Shakespeare was right about “neither a borrower nor a lender be.”
Her’s a short story with a story of its own.
Every writer has a story they love, but no one else does. Sometimes the piece can be reworked; more often, it ends up stuffed in a drawer or hibernating in cyberspace.
This is one story I haven’t been able to let go. I refuse to accept the possibility it is a bad story..
“A Borrower Be” first saw light of day six years ago, as an attempt to write a short story in the vein of John Cheever or John Updike. I thought perhaps it would display a dash of Louis Auchincloss, though my characters exists a few levels below his aristocratic New Yorkers of a bygone age. When I first published it on this blog back in February of this year, I retitled it for reasons that are currently unclear :”Shakespeare Was Right: Neither a Borrower Nor a Lender Be” Does it get more ponderous? It’s back to “A Borrower Be.”
The story is thematically and structurally different from my other work in several ways. It is rare that I use an affluent suburb as a setting, despite having lived in Marin County, California for over thirty years. Aside from one unfinished story started eight years ago, none of my fiction is set in the suburbs. I decided long ago the milieu was best left to the masters cited above.
My writing group in Bangkok, panned the story, advising me to stick with what I did best, whatever that was, insisting it be placed in the author’s equivalent of the medical DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) category.
I refused to follow their advice, even after receiving three rejection notices the same week. (One reason this didn’t stop me: my sci-fi short story, SURVIVORS , was rejected by a dozen magazines over two years; it is one of the most popular posts on my blog. )
“A Borrower Be” diverges from my other writing in another consequential way: there are no minorities, no people of color, not even one of the Jewish-Americans who populate so much of my fiction. (Even SURVIVORS, set in a remote Southwestern town after an apocalypse, has a character identified as Jewish by name; of course, he’s the last criminal defense lawyer.) Every single character in “Borrower” is presumed a WASP. This was neither contrived nor negligent; it was the characters as I imagined them. I didn’t know enough of such folks well enough to try and be anything close to accurate; this is all made up. No intended political or social comment, just a story about characters living in a community the author created for them. There is no mention of politics, race, history, or other topics I favor in my fiction.
I drew from one part of real life in crafting this story. I practiced criminal law for decades, and the young federal prosecutor is an amalgam of many I met during my career. So is Harry, everyone’s nemesis, but I don’t want to give anything away, so that’s all I’ll say.
I like the characters I created, and was unwilling to let go of them.
There have been significant tweaks and edits over the years, so I feel entitled to claim the current year as my copyright date.
Enough banter. Here’s the story. I hope you enjoy it, and feel free to share your thoughts.
The following is work of imaginative fiction, and all characters and events are such creations. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.
( c ) Stephen Shaiken, 2021
Kreston was balancing his checkbook when he heard the knock. He rose from his desk chair, shambled across the living room, and opened the front door.
He stared into Harry Harper’s face. Harry moved to the neighborhood four years ago, five years after Kreston. The relationship with Harry was more acquaintance than friend. Kreston knew little about Harry, not certain what he did for a living. Whenever the subject was broached, Harry explained he “did a little of this, a little of that,” or, in more expansive moods, “Consultant, business strategies.” Kreston never saw Harry on the commuter train, which he did not resent, and in fact admire and envied Harry.
A smile stretched across Harry’s broad face this evening. His dark eyes shined in the dim light of the porch.
“Sorry to bother you,” he said. “The wife and I were planning a barbecue, and wondering if we could borrow your grilling tools.
“Of course we’ll have them back Sunday morning,” he added.
Kreston nodded.
“Come on in. I’ll get them from the yard,” he said, grateful for the diversion from the bills, which always exceeded his earnings, a fact his wife repeated with increasing frequency.
“If you would just get that MBA, you would make more money,” she hectored Kreston weekly. “You can do it on line now.”
“I have no interest in an MBA,” was his standard reply. “Instead of adjusting income to suit lifestyle, maybe we can adjust lifestyle to income.”
