all about you sticking your head under the door. What are you, a goddamn reporter?"
"No, sir. I'm trying to find out who killed your son."
A young boy appeared in the hallway—Hack Sr.'s seven-year-old grandson. He wore a bright Bugs Bunny T-shirt, but his eyes observed me somberly. Hack Sr. put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Sean, go in the other room and turn on the TV."
Sean pointed at me. "Who's he? What is he talking about?"
"Go in the living room and watch TV."
"But, Grandpa —"
"Go."
Sean took one last long look at me before tramping off unhappily. The old man watched him go, not speaking again until the kid had disappeared and we heard Rugrats come on.
Then he demanded, "Why are you bothering us? We already know who killed my son. It was that bastard Shmuckler."
"Shmuckler is my friend. He's not a killer."
"Horseshit."
"Just in case I'm right, Mr. Tamarack, do you want the wrong man thrown in jail for your son's murder?"
The old man winced with pain, whether emotional or physical I wasn't sure. "What the hell do you want from me?"
"Whatever you can give."
"I got nothing to give. Nothing." The pain expanded, and contorted his whole face. "It's not right for a son to die before his father. It's not right!"
Then he went into another of his frightful coughing spasms and started to shut the door in my face.
But I stuck my foot in the way. Call me heartless, but what choice did I have? "Mr. Tamarack," I said grimly, "Yancy told me all about what you told him at the hospital."
Hack Sr.'s head snapped back in surprise, and he gasped. His spasm stopped so fast, I wondered if he'd faked it.
Meanwhile Sean ran into the room again. "Grandpa, you should sit down."
The old man forced a smile. "I'm okay, bud. You can go back and watch TV."
Sean gave me an upset look, then reluctantly shuffled off. Hack Sr. turned back to me. "I got no clue what you're talking about. Yancy Huggins is a certified loony."
"Maybe so, but he was telling the truth on this."
The old man's shoulders sagged. "What did that halfwit tell you?"
Not a heck of a lot, I thought, but out loud I said, "Sir, I'd like to hear it straight from the horse's mouth. If you give me a clear understanding of exactly what you know, it'll be best for everyone."
"Why will that be best for everyone?"
"Because—" I began, but then, just like that, I lost it. My brain locked up tight. I coughed lightly into my hand, buying time. "You see, the thing is—" I continued, but not only was my brain locked, someone had thrown away the key.
I remembered this helpless feeling only too well. Back when I was an aspiring Hollywood screenwriter, this would sometimes happen to me in the middle of a big pitch meeting with some hot shot producer. One moment I'd be waxing eloquent about an exciting plot twist in a movie I was writing, then the next moment some mental doorway would slam shut—and I'd be sitting there with my tongue hanging out, like a dog who's been out in the sun too long. Highly embarrassing.
Hack Sr. eyed me curiously. Any second now he'd realize I was talking through my hat, and Huggins hadn't told me diddlysquat. Then Hack Sr. would clam up too. In desperation, I tried a line that I must have seen some variation of in a hundred different movies. "Mr . Tamarack," I said, "I don't want to tell the cops any more than I have to. But if you refuse to cooperate—"
"Look, this is just plain silly. What I told Yancy has nothing to do with my son's death."
"I'll be the judge of that. Either me or the police," I threatened, with as much severity as I could muster, hoping I sounded at least a little bit like Humphrey Bogart.
I guess watching The Maltese Falcon so many times in my twenties paid off, because my acting job worked. Hack Sr. waved his arm disgustedly, giving up. "All right, all right," he said. I was so excited, I felt like jumping up and down. "But I'm sure that sonufabitch Yancy already told you everything I know. It ain't much. All I know
"No, sir. I'm trying to find out who killed your son."
A young boy appeared in the hallway—Hack Sr.'s seven-year-old grandson. He wore a bright Bugs Bunny T-shirt, but his eyes observed me somberly. Hack Sr. put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Sean, go in the other room and turn on the TV."
Sean pointed at me. "Who's he? What is he talking about?"
"Go in the living room and watch TV."
"But, Grandpa —"
"Go."
Sean took one last long look at me before tramping off unhappily. The old man watched him go, not speaking again until the kid had disappeared and we heard Rugrats come on.
Then he demanded, "Why are you bothering us? We already know who killed my son. It was that bastard Shmuckler."
"Shmuckler is my friend. He's not a killer."
"Horseshit."
"Just in case I'm right, Mr. Tamarack, do you want the wrong man thrown in jail for your son's murder?"
The old man winced with pain, whether emotional or physical I wasn't sure. "What the hell do you want from me?"
"Whatever you can give."
"I got nothing to give. Nothing." The pain expanded, and contorted his whole face. "It's not right for a son to die before his father. It's not right!"
Then he went into another of his frightful coughing spasms and started to shut the door in my face.
But I stuck my foot in the way. Call me heartless, but what choice did I have? "Mr. Tamarack," I said grimly, "Yancy told me all about what you told him at the hospital."
Hack Sr.'s head snapped back in surprise, and he gasped. His spasm stopped so fast, I wondered if he'd faked it.
Meanwhile Sean ran into the room again. "Grandpa, you should sit down."
The old man forced a smile. "I'm okay, bud. You can go back and watch TV."
Sean gave me an upset look, then reluctantly shuffled off. Hack Sr. turned back to me. "I got no clue what you're talking about. Yancy Huggins is a certified loony."
"Maybe so, but he was telling the truth on this."
The old man's shoulders sagged. "What did that halfwit tell you?"
Not a heck of a lot, I thought, but out loud I said, "Sir, I'd like to hear it straight from the horse's mouth. If you give me a clear understanding of exactly what you know, it'll be best for everyone."
"Why will that be best for everyone?"
"Because—" I began, but then, just like that, I lost it. My brain locked up tight. I coughed lightly into my hand, buying time. "You see, the thing is—" I continued, but not only was my brain locked, someone had thrown away the key.
I remembered this helpless feeling only too well. Back when I was an aspiring Hollywood screenwriter, this would sometimes happen to me in the middle of a big pitch meeting with some hot shot producer. One moment I'd be waxing eloquent about an exciting plot twist in a movie I was writing, then the next moment some mental doorway would slam shut—and I'd be sitting there with my tongue hanging out, like a dog who's been out in the sun too long. Highly embarrassing.
Hack Sr. eyed me curiously. Any second now he'd realize I was talking through my hat, and Huggins hadn't told me diddlysquat. Then Hack Sr. would clam up too. In desperation, I tried a line that I must have seen some variation of in a hundred different movies. "Mr . Tamarack," I said, "I don't want to tell the cops any more than I have to. But if you refuse to cooperate—"
"Look, this is just plain silly. What I told Yancy has nothing to do with my son's death."
"I'll be the judge of that. Either me or the police," I threatened, with as much severity as I could muster, hoping I sounded at least a little bit like Humphrey Bogart.
I guess watching The Maltese Falcon so many times in my twenties paid off, because my acting job worked. Hack Sr. waved his arm disgustedly, giving up. "All right, all right," he said. I was so excited, I felt like jumping up and down. "But I'm sure that sonufabitch Yancy already told you everything I know. It ain't much. All I know
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