by Ed Gorman
"You ain't?"
"Oh, no. So the youngest boy of the family?"
"Yes."
"Guess what happens to him?"
"I don't think I want to hear."
"He starts stickin' up banks when he's sixteen."
"God."
"And so they catch him one day down to the Missouri border same—place Jesse James was always workin'—and they kill him."
"Well," I said. "I'm sure glad you shared that with me."
He grinned with his shining store-boughts. "And I ain't done yet."
"You ain't?"
"No, sir. Seems the bank-robbin' kid had a girlfriend and she was just about due to have a baby—this here girl couldn't have been more than fourteen; jailbait, we used to call little gals like her—when she finds out that the bank-robbin' kid has been shot to death by Highway Patrol cops."
"Lord Almighty."
"Then she tries to kill herself."
"She does?"
"Yep. But she don't make it. They save her life. So she can have the kid. So she has the kid, except she dies when he's ten—overdose, she was a junkie—and the kid is raised by his aunt and uncle. And guess where I seen him the other night?"
"The kid?"
"Yeah. The one the jailbait delivered. He was on TV, and it was last Tuesday. 'Cept he ain't a kid no more. He's twenty years old. And guess what show he was on?"
"You got me."
"America's Most Wanted. Armed robbery and two murders in Florida. And guess what?"
"I don't want to guess."
"He's got this sixteen-year-old gal travelin' with him and she's pregnant. Ain't that a pisser?"
"Oh, that's a pisser all right."
"The little gal he's travelin' with is knocked up. Who-ee!" And he slapped the countertop.
I said, wanting to change the subject quickly, "Kibbe get any calls the night he died?"
"Cops already asked me that. And you ain't a cop. At least Noah Chandler played one on TV. You didn't even do that."
"I used to be with the FBI."
He looked at me in a new way. "No shit?"
"No shit."
"Well, I'll be damned. The bureau, huh? That's what you folks call it, ain't it? The bureau?"
So I laid some fanciful FBI tales on him. People like him always like the helicopter-to-helicopter shoot-out story. I saw it one night on a TV movie and decided to put it in my repertoire.
"God, so you were just hanging on with one hand?"
"One hand."
"Over the Atlantic Ocean?"
"Over the dark and brooding Atlantic Ocean?"
"You kill him?"
"Two bullets in the heart."
"Wow."
"He hung on to the strut as long as he could, but then he finally fell into the ocean."
"Wow. They ever find the diamonds?"
"I found 'em next day. I used to be a frogman, so I insisted on diving myself. Took me twenty minutes but I had some luck"
"That Atlantic Ocean is big. You were sure lucky."
"Very lucky," I said. "Frogmen don't usually have that kind of luck."
"Say, you want a beer?"
"That sounds great."
While he went back and got us beers, I watched the show in the parking lot.
Everything had started to resemble a movie set. The crowd, the cops, the boxy white ambulance, the flashing, whipping emergency lights. I thought again of a portable scene moved whenever needed. You had a suspicious death, the entire menagerie would show up in only a matter of moments.
Mrs. Giles was the only surprise. I hadn't noticed her before. She wore a dark winter coat wrapped tight about her. She'd been there when Kibbe had been murdered. Now here she was again.
He brought the beers and we drank. I gunned mine. I wanted to ask Mrs. Giles something.
"You ever shoot anybody?"
"Once."
"Bet that was fun, wasn't it?"
"Not really."
He looked stunned. "Shoot a guy and get away with it 'cause you're law? And that ain't fun?"
"I felt kind of sorry for him, actually."
"How come?"
"Oh, he'd lost his job and his wife and his little boy was sick. And he just sort of went crazy one day and held some people in a bank for hostage."
"You kill him?"
"Yeah. But not because I was trying. He slipped at exactly the moment I fired the gun, and that put his chest in direct line of the bullet. Got him in the heart."