“Just do it for me,” she would implore.
“I will think about it,” was his only promise.
Harper remained in the living room as Kreston opened the sliding door to the backyard. A minute later he returned with the barbecue implements in a black oilskin bag, which he handed to Harper.
“Thanks a ton,” Harper said as he grabbed the bag.
“By the way,” he added, gazing at a coffee table in front of Kreston’s couch, “I see you have the new Greg Sloat novel. Mind if I borrow it for a few days? He’s always a quick read.”
“I just got it and haven’t opened it yet,” Kreston replied.
“I’ll have it back by Sunday, Scout’s honor,” Harper said with a smile and a wave of his hand.
“Well, I guess so,” Kreston answered. “But make sure it’s back by Sunday.”
“You got it,” Harper said as he reached for the book.
“By the way,” Harper called out as he headed for the front door, “Looks like I’m going to need that bicycle pump again, the one I borrowed from you last month.
“I like to ride with my daughter Saturday mornings and the tires are kind of low. I’ll get it back with these babies,” he explained, shaking the black bag as he started towards the door.
Kreston returned to his desk and checkbook. Harry stopped a few feet from the door.
“Would it be too much trouble to get me that pump before I leave?”
Kreston left the desk, went into the garage and returned, bicycle pump in hand.
“I must have it back by Wednesday,” he said. ” I ride every Thursday morning before work. And I check the air the night before.”
“Wednesday’s a world away,” Harry declared as he reached for the pump.
Kreston saw Harry to the door and opened it for him. He watched Harry walk down the street, barbecue tools in one hand, bicycle pump in the other. He never saw where Harry put the book.
I forgot to ask him about the martini pitcher he borrowed last month, he thought as he returned to his accounting.
#
Kreston sorted his golf clubs in preparation for his regular Sunday game. Billy Waldup always joined him, often with one or two others. The morning talk shows blared in the background. He heard his wife’s voice struggling to be heard over the talking heads.
“Honey, I invited the Gordons over for dinner this Saturday, and I’ll need our cut crystal salad bowl. Glenda Harper borrowed it last month and hasn’t returned it. Could you pick it up later today?”
Kreston pictured Glenda Harper, an overweight woman with doughy upper arms and a deeply lined face that made her look years older than her age, which Kreston estimated to be early forties. He recalled that Harry once mentioned in passing that, “It is tough being married to a trust fund princess.”
She doesn’t look like a trust fund princess, Kreston thought, recalling the permanent frown on her well-weathered visage. She paid little attention to her physical appearance or her clothing. She was the polar opposite of Harry, with his well cut hair, gleaming white teeth and athletic build. Harry’s clothing always looked expensive and fit him perfectly. Glenda bespoke thrift shops and discount outlets.
“I’ll do it now,” Kreston called back to his wife, shouting to be heard over the talk show. “Harry’s got that new five iron you got me for my birthday.”
It was a warm April morning. Flowers bloomed among the carefully manicured front yards along the pleasant street where he had lived these past nine years. The homes were all two stories, white or gray, with slate roofs and a mailbox where the front walkway met the curb. All had wide garages, and many sported basketball hoops above the garage door.
The Harper home lay across the street, two dozen houses to the left of Kreston’s. As Kreston walked, he heard the familiar sounds of doors opening and closing, dogs barking, voices calling softly, and the hum of German automobile engines. When he reached Harry’s house he rang the door bell. There was no answer. He tried again, with the same result.
Kreston dialed Harry on his cell phone. After three rings, Harry picked up. Kreston dispensed with formalities.
“Say, Harry, I was hoping you would be around real soon so I can pick up that five iron I loaned you a few weeks ago. Got a round scheduled over at the course in a little over an hour.”
“Sorry, but we won’t be back for a few hours,” Harry replied cheerily. “Just about to start our ride. Have to squeeze it in before dinner. But I’ll swing by with the club soon as I get back.”
