The Hanged Man by Walter Satterthwait Page A

one-handed clock on the north wall. When the time is up, I’m done.
    Today, though, my rhythm was off. I couldn’t seem to empty my mind. Justine Bouvier and her story kept intruding.
    â€œHow did the argument start?” I had asked her.
    â€œI told you,” she said. “It was that Bernardi. We were all sitting around, having a very nice, very quiet conversation, when all of a sudden he gets up from his chair and he starts bellowing at Quentin. “‘ Why you want dees card? What you do with eet? ’” It was a cruel, mocking burlesque of Bernardi’s accent; and, recognizing my own prejudice in hers, I felt more than a little guilty.
    â€œHe was drunk, naturally,” she said. “So drunk that he could hardly stand upright. But that’s no excuse. Quentin said something to him, I don’t really remember what—”
    According to the reports, what Quentin had said was, “Why don’t you go away, you boring little man.” Quentin had obviously been a better magician than he’d been a diplomat. Even if he’d been a terrible magician.
    â€œâ€”and Bernardi just exploded! He threw his drink away and he ran across the room and threw himself at Quentin. He hit me, too, with his arm, and I spilled my own drink. All over myself. It ruined my dress. It was silk, a Versace! And then he had his hands around Quentin’s throat and he was choking him, and Quentin was sort of hitting at him, trying to get him away, and then finally Brad and Peter were there, pulling him off. They dragged him over to the corner, and his face was all red and loose and absolutely crazed . He was practically slobbering , like a dog. Brad was talking to him, probably giving him all that peace-and-love nonsense from the sixties. Brad’s never really gotten over the sixties. And Sylvia was fluttering around the room, chirping away, trying to dry me off with some filthy rag she found someplace.”
    â€œWhere was the card while all this was going on?”
    â€œQuentin had it in his lap. In its leather folder. It fell when Bernardi attacked him, and I picked it up off the floor.”
    â€œHas Bernardi ever had any kind of dealings with your husband before?”
    Indignant: “Of course not. Why would you even ask?”
    â€œJust that it sounds like a fairly extreme reaction on his part.” Even if Quentin had been, as I suspected, a gold-plated asshole.
    â€œHe’s Italian . You know how excitable they are. And he’s a lunatic.”
    Brad had given Bernardi a bottle of sambuca and Bernardi had gone bumbling off. Everyone had gathered around to commiserate with Quentin. (“Except for Leonard Quarry and his wood sprite wife. Leonard just sat there, gloating.”) Shortly afterward, the party had begun to break up. Carl Buffalo had been the first to head for bed, Justine said, and he was soon followed by Leonard Quarry and his wife, Sierra. Then by Peter Jones, who was followed by Carol Masters, the actress. “Carol’s been after poor Peter for ages. It’s a shame she’s not his type. He likes women who are still capable of breathing.” This she said with a self-satisfied smile.
    Veronica Chang had left last, and then Leonard and Justine had said their good nights to Brad and Sylvia, and they’d gone off themselves.
    I said, “And you never saw Giacomo Bernardi again that night?”
    â€œNot saw him, no. But I could hear that stupid soccer game he was watching. Peter’s bedroom was right next to the library. It was still on when I fell asleep.” She smiled. “You don’t watch soccer games, do you, Joshua?”
    â€œEvery chance I get,” I lied. “Quentin still had the card when you left his bedroom?”
    â€œYes. It was on the dresser.”
    â€œAnd about what time did you leave?”
    â€œOh, elevenish, I guess. Something like that.”
    I flipped my notebook shut. “Okay,