Chapter 9

San Antonio, Texas, 1950

 

 

 

Young men, new in the service, have a need to extol the virtues of their hometowns. I guess it’s because they’re homesick, and talking about it makes them feel better. I don’t know for sure about this, I just know they do. One of the landmarks worth talking about is the Riverwalk in San Antonio. But this was not always the case. During the War years, no self-respecting Texan would mention the walk by the river, even if he was goaded into doing so. Then, it was a sorry blight on the community: bottles, cans, and debris strewn about, a hangout for drunks, thieves, lower classes, and unsavory elements to be found in any large city.

Bob Wills, the country and western star, used to sing about his San Antonio Rose–deep within my heart lies a melody, a song of old San Antone’…Enchantment strange as the moon up above. And then years later, the good citizens went to work on his enchanted moonlit path by the Alamo, eventually making it a showplace for tourists as well as the natives. Now, it’s the place to go, sidewalk cafes, hidden gardens, terraced restaurants with up-scale dining, a few luxury hotels catering to those of the money class. And it’s still being developed.

This is where Lucy told Fogerty she would meet me, on the bridge across from the Alamo. It was a place of some prominence, somewhere I had never been before. I parked my car and took a cab. She was prompt. The driver knew where to let me off. I kissed her, and the two off us walked down the promenade alongside the river for half a block or so. It was a pleasant fall day. We both wanted to walk for several more blocks, but not wanting to take the time now; we had too much to talk about.

The river was wider than I expected. It was very slow moving and coming within inches of the bank, resembling a swimming pool. We stopped at one of the sidewalk cafes just yards from the water. It was shaded with a large overhang, rivaling the best in ambiance of those on the Paris West Bank.

A waiter, whom I first suspected of affecting the manner of a European wine steward, complete with key to the cellar hanging from his neck, approached us with his list of libations. I looked it over, and then showing off a little myself, ordered a medium-priced Medoc from the St. Julian vineyards. His ears pricked up, and he began taking more than casual notice of us when I spoke to him in French. I was as surprised as he was when he replied in a Paris vernacular.

I tasted the wine, and he poured. I’ve never gotten used to this ritual. I suppose it’s all right for the French in France. But most Americans are uncomfortable ordering wine, and then acting as though they know the difference between a Gargonne and a Chaud Soliel table offering. We roll it around on our tongues, because we have seen other people do the same thing. Are we supposed to be determining if the vintage suits our palate or if there are pieces of cork floating about and some have gotten stuck in our teeth? And what does Joe-Blow Six Pack know about vintages anyway?

When the waiters ceased their hovering, retiring out of earshot, we started talking. That’s when she told me the story I’ve just told you. We lingered after lunch, confused, watching the passing parade. She knew what was on my mind: “Lucy, why did you tell me about your friendship with Joyce?”

“Because you were going to hear about it from somebody besides me. I didn’t want that. I wanted to tell you it was no big deal. It’s not what you might think or what Worthington thinks. We were two lonely people, just friends and that’s all. In fact, I think now she cultivated my friendship for another reason entirely. I think she and Worthington might be part of an organization that killed Eric and your other friend.”

“But you told Worthington you thought you had killed Eric. You thought he was the intruder bent on raping and torturing you. What makes you think so? You know this sounds really far fetched…?”

“I know. I’m confused. But there was a moment when I would have sworn he was Eric. And then when I found my dog…. You know, Eric gave me the dog when he was a pup for my birthday. He fell in love with him and would never have harmed him. Anybody as violent as the people you’ve been telling me about would have killed the dog to be rid of him. I can’t reconcile the intruder’s other actions with those of somebody who planned to carry around a bone just to occupy a dog. First off, who knew I had a dog? But then I guess Joyce did, and maybe some of the others in town. She had been to my house several times over the years.”

“Let’s come back to that in a minute,” I said. “Why did you go to see Worthington in the first place?”

“Well, he’s the county coroner. He’ll be called to examine the remains they’ll find among the ashes of the house. I want him to report them as being me at the inquest. Easy enough for him to do. I want to disappear. Whoever sent the two I shot will likely send others. I don’t want to live forever under this shadow, waiting for the other shoe, so I want to disappear. And I want to leave Joyce and the rest of them behind me, too.”

“Does this mean me, as well.”

“No, not you. But the others–yes.

“I had a long time to think, driving down here. Now I believe Joyce befriended me because Worthington put her up to it. And now I know some of the story about what the three of you did in Germany, I can see the picture more clearly. Now, I can see why she sought me out soon after she came to town. And now I don’t feel the same at all about her. I feel used, and a little chagrined that I didn’t see through her much earlier.”

“Do you think there was anybody else in town who might be on the take from whoever wants to find me?”

“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“What did you do with their car? Was it rented?”

“Yes, I dropped it off in front of the local Hertz with a note and some money. The rental agreement was in the glove compartment. They both probably gave fake addresses that won’t be of any help, I don’t think. They’re square with Hertz. Nobody’s going to miss them or be looking for them.”

“How can you be so sure?” I asked.

“Because I have it figured the people who want you will conclude the obvious: the two got what they wanted from me, and then took off on their own, sort of freelance, looking for you. What else are they going to think when they fail to show up? And then when they read my obituary and the articles that are sure to be in the newspaper… and neither Joyce nor Worthington is going to say anything I don’t want them to say. They’ve nothing to gain and everything to lose if I were to talk to his wife later on. And another thing: whoever they are will assume I knew about this mysterious Ravensbruck or Ravensberg thing, and that I told those two all about it…geez, I can hardly spell it”

“You never heard the word before I mentioned it?”

“Never.”

“Then I’m satisfied Joyce, and maybe Worthington also, were using you as a contact to eventually get to me.”

“What is it? Where is this place? What’s it all about, anyway?” she asked me, her voice rising, but not really expecting an answer.

“One more question about you and Joyce, and then I want to forget about it forever.” She nodded her head, and started to cry.

“Was Fogerty aware of your friendship with Joyce?”

“I think so. Why? Did he promise to tell you some big gossip secret if you gave him some more money?” she asked, wiping her eyes.

“No, nothing like that. It’s just that I think he was about to tell me something once. It was something he thought I might consider important. I guess he thought your friendship with Joyce was something I should know about.

“Can you think of anything distinguishing about either of those two guys,” I said, wanting to change the subject. “Try hard. Was there anything about them out of the ordinary?”

“Yes, I do remember something. The one who grabbed me reeked of garlic and wine. And his clothes smelled of a different odor of tobacco.”

“Okay,” I said, “now we’re getting somewhere. Many Europeans smoke a cheap Arabic tobacco because Turkish blends cost too much. Also, some of them just like it; it’s more pungent, more acrid. But one thing about it, as you say, it’s different. As bad as our cigarettes are, those are twice as bad, and the odor permeates their breath and clothes for twice as long. And once you get a whiff of it, you never forget. I’ve never known an American who used it; I never knew one to acquire the taste–never. So that rules out Eric. I think we can forget about him. But then who contacted Worthington the undertaker a couple of years after the War–and why? Is there some kind of payoff to keep Worthington and Joyce quiet about who is buried in Eric’s grave, or were the two of them being paid to wait for me or Carl to show up at your place? Could it be that simple?

“Tell me something. Do you remember how tall either of them were?”

“Not too tall–about your height, I guess. Why? Oh, there is something else,” she said, after a long pause. “The one I buried carried a cane and walked with a severe limp. And something else, his ears: he looked like somebody had stuck his head in a lawn mower.”