“I’m sure you’ll do just fine without it this one time,” Harry added.
Kreston was about to ask about the salad bowl and the pitcher when the call ended.
Kreston went home, grabbed his golf bag, and set off for the links. He had a bad day, misdirecting nearly every long drive.
“You’re way off your game today, ” Billy Waldrup remarked as they loaded their bags into the cart after the eighteenth hole. “Where’s that five iron that was supposed to make a new man out of you?”
“It”s with Harry Harper,” Kreston replied, the words dripping from his mouth.
“He’s returning it later today,” he added. “He promised me.”
“Well, tell him to bring along my best putter,” Billy said. Kreston caught a slight scowl on his friend’s face. ”I had to borrow one from the clubhouse, and it doesn’t feel right. He’s had it for three weeks, for God’s sake.”
Billy was a mild mannered bond trader by week, and a strong and confident golfer on Sunday. They met riding to work on the 7:32, and when Billy learned that Kreston had played on his high school and college teams, he insisted they meet on the town links. That was over eight years ago, and they played every Sunday morning unless one of them was out of town. Kreston was grateful for the municipally owned links, as it would have been a struggle to pay dues for the private course.
“I’ll remind him,” Kreston assured his friend.
“Remind him to bring along my martini shaker as well,” Billy said. “My brother and his wife are coming over for drinks before we take in the theater next Saturday, and you know Bud’s a fanatic about his martini. As bad as you,” he added with a chuckle.”
“Will do,” Kreston assured him.
My pitcher and Billy’s putter and shaker, he thought. Maybe we all ought to go to Harry’s for martinis.
#
His wife was in a foul mood when Kreston walked through the door. She was often in a foul mood, rarely in a good one these days.
“Your friend Harry dropped by an hour ago,” she said as he lugged his golf bag into the garage.
“He left your club, the one I got you for your birthday, but no salad bowl.”
“I take it no pitcher either,” Kreston replied. Then he remembered he hadn’t yet asked Harry for Billy’s shaker or his putter. Or Kreston’s pitcher, for that matter.
“Call him. I need that bowl.”
“I’ll have to speak with him,” Harry advised her. “I have a ride scheduled with Billy Waldup and Fred Grant early Thursday morning. I have to get the bike in shape the night before. And I really need that nine iron for next week.
“I’ll go over right now and get everything back,” he called out as he headed towards the front door.
“Salad bowl,” his wife reminded him.
#
Harry answered the door, a martini glass in hand.
“Come on in,” he said loudly. “Can I offer you a drink?”
Kreston followed him into the living room. Kreston’s pitcher sat on the coffee table, half-filled with martini.
“Sure, I could use a drink after the game I had today,” he replied.
Harry filled a martini glass and handed it to Kreston. Billy’s shaker sat on the bar that divided the living room from the kitchen.
“Wife sent me over for the salad bowl,” Kreston said has he settled onto the couch.”He sipped his drink.
“As long as I’m here, might as well grab my pump as well.”
“Maybe the pitcher too,” he added.
Harry stared at him.
“I still have a few drinks left,” he declared as if addressing a subordinate. You surely wouldn’t want to deprive a man of his Sunday afternoon cocktails now, would you?”
“No, I guess not,” Kreston replied sheepishly.
“That’s my boy!” Harry cried out as he went into the kitchen, returning with the salad bowl, which he placed on the coffee table.
“Do you think I could have my pump back as well,” Kreston asked softly.
“Love to, but afraid not today. Sprung a flat on the ride earlier, have to patch the tire and fill it with air. Won’t be able to do it all until tomorrow or Tuesday,” he explained.
“Well, then, why don’t I just expect you to come by Wednesday in the early evening, and you can include the pitcher and my book? ” Kreston asked, each word dripping onto the next.
“Absolutely!” Harry exclaimed.
