Waterbury Winter, page 19
“Sure am,” Barnaby says, giving him a wave as he sways out the door and makes for his car.
He’ll find the culprit himself. Remorse matches his agitated anger about the scam for his own foolishness. He’s trying to build respect and hates the idea of becoming an object of ridicule. On his way, the thought strikes him that he might find Horace’s address online. It would be good to know where he’s going instead of driving around in circles. He parks the car in his driveway, screeching the brakes to avoid hitting the garage door. At home, he turns on the computer. He hates the way emails always appear first after the machine boots up. Impatient to find the information he needs, he deletes the messages, then types Horace’s name and street into the search engine. A site called whitepages.com gives him the address and phone number. Adrenaline pulsing through his medicated and inebriated veins, Barnaby climbs into the car again and heads for Water Street.
He parks a few houses away from number 72, a four-story apartment building. Damn. He hadn’t considered that. He had hoped to peer through the windows of a house to find some paintings or evidence that the man collects art. The door to the lobby is unlocked and a list of occupants with buzzers to the units hangs on the wall. The name Holmes appears next to the buzzer for apartment 303. What’s he going to do now? He can’t confront the man without evidence. Crestfallen and sobering up, Barnaby drives home. This is a matter better handled by the police. He hates dealing with authorities, but if he’s to reclaim his paintings and money, he may have no choice.
Sitting at his computer, he searches for the local police number and places the call. “I’d like to report a scam operation.”
“All right. Name, please, first and last.”
“Barnaby Brown.”
“Address?”
“55 Russell Road, here in Waterbury.”
“I recognize that name and address. Aren’t you the guy who called earlier to report a stolen painting?”
“Yes.”
“I have you on file. Is this another stolen painting, or the same one?”
“Three paintings. Different ones. But as I told you, this is a scam. No one came into my house to take them. The culprit discovered me on the internet and passed me a bad check.”
“Any idea who?”
“I have my suspicions. It might be a local guy, here in town.”
“All right. We must take a report from you in person. Can you come down to the station? Bring all the evidence you have.”
“How soon can I come?”
“Soon as you like. We’re here all night.”
Exhausted by his efforts, Barnaby lies down. The report can wait until later. He doesn’t want to deal with the police anyway. He soon drifts into sleep.
Next morning, he wakes up, irritated with himself for his rash behavior the day before. He was acting foolishly, trying to catch Horace, who may not be the man who cheated him anyway. He’d slipped as well, fallen off the wagon. At least he’d only had one snifter of brandy. His head feels heavy with shame and remorse. But he wants his paintings back and the money he lost. It’s still a good idea to report the crime on the chance that the police can discover the identity of the culprit. He stuffs his computer into a bag. The bad check would be good evidence, but the bank has it. Perhaps he can bring a copy of that later.
He drives straight to the police headquarters and straightens his shoulders as he passes through the entrance. They frisk him before they allow him through the metal detector. Officer Turner, a burly man with a protruding stomach, ushers him into a small room and they take seats around a table.
“So when did this happen?” he asks.
“During the past two weeks. I’ve opened an online business to sell my paintings and this person was my first customer. He calls himself Steven Michael. I have the emails he sent in my computer. Mind if I show you?”
Barnaby boots the computer and the screen flares into life. The emails appear, new ones first. Steven Michael had sent notes recently and should come up quickly. He scrolls all the way to the bottom of the list, but he can’t find them. Then he remembers. In his impatience to find Horace Holmes’s address he had deleted several lines of email. Steven Michael’s must have been among them.
“Goddammit. They’re not here,” he says, slapping his fist to his forehead.
The officer grunts. “Well, do you have any other evidence?”
“Yes, a bad check, but it’s at the bank.”
“Not much to go on here. Why don’t you come back when you can provide more information. Where did you send the paintings?”
“To a post office box in Oregon.”
“A post office box? In Oregon? And you say the guy you suspect lives locally? You need to get your story straight, Mr. Brown. Also, if he lives out of state, this would be a case for the FBI. Assuming there is a case, of course.”