The made-up stories were always filled with macho swagger; the true ones were less imposing but a hell of a lot sadder.
I could see I'd disappointed him. He didn't want stories that talked about the human condition. He wanted tales that distracted him from the human story. No time to worry about misery or disease or heartbreak when you're caught up in an adventure story.
So I told him the whopper about the time I caught an assassin on the scaffolding of a building, thirty-eight floors up it was (the number of stories increased every time I told the story), and how he almost flung me to my death as I tried to wrestle his gun away. I think, though I'm not sure, that this story had its origin in one of the early James Bond movies.
"Wow," he said, impressed.
The phone rang and he took it.
I strayed to the window. She was still there, Mrs. Giles, shabby and cold and angry in the chill night.
When he got off the phone, I said, "You know, you'd be helping me out quite a bit if you told me about Kibbe's calls."
He looked at me, assessing. My stories had changed his attitude. "There's a doc in this town name of Williams. A head doc. You know, for nuts."
"Right."
"He called a couple of times the night Kibbe bought it."
"He leave any messages?"
"Just that Kibbe was supposed to call him back ASAP."
"Did you give Kibbe the message?"
"No. When I came on, Janice told me she hadn't been able to find him. And now he's dead."
I was the one who supposedly had the interesting stories. But here was one far more engaging than any I could concoct.
Dr. Williams calling Kibbe after Kibbe had stolen certain items from Dr. Williams's office. I wondered if Kibbe had found something. Or knew something. He must have. I doubted Dr. Williams had been placing a simple social call.
"Anything else?"
"Just that little copying joint down on Main."
"Copying joint?"
"Yeah. You know, they make Xeroxes and stuff. Said his order was ready."
"They say what kind of order it was?"
"Huh-uh."
"When was this?"
"Last night. Right at nine. Lady said she was just closing up and that he could pick up his order in the morning."
"I see." Then, "You happen to notice Dr. Williams around here the last couple of nights?"
"Not really. For one thing, we been kinda busy. And for another, when we ain't busy, I read them supermarket papers. They're always a lot of fun."
"But you'd recognize Dr. Williams if you saw him?"
"Oh, sure. They always have him on the tube whenever it's Mental Health Day or somethin' like that."
"I appreciate your help."
"Hell, no. I appreciate the stories. Not often you get to hear an actual FBI agent tell actual stories like that."
"Former FBI man."
He shrugged. "Still and all."
She angled her head away from me when she saw me.
She probably would have run but reasoned that would attract even more attention.
I went up to her and said, "Terrible thing, Mrs. Giles."
The faded prettiness, the animal fear of the eyes, the nervous, awkward movements of the mouth. Mrs. Giles hadn't changed much.
"You know the man who died last night?"
She looked at me as if I were speaking in a foreign language. "Man named Kibbe. Private detective, actually. He ever stop out your way and ask you questions?"
"I didn't
know him." Curt, quick.
"And I don't suppose you knew Noah Chandler, either."
"I told you he asked us questions."
"Or Laura West?"
"Her, too. I didn't like the way my husband kept lookin' her over." Then, "Why are you asking me these questions?"
"Just want to know everybody's relationship. By the way, how's your petition going?"
She made no secret of what she was doing. Took a pint bottle from her coat pocket. Took a nice long swig.
"It's goin' all right. But the way you people keep dyin, we won't need no petition drive."
I changed the subject. "I'd like to see Claire tomorrow."
She looked as if I'd slapped her. "Can't be done."
"Why?"
"She's not feeling well."
She was lying and she didn't care that I knew. "What you're saying is that I can't see her."
"What I'm saying is that she's sick."
I stayed on her, the interrogator. "I'm told she used to see Dr. Williams."
"So what if she did? She don't any longer, anyway."
"I don't suppose you'd tell me why."
For just a moment there, her alcoholic features morphed themselves into the grinning, belligerent face of a gargoyle. "I don't suppose I would. You're right about that, Mr. Payne."