Kreston drained the last of his martini, placed the glass on the table, and stood up. He picked up the salad bowl and nestled it in the crook of his elbow, gripping the rim tightly with his fingers.
“Well, I’ve got to be going now. See you Wednesday.”
From corner of his eye he saw Harry pour himself another drink as he shook his head and smiled. He forgot to ask about Billy’s martini shaker or putter.
#
Kreston found Mondays the most depressing day, a full week of work ahead. At five p.m. sharp he grabbed his coat, bolted for the door, and power-walked to the train station.
An hour later the train pulled onto his home station. Kreston spotted his neighbor, Fred Martin, a producer at a radio station, and they walked together to the nearby lot where they parked their “station cars,” used only to drive to the train. Kreston spotted Billy Waldrup and his tax attorney friend Tony Fletcher a few paces ahead, with third man he did not recognize. The stranger was in his early thirties, a good decade younger than Kreston and his friends.
Fred saw Kreston and Fred as they approached.
“Say fellows,” he called out, “We’re about to stop by Kensington’s for a quick pop before dinner. Care to join us?”
Fred said ‘yes’ before Kreston could open his mouth. He thought it a fine idea in any event. A good martini would be a fitting end to a boring workday.
“By the way,” Fred said as he turned to the strange man, “This is Hank Davis. He just moved into town. Bought a place a stone’s throw from you,” he said to Kreston.
“He’s the number two guy in the U.S. Attorney’s office. So keep mum about your insider trading deals.” Davis smiled sheepishly.
Wonder how he can afford a house up here on a government salary, Kreston thought as Hank Davis extended his hand. Probably married well or inherited.
Minutes later the five men were seated around a table. Kensington’s was filled with returning commuters, an equal number of men and women, many sitting in mixed groups. Kreston wondered why his was always men only. It wasn’t as if they disliked women. Kreston knew he certainly liked them.
His thoughts were interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. Kreston turned around and faced Grace Maxwell. Her blonde hair was shoulder length, longer than when he had last seen her. Her ice blue eyes focused on Kreston. Her dress hugged her body perfectly. She looked remarkably similar to Kreston’s wife.
“Good to see you,” she said. “Glad to know you’re still alive.”
“Barely,” Kreston croaked, shifting his eyes to the floor.
“Nice to know that,” she replied, and walked away.
The other men were engrossed in conversation and ignored the encounter.
Kreston realized that Tony Fletcher was speaking to him, his voice filtering through the mist that had descended on Kreston’s mind when he saw Grace.
“Hank’s a golfer like you and Billy,” Tony said. “Won a few trophies in college in fact. Don’t be modest” he said to Hank as the younger man blushed.
“My dad brought me into the game when I was in high school,” Hank explained. “I’ve been nuts about it ever since. Lucky to have found a wife who doesn’t mind the competition,” added with a smile.
“Better than a mistress,” Fred Grant said, as Kreston squirmed in his seat.
Ignoring Fred’s remark, Kreston turned to Hank.
“Why don’t you join us this Sunday over at the Town course,” he asked? “We have a regular time slot reserved and there is always room for one more. It’s usually just Billy and me, sometimes a third or even a fourth. Love to have a real golfer with us. Only makes us better.”
“I would really like that,” Hank said as he beamed a wide smile. Then he paused as his smile contracted.
“I just need to make sure I have my favorite wedge back in time. I never set foot on the course without it. My father had it specially made for me just before he died five years ago. I usually guard it like the Crown Jewels.”
“What happened to it?” Fred asked.
“I met a fellow at the gym last week and we got to talking, and of course the subject turned to golf,” Hank replied. “Anyway, he wound up dropping by my new house and borrowing the club. I haven’t been able to reach him to get it back.”
A silence settled over the group. Tony Fletcher’s voice broke the quiet.
“And who might this fellow be? he asked.
“Fellow named Harry Harper,” Hank replied. “Lives not too far from me.”
