to put too fine a point on it, she was a madam, she operated a massage parlor on South Arizona Avenue. Three or four girls work for her, and she serviced some of the customers herself. She owned the house, the first floor is where she did business, and her own apartment is on the second floor.

  “Actually, though you certainly wouldn’t guess it from her name, the woman was Asian—Korean, to be exact. She was married for a while to a man named Pulaski. She came here from Korea ten years ago, with her mother. As you know, a great many Asians have moved into this town—”

  “Why do you say this Harry Stubbins knocked off the Pulaski woman?” I put in. “Was he one of her customers?”

  Grantley gave a little smirk. “Well, that would be rather surprising. Wait till you see him.”

  “You do realize that you’re wasting our time,” Ann said, “if he can afford an attorney of his own. The statute is pretty clear—”

  “Nobody’s going to claim you’re violating the statute with this client.” The amusement was still on Grantley’s face. “I promise you he can’t afford an attorney of his own. He can’t afford a shoelace of his own. Now I don’t want to talk to you about this any further till you’ve had a conference with your client. After that I’m at your disposal. I’ll be across the street, in the courthouse, just drop up to my office.”

  Grantley signaled a uniformed officer to take care of us, and he was out of there.

  * * *

  In the basement of the jail is a small room where lawyers can have private conferences with their clients, if those clients happen to be guests of the city. This room has a table and three hard wooden chairs, no windows to the outside, only one little barred window on the door. On the other side of this door a guard with a gun is stationed.

  Ann and Roger and I waited in this room for our client to be brought in. Ann sat behind the table, I sat next to her, and the chair facing us was left empty. Roger, on account of his low seniority, had to stand against the wall.

  As soon as the guard led Harry Stubbins into the room, we understood why Grantley had been grinning. I didn’t feel any temptation to grin myself. I don’t find much entertainment value in bums from the street, in overcoats that are only one small step up from rags, in pants and shirts that look like they’ve been slept in forever, in shoes with holes in them, in the thick sick smell of dirty flesh.

  Stubbins sort of crumpled into the chair across from Ann and me, and the guard let him know he’d be right outside and left us alone. The door clanged shut, which made Stubbins give a little twitch in his chair.

  “How do you do, Mr. Stubbins?” Ann said. “I’m Ann Swenson, the public defender.” She introduced Roger and me, then she held her hand out in Stubbins’s direction. I wouldn’t have done it myself, believe me. Who could know what that hand of his had been rummaging into? But Ann treats every client the same—she’s always businesslike and respectful—and believe me, we’ve had plenty who barely seem to qualify for membership in the human race.

  Stubbins blinked down at her hand for a moment, and then he reached up, trembling a little, and completed the handshake. His fingers were stubby and black; his nails looked as if he chewed them whenever there was nothing more nourishing available.

  “My pleasure, Mrs. Swenson,” he said.

  The voice was hoarse and shaky—from too much alcohol or too little food or sleep, I couldn’t be sure. But the formality of his words caught me by surprise. They made me look at him more closely, but I didn’t see anything different from what I expected to see. He had a roundish face, puffy and red, pounded into the anonymous expressionless mush of most faces that have spent too many years on the streets, in all kinds of weather. He might have been fifty or seventy, there was no way of telling—there never is. The eyes looked as dull and bloodshot as such eyes invariably do. His teeth were yellow, and a couple of the front ones were missing. Though he wasn’t exactly wearing a beard, he looked as if it was a long time since he had shaved.

  “We’re here to help you, Mr. Stubbins,” Ann said. “Every accused person is entitled to his day in court. If you don’t have the resources to hire a lawyer, the public defender’s office will serve you at no cost to yourself. And we’ll give you a good shot, I can promise you that. Do you want to avail yourself of our help?”

  Stubbins hitched himself up in his chair a little, gave those bloodshot eyes a few fast blinks, and managed to put a little more volume into his voice. “Very young, aren’t you? For doing this kind of work. Ought to be out making a career for yourself. Building up a practice, driving for a partnership, taking on paying clients. Terrible waste. If I were your father, I’d give you a talking-to.”

  “I’ve got a rich husband,” Ann said. “I can afford to play around. Now suppose we talk about you, Mr. Stubbins. Where is your place of residence?”

  “Place of residence.” Something like a smile wobbled on Stubbins’s red squashy mouth. “Oh, I like that. Sounds beautiful. My place of residence, young woman—South Arizona Avenue, and�
�is it Twelfth or Thirteenth Street? Twelfth, definitely Twelfth. Turn left and go up the alley.” A kind of laugh, more like a thin cackle, came out of him. “Yes, that’s my place of residence, my dear Mrs. Swenson. Been in occupancy there for—how long is it now? Three, four months, since the weather started turning warm. Nice little place, smooth concrete, room enough for my mat, my pillow—which serves as my sweater or, if you will, my undervest during the daytime hours—a few other necessities. Unpretentious, but I call it home. Have to be moving out of there pretty soon though. Feeling a nip in the air these last few days, one great disadvantage of my alleyway—no central heating. Time to head for my winter quarters.”

  “Where would they be?”

  “Wherever, wherever.” He made a vague gesture in the air. “There’s a pleasant little living complex under the bridge. You know the Pinecreek Bridge, in the west side of town? Excellent accommodations, southern exposure, decent shelter from the wind. Problem, of course, is finding a free spot. Much in demand as the days grow shorter.”

  “You know what the district attorney’s office is accusing you of, don’t you?”

  “Oh yes. Yes.” His voice was down to a hoarse mutter. “They say I killed her—that’s it, isn’t it?”

  “Why would they think so? What’s your connection with Edna Pulaski?”

  “Pulaski? Yes, that was her name. Policeman told me it was—this morning, when they put me in the car. Funny name for a Chinese woman—wasn’t she a Chinese woman?”

  “Korean. Pulaski was her husband’s name.”

  “Oh yes. Well, that explains it.”

  “So how did you come to know her?”

  “Didn’t know her. Never said a word to her. Till last night. Used to see her, from my alleyway. She lived in the house two doors down—used to see her coming out the door, walking along the street. Attractive woman. Late thirties, early forties. Difficult to tell with Oriental women. Small. Not exactly my type—prefer the tall ones myself, big bones, big busts—doesn’t prevent me appreciating other types though. Truly good taste is inclusive rather than exclusive—what I always say.”