One of the bodies was being brought out now. We watched in silence. It was still a waste, all this death, of brisk and bracing football weather. We should have been in the bleachers at some high school game, cheering on the Rough Riders and spiking our coffee with a little bourbon.
The body was on a gurney. They fit it inside the ambulance and then closed the doors again and went back to the motel room. "I'd better get back. Fred's expecting me."
With that, she turned and started away. I took the sleeve of her winter coat. "Something happened to Claire, didn't it?"
"Nothing happened to her. Not that it's your business even if it did."
"I'd like to talk to her."
"Impossible."
"For just a few minutes."
"If you even try, I'll call Chief Charles and raise so much hell, you'll be in trouble. And don't think I can't, Mr. Payne. Don't think I can't. I may not be important, but I do know the law and I have a cousin here who's a lawyer. He can make your life hell, believe me."
I believed her.
"Now let go of my sleeve."
I let go. She walked away.
Susan Charles came up. "Looks like you two may never be fast friends."
"You may be hearing from her."
"About what?"
"Me. She thinks I'm harassing her." Then, "You know anything about Claire, her daughter?"
"Not much. She's supposedly autistic, although she didn't have any problems until after the fire at the asylum. She almost died in it. Now she lives up in the attic and only the people who watch her when her parents have to go somewhere see her. She got lost a few times when I was younger. There were big searches for her, I remember that. Now they keep her locked up."
"They're sure she's autistic?"
"Meaning what?"
I shrugged. "Meaning, I'm not sure. But certain kinds of trauma can pass for autism. To the untutored eye, anyway."
"You're suggesting what?"
"I'm suggesting that I'd like to get in and see her for myself."
She smiled. "No wonder Mrs. Giles doesn't like you. She doesn't let anybody see Claire, ever."
"No one?"
She nodded. "Oh, a country social worker comes to see her, once a month or six weeks for fifteen, twenty minutes a visit. Nothing in any depth. Just makes sure she's being treated well and things like that."
"Ever been any complaints."
"None that I know of."
A uniformed cop came over. "They'd like to see you inside, Chief."
"Thanks, Merle. I need to get back, Robert. I wouldn't push Mrs. Giles. She can really raise a lot of hell when she wants to."
"Yeah," I said. "I got that impression."
TWO
Reading the local newspaper in the john. Feeling superior to some of the stories. Big-city boy like me. Then remembering how many small towns I've lived in in my life. Towns far smaller than this one. Properly humbled.
Washing the day off me with a soapy washrag. Scrubbing my teeth. A final pee.
In bed. Leno or Letterman? Leno so bland. Letterman such an arrogant asshole. What a choice. Settle for Nightline. Famine. Genocide. Mass graves. Just the kind of thing I want to put in my mind right before I drift off to sleep.
Try a book. One of the A. A. Fairs of Erle Stanley Gardner. Gold Comes in Bricks. Very funny scene with Donald Lam learning martial arts. Finally start to relax. The forties will always be my favorite era, and the Fair books evoke them nicely. Read forty pages. The Fairs rarely fail. Errant erection. Reason with it to give me a break. Please give me a break. What is the use of an erection when you're alone at this time of night? And masturbation at the moment is just too much work. And anyway, don't you need your rest?
So tired suddenly can barely swing over to turn off the light. Sleep, then, immediate, deep.
The knock disorients me.
Part of a dream?
What time is it?
Darkness. Where am I? And then it comes back. Brenner. The murders. And according to the digital clock on the desk, 2:39 A.M. Been asleep about two hours.
Exhausted.
Drag myself from bed. Knocking is light, timid somehow. Open the door and there she is.
Night smells: cold air, cigarette smoke, perfume. Hers.
Leaning against the door frame. Girly grin on her face. "I'm kinda drunk, Robert." Ready to fall down and pass out.
"Gee, no fooling."