“Seemed like a nice enough guy,” he added, but the way he emphasized the word ‘seemed’ revealed doubt
“You loaned your special club to a total stranger?” Billy Waldrup gasped.
“At least this is one time the government is not giving away someone else’s stuff,” Fred interjected.
“He had this way about him,” Hank said softly. “I didn’t want to, but he made me feel like I couldn’t say no. Like I would be a jerk if I refused.
“I’m new to the area. I just wanted to be like everyone else, I guess.”
“Oh, you are,” Kreston assured him as he motioned the waiter for a refill. The others raised their glasses to signal they too were ready for another.
The five men made the smallest of talk as they nursed their second round. By unwritten agreement, talk of work was off limits. This was fine with Kreston, who had no interest in discussing his job. Once the men had exhausted all that could be said about sports, children, home prices and train delays, it was time for the last slug of alcohol and a retreat from Kennington’s.
Fred and Kreston walked to the parking lot side by side.
“Hope you’re not angry with me,” Fred said softly.
“It’s okay,” Kreston replied. “But be a little more considerate from now on,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Scout’s honor,” Fred responded, with more exuberance than Kreston found suitable.
“Sounds like all of us have a similar problem with Harry Harper,” Fred remarked as they approached Kreston’s station car, a ten year old Ford Taurus. “Even young Hank is already on the list.”
“What do you mean, on the list?” Kreston asked.
“Just an expression,” Fred explained.
“It’s the price of friendship,” Kreston said, his voice trailing off at the end of his sentence.
“A friend in need is a friend indeed,” Fred countered.
Kreston placed his hands in his pockets and gazed downward for a moment. He nodded slightly, raised his head to look at Fred, and continued.
“I hardly know anything about the guy, except that he borrows everything and anything. Other than that he’s a mystery. I don’t even know when and where he uses these clubs he borrows.”
“Neither a borrower nor a lender be,” Fred said with a slight chuckle. “We should have paid more attention to Shakespeare in college. Have a nice evening.”
#
Kreston trudged his way through Tuesday, and endured Wednesday. He felt a mild sense of relief when the clock read five. He read a newspaper for part of the trip home, wishing he had his Greg Sloat novel.
I hope Harry came by with that pump, Kreston thought as he reached his station.
#
After dinner, Kreston and his wife sat down to watch a reality show to which they were addicted. He sat on the couch, she on the love seat, and few words passed between them. Kreston broke the silence during a commercial.
“I’m expecting Harry Harper to drop by with my bicycle pump. And our martini pitcher.”
“What about the Greg Sloat novel you told me you loaned him,” his wife asked sharply. “I’m dying to read it. You told me he would have it back today.”
“I’m sure he will,” Kreston replied, his voice tailing off.
“He better,” his wife snapped. “I’m sick and tired of being inconvenienced by the Harpers. Especially that wretched wife, who calls me only when she needs something. You would think drugstores won’t sell her aspirins, or she can’t figure out where to buy cooking Sherry. And I hear from Cassie Grant that she inherited some sort of a trust fund. I was hoping you would give them a piece of your mind and put an end to this borrowing business.”
“Oh, I will,” Kreston replied, waving his hand as the show resumed
Harper had not arrived when the episode ended at nine.
Kreston went to the phone at his desk and dialed Harry’s home number. There was no answer, and when it went to voice mail, he hung up and dialed Harry’s cell phone. There was no answer there either.
Where could they have gone on a school night? he thought.
“I’m hopping over to Harry’s” he called out to his wife as he grabbed a windbreaker and headed out into the brisk evening.
There were no people on the street. Most homes were dark or dimly lit, the glare of television sets visible through living room windows. A crescent moon cast a soft glow.
Harry’s house was completely dark. No porch light, no lights along the footpath, no motion detectors.
Kreston rang the doorbell. There was no response. He lifted the door knocker and let it drop several times with no result. He listened in vain for the sound of footsteps coming to the door.
