able to eat them later, too. He was missing a couple of front teeth, which made it hard for him to chew efficiently. From a distance, he'd seemed about sixty; up close, I realized he was more like a sprightly eighty.
Between bites—and during bites—he treated me to a potpourri of his political wisdom. He was clearly an extremist, but after listening for several minutes I couldn't tell if he was way to the left of Jesse Jackson or way to the right of Newt the Grinch. Not only was he against big government, big business, and big unions, he was against a lot of little things, too. For instance, he was against little leagues, calling them "the ruination of our young boys." He was even against those little warning labels on cigarette packs—"medical fascism," he said.
I guess the key word here was "against." He was just plain against everything.
He finally took a break from listing the nation's evils to let out a long, loud, malodorous burp. I jumped in. "So, Mr. Huggins," I asked, "what did you mean about Jack Tamarack getting what he deserved?"
He eyed me cagily, and the air between us went through a subtle but definite change. "Wouldn't you like to know. Be quite a scoop for your newspaper, wouldn't it?"
My skin prickled, but I tried to play it casual, giving him a shrug. "Maybe, maybe not. Depends if you really have something."
"Yeah, I got something, all right. Oh, yeah." He was reveling in my attention and wasn't about to let it go. "You better believe I got something."
"Like what?" I said lightly, trying to sound jokey. "You gonna tell me you killed him yourself?"
Huggins hesitated, and for a moment I thought he was about to tell me just that.
Then he said, "No, but I know who did kill that sonufabitch."
My heart pounded. "Who?"
"Why should I tell you?” he sneered. "The Saratogian is just a rag. How many readers do you have—twelve?"
If I acted dismissive of this self-important little clown, maybe I could goad him into talking more. "You're just yanking my chain, Huggins. Here I buy you lunch, give you an interview, and then you feed me some stupid kind of line."
He pouted his lips. Bagel crumbs hung off of them. "It's not a line. I just can't tell you what I know."
"Yeah, sure."
"It's true. I promised his old man."
I threw Huggins a disbelieving look. "Whose old man?"
"Jack's old man, George Tamarack. Me and him grew up together in Stony Creek. We were both in the hospital last spring, George with his cancer and me with my heart problems, and he told me some things. Probably 'cause he thought I was dying. But I didn't die, so he made me promise not to tell anyone."
Huggins pointed a bony forefinger at me. "And by God, I'm keeping my promise. I'm not like these peckerwood politicians that would screw a dead warthog if it would get them an extra vote . . ."
And off he went on another rant. I tried several more times to open him up, but he held tight.
I shut my ears to Huggins's raving and tried to figure out my next maneuver. Some way, somehow, I needed to convince Hack Sr. to talk to me.
But how?
I ended up taking the direct approach. First I got rid of Huggins, assuring him repeatedly as we said good-bye that I'd call him when the article came out. Then I hit a pay phone and called Hack Sr. at his home in South Glens Falls, twenty miles north of Saratoga. When he didn't answer, I guessed that he might be at the widow's house. So I drove over there and knocked with her big brass door knocker.
As I waited on the doorstep, I wondered what Hack Sr. could possibly have told Huggins last spring that might explain why Hack Jr. was killed this week. It seemed farfetched, and I was wondering if I was out of my depths with all this private eye stuff when the door opened.
Sure enough, it was Hack Sr. Judging by the grayish pallor of the old man's face, he'd slept even less last night than I did.
"Hello, Mr. Tamarack," I began.
His eyes narrowed. "You're the one, aren't you?"
"Pardon?"
"Susie told me
Between bites—and during bites—he treated me to a potpourri of his political wisdom. He was clearly an extremist, but after listening for several minutes I couldn't tell if he was way to the left of Jesse Jackson or way to the right of Newt the Grinch. Not only was he against big government, big business, and big unions, he was against a lot of little things, too. For instance, he was against little leagues, calling them "the ruination of our young boys." He was even against those little warning labels on cigarette packs—"medical fascism," he said.
I guess the key word here was "against." He was just plain against everything.
He finally took a break from listing the nation's evils to let out a long, loud, malodorous burp. I jumped in. "So, Mr. Huggins," I asked, "what did you mean about Jack Tamarack getting what he deserved?"
He eyed me cagily, and the air between us went through a subtle but definite change. "Wouldn't you like to know. Be quite a scoop for your newspaper, wouldn't it?"
My skin prickled, but I tried to play it casual, giving him a shrug. "Maybe, maybe not. Depends if you really have something."
"Yeah, I got something, all right. Oh, yeah." He was reveling in my attention and wasn't about to let it go. "You better believe I got something."
"Like what?" I said lightly, trying to sound jokey. "You gonna tell me you killed him yourself?"
Huggins hesitated, and for a moment I thought he was about to tell me just that.
Then he said, "No, but I know who did kill that sonufabitch."
My heart pounded. "Who?"
"Why should I tell you?” he sneered. "The Saratogian is just a rag. How many readers do you have—twelve?"
If I acted dismissive of this self-important little clown, maybe I could goad him into talking more. "You're just yanking my chain, Huggins. Here I buy you lunch, give you an interview, and then you feed me some stupid kind of line."
He pouted his lips. Bagel crumbs hung off of them. "It's not a line. I just can't tell you what I know."
"Yeah, sure."
"It's true. I promised his old man."
I threw Huggins a disbelieving look. "Whose old man?"
"Jack's old man, George Tamarack. Me and him grew up together in Stony Creek. We were both in the hospital last spring, George with his cancer and me with my heart problems, and he told me some things. Probably 'cause he thought I was dying. But I didn't die, so he made me promise not to tell anyone."
Huggins pointed a bony forefinger at me. "And by God, I'm keeping my promise. I'm not like these peckerwood politicians that would screw a dead warthog if it would get them an extra vote . . ."
And off he went on another rant. I tried several more times to open him up, but he held tight.
I shut my ears to Huggins's raving and tried to figure out my next maneuver. Some way, somehow, I needed to convince Hack Sr. to talk to me.
But how?
I ended up taking the direct approach. First I got rid of Huggins, assuring him repeatedly as we said good-bye that I'd call him when the article came out. Then I hit a pay phone and called Hack Sr. at his home in South Glens Falls, twenty miles north of Saratoga. When he didn't answer, I guessed that he might be at the widow's house. So I drove over there and knocked with her big brass door knocker.
As I waited on the doorstep, I wondered what Hack Sr. could possibly have told Huggins last spring that might explain why Hack Jr. was killed this week. It seemed farfetched, and I was wondering if I was out of my depths with all this private eye stuff when the door opened.
Sure enough, it was Hack Sr. Judging by the grayish pallor of the old man's face, he'd slept even less last night than I did.
"Hello, Mr. Tamarack," I began.
His eyes narrowed. "You're the one, aren't you?"
"Pardon?"
"Susie told me
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