Fourteen

Louis Gibson’s funeral was a television event unparalleled since the last television event, and certain not to be eclipsed until the next television event. The President did, as advertised, show up, although he did not speak. Stephanie, to the disappointment of any heterosexual man over the age of 35 (and a good number of them under 35), was dressed, conservatively, in black. She dispensed with the traditional veil, and therefore managed to avoid looking like Lady Bird Johnson.

Standing next to Stephanie were her two sons, whom CNN identified as “Louis Jr., 22, and Jason, 17.” Next to them was Legs’ brother, and CNN was once again helping out, telling me his name was Lester Gibson, and that he was three years older than Louis.

From what I could tell, he was a couple of inches shorter than Stephanie, and shorter than Legs, too, and had opted to avoid the hideous comb-over Abrams had noted, in favor of a toupee that looked like someone had tossed a Caesar salad onto his head.

Stephanie did not appear to speak to Lester, her sons, or anyone else during the service. To her credit, she didn’t weep openly, considering how little she seemed to be grieving for Legs when I had spoken to her. Lester looked a little shook up, and had to keep taking off his dark sunglasses to mop at his eyes.

Legs’ mother, Louise Gibson, was doing more than just dabbing at her eyes. She was letting loose on national television. Her sobs could be heard over the commentator’s whispered tones (to remind us that this was a funeral, and not the opening of trading at the New York Stock Exchange, but a tone which unfortunately sounded more like the play-by-play at a golf match). At one point, her knees almost buckled, but Jason held his grandmother steady.

He and his brother, lucky boys that they were, favored their mother. Junior had Stephanie’s almond-shaped eyes and graceful chin, and Jason, the younger one, still hadn’t lost all his baby fat, but did not, as best as I could tell from his infrequent close-ups, resemble his father, which is all either of Crazy Legs’ sons could hope for, really. Maybe they’d both keep their hair, too. Rich kids have that kind of luck.

The eulogies were impressive, if your political bent was just to the right of Genghis Khan. Anti-abortionists, anti-civil rights activists, anti-just-about-everything-elses, all spoke of what a dear and valuable friend they had lost. I couldn’t help thinking the country was in a considerably more positive condition now that Legs had bitten the big one, but rebuked myself that such thinking was cruel and insensitive. Besides, there were fifteen more just like him looking to take his place. No doubt the jockeying for position had already begun.

I discussed the funeral and its impact on my career with Mahoney as I drove us to racquetball that night. Mahoney and I had started playing racquetball when it was the hot new sport in the mid-eighties, and had been playing, on and (mostly) off, since then. We’d taken it up again recently, having separately despaired of our waistlines and inability to run up the stairs the way we imagined we used to. Of course, my waistline was more an issue than Mahoney’s, since he gets some sort of exercise or another running around New Jersey fixing broken transmissions and other automotive ills for a large car rental agency based at Newark Liberty International Airport (EWR).

The racquetball itself was immaterial, anyway. Especially to me, since I always lost. What was important was the time I got to spend with my closest friend, letting him needle me until I wanted to jam a racquet down his throat, handle last. There are friendships, and there are friendships.

I was driving, so the cassette deck, and not Mahoney’s ancient 8-track player, was ruling the musical choices. Mahoney was always interested in new music, but it never failed to compare unfavorably in his eyes to his Sixties and Seventies favorites. Still, he was willing to listen to the A.J. Croce album I had on, particularly after he heard A.J. is the late Jim’s son.

“He’s not bad, but he doesn’t sound like his old man,” he said, adjusting the volume from dominating to audible. “He’s got that gravelly voice, like Rod Stewart.”

“Not sounding like your old man can be a real plus,” I said. “Think how it’ll help Steph’s kids if they don’t talk like Legs.”

Mahoney sat back and sighed. “I can see this is going to be a theme evening.”

“I’m trying to work it out.”

“So you’re obsessing. That’s how you work things out.” Mahoney played with the fan button on the heater, then noticed the heater wasn’t turned on, and forgot about it.

“If you’ve got a better method, I’d like to hear about it,” I said. The guy in the BMW ahead of me had decided turn signals weren’t necessary for those with upper six-figure incomes, and I’d nearly plowed into him, swerving at the last second. Mahoney hadn’t batted an eye.

“It’s whatever works for you,” he said. “Me, I like to take stock. What do you know for sure?”

I was trying to remember which right turn I was supposed to make. “Almost nothing. I know Legs had become some kind of right wing lunatic and somebody stuck a big knife into him just when he was done playing Hide the Cocktail Frank with his latest in a series of blond secretarial school drop-outs.”

“It’s nice you’re not taking this story personally,” Mahoney said.

“You’re not helping.”

“And you’re not trying. You’re letting a 25-year-old crush on Stephanie Jacobs cloud your judgment.”

I found the correct turn, but had to jam on the brakes to make it. Looking at Mahoney, you’d have thought he was watching an unusually slow-moving game of chess. “What judgment?” I asked. “I’m not letting any crush do anything, since I haven’t got anything to go on yet.”

“When a man gets himself killed in the apartment of his mistress, the first place to look is. . .”

“. . . With his wife, yes, but you and I both know Steph was two hundred and fifty miles away when it happened, because we were standing in the same room with her.” I pulled into the parking lot at the Hillsborough Racquet and Fitness Club, and quickly found a space.

Mahoney got out of the car and pulled his gym bag from the back seat. “We know she was there when the cops called her, because we saw her take the call,” he said. “How long had Crazy Legs been dead before they called her?”

“I don’t know.”

“Exactly. Were there fingerprints in the room other than Crazy Legs’ and the blonde’s?”

“I don’t know.”

“Even more exactly. Did Stephanie make a big withdrawal from her bank account recently, maybe to pay somebody who might like to stick a knife into her cheating husband?”

“I don’t. . .”

We started up the stairs to the lobby door. “That’s my point. If you weren’t still living in 1977, you’d be asking these questions. But it’s Stephanie Jacobs and her unbelievable body, so you’re giving her a pass.”

He opened the door for me and we went into the club. “I hate it when you’re right,” I sighed.

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, pal. Wait’til you see the new serve I’ve developed.” I groaned. It was going to be a long night.