Kreston was about to surrender and leave, when a voice called out through the darkness. He recognized it as Kenny Daliwell, Harper’s neighbor. Daliwell was a retired high school football coach who had lived in town long before home prices rose beyond the means of a high school teacher. One way or another, the old man made it a mission to meet every one in town. Kreston detected the odor of cheap pipe tobacco in the air, and recalled that the older man usually held a briar clenched between his teeth. Kreston encountered Daliwell around town a few times over the years, and when they noticed each other at the station or the shopping mall, they would exchange pleasantries, or if at a distance, a nod or wave.
“If you’re looking for your friend Harry, forget it,” Daliwell snapped. “He’s gone with the wind, and took my antique pocket watch with him,” he added. The way he spit out the last few words told Kreston the older man wanted to appear nonchalant despite his anger.
“What do you mean ‘gone’?” Kreston asked. “And what is he doing with your pocket watch?”
“Borrowed it a few days ago. Said he needed it for a presentation he was making to his kid’s class. Loaned it to him like the dumb sucker I am. Thing’s been in the family over a hundred twenty years. Worth a pretty penny, I might add.”
Daliwell moved closer to Kreston. By the soft light of the crescent moon, Kreston saw the pained look on the old man’s face.
“But where did he go?” Kreston asked.
“He’s not anywhere near here,, you can bet your bottom dollar on that,” Daliwell replied.
Kreston leaned against one of the porch columns.
“You mean a guy and his family just walked away from their house, their furniture, everything they own? With no warning? No goodbyes?
Daliwell took his pipe in his left hand, and a small spurt of smoke streamed from the corner of his mouth.
“Their house? Their furniture? Heck, that all belongs to someone else. Harper was just a glorified house sitter. Place belongs to Tommy Cranwell. You don’t know him, he grew up in the house and moved away before you ever got here. His parents are both gone, and he went off to teach college in Asia. He had some problems with tenants a few years back, and somehow this Harper fellow signed on for a short stint as the house sitter. Lived rent free and Cranwell even paid the utilities. Four years later and he was still there.
“Don’t ask me how,” he chuckled as he placed the stem of his pipe back between his teeth. “I guess Cranwell is still in Asia. Haven’t heard from him in years.” Kreston detected the soft sound of smoke being sucked from the pipe’s bowl, through the stem, to Daliwell’s mouth.
“Figure Harper had to leave in a hurry,” the older man added, speaking with his pipe clamped in place. “Seems like he had an unpleasant visit from a few fellows yesterday. Investigators of some kind. Heard a bit of it while smoking my pipe outside. Something about Harry claiming to be Tommy Cranwell and borrowing against the house. He told them it’s all part of his arrangement. They told Kreston that Tommy hasn’t been heard from in years, so how could he take a mortgage? Harry tells them he’s done talking and his lawyer will call them. They left and Harry went back inside. That was the last I saw or heard of Harry Harper, until real early this morning when I heard a car door slam, looked out my window, and saw the Harpers driving off.”
Kreston moved away from the column on which he had been leaning. He shook his head.
“I had no idea Harry didn’t own the house. I just assumed he did,” he told Daliwell. “This news is quite a shock.”
“Not the first time our friend’s been using what belongs to someone else,” Daliwell replied. “Month ago the cops were by to talk to him. He wouldn’t let them in so they spoke outside and I was again enjoying my pipe out of their sight. Heard every word. Seems like that fancy BMW Harry drives is registered to someone else and they couldn’t find that guy. Came up when Harry got pulled over for a speeder. He’s been paying for insurance in the owner’s name. Really fishy if you ask me.”
“He’s got a bunch of my stuff somewhere in there,” Harry said after absorbing the shocking news. “Is there any way you could put me in touch with this Tommy Cranwell? Maybe an e mail address? I hope he would let me in to get back what belongs to me.”
