Down the hallway past the main dining room, a small staircase led to the second floor of the Shuttlecock Club. Jack had told me that in the past, the club maintained a half dozen guest rooms for the use of out-of-town members or those in town who had perhaps over-celebrated and needed a bed in which to sleep it off. With all kinds of new state laws dealing with overnight accommodations, the club had pretty much abandoned this perk of membership in the 1960s. Now, the only rooms used on the second floor were for the offices of the club’s manager and his assistant.
It was cold upstairs, and the air was dank and dusty. A long corridor extended off to the right, disappearing into the darkness. Harsh light spilled from a room at the top of the stairs, creating a square of brightness that illuminated the hallway’s threadbare carpeting.
Jack and I walked through the empty outer office and into the manager’s den beyond. Herbert Incavaglia was sitting at his crowded desk, peering through wire-rimmed bifocals at a ledger book open before him. He looked to be in his late 50s, with greying hair clinging hopefully to the sides and back of his head, having long since abandoned his shining pate. He was dressed in a dark suit, white dress shirt and conservative tie. His office was small and tidy. One wall was covered by a bank of file cabinets, another by a large cork bulletin board. His dark-stained desktop was mostly empty, except for the In/Out box on one corner and the ledger book on his blotter. An ell-extension at one end held his computer terminal and telephone. The room smelled faintly of burned coffee. Incavaglia stood up when we walked in, closing the ledger.
“Mr. Connolly,” he said, holding out his hand for Jackie to shake. “So good to see you again. Can I be of some assistance?”
Jack threw himself down in one of the two chairs that sat in front of Incavalgia’s desk and put his drink down on the man’s desktop. “This is my guest, Hacker,” he said nodding at me. “We want to talk about Vitus Papageorge’s murder this morning.”
Herb Incavaglia grasped my hand. His was large and warm and hard at the edges. He looked at me for a moment, his eyes dark and narrow. I felt as though I was being sized up.
“Ah, Mister Hacker,” he said. “You are a writer for one of the Boston newspapers, correct?” He raised his eyebrows and I nodded. “I had heard you were going to honor the Shuttlecock Club with your presence this weekend. How unfortunate that these tragic events have spoiled what had been one of our most popular events. I do hope that you will be able to return next year and enjoy our Invitational tournament again.”
While he was making his address, he opened a side drawer of his desk, took out a cardboard coaster and placed it neatly under Jack’s glass. I sat down in the other guest chair, and Herb sat down behind his desk. He leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers together and rested them on his lap.
“How can I be of assistance?” he asked again. “And may I ask if this interview is to be considered on the record?”
“Why would you ask that?” I wondered.
Incavaglia smiled at me as if I were a child. “Please, Mr. Hacker,” he said icily, “Don’t be silly. Mr. Connolly here is the publisher and owner of the local newspaper and you are a journalist with a large metropolitan daily. It would be foolhardy of me not to inquire as to the ground rules for our conversation. If this is an official visit, then the club’s only comment is that we are deeply shocked and saddened by the events of this morning at the Shuttlecock Club, we are cooperating fully with the police authorities, which are investigating Mr. Papageorge’s death, and we will have no further comment at this time. How else can I be of assistance?”
Jack and I looked at each other. Herb had slammed a roadblock down in front of us before we got going. Jack picked up his tumbler of bourbon and threw me a wink over the rim.
“How long have you been here at Shuttlecock?” I asked Herb.
“I’m in my fifth year of service to the members,” he answered.
“Bit of a change from your last job, isn’t it?”
“Not at all,” he said easily. “I was the comptroller for a chain of restaurants on the North Shore and I managed a gentleman’s club in Boston for several years.”
“Who’s the easier boss to work for,” I asked, “Vitus Papageorge or Carmine Spoleto? Or do you have to answer to Rene Lemere?”
Herbert Incavaglia stared at me silently. I smiled back at him. Jack smiled at him. The silence hung in the air.
“I - I don’t believe I know either of the gentlemen whom you mentioned,” he said.
“Can we see the records on the sewer construction project?” Jack said. “We have information that there may have been some cost overruns on that job.”
Incavaglia stared across his desk at us for another long moment. I felt sized up again, and it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up a little.
“Actually, that project was completed on time and on budget,” Herbert said. “But all records and reports must be released by the chairman of the Building and Grounds Committee, Mr. Cameron Campbell. You will have to see him. I’m afraid I don’t have the data in this office.”
