“Nothing to explain, Paige. I hadn’t seen Boom Boom since January. He was still fighting the blues then. If knowing you helped him out of the depths, I’m glad.… There was some talk at the funeral about his being in trouble down at Eudora Grain—I guess there’s a rumor going around that he stole some papers. Did he say anything about that to you?”
The honey-colored eyes widened. “No. Not a word. If people were talking about it, it must not have bothered him enough to mention it; we had dinner the day before he died. I wouldn’t believe it, anyway.”
“Do you know what he wanted to talk to me about?”
She looked startled. “Was he trying to get in touch with you?”
“He left an urgent message for me with my answering service, but he didn’t say what it was about. I wondered: if there was some story going around the docks maybe he wanted my professional help.”
She shook her head, fiddling with the zipper on her purse. “I don’t know. He seemed fine Monday night. Look—I’ve got to get going. I’m sorry if I upset you earlier, but I have to run now.”
I walked back to the front door with her and shut it behind her—I’d forgotten to close it when I came back for my shoes earlier. I also fastened the deadbolt. I was damned if the doorman was going to let in anyone else without telling me—at least not while I was in the apartment.
Before getting down to the dispiriting task of sorting my cousin’s papers I took a quick look around. Unlike me, he was—had been—phenomenally tidy. If I’d been dead a week and someone came into my place, they’d find some nasty surprises in the sink and a good layer of dust, not to mention an array of clothes and papers in the bedroom.
Boom Boom’s kitchen was spotless. The refrigerator was clean inside as well as out. I went through it and got rid of vegetables which were going bad. Two gallons of milk went down the sink—I guess he never got out of the habit of drinking it, even when he wasn’t training any longer. Tidy, tidy. I’d often said the same thing to Boom Boom, teasing him. Remembering those words made my stomach turn over, as if the air had been sucked out from underneath it. It’s like that when someone you love dies. I’d been through it with my parents, too. Little things keep reminding you and it takes a while before the physical pain goes out of the memory.
I went back to the study and made an organized attack on the drawers. Left to right, top to bottom. If it has to be done, do it thoroughly so there’s no need to take extra time backtracking. Fortunately, my cousin was not only a pack rat, he was also organized. The eight drawers all had neatly labeled file folders.
The top left held fan mail. Given the size of the turnout at the funeral, I shouldn’t have been surprised to see how many letters people sent him. He still got three or four a week in labored boyish handwriting.
Dear Boom Boom Warshawski,
I think you’re the greatest hockey player in the universe. Please send me your picture.
Your friend,
Alan Palmerlee
P.S. Here is a picture of me playing wing for the Algonquin Maple Leafs.
Across each letter was a neatly written note indicating the date and the reply—“March 26, sent signed picture” or “Called Myron. Asked him to arrange speaking date.” A lot of high schools wanted him to speak at graduation or at sports banquets.
The next drawer contained material relating to Boom Boom’s endorsement contracts. I’d have to go over these with Fackley and Simonds. My cousin had done some TV spots for the American Dairy Association. Maybe that explained his milk—if you advertise it, you have to drink it. There was also the Warshawski hockey stick, a warm-up jersey, and an ice-skate endorsement.
At five o’clock I rummaged through the spotless kitchen and found a can of coffee and an electric percolator. I made a pot and carried it back into the study with me. At eight-thirty I located Boom Boom’s liquor supply in a carved Chinese chest in the dining room and poured myself a Chivas—not my first choice in scotch but an adequate substitute for Black Label.
By ten o’clock I was surrounded by stacks of papers—a pile for Fackley, the agent. One for the attorney, Simonds. Quite a few for the garbage. A few things of sentimental value to me. One or two that might interest Paige. Some memorabilia for the Hockey Hall of Fame in Eveleth, Minnesota, and some other items for the Black Hawks.
I was tired. My olive silk blouse had a smear of greasy dust across the front. My nylons were full of runs. I was hungry. I hadn’t found Paige’s letters. Maybe I’d feel better after some food. At any rate, I’d been through all the drawers, including the ones in the desk. What had I really expected to find?
Abruptly I stood and skirted the mounds of paper to get to the telephone. I dialed a number I knew by heart and was relieved to hear it answered on the third ring.
“This is Dr. Herschel.”
“Lotty: it’s Vic. I’ve been sorting through my cousin’s papers and gotten myself thoroughly depressed. Have you eaten?”