“Like I said, haven’t heard from him in years. But when Tommy took off for Asia, he left me a key. I’ve never had to use it before. I’ll go in with you. Maybe we’ll find my watch.”
“Sounds good to me,” Kreston replied, thinking about the bike ride coming up in slightly more than eight hours.
“Wait right here,” Daliwell commanded as he disappeared into the dark, the scent of his pipe tobacco lingering in the cool evening air. Kreston leaned against the front wall of the house for the few minutes it took Daliwell to return with a key attached to a long stick. The older man pulled a small flashlight from his pocket, and flicking it on, found the keyhole, and opened the front door. He led the way in, Kreston a step behind.
Daliwell felt for the light switch to the side of the door inside the house, and the two men were able to see. Kreston’s martini pitcher sat on the coffee table, just where it was when Kreston had come by the other day.
“This is mine,” he explained to Daliwell as he scooped it up.
The coach said nothing.
“Mind if I look around for my bicycle pump and my book?” He asked politely.
“Fine by me,” Daliwell replied as he reached into his pocket for a lighter. He flicked it on and sucked the flame into the bowl of his pipe.
“If by any chance you see a pocket watch, bring it to me,” he added.
Kreston found his way to the garage and located the light switch. There were several open suitcases strewn about, some half full, some empty.
They really left in a hurry, he thought.
He spotted his pump in the center of the garage, and picked it up.
“All I need now is my book and we can be out of here,” he told Daliwell as he reentered the living room. The older man was sitting on a couch smoking.
“Take your time,” he replied, pipe in his hand. “Wife hates when I smoke in the house, which is how I came to be out in the dark and found you.”
Kreston searched methodically, scouring the tops of the dining table, the bar that separated living room from dining room, and a bookshelf in the living room. He did not find his novel.
He spied a cluttered desk in an alcove to the side of the living room. He walked over and turned on the desk’s reading lamp.
There was no novel there.
As he was about to turn off the reading lamp, Kreston saw a spiral notebook with a yellow cover. Written across the front in a black felt tipped marker were the words “People and Things.” Curious, Kreston picked it up and flipped to the first page.
The page was divided into two columns. The left side contained the names of people and the right side listed belongings.
Kreston recognized some but not all of the names. He spotted the name “Billy Waldrup” and to its right in the ‘things’ column was written “Putter. Martini shaker. Chain saw. Large pruning shears. Underwater camera.”
Kreston turned to the next page. He spotter Tony Fletcher’s name. Next to it was inscribed “Pick up truck. Boom box. Silver polish. Chinese cookbooks. Trail guides. Metric wrenches.”
Shaking his head, Kreston scanned the next two pages until he found his own name, and beside it, written “Bicycle pump. Martini pitcher. Salad bowl. Squeezed in by pencil were the words “Five iron.”
It went on for several more pages with some names he recognized and others he did not. The very last entry was for Hank Snow, and it listed several golf clubs and goose down sleeping bags.
Kreston pulled the notebook close to his body and closed his eyes. Then he walked back to Daliwell.
“Couldn’t find the novel he borrowed, or the or my friend’s martini shaker or putter,” he said. “Just the pump.” He said nothing about the spiral notebook.
“And sorry, no pocket watch.”
“All’s well that ends well, at least for you,” the old man countered. “Time for me to hit the hay. I can look some other time.” They walked out the front door, which Daliwell locked. Once outside he tapped the bowl of his pipe agains the ledge of the porch. Satisfied that it was clean, he walked down the steps and Kreston followed.
“Thanks for your help,” Kreston said as he turned to walk home.
“No problem,” Daliwell said. “Feel free to come back any time to chat,” he added. “I’m out about this time every night enjoying a good night smoke.”
“Oh, you’ll see me again,” Kreston promised, thinking that would probably not be very often.
Walking home, Kreston realized he hadn’t found his wife’s salad bowl.