“I swear, I’m not making this up,” he says, but his words sound hollow, and he knows the meeting is over. He can hardly speak for anger and humiliation. Without proof that Horace tricked him, there’s nothing for the police to investigate.
He has failed once more, and heads for O’Malley’s before he stops to remember he’d had drinks there the day before. I can’t slip again. He’ll attend the AA meeting that evening.
CHAPTER 33
With Molière in her lap, Julia settles in to read the beginnings of her mother’s story. Her great-grandmother Emma Hampton had arrived in Boston from England in 1882 to marry into one of Boston’s most prominent families. She became a society matron, living in a fine house on Beacon Hill. Surprised to learn her ancestors had names of buildings and streets familiar to her, she wonders why her mother never spoke of these relatives. There must be a reason, perhaps some scandal. Engrossed in the story, she barely hears the telephone ring.
“Hey Julia. Charley Carson here.” His gruff voice over the phone causes her to hold the receiver away from her ear. “Remember me?” he asks.
“Sure. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve been thinking. Seeing you the other night at O’Malley’s reminded me of your badass skills at pool. I’d like to invite you to a game—uh, challenge you to a game, is more like it. What do you say?”
“It’s a while since I played, and I’m out of practice,” she says warily.
“We can play for money or not, as you wish. I thought it’d be fun. There have been no other women who can shoot like you for as long as I can remember. Most of them are amateurs. You’re almost professional, I’d guess. A real star.”
Julia chortles. The man is chatting her up. “I’ll think about it. When will you hold the contest? Will others be part of it? Not Horace Holmes, I hope.”
“No. I remember what happened last time. Just the two of us.”
Julia recalls how much she liked the smooth feel of the cue in her hands, the way she could glide it over the table with a sure hand, stroking a ball into a pocket. Though rusty, she could probably regain her skill fairly fast. It would be an adventure, a challenge unlike others. “Tell you what. I accept your offer,” she says.
“Great. How about Friday, at seven?”
“See you then.”
What has she agreed to? She’ll be going to O’Malley’s, Barnaby’s hangout. That might not be a smart move. But the bar is a public place, and she has as much right to be there as he has. She likes the challenge and knows she is—or was—a skillful player. She will go, and win. But she’s out of practice. Best to warm up first. She searches her mind for out-of-the-way bars where she could shoot a few balls. Certainly not Horace’s Joint, but there’s another place round the corner. Not the best neighborhood, but if she goes during the day before happy hour, she might be able to slip in and out without anyone noticing or bothering her.
She leaves work early on Wednesday. Wearing black clothes, she hopes she’s inconspicuous. She cautiously opens the door of the saloon, stopping momentarily as her eyes adjust to the dark interior. The stench of sweat and liquor almost cause her to retreat, but she stiffens her resolve and enters. She approaches the bar.
“Okay if I shoot a couple of rounds?” she asks the bartender.
He regards her with furrowed brows. “By yourself? Sure, but you’ll have to order a drink first.”
“Sure. Diet Coke, please.”
Loud rock music plays, lending pulsing life to the ugly place. He hands her a tumbler and after paying and telling him to keep the change, she drifts to the rack on the wall to choose a pool cue. She places balls into the triangular shape on the board, then stands back and checks her position. Leaning forward, she strikes, shaking the balls loose.
A tall man wearing a T-shirt and worn jeans enters the room. “Hey, Jimmy, who’s the pool player?” he shouts to the bartender.
Jimmy grins. “Guess we’re going up in the world. Classy lady.”
Julia ignores them and concentrates on sinking the balls into pockets. The smack of the cue is barely audible over the loud music. The blue-jeaned man laughs. “I’d join you, but I see you’re good. Ever played with my buddy Horace? He’s a crack shot.”