“And if I go see Jocko Campbell,” Jack said, “He’ll tell me that all the paperwork has been put into storage and it’ll take him six months or a year for him to remember to dig it out. In the meantime, you all will hope I forget about it while you move the money you skimmed down to the Cayman Islands or Antigua.”
Incavaglia rocketed forward in his chair. “I am not certain,” he said, “But I believe I heard some statements that could easily be construed as libelous should they ever see print, Mr. Connolly.”
I heard a sudden exhalation behind me — it sounded like a muttered “men!” — and turning, I saw Leta Papageorge walk into the office. She was dressed in jeans and a long, wooly green sweater that draped down to her thighs, her glistening blond hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, and she held in front of her a small, silver gun that glistened nastily in the harsh overhead light. She had it pointing right at Herbert Incavaglia.
“Sorry to interrupt your little sword fight, fellas,” Leta said, her cheeks flushed. “But I got just one question for ole Herb here, and I don’t have time for all the bullshit.” She took another step closer to the desk and held the gun steady at Herb’s head.
“Who whacked him, Herb?” she asked softly. “And why?”
Herbert Incavaglia turned white, and shrunk back in his chair as far as the laws of physics allowed. “Mrs. Papageorge,” he said in a suddenly high-pitched, strained voice. “I assure you …”
“Can it, Herb,” she snapped. “Who? And why?”
He held his arms out wide, supplicating.
“I—I don’t know,” he said. “Really, I don’t. But it wasn’t one of ours.”
“That’s crap, Herb,” Leta began. But in arguing with him, the arm holding the gun dropped a bit, no longer aimed between the man’s narrow little eyes.
I made my move and made it fast. I jumped out of my chair, gave Leta a hockey-style hip check to knock her off balance, and at the same instant, I grabbed her wrist and pushed it and the gun upwards toward the ceiling. With a sharp twist, I managed to yank the gun away, as Leta gave a tiny yelp, equal parts pain and surprise. She recovered her balance and sprang at me. I held her off with one arm and held the gun away with the other.
“Damn you!” she cried, trying to grab and hit at the same time, until she finally realized the futility and began to weep, grabbing my lapels and burying her face in my chest. I held the gun at arm’s length. Jack had stayed in his chair, but gave me a nod of appreciation and reached over to take another sip – a longer and deeper draught – from his cocktail.
Herb Incavaglia’s face went from pale to deep red in an instant. He started to stand up, but I swung my arm around and pointed the gun at him again.
“I don’t think you’ve answered the lady’s question yet, Herb,” I said. “Who whacked Vitus and why?”
He was flabbergasted. “Wh-why, you can’t do that,” he stuttered. “This woman threatened my life. You witnessed it! I can have her arrested for assault and you for aiding and abetting!”
“Go ahead,” I said, holding the gun steady. “Call the cops. We’ll start by telling them that you said the killer, quote ‘wasn’t one of ours,’ end quote. Which will lead them to ask what you meant, which will rip the cover off your little can o’ worms here. So be my guest…pick up the phone and call. I think the number is 9-1-1.”
Herb didn’t move. His eyes peered at me, this time with undisguised hatred.
“This is highly unethical,” he said.
“Hey, Herb. Here’s a little news flash for you: Journalists aren’t ethical. So answer the lady’s question or I might give her the gun back.”
Leta Papageorge had stopped crying all over my sport coat and was staring at Herb. He, in turn looked beseechingly at Jack, seeking some help from the only club member in the room. Jackie smiled and shrugged.
“Better start talking, Herb,” he said. “My friend here is notorious for being unconventional. I can’t predict what he’s gonna do.”
“I can’t tell you anything,” Incavaglia finally said. “My, ummm, business associates are as perplexed as you are. Mr. Papageorge’s business relationships were in good order. We are also interested in finding out who perpetrated this crime. Everything I just said was off the record and I will deny any or all of it if it sees print.”
Leta Papageorge snorted softly. While she had stopped crying, she continued to hold my coat’s lapels tightly. My non-gun-holding hand had come up and wrapped itself protectively around her waist, and her body warmth floated upwards, mingling with her subtle perfume, a not unpleasant experience.
“Always covering your ass, huh Herb?” she said. She pulled away from me. “C’mon fellas. Let’s get outta here.”
“Wait a minute,” Incavaglia protested. “You mean you’re going to let this woman barge in here, threaten my life and just…leave?”
Jack and I looked at each other.
“Yes,” we said in unison. Leta and Jack walked out, and I, still holding the little silver pistol, followed, backing out of the office.
Going down the stairs, I heard Jackie giggle.
“Journalists aren’t ethical?” he said. “I gotta remember that one.”