#
Three months later Kreston spotted an article in the local paper as he was sipping his early morning coffee before driving off to the station in time for the 7:32.He enjoyed the ride with his friends, even if he didn’t enjoy the destination. Tony was always eager to chat during the ride. Billy read the Wall Street Journal much of the ride. Hank Davis had become a regular on the train, and was a good conversationalist.
The words in the article practically assaulted Kreston.
FORMER RESIDENT CHARGED WITH FRAUD
A former Town resident has been arrested on federal charges alleging fraud, grand larceny, identity theft, forgery and perjury.
Harry Harper, 47, lived in the area for four years. He and his family suddenly dropped from sight in April of this year. When Harper was arrested they were using assumed names.
Count One of the indictment alleges Harper stole a new BMW from a dealer by taking it for a test drive and never returning it. The indictment alleges he provided false identification and documents to the dealer and the Department of Motor Vehicles.
Harper is alleged to have misrepresented himself as the owner of a residence he attempted to secure a mortgage against.
Also charged are thirty counts of larceny by taking property under false pretenses. Police searched Harper’s last known residence in Town, and recovered numerous stolen items, including a valuable custom-made golf club belonging to a senior federal prosecutor. Receipts recovered during a search of his home showed sales by Harper of other expensive golf clubs, cut-crystal glassware, and an antique pocket watch.
Harper, currently detained on $500,000 bail, claimed indigence, and his case was assigned to the Federal Public Defender.
Kreston nearly spit out his coffee. He read the article again, then hurriedly dressed to the station.
#
Two weeks later Kreston saw another article in the newspaper. Police attempted to contact Tommy Cranwell. After all trails proved cold, they searched the house again. Bloodhounds detected human remains buried behind the garage. The remains were tested and the Medical Examiner determined they were Tommy Cranwell. Harry passed the day in an uneasy and unpleasant trancelike state. He left work early.
#
Four months later, Kreston was walking about the neighborhood in the chill of a mid- December evening. He found himself walking outside with increasing regularity, to clear his mind with fresh air .
He walked a few hundred meters past darkened houses when he smelled the tobacco.
“Hello, Coach,” he called out as Daliwell emerged from the darkness of his lawn. “How have you been?”
“I’m doing fine, fellow. Good to see you again.”
“Getting some new neighbors real soon,” the old man announced. “With Harry pleading guilty and being sentenced, Tommy Cranwell’s estate was able to list it. Sold in a day.”
Kreston nodded. A few weeks ago Billy Waldrup had called and mentioned another article in the paper. Harry had plead guilty in federal court to mortgage fraud and perjury. He was sentenced to six years but no charges were brought against Glenda. State prosecutors offered a plea to manslaughter and a twelve year sentence to run concurrently with the federal sentence. Due to the differences between between state and federal law, Harry would be out when he finished his federal time.
“Could have gotten life, you know,” Billy had said, and Kreston suspected was Billy was unhappy he did not.” Would have been hard to prove who killed Tommy and why.”
“Your young friend Mr. Davis will also be leaving us, I hear,” Daliwell said.
“Yes, poor Hank skated on the bar inquiry and on the Inspector General’s review over at Justice.” Kreston’s voice was downbeat. He liked Hank. So did Kreston.
“But it was unthinkable that they would allow him to stay on as Number Two in the federal prosecutors office, when he had been fleeced by a guy they just sent away,” Kreston said wistfully. “A murderer to boot. Hank had to resign. No nibbles yet from the private bar.”
“I figure right now Hank Davis is not the name big time law firms want to be associated with,” Daliwell said.
“I guess not,” Kreston replied. He bid the old coach good night.
#
“You could have been killed too,” Kreston’s wife said one night. “He might have thought you were pushing too hard, and was afraid you would find out what he really was.
“I’m glad they caught him before anything like that could happen,” she added, and hugged Kreston. He was surprised but pleased. He had committed himself to repairing their relationship.
“Any progress on the MBA?” she asked.
“I’ll get to it,” he promised.
THE END