“Not recently,” she says. She has finished her practice and wants to get out of there. She hangs up the cue, and trying not to appear afraid, heads out the door. It’s a scary place, but the practice has been worthwhile. She’s confident she hasn’t lost her touch.
On Friday after work, Julia rifles through her closet and chooses black pants, a white tank top, and a bright red sweater for her game against Charley. Sweeping her hair off her face, she anchors it with a shiny barrette. She needs minimum distraction and maximum flexibility for the game.
The bar hums with the usual Friday crowd. As she pushes her way to the table, she runs into Charley.
“Atta girl. You made it! I knew you wouldn’t back out. This is going to be fun. I’ve already announced the contest to Sean, and there’s a crowd of fans.”
She raises her eyebrows.
“You do have your fans, you know,” Charley says. “People remember you.”
“I hope they won’t be disappointed,” she replies.
Peering through the crowd, she doesn’t see Barnaby. That’s fine. He might upset her equilibrium. Not a good thing when you need a steady hand.
“I’ll grab a beer, then we can get started,” Charley smiles, heading for the bar. “Can I get you anything?”
She shakes her head.
“A pint of Bootleggers,” he calls.
“Sorry, all out. Budweiser okay?” Sean says.
Charley scowls. “Dammit.” He takes the mug and returns to the pool table. “Choose your weapon, Julia,” he says, taking a cue from a rack on the wall.
Julia has brought her own cue. She removes it from a bag, assembles it, twists it in her hands, then grinds a piece of chalk against the tip. She surveys the scene and recognizes several of the men.
“Listen up, everyone,” Charley shouts. “This here’s the greatest woman champion ever to enter these premises, Julia Morgan. She has accepted my challenge. We’ll play three rounds. Winner takes all.”
He takes several swigs of beer, and people throw bills into a can on a bench. The crowd forms a circle around the pool table. “Good luck, Julia!” someone calls. She bows slightly and tightens her grasp on the cue.
Charley tosses a quarter and she calls heads. “You win, you break.” Charley responds. “We’ll play by the usual house rules.”
She holds the cue with her right hand, then slips it between the fingers of her left, forming a bridge on the table. She carefully aims at the cue ball, then strikes it with full force, scattering the balls. None fall into pockets. Charley steps to the table, places his hand near the cue ball, and prepares to shoot. He sinks two solid balls into pockets but misses a tricky combination shot. He’s made a good start, Julia observes. She aims at two balls blocking access to the pocket. If she can hit the first ball at the right angle, it will bounce off the other and go in. Definitely a low percentage shot, but worth a try, she thinks. She pulls it off.
“You go, girl! Great carom shot!” a man cries.
“She knows what she’s doing. Tough competition, Charley boy!”
Julia misses the next shot, but the cue ball rolls behind others denying Charley an unobstructed view of any solid ball. Charley grimaces, reaches for his beer mug, and swallows a deep draught. He takes a stance, reaching toward a ball on the rail. He shoots, but the ball nicks the side of the pocket and veers away.
The room becomes strangely quiet as the game continues. Both players land their balls until only the eight ball remains. Several people stand on chairs to gain a better view. Julia focuses on the ball, leaning forward to aim. She strokes, not too hard, and the ball rolls slowly toward the pocket, then drops in. The crowd applauds.
“Hold on a minute!” Charley shouts. “Foul play! You didn’t call the pocket!”
A collective groan echoes around the room.
“Sore loser!”
“Hey Charley. Give the lady a break! That’s not a house rule.”
“It is today,” he shouts.
“Julia, he’s cheating you. Ask for a replay.”
“It’s okay. There are two more rounds,” she says. “It was a house rule when I played here before. I forgot.”
Patches of sweat creep from Charley’s armpits, staining his shirt. Red-faced, he holds his stick with white knuckles and breaks the rack to start the second game. He shoots too hard and knocks a ball off the table.
“Cool it, man! You lose a turn!”
Someone returns the ball to the table. Julia effortlessly sinks several balls.
“You’re doing great, Julia. Keep up the fight!”
