Chapter 16  
Again and Again
by Steve Hufford

Again and again the Mayhem circled the banked track.  April, in full bloom as  “Spring Fever”, cut a fine figure with Kate’s colorful design fluttering near her hips.  She skated in and out of view, sometimes high, sometimes low on the track, weaving among teammates and competitors.  Kate watched with interest, entranced by the athletes jockeying for position and advantage.  It was not so different from the territorial battles she knew in squash.

Again and again, but in a much quieter setting than the converted Sky Rink at Chelsea Piers where Kate was seeing similarities between roller derby and squash, the ball arced high and dropped into the back corner of the court.  Hank knew that at his age, there would come a time during some Master’s match when he would need to slow the pace.  And so he was drilling at East Side, hitting lobs, ironing out his tendency to graze the sidewall above the redline.  The challenge was to hit the shot perfectly, again and again, recovering smoothly to the “T” in a motion that built upon his follow-through.

So daughter and father spent their Saturday evening at sport not knowing that Margaret, who had pained them both, was now out of their lives forever.  No one other than Pike would know that until Monday morning and she would tell no one.

For the Van Alstyne’s, Saturday nights in New York had become a series of obligations scheduled well in advance.  At least, Henrik thought, this dinner would be in a pleasant setting, and not the usual routine.  He’d always enjoyed dining at The Brook.  The historic in-town gentlemen’s club, not far from the Racquet and Tennis, had long been known for its competent staff, quiet luxury and a membership roll that signified full acceptance among the privileged of New York society.

“Are you about ready, dear?” he asked his spouse of forty-five years.

Margarethe took one more look, and decided on the choker rather than the double-stranded pearls with the diamond clasp.  She knew they would be asked to fund yet another charity, so it was best to dress down.

“Yes, but won’t we be a bit early to The Brook?” she replied.

“Not really”, he said.  “We’ll have cocktails before dinner, and there’s a brief ceremony we’re supposed to attend.”

Henrik was secretly pleased.  He had kept Margarethe unaware of several important details.  The ceremony was to honor Pieter and enshrine a fine oil painting of the old man on the walls of the Brook’s library.  Select members of the New York squash community would be there to express their appreciation for Pieter’s role in creating and sustaining East Side.  They would honor his memory and the Van Alstyne name.

Listening to the association’s request for further patronage to establish a new squash development and education program for disadvantaged youth was a small price to pay for the expected pleasure of the evening.  Just as he had told his spouse, they would indeed be presented with yet another charitable opportunity.  But he was truly eager to see her surprise and satisfaction when Opa’s portrait would be unveiled and installed where it belonged, with appropriate ceremony.  Besides, it seemed a worthy cause.

The Brook was the perfect place for the squash leadership to solicit for a legacy.  Pieter’s picture would hang not far from the club logo and motto that also adorned the library walls.  The Brook’s emblem, sketched many years ago by descendants of early Dutch settlers, was a proudly standing windmill with its emphatic declaration:

We go on forever.

Unlike Margaret.

Long before her demise, she had established a practice to take no Sunday “appointments”.  It was not to honor any Sabbath.  Simply put, Margaret found that Sunday customers frequently wanted emotional intimacy and also conversation outside of the bedroom.  That was never to her liking, so her firm policy had been to take Sundays off.
 
Margaret’s professional scheduling practices were good luck for Pike, as was the fact that she had no friends who were likely to call or drop by.  Pike spent Saturday night and much of Sunday in an apartment with a corpse.  That was a first, even for him, but he needed time to develop his plan and he certainly had nowhere else to stay.

Pike inventoried the apartment on Sunday morning.  All the easily transported valuables were now his, and were quickly pawned.  By Sunday afternoon, he had a nice bankroll and the apartment had been stripped.  The bloodied marble statue had been thrown down the trash chute, and the doorknobs and other surfaces had been cleaned of prints.  He headed out on Sunday evening, leaving what he was sure was a clean crime scene.

It fell to Rosa, one of the maids Margaret had relied on to keep her professional décor professional, to be the first to find her on Monday morning.

Rosa arrived on time at eight thirty, hoping the lady of the house wasn’t there, and was glad when no one answered the doorbell.  She could go about her routine unencumbered by the lady’s additional instructions and complaints.  Noting a slightly foul smell, she started as usual for the master bath on the far side of the bedroom.  Then the scene of horror assaulted her eyes as well as her nose.

“Ay Dios mio!” Rosa exclaimed.

Shaken by the gruesome sight, Rosa wondered what to do.  She considered calling the police, but her instincts told her not to… no papers, una problema.  After living undocumented for so many years in New York, she spoke with la policia only when necessary.  Rosa called her boss and begged off sick.  Let someone legal clean this up.  She kept her rubber gloves on, gathered her supplies, wiped the doorknob on her way out and headed back to the subway.

Pike was far away by Monday noon, en route to Wellington courtesy of Margaret’s pawned valuables, her healthy bank account and her habit of storing her PIN number in the desk beside her bank statements.  Pike began to relax on the flight.  He had a second rum and coke, convinced no one could find him once he got back home.  It had been so long since he left New Zealand that the authorities must have moved on to more recent concerns.  Yes, all would be well for Thomas Pike.  Good riddance to Kucinich, Joe, those damned dogs, and the whole Reynolds family, living and dead.

He adjusted his seat back and settled in for a rest.  But it was fitful.  He couldn’t keep that image of the bloody Priapus figurine from flashing into his mind’s eye, again and again.




Steve Hufford is a proud father, fortunate husband, former squash coach and blogger, long-time squash/tennis/court tennis player, who enjoys wielding a pen almost as much as swinging a racquet.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.