"You know what my limit ish? My limit ish two drinks a night. Sshpread out. Guessh how many I've had?"
"Ninety-three."
"You smart-ass." Then she hiccupped to complete the stereotype of the drunk. "Sixsh. I've had sixsh."
She reeled away from the door and almost went over backwards. I grabbed her. "Why don't you come in?"
"All right if I barf in your bathroom?"
"What're friends for?"
"I haven't had very mush to eat so it won't be too bad." I got her inside. Got a light on. Got her in a chair.
"How'd you get so loaded?"
Her chin was touching her chest. She had started to snore. And then her head whipped up and she said, "Huh?"
"Where've you been?"
"Thish little tavern with thish cute jukebox."
"Boy, there's a novelty. A tavern with a jukebox."
Closing one eye so she could see me better. "My sister died tonight."
"I know."
"How'd you know?" she said suspiciously, as if I might have had something to do with it.
"I found the bodies, remember?"
Her head wobbled again and she stared at the floor. "Fucking Noah Chandler. Ish jesh like 'im to kill hisshelf. Take the easy way out."
Her head wobbled in my direction again. "You shoulda been there, Robert."
"Been where?"
"This tavern."
"Oh. Who all was there?"
She grinned. "'Who all?' What're you, southern'r something all of a sudden?" Then she giggled. "Who all? You all? See the connection, Robert?"
"I see it. So who was at this tavern?"
"Oh, lessheee. Susan. You know, the police chief. And a couple of her deputies. And—oh, yeah—Dr. Williams."
"Dr. Williams? What was he doing there?"
She shrugged. Shook her head.
"How'd you get back here?"
"This deputy."
"Fuller?"
"Yeah. 'R somethin' like that, Fuller." Giggled again. "I thought he was gonna put the moves on me. He had to help me up into his van. And talk about 'Russian hands and Roman fingers.' God!" Then, abruptly, "Oh, God, Robert, I wasn't kiddin' about usin' your bathroom."
I followed her to the john.
Frantically.
She vomited.
Twice, actually.
I held her both times.
Then I got the water running in the shower and her clothes off and gave her a good scrubbing down. The shower helped. Alternately hot and cold water. By the time she was ready for the towel, she was self-sufficient again.
Not only did she dry herself off, she partook of my toothpaste tube. She asked if I had a hair dryer. I smiled and pointed to my thinning hair. No dryer required except a towel.
I used the bathroom after her and when I came out, she was propped up in bed with the remote in her hand. The light was on. "I've never liked Bette Davis," she said.
"Well, from what I hear, Bette never thought much of you, either."
She laughed. But it wasn't the casual laugh I was used to. It was pushed a little too hard.
"She's just so mean. And the men around her are always such wimps."
She went around the dial once and then started crying. No warning.
I crawled into bed and held her. I turned the light out but left the TV on very low.
I must've held her fifteen minutes that way. My erection came back and I felt guilty as hell. Here was I trying to offer my mere and baffled solace to a woman I thought a lot of, and here all my dick could think about was sex.
Then she took my hand and slid it inside her pajama top. And then she slid her own hand inside my pajama bottom.
"I guess we should do something about that penis of yours," she said.
And so we did.
It was not the transforming sex she needed. She didn't have an orgasm. "You go ahead and finish. I'm just not in the mood for it right now."
She did a couple of wonderful little things to make sure my finish came along reasonably soon.
And afterward, we lay in the darkness, and the way she talked, I realized that she'd used sex as a bridge to conversation. Making love creates an intimacy you can't ever quite duplicate in the living room or breakfast nook.
"I want to go to confession."
"I didn't know you were Catholic," I said.
"No. But you are. Don't they have like a citizen's confession deal?"
"What's a citizen's confession deal?"
"You know, where under certain circumstances you can hear confession just the way a priest would?"
"Sort of like a citizen's arrest, only this has to do with confession?"
"Exactly."
"Well, I guess I've never heard of that."