Charley takes another shot, nicking the top of the ball. “Shit. Can’t believe I scratched,” he says.
Julia notes his lack of poise. Now she needs to focus and hang onto every shred of confidence she can muster. She peels off her red sweater. Her white tank top shines in the subdued light. She wants to win.
The game progresses until only the eight ball sits on the table. Again, it’s her turn. This time she calls the pocket, aims for the target, and sinks the ball. The crowd roars.
“Two down, a tie. One to go,” the large man yells.
Julia breaks this time. They continue the game, skillfully sinking shots as they clear the board. Julia gains the upper hand by completing a dazzling variety of shots. Charley, now sweating profusely, can hardly contain his composure and misses some easy shots. Julia, increasingly confident, pockets the last striped ball until she only has the eight ball left. Several solid balls lie between it and the cue ball. Julia faces a formidable shot. The rules require hitting the eight ball before any other. But she’s blocked. I can do this, she tells herself. Gathering courage, she slowly chalks the tip of her cue stick, places a knee on the table, leans forward, and positions the stick almost vertically over the ball.
There’s hardly a breath in the room as viewers observe the unusual move.
With a downward thrust, Julia strikes the ball. It curves in a perfect arc around the crowd of solid balls and hits the eight ball, which rolls squarely into the pocket on the other side of the board.
The crowd claps and whistles.
“Wow! Amazing massé shot!” someone yells “She’s a true champion!”
Charley throws his hands up and tosses his cue against the wall. The game is over, and Julia has won.
Julia pulls away from the table and holds her head high. Her face flushes as she acknowledges the compliments of the observers. People shake her hand. As she glances toward the bar, she catches sight of Barnaby. He’s standing on a chair, applauding and smiling. Knees buckling, she grasps the table.
“A drink for the lady on the house!” Sean calls.
Julia glances at Charley. He’s sitting down, head lowered. She goes over to him.
“Thank you for the game. You’re a fine player,” she says, offering her hand.
He takes it reluctantly. “Thanks,” he replies. “Wrong beer. Never liked Bud. I would’ve played better drinking Bootleggers.”
She nods briefly. She pities him, a sore loser, blaming it on beer.
Barnaby pushes through the throng. “You played brilliantly, Julia. Absolutely amazing. It’s so good to see you. Let’s talk.”
Her stomach flutters. He takes her hand and leads her to a table in the corner.
“However did you learn to play like that?” he asks.
She sits, allowing time for her pent-up emotions to subside. “I’ll tell you in a minute, but I’d like a drink first. It’s a long story, and embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing? Can’t wait to hear. I’ll get your drink. Chardonnay?”
She has to admit, she enjoys winning. She used to take pride in her skill at the game and is overjoyed she can still compete. Charley was a worthy opponent, but he allowed his emotions to hinder his performance. Pool takes a steady hand and steadier nerves. When Barnaby sets the glass of wine in front of her, she’s immediately aware of her pleasure at seeing him again and grateful for the opportunity to set the record straight about her pool playing experience.
She sips her wine.
“So tell me,” he says.
She crosses her arms on the table. “You may remember last time we came Horace Holmes asked if I was still seeing Mike, my last boyfriend.”
Barnaby nods.
“I met Mike while I babysat for his son, Robbie. Mike was divorced, and had visitation rights with his son, but he often had to work. The little boy was about eight, and in trouble. His mother became ill, and I could give him some stability at a hard time in his life. He was a lovely child and liked pool. His dad had a pool table at home, so I spent many hours playing with him. It turned out I had a knack for it and became quite skilled.”
She glances at Barnaby and observes she has commanded his unwavering attention.
She continues. “One day, when Mike and I were at O’Malley’s, Horace came in. He boasted he was a great player, so Mike told him I was, too. Horace challenged me to a game.
Things escalated when several of his friends came into the bar and Horace, who’s a habitual gambler, took bets on who would win. They threw quite a lot of money into the pool. We played three rounds, and